Dear Prudence

I just spent some 6-7 hours reading Slate's Dear Prudence advice column archives.

SIX TO SEVEN HOURS.

I was weirdly fascinated by the strange shit that goes on in other people's lives. Strange, interesting, awful, crazy. Also eminently readable, apparently.

Midnight Special

So XY and I are in New York last weekend with my parents. We stop by our wedding rehearsal dinner venue so that XY can scout it out. When all is well and done, my parents suggest we take a look at the hotel next door.

A lot of family is coming into town for the wedding, and we can't accommodate them all in my house, so my Dad is looking into affordable alternatives for housing the family brood.

I'm instantly sketched out by The Hotel, whose name shall go unmentioned. First of all, the front desk is surrounded by plexiglass, as if in a ghetto convenience store. Second of all, the place just looks dank and shady. When the owner takes us to look at some of the rooms, they look like they haven't been updated since the 1940s. Seriously, I get the heebie jeebies just remembering what those rooms looked like.

But what takes the cake is that when my Dad was trying to bargain with the owner about prices, he noticed a sign at the front desk that offered a "Midnight Special."

Dad: "What is the Midnight Special?"

Owner [uncomfortably]: "Uh, that's a special price, if you just want a room for a couple-a hours."

I'm not quite sure how long it took the cogs in my Dad's brain to register the serious skeevy sketch factor presented by the "Midnight Special," but . . . yeah . . .

Suffice it to say that no family of mine will be staying in that dunghole.