I am probably the only man I know who goes to these places without someone on his arm. (Don't worry I don't do this often).
Still, it could be worse: I could be going to these places arm in arm with a big burly bald man with more than a passing resemblance to Wentworth Miller. The staff at the SOGO would start to wonder which of us was supposed to be the, er, woman.
Now that would be a real tragedy.
What drove me to this place the other night were the twin exigencies of being
- spurned yet again (don't worry, she never stops by this space); and
- the need to be close enough to the malls when I woke up, so that I could get something done before I had to run to work.
The majority of my daytime-nighttime activity revolves around these temples of commerce (Worship of Mammon, indeed). I'm cutting through a mall, running like the Flash, on the way to work, or walking around one on the way home from work, or wishing I'd stay awake after my work hours long enough to go to one and buy the things I need or maybe catch a movie alone.
I've been unable to really see and enjoy movies in general since Ratatouille (no, I didn't see that one either; I was supposed to, though, with my then-girlfriend) and Ataul for Rent and Iron Man. There's a whole slew of movies out that I won't be seeing for the same reason I didn't get to see Ratatouille and why I occasionally sleep alone in motels.
And it's not about watching Letterman in between surfing the Asian and European adult channels.
the wood of suicides
The staff at the two drive-in motels I visited prior to the SOGO didn't want to let me in unless I was with someone. "Well, tough." I'd wanted to say. "I wouldn't be here if I was with someone in the first place, moron. We'd be talking on a bench somewhere overlooking parked cars and trees."
I miss those trees.
But I kept my mouth shut and just directed the cab driver to take me somewhere else.
The staffs of the two motels were likely afraid that I was going to pay for space in which to die.