So that happened…

I am cranky. Yes, cranky is my natural habitat, but I’m worse than usual today. Why? Three reasons.

1)      My baby is moving across country in a month. (Yes, that says 2253 miles.)

2)      My job smells like ass. Not the movie gig – that’s awesome, as always. No, the regular job. The one that pays me in money, as opposed to Arby’s coupons. That one totally blows.

3)      Filling out the third leg of my personal Trifecta of Sadness, I am back in an orthopedic boot. Sigh.

This boot is made for walking! Seriously, I literally cannot walk without it. This isn’t my first time in this particular boot.  Hell, it’s not even my second.

No, this makes my fifth tour in three years in ol’ Ortho, and how I have missed her. Gosh, it’s been almost a year since I last broke it out – cumbersome, ugly, covered in harsh Velcro flaps and straps and now, since my last episode in it (accompanying George to the filthy-as-ever Warrior Dash), also covered in mud. In case it wasn’t stylish enough!

Given my extensive exprience, I have some tips on how to look hot in an orthopedic boot. You cannot. Just give up.

How’d I do it? So, I was airborne on George’s new Harley, pullin’ a Knievel, when a monkey came out of nowhere, grabbed at the bike in mid-air, and …. That is to say, I injured my foot doing lunges. I have a stress fracture in my left foot from lunging. My left foot has been casted and/or booted  due to a car wreck, a serious running injury, surgery… and that most dangerous of all activities, walking forward and then bending your knees.

I am officially Mr. Glass.

So that happened…

Hijinks on the Midway

It’s Ohio State Fair time and I’m going to take my state pride, as well as my love of hastily smacked together death trap carnival rides, and head right down there! No, I’m totally lying. I’m not going because I’ve paid my dues at the fair and now that the penance has been served, I will get my elephant ears elsewhere.

My son has to go, though. He’s entered that magical stage of life where you take every and all menial labor, however debilitatingly tedious or physically punishing, because you need the money. And so, he’s a carny for the summer.

No, only in my overly romantic imagination. No, he’s manning a shyster booth – trying to con fairgoers into purchasing some inexpensive bit of science. In his case, it’s little capsules that water your plants for you. Back in my day, it was Ford trucks.

Yes, I, too, took the menial and seasonal work offered by the fair when I was 19. In fact, my then-mustachioed and mulleted beau George was working his radio booth just down the Midway from me and my purple pick-ups. After our shifts we’d undertake zany, fair-related misadventures, like eating fair food, or bungee jumping.

That last one was a bad idea. I elected to go first, no doubt to prove that I was fearless or some other utterly ridiculous lie. George and I were still dating at the time. But it turns out that I should have let George be fearless because I was in for unexpected public humiliation – Oh good! My favorite kind.

So, to bungee jump, the carnies – I mean, bungee technician professionals – need your weight. Sensible, really, because they have to make sure they have the right cords. So they weigh you, then shout your weight to about eight different people up the rigging, who likewise make sure your harness is properly adjusted. And, of course, the shouting also guarantees that your cutie pie boyfriend and EVERYONE AT THE OHIO STATE FAIR is now familiar with your weight.

As a rule, I don’t weigh myself. I hadn’t been on a scale in years and was taken a bit by surprise by the appallingly high number being hollered through the grounds.

Rather than pay attention to the directions being given to me as I ascended the rigging, my mind was racing through ways to remedy the weight situation. I need to start running again, I should lay off the Cap’n Crunch, cut out the maaayooonaaiiisseee…And just like that, I’d already jumped without really even noticing it.

What I did notice was that searing pain that shot from my ears to my spine when my neck snapped like a whipcord. Wow – a public weighing followed by a traumatic brain injury. What fun bungee jumping is.

I then hung upside down, bouncing with the elastic, for thousands and thousands of years while all the blood in my body collected, tick like, in my throbbing head. My head was like something that epically unfunny Eighties comic Gallagher might smash onstage with a mallet, spewing gore on the audience.

Which reminds me, Gallagher stopped by Riley’s booth a couple days ago, throwing around self-referential comments and believing himself to be hilarious. Riley, having been born nearly a decade after Gallagher ceased to be relevant, had no idea who he was and politely suggested he move on. Words were exchanged.

And see, isn’t that really the joy of menial labor? Accruing those stories?

