My GPS has a first name. It’s S-A-T-A-N.


That’s the little song I was singing as I drove miles and miles down this somewhat gravel, mostly dust road. It’s not all bad, because the drive was just beautiful. Most of it was on highway 52, which I never would have found were it not for little Satie. But the infuriating part was when he would YELL for me to turn off the highway onto some bizarre (often dirt) road, which I would faithfully follow for miles until it led me RIGHT BACK TO HIGHWAY 52.

Anyway, I made it, and I’m here in my little hotel room experiment. It’s a Motel 6. See, I read that Motel 6 had done upgrades to its hotels, giving them a sort of Ikea-like cheap chic facelift, and I thought, Awesome. Great story idea and even better if it really is a decent room. Well here’s the catch: maybe some of the Motel 6 rooms got that makeover, but not the ones in Rochester, Minnesota. The room smells vaguely of smoke. The shower issues a ridiculous spittle of water. And what’s worse, there’s no internet. Not any for free, and not any you can buy. So I’m typing this on my Epic, which has moved up on my list of technological devices thanks to Satie’s mischeivous behavior. And that’s why I’ll be adding my recipe for Snickerdoodles, which I promised Shelley (sorry, Shell!), tomorrow. When I’m not forced to thumb type.

Night, all … tomorrow from the Badlands!


2 thoughts on “My GPS has a first name. It’s S-A-T-A-N.

  1. Be sweet to your GPS. He might save you if you’re nice. Sorry about the hotel experiment. Maybe you could ask them where the good ones are.

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