Oh, Joey.
Joey Joey Joey Joey.

You cannot imagine how much you have heightened an otherwise mediocre hotel stay, merely by the fact that this is your room.

When I first pushed through the door and spotted the disco-era bedspread and Thomas Kinkaid art, I thought well, not my style but if it’s good enough for Joe Pantoliano…

When I unwrapped the smells-like-movie-theater-bathroom-air-freshener soap I thought, well, it’s no Aveda but if it’s good enough for Joe Pantoliano…

When, starving, I ordered a hearty plate of mac and cheese and it arrived in a thimble, I thought, well, I’ll probably go to bed hungry but if it’s good enough for Joe Pantoliano…

When I had to interrupt the valet’s personal cell phone call–twice–to ask whether I might get my car sometime before the November elections, I thought, well, I usually don’t like waiting twenty minutes for my car when I’m the only guest standing here, but if it’s good enough for Joe Pantoliano…

And when I was awakened at 5 am by the chirping aviary outside my window, the sounds of which were deadened only by the construction in pretty much every other room in this wing besides mine, I thought, well, I normally like sleeping a wee bit later but if it’s good enough for Joe Pantoliano…

Oh, Joey. Sweet, wonderful Joey. Until now, you were just Guido the Killer Pimp. Teddie from Memento. Ralphie. Ralphie’s head. But now? So much more.

We will always have room 303.

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Hello, Mama? Hi it’s me! If you come home tomorrow, I promise to do more cute things so that you have funny material to write about instead of just complaining about your hotel room…Okay…see you then…oh, and while I’ve got you on the line, would you mind stopping by Fred Segal and picking me up one of those $110 pair of baby jeans with the…no? Oh okay.