So that happened…

Nine Inch Wall

Trent Reznor says he’s putting together materials for a new Nine Inch Nails album. This is great news for the MaddWolf household, since all three of us are fans. In particular, it means that I will recognize the sounds blaring from my bathroom while my son Riley is in the shower – as opposed to the Norwegian Death Metal, Lithuanian Punk, or Pirate Metal (I swear this is true) I might hear today.

One of Riley’s earliest concerts was the NIN show at the old Germain amphitheater. Bauhaus, a band from my childhood who sings of vampires, opened. Riley considered them “adorable.”

“They’re like 50 and they take their shirts off. The one guy’s wearing all mesh. Who does that?”

I couldn’t defend my aging goth band against these charges of adorableness, though, because some out-of-place, incredibly drunk dude in faux blonde dreads kept trying to frat-boy dance his way into our row. Riley was about 11 and I didn’t want him crushed up against the rest of the row, so I did the only reasonable thing. I planted my feet and boxed out.

NIN took the stage and Riley beamed. We sang along. Periodically the kid in the row ahead turned around to ask me which album one song or another came from, as I was the only ticketholder old enough to remember the band’s 1989 debut album. All went well, until the body count beyond Riley shifted, and suddenly a woman wearing only police tape for a shirt appeared to my son’s right.

The mesh shirt seemed epically reasonable to me at this point.

Sgt. Nipply stumbled close to my boy and murmured some, “oh, isn’t he cute” remark. I placed my right hand firmly on her left shoulder, straightened my arm (I do have an impressive wing span) and pressed.

With my right arm as a brace above Riley’s head and my left guarding against rhasta-frat-drunky, I stood as a force field for the balance of the program, in what is now known as the “Head-off the Ho’s Memorial Box-Out.” Riley danced and clapped and had a generally great time within my perimeter of party-poopitude.

Some years later, Riley got the phenomenal opportunity to meet Reznor because our glorious friend Cheryl won backstage passes, and her possibly-more-glorious husband Demetrius unselfishly decided to make a 16-year-old’s dreams come true. He gave Riley his pass. All Riley had to do in return was promise to ask Reznor how much weight he could bench press, which, to Cheryl’s dismay, he did. (FYI: Reznor didn’t give a number, but he did ask Riley if high school still sucks.)

My only job was to get him there.

Riley took his buddy Nate, both 16 but not yet licensed, so I drove the boys to Nationwide and looked for the ice cream truck where they’d meet Cheryl and the other winners.

Some of those winners were women in their twenties who (presumably) misjudged Riley and Nate as of-age. This band of tramps openly eyeballed – even flirted with – my charges.

I put a quick end to that.

George says there’s a name for people like me, and it’s not Cholesterol Blocker. But I don’t care because I’d do it again. I would, that is, if Riley and Nate would ever again be seen in public with me.

Anyway, to sum up: 1) Nine Inch Nails may have a new album soon, 2) Don’t take your mom to a rock show.

So that happened…

Confessions of a Radio Wife

I hate country music.

 Oh, it feels so good to admit that.

I know that it’s America’s music, our cultural heritage. I understand that many of the best musicians on earth come from country music, and that its lyrics speak of the common citizen overcoming emotional and societal oppression – and how else would we know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em? From a sound proof distance, I admire country music and its truly talented musicians and songwriters. 

I feel certain country music wouldn’t find me especially entertaining, either, and that we could have lived perfectly contented separate lives, similar to the non-relationships I enjoy with, say, opera and camping, were it not for Columbus radio.

You see, for twenty years or so, country music paid my bills. 

My husband George works in radio, and over the course of nearly our entire relationship he worked his way up the ranks from weekend part-timer to full time DJ to music director to program director at a Columbus radio station. Over the course of those years, his station swung back and forth between classics and current hits, occasionally mixing the two, but tragically, the variety was always well within the bounds of country.

Our son grew up hearing daddy on the radio, and learning the words to every Travis Tritt or Toby Keith song to hit the airwaves. This, combined with what George and I listened to at home, opened Riley up to a rich and varied musical world. 

My own musical world, on the other hand, was already populated and I couldn’t seem to find room for Faith or Dolly, George (Strait or Jones). Every new crop of up-and-comers gave me a migraine. Taylor Swift seems like an awfully sweet kid, but if I could go a single day without hearing one of her songs I will feel truly blessed.

