Hotel California

Rating:  * out of *****

So my husband and I were heading down a dark desert highway—I was getting tired, and my husband’s allergy to the blooming colitas was acting up, so I thought we should stop for the night.

Anyway, we found this little hotel, the Hotel California. It was an interesting little Spanish style hotel, not as nice as La Quinta, but not bad looking for a one-night stop over.

We were met at the door by a creepy witchy looking woman, and I was thinking to myself “If my husband flirts with her, I’m going to kick both their asses.” Well, we should have just turned around and left, at that moment, because it only went downhill from there.

First of all, there were no lights, no frigging electricity. Seriously. The weird witchy looking woman had to lead us to our rooms with candles. So much for free HBO.

And the walls were so paper thin we heard voices and sex sounds throughout the corridor. I even thought I heard them say something about my ass.

The loopy, witchy-looking woman invited us to a mixer at the pool later that evening. Since there was no TV, and we didn’t really feel like sitting around in the dark, we agreed. What a mistake. The witchy looking woman only talked about her fetishes for tiffany lamps and Mercedes. What a shallow bitch. There were a bunch of weird stoned people dancing in the courtyard, but frankly the band sucked. They played a boring, coma inducing brand of El Lay country-rock that, coupled with the wine, made me want to puke. I just wanted to get a good night’s sleep so we could hit the road first thing.

Well. We get back up to our room, and there’s some sort of fucking satanic ritual going on there! Under mirrored ceilings people were stabbing a hairy beast (could have been a hippie) and drinking pink champagne. Jesus! Pink champagne? Who the hell drinks pink champagne? Yuck!

“Dan,” I yelled, “let’s get the hell out of here!”

We made for the door, but the dopey looking longhair hippie night manager stopped us, and told us we could check out, but we could never leave.

“We’ll see about that friendo,” my husband said as he punched the douche bag hippie right in the neck.

Some hotels you remember, some you want to forget. Forget about the Hotel California. It’s a shithole

Next time we’ll seek out a Morrison Hotel. The rates are better, they have TV, and they serve beer for breakfast. Plus, I hear the house band is pretty good.

Video by Mae77