The dirt on the dirt

The highly anticipated TripAdvisor's 2010 Dirtiest Hotels in America list was released and I did not report on it RIGHT AWAY. I'm sorry! I hope nothing bad happened as a result of this oversight.

Actually, I'm thinking it might be a good thing to talk about this now—vacation season is right around the corner! And any time you go on vacay, be sure to find out what you're getting into with your accomadations. Seriously. Bed bugs are making a huge comeback and they've evolved into a kind of super bed bug that is immune to the usual extermination tactics. Even Billy the Exterminator would probably run screaming.

Anyhoo, this list is particularly close to my heart this year because the Parisian Hotel & "Suites" in Miami made it! It sounds fancy, doesn't it? I once booked a room there with some friends, naively thinking it was going to be one of those charming art deco retro-style inns that are all over the place there. We ended up in the back of a Thrifty rental car shop that appeared to be the actual entrance into Satan's ass. You can check out that fun story of sex, drugs and unidentified "fluids" right here. Needless to say, I'm pleased to see the good ol' Parisian is getting the recognition it deserves.

As has been my custom in past posts on this topic, I'd like to present a few of the more colorful comments left by disgruntled and disgusted guests. Remember: you can laugh now, but someday you won't be laughing when you're on vacation and you wake up to find fresh rat poop on your pillow and a human head in the coat closet.

When we checked in, the manager offered us a free upgrade to the "Honeymoon Suite." It was a set-up. The "Honeymoon Suite" had a vacant room next door that was "under construction." I was undressed to get into my swimsuit and heard breathing. I felt someone staring at me. I looked under the big gap under the adjoining room door. I saw eyes looking back at me!

My dog could have cleaned the room better. He would've given better service as well.

This was by far the worst and most disgusting hotel I have ever stayed in North America. It beat out a hotel in central Turkey that had a hole in the floor toilet that doubled as the shower, or I might have said the world. To be fair, the Turkish hotel cost 5 dollars.

The rooms are so filthy. I wanted to leave 409 spray there so maybe they would get the hint.

If you like being treated as a second class citizen or if you have severe daddy issues and you need to be talked to like you are a bad little boy I recommend this hotel. If not, then I would say steer clear.

I've stayed in crappy hotels before but those were when i was younger and looking for a place to get my groove on for an hour and for $20.

I went to the restroom, I kid you not a minute after doing my business I heard as if someone had thrown a bucket full of water. I went back into the restroom and there was a huge hole that had just opened right on top on the toilet from water coming from the room on top. WOW!!!

I can not believe this rat hole is still in business (excuse my language).

Had the ambience of fresh vomit.

I wouldn't even recommend this place to the outdoorsy types because it's just too expensive and probably dirtier than a tent.

Also, great news for international travelers! TripAdvisor is also now doing Dirtiest Hotel lists for Canada, Europe and Asia! When is GOOP going to get on this??

I can now die happy

I have seen Jane's Addiction, original lineup, in concert. And it could not have been more badass.

I saw the show two nights in a row. Does that officially make me a groupie? I think I saw a few real groupies...you can always tell because they wear stilettos to concerts.

Anyway, I'm in a bit of a daze so this post is going to be about as gushy fangirl as I'm going to get around here. The first night Jane's played on their own and the second night they played with Nine Inch Nails (who were kickass, as usual). We got trapped in the rain both nights. We also saw a guy in some kind of a bear mascot costume waiting sadly under an overpass until the rain stopped, which really put the sprinkles on top of the entire delicious cupcake of an evening.

Jane's stuck to the old stuff. None of this Entourage theme song business. They kicked both sets off with "