It’s me, I’m not pretending it’s not. The problem usually is me. The heart of the issue, truth be told, has never been so much that I don’t care for country music. Everyone has their own personal likes and dislikes when it comes to music. 

The problem is that I have had to suppress this fact publically for two full decades. I don’t suppress well. Trying to behave in any way that is unnatural makes me uncomfortable, and once I’m uncomfortable, I simply lose all sense of appropriateness and start acting a fool.

For instance, many years ago at the old Germain amphitheater, I was in a backstage meet-and-greet line at a Reba McEntire concert. My husband was escorting the winner of their contest – What’s the Craziest Thing You Would Do to Meet Reba?! I, naturally, was his date. 

We were all wearing radio station tee shirts, and I’d had to borrow mine from another DJ. Reba warmly greeted the winner, pulled out her Sharpie, and began autographing shirts. 

I blanched and said, “No thanks.”

It wasn’t my shirt. 

Would the owner of the shirt have appreciated the autograph of an icon of her chosen field? Oh, I feel sure she would have. 

Ms. McEntire eyeballed me like the social alien that I was. The guy in front of me had literally tattooed a very good likeness of her face (and huuuuge hair) on his arm, all for the opportunity to meet her, and I wouldn’t let her autograph my ten dollar tee shirt. 

You can see why I should never be allowed to participate in this kind of thing – I only embarrass us all. 

There was also that time at the Ohio State Fair when Willie Nelson kissed me full on the mouth. I’m not even sure what went wrong there. 

Anyway, at just about the time our son graduated from Grandview Heights High School and we had to face an impressive tuition bill from Ohio State, George was downsized – released from the land of belt buckles and steel guitars. 

Unemployment is no laughing matter, especially in a field as tough as radio. And yet, I could scarcely conceal my glee over just that one little perk: I would no longer have to sit quietly and smilingly tolerate Kenny Chesney music.

But the better news is that George’s new gig as midday guy on Rewind 103.5/104.3 has him spinning tons of Eighties hits. Goodbye Blake Shelton (I braided his hair once. Don’t ask. I believe I was mistaken for a member of the staff.) Hello, Billy Idol (call me!). I can barely control my joy. 

Oh, one more thing. NASCAR is not a sport. 

This is so freeing!

So that happened…


The time has come. The Miami Face Eater has clarified the situation. It’s time to piece together the Zombiepocalypse team and craft the game plan.

Am I overreacting? A naked man was spotted eating the face off another naked man in Miami. A cop shot him, and he just looked up and “continued chewing.” Continued chewing another man’s face flesh.

Now, the victim survived. A lot of people were surprised that he was alive during the face eating, but not me, because zombies do not eat dead people. And, I hate to be insensitive – seriously, I do! – but I hope the survivor was restrained once hospitalized so that whatever was left of his face wasn’t able to bite anyone else.

Also, there was a cyclist who tried to separate the two. Has anyone checked that guy for bite marks?

Meanwhile, let’s all get to high ground, or head to a colder climate. And, we need to cobble together the team.

George and Riley – duh. Who else would bother to save my ass?

I’ve kicked around grabbing my brother Buddha, who’s super handy with a cross bow and is most likely to be able to hunt and then know how to generate food from the dead animal than anyone I know. On the downside, he is the loudest person alive. There’s just no whisper setting on that guy.

Also, I need to get to Vermont to grab my brother-in-law Jeff. Eagle Scout – that’s got to come in handy. Of course, he’ll insist on bringing his family, so let’s weigh the pros and cons. Cons: his daughters eat more than several full grown men. Pros: they’re very small, even for small children, and could easily scurry up trees to keep an eye out. His wife, my sister, is a massage therapist – so, basically, always welcome. Plus, that’s about as close to a medical person as we’ll have. Of course, Buddha’s a paramedic. Jesus, can we just get that guy to put a cork in it!

And Liam Neeson. Obviously.

George recommends Bruce Campbell. He’s put on some pounds, but he has the experience we’re looking for. Nice one, honey. Oh, and Woody Harrelson.

I draw the line at Sammy Haggar.

So that happened….

Road Trip!

Around this time last year, Riley announced plans for a road trip with his band. Not a set of gigs or anything. The group was going to pile into a van and drive to North Caroline to see my brother Buddha, stopping along the way to camp.

