Comfort in the age of motoring

About the time of evening when mankind's quest for self-medication begins, the lights go on at the Manor Motel in Ashland, Oregon. It's a beautiful sight, what with the sun setting in the west and the promise of a very dry Plymouth martini and an unfiltered Lucky Strike on the horizon. 

The screen door on #5 needs oil, but has a latch on the inside for security purposes. The room, replete with kitchenette, is $73 a night with AAA membership. The motel manager had warned us that the water pressure would zoom to unprecedented heights, but still the force of the stream is scary in this age of scarcity when everything's coming to an end.

The bed is surprisingly firm and the neighbors are quiet, though one of them smokes cigarettes, one every hour, until dawn.

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