I recognize many of the cheap motels in Hollywood movies and music videos,

the cheaper the better, full of character and characters. Nobody wants to see the inside of a Westin or a Hilton, except maybe Paris. They want to see the crud in the cracks and the stains on the sheets, lives of the cheap and dirty. I know those rooms inside and out, the chewing gum under the table and the burnt spots where a cigarette butt hung on the edge of the night stand for dear life, despite the warnings not to smoke in bed. They have to tell you that, in the cheap places. In expensive hotels, it’s understood. Actually the only thing wrong with the cheap places is the people who inhabit them, all too often on a permanent basis, too self-satisfied in their grungy life-style. I never stay at the cheapest places just for that reason, though sometimes they’ve got real style. Sometimes just a few bucks more a night is enough to keep the riffraff away and provide a qualitative difference, too, though. It’s not that I don’t like poor people, but generally not the type living in cheap motels. They can be real low-breeds, regardless of how high-bred, like heroin addicts watching the pile of pubes just growing higher in the corner if left undisturbed by human hands.