I think there’s a reason so many celebrities are found toes up in hotel rooms. Janis, John Belushi, David Carradine. Is there any space on earth as weirdly distant and alien than a hotel room somewhere in the universe.

I’m currently sitting in a bed about 75 miles due south on the scenic coastal highway from my own bed. The occasion is signing up for a workshop for work. Apart from meeting fatigue, waking up extra early to drive that 75 miles and it being the end of the day, I’m just feeling bone tired from being all by my lonesome in that wall-crawling, restless, fidget way hotels bring on in me.

I want to be home. I’m not sure I’m designed to actually learn and think in a conference room. Maybe that sentence should be full stop I’m not designed to learn.

It was actually an interesting day, where I got to see how organizations can walk through getting to a message and a plan for getting it out there into the ether. Communicating and all in important circles. There was even an ex-governor in the room.

Sadly, I’m more voyeur than real playa this time around, and it’s going to be a tough slog in my row-hoeing workday world to use what I learned.

I got back to my room and paced. I took a shower out of boredom. I deep conditioned my hair, because I had an abundance of conditioner and time. I inventoried my miniature toiletries.u

On a regular Wednesday night, I’d check email, scan some news and various websites and maybe write right here. Telly on in the background.

It’s the same here. But it’s not the same.

Here, on the same coast I can hear from my house, faraway from M. whose snoring I can’t hear right now, I’m thinking of hotel rooms and dead famous people. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, I’m just as far away from an errant speedball, deadly bump of coke or bag of heroin.

(Of course, such a level of drug use is beyond me, just as elusive as the celebrity I don’t enjoy.)