Five teens load up a van and take a trip into the Deep South. I have seen this movie. It does not end well.

I’m not a camper by nature, nor am I especially comfortable in the south. Or the outdoors, to be honest. I’m not even sure I like vans. Wisely, Riley waited until all other members of the band got their parents’ OK before springing this waiting, bloody disaster on me.

Surely to most people – George, for instance – a summer road trip with buddies seems like the most natural and fun thing to do with some free time. See the world! Bond with friends! Camp! So again, wisely, Riley told us together.

What is it these humans don’t understand? Have they not seen Cabin in the Woods? Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Wrong Turn? The Hills Have Eyes? These films offer the kind of education I believe we should all take into account before planning any adventure.

I wasn’t thrilled.

Lucky for me, Riley would be the handsome leading man, meaning he’d likely survive to tell the tale. I’d hate to be the comic relief sidekick, and God help the underage girls!

They mapped out their destination, got the car tuned up, carried a AAA card for emergencies. All they needed was camping equipment, which my friend Christie kindly supplied. She lent them tents, chairs, a lantern and other recreational whatnot. What she did not provide was the know-how to use the equipment.

Unlike his mother, Riley is not afraid of the woods or strangers or animals or the dark or the south. He would realize, though, that like his mother, he does not care for camping. Terror aside, camping totally blows. You work really hard to provide all you need for a good night’s sleep, only to find that tents don’t suit anyone over 5 foot 5, they leak if you don’t know how to properly set them up, and a sleeping bag on a tent floor over ground is exactly as comfortable as it sounds.

Plus, bugs.

He also learned that getting lost at night on country roads that offer no streetlights, no helpful gas station attendants, and no cell phone reception really is scary – even if there are no inbred cannibals in the vicinity. (Not that you’d know until it was too late!)

Eventually they made it to my brother’s house and spent a day with Buddha and his son in what amounts to my version of a nightmare. 

He has several acres about a mile from any road, about 30 miles from any town. There are woods, fields and swamps on his land, which lend themselves to bears, gators, backwoodsmen, and naturally, bugs. I’m not sure how many of those creatures actually infest the property, but my nephew did once hit a bear with his car, so at least we’re sure one manner of carnivore lives there.

Still, Riley and crew had a lovely time in Ivanhoe, North Caroline. They fished, went to the beach, visited a creepy store (like the one in the Chuck Connors flick Tourist Trap, I assume), ate a lovely meal, did not die, and headed back toward Ohio.

They made it home safely – tired and slightly sunburned, but healthy enough. The only casualty turned out to be Riley’s driving record: he got a speeding ticket somewhere around West Virginia.

The one thing I forgot to worry about.

So that happened…


Honestly Officer, my dad did it!

My next door neighbors in Tiffin were the sainted Celinda and her two smashing sons, Michael and Timothy. My extended family – aunts, cousins, whatnot – literally refer to her as Saint Celinda. This is perhaps due to her unreasonably calm response to the theft of her sons’ bicycles at the hands of two of my visiting cousins, but really, there are countless other reasons.

Had Celinda been a true-born Madden girl, she’d be situated between my brother Buddha and sister Ellen. But this small, olive-skinned Italian girl in the middle of giant, pasty-faced Irishmen was never going to pass as a Madden. I suspect this disappointed my parents.

Long after the genetic Madden kids had split town, Celinda and the boys were looking after our dad. Timothy and Michael shoveled his walk, mowed his lawn, and put up his Christmas tree. Celinda popped in every few days to make sure the man was still alive. 

I know this makes him seem like a decrepit and ancient fellow, but indeed, he was in his sixties at the time and capable of surviving if not thriving on his own. He was just too lazy and too fond of being looked after to do it.

So how did he return the favor? He stole her newspaper, dropped in unannounced for dinner, burned down her kitchen, and on at least one occasion he snuck a peek at her in her underwear. Yet he was surprisingly endearing through it all. 

Though Celinda has long been one of my dearest friends, I started off as her babysitter. Sure, there were “better” babysitters. Some “quality” caregivers learn CPR, read aloud, plan craft projects, prepare the occasional vegetable. But that’s not my bag.

