In ten days I will also be celebrating my one year anniversary at the new hotel. Which is a nice place to work. With any luck in another year the worst hotel ever will finally be dead. What a happy day that will be.

I found it on Amazon, Phillip Marlowe, Private Investigator. A New York Times article from back then seems to back up what I think I remember.

Although he should perhaps look a bit more lean and hungry, Mr. Boothe creates an emotionally convincing Marlowe. His private eye prefers to be an objective observer rather than a soiled participant but, when pushed, he leaves no doubt about who is in charge. Dark, dour, almost sullen but not quite sour, this Marlowe would have had Raymond Chandler’s approval.

It’s also set in the right period. I hate when they try to set it in the present. Marlowe’s time and place was the 1940′s Los Angeles. I really hope the show is as good as I remember.

“I have a stressful job. This is how I like to relax. I like to go to a small hotel and take heroin. Just lay on the bed and feel my bowels slowly unclench.”

He leaned back and sighed with relish, as if he were sinking into a warm bath.

“I like to lay on the bed, naked, with my guts oozing onto the sheets, nodding out and watching the Fashion Channel. All those skeletal smacked-out girls. The faces of angels and the bodies of Ethiopians. I find that sexy, son. It’s not like I have an easy job, and I feel I should be cut some slack in this area. Heroin angels, strutting around for me. With Enya playing. They play a lot of Enya on the Fashion Channel. Great regiments of heroin angels lined up in endless long dressing rooms elegantly banging smack between their delicate toes to the soundtrack of British TV shows about Celtic people. You should try it. It’s a poetic thing, you know?”

His eyes closed, a beatific grin spreading across his weathered face like an old wound opening.

“In that moment, son, I am as beautiful as they, and you are to ignore the rabbit droppings steaming on my bed: interior chocolates placed on the pillow by the solicitous maids of my bowel. Sometimes I get up and dance, scattering the gifts of my intestines across the Edwardian carpet, ignoring the shrieking of the housekeepers and the priests they call in. `Phone the White House,’ I sing to them. `I control the nuclear bombs.’ All of which is to say: I am a functioning heroin addict and also the most powerful man in the world, and you should pay attention now.”

Go and buy a copy now. If you need reassurance here is the quote off the back of the book from Kinky Friedman:

Warren Ellis writes like a bipolar Raymond Chandler. Crooked Little Vein injects at least two welcome elements into the tired, clogged mystery field: a little death and a little life. It’s also funny enough to make you shit standing.

One wing of the Ramada Inn with 54 rooms will reopen today, after being inspected by South Beloit Fire Chief Ken Morse, South Beloit Mayor Randy Kirichkow said.

The hotel was closed last week because flooding in the basement caused damage and health concerns.

The hotel is working with its insurance company before reopening other areas, Kirichkow said.

Kirichkow said they hope the banquet facility and Cattails Restaurant will reopen in the next few weeks.

Makes you wonder just how bad the flooding was to have only one wing open? Seems like there is more to this story than what the paper says. I would like to think that the worst hotel ever is on it’s last legs.

The ship is sinking and they are going to go down with the ship. Honestly I love this stuff. You can book a future reservation, it just depends on what your definition of future is. Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? Only time will tell.