Which I'm Going To Call The James Whitmore Hangs Himself In The Shawshank Redemption Suites.

I got to Seattle Wednesday morning. It was gray, drizzly and hopeless. The way I like it. Then I got to the hotel.

The entire place smelled like the sad dreams of an old man who looks back on a life filled with failure, regret, and bad food. The workout room was a broken stationary bike next to three snack machines filled with fruit pies that went stale the day Kennedy's head went blooey in Dallas. The desk clerk was the Patron Saint of Unsung Indie Bands, and snarled and snapped at us when we so much as asked if there was an ice machine. The documentary crew was levitating from happiness, all the good footage they were getting. And how about my bed, made lumpy by the dozens of teenage hookers who fought for their lives as a trucker on black beauties tried to strangle them. Oh, and lost. I left that part out.

But the show was amazing. Neumo's Crystal Ball Reading Room was packed with cool drunks, and they laid snacks out on an autopsy table for us in the green room. Maria smiled and Brian listened to metal and I drank some scotch. We all got massive love before we even opened our mouths, plus a floor-pounding encore. Wow. And I sold a lot of copies of "222". I apologize to anyone who has the stomach to get through it.
Patton Oswalt