About once a month I’d spend my full week’s wages to take the boys to Pizza Hut and a movie – Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or the sequel, Big Top Pee Wee, for example. You know – the classics. Otherwise, our schedule was pretty consistent: all morning we watched cartoons; most afternoons we watched bad, syndicated sit-coms; all evening we watched movies. 

Some afternoons we’d take a break from Charles In Charge to play. Playtime is important in the development of the youth. We generally developed by pretending we were Transformers or Ghostbusters or Thundercats.

The latter often stirred up controversy because Timothy thought I should be Cheetara, the sole female Thundercat, but I insisted on being mighty Lion-O. I think, secretly, Tim hoped to be Lion-O rather than always getting stuck playing Snarf.

Characteristically, Michael settled on playing the wise, soft spoken Panthro. If they were smarter, the Thundercats would have made Panthro their leader instead of that showboat Lion-O. I believe it was just that weakness that always gave evil Mum-Ra the upper hand, my friends.

Back to the story. It was, indeed, while I was “babysitting” that my dad set Celinda’s kitchen on fire.

I had a hand in it. I had turned on the wrong burner on the stove. Rather than heating up the canned ravioli I’d planned for the boys’ lunch, I heated up last night’s hamburger grease on the skillet on the back burner, which caught fire. 

It was quite spectacular, but entirely controllable. I turned off the back burner and went to the cupboard to find something to douse the flame – baking soda, flour, something like that. In the meantime, I sent the boys to my house next door, just to be safe. Naturally, they told my parents about the fire.

In burst my dad. Cursing under his breath at my clear, perhaps criminal incompetence, he rushed to the sink and began filling a pot with water.

“It’s a grease fire, Dad,” I called from the pantry.


“It’s a grease fire, Dad!”

He continued filling the pot. Then he turned off the faucet and moved, pot in hand, toward the flame.

“DAD! It’s a GREASE FIRE!!” 

No good. My dad’s deaf. 

So, water hit the flame, which rolled up the wall behind the oven, taking out the curtain over the adjacent sink then fanning about a third of the way across the ceiling before burning itself out.

 And still they mowed his lawn.

So, you see, Saint Celinda.

So that happened…

Oh my God, what’s your name? My name’s Lyle…

A few years ago, George and I were staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Cleveland. Why were we staying there? Because somebody else was paying for it. 

We knew Lyle Lovett was playing in Cleveland that night, but because of the work-related purpose of our visit, we would not get to see the show. Bummer.

We would, however, manage to see Lyle.

We’d already run into Julian Lennon in the hotel bar, so if that Cleveland evening wasn’t already star studded, it was at least bedazzled. Late the night of the concert, after a long evening of adult beverages, George and I and several likeminded revelers found ourselves standing in the Ritz-Carlton lobby, laughing loudly at one thing or another when Lyle Lovett entered the premises.

George, in the middle of a story, noticed the imminently noticeable singer/songwriter out of the corner of his eye and announced, “There’s Lyle!”

He really only said it to the four or five of us who’d been chatting. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but George’s voice carries. It’s a radio thing, I guess. Regardless, Lovett heard him, and he’d said it with such familiarity that Lyle apparently, for just a minute, looked over expecting to know who’d said it.

Still warm from the cocktails, George and I decided to pretend we knew him.

We strolled nonchalantly toward Lyle, George smiling with his hand extended. He shook the hand of the now visibly confused Lovett and told him how much we liked the new album.

I insisted that my brain tell my hand to stay away from Lovett’s hair, because I was overcome with the desire to touch it. It’s just such fantastic hair! I wanted to touch it!

I did not.

I did, however, smile like a speechless moron and turned what many have labeled “Hope Madden Red.” (Crayola copyright to follow.)

Lyle smiled politely, thanked us for our kind words, and headed hurriedly toward the elevator.

We trailed him, smiling like a couple of drunken maniacs who might just follow him right up to his room.

As Lovett stood in the elevator and waited for the doors to close, George and I stood facing him, just outside the elevator, waving.

The moment lasted a weirdly long time.

Lovett pushed and pushed at the button for his desperately wanted floor, but nothing happened. The door remained open, the smiling possible stalkers remained just outside the elevator.

Lyle did not realize that, at this late hour, he had to insert his room card into the elevator panel to get the doors to close.

We chose not to tell him.

Scary movie blog

Vampire’s Kiss (1988)

Sure, we all hate Nicolas Cage. He’s a whore, a has-been, and his wigs embarrass us. But back before Con Air (the film that turned him), Cage was always willing to behave in a weirdly effeminate manner, and perhaps even eat a bug. He made some great movies.

Among those works ranks this bizarre horror comedy, which would make an excellent back to back viewing with Christian Bale’s American Psycho. Both films loathe the soulless, white collar white man in a suit. One portrays him as a serial killer, while this one sees him as a blood sucker. Either way, he’s a sociopath who preys on the rest of us.

Both films boast fascinating, savage turns from male leads who would go on to dominate acting for years after these unhinged performances. We have yet to see whether Christian Bale will eventually whore himself out to the highest bidder, wearing ridiculous hair pieces while driving his motorcycle from the depths of hell to find the missing Constitution. Let us hope not.

In keeping with a theme I appear to be building, Christian Bale ate worms in the film Rescue Dawn. Vampire’s Kiss is best known for the scene in which Cage eats a cockroach. (Putting both actors to shame is Divine, who ate actual dog shit for John Waters’s Pink Flamingos.)

Dietary hijinks aside, Cage gives a masterful comic performance as a narcissistic literary editor who descends into madness. The actor is hilarious, demented, his physical performance outstanding. The way he uses his gangly mess of limbs and hulking shoulders inspires darkly, campy comic awe. And the plastic teeth are awesome. 

Peter Lowe (pronounced with such relish by Cage) believes he’s been bitten by a vampire (Jennifer Beals) during a one night stand. It turns out, he’s actually just insane. The bite becomes his excuse to indulge his self-obsessed, soulless, predatory nature for the balance of the running time.

The object of most of Lowe’s deviance is his secretary, poor, hard working Alva (Maria Conchita Alonso). Her wholesome life, though humble, carries with it a happiness and fulfillment that Lowe’s seemingly enviable high rolling lifestyle lacks. When the natural order of superiority is disrupted – when Alva snickers at Peter’s sockless ankle – his world and mind finally crumble. He may think he abuses her with sinister panache because he’s slowly turning into a demon, but we know better.

If the news of National Treasure 3 is too much to bear, maybe give this one a shot.

So that happened…

Cot Troubles

We drove to the Land of Cleve Tuesday to watch a 62-year-old make dozens of thousands of Ohioans look like anemic, easily exhausted old people. Bruce Springsteen puts on an impressive show, that’s all I’m saying.

We were lucky to get tickets, but it appears we were luckier to get a room.

We had splurged a bit on our scalped and excellent seats, and we fully intended to drop some cash on souvenirs (one tee apiece, plus a shirt and set of guitar picks for The Boy, who couldn’t come because, well, we didn’t get him a ticket). Plus there’d be food and, let’s be honest, beverages aplenty. We decided there was no need to pay up for an expensive room as well, so we booked at the Red Roof Inn by the airport.

So, apparently, did about a million middle aged softball players.

We hadn’t been aware of what appeared to be a tournament of every all-male fiftysomething team in the state, so it’s just blind luck that we check in prior to the show. When we saw the hand written sign taped to the door post-concert, we were glad we had.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, your reservation may not guarantee a room.

It makes you wonder how they define “reservation.”

But we didn’t care because we’d already check in, so unless they’d decided to share our room against our will with a couple of balding shortstops and a pot bellied catcher, we were fine. Except that somehow we’d lost our room key and needed a replacement.

I mentioned the beverages?

The late night line at the check in counter was lengthy and unpleasant. Another handwritten sign reminded would-be guests that “reserved” means something totally different under the Red Roof, but by now the grumbling sleepyheads understood they weren’t getting a room.

One guy, though, who was lucky enough to have a room, wanted more. He wanted a cot, and the clerk was running out of different ways to say “we don’t have any.”  

“But I just need a cot.”

“Yeah, we don’t have any.”

Repeat six times.

Finally, after the clerk had resulted to puppet show and interpretive dance, the man slinked away, still cotless.

The clerk turned his attention to George.

Their eyes met. The air grew thick with anticipation as each man knew what was to come.  Fate had given George a gift, and he could not refuse it. The moment was so perfect that future generations of hotel clerks will speak of it with grudging respect.

“Can I help you?”

“Do you have any cots?”

And that, kids, is how one room almost became suddenly available!

Hope Madden and George Wolf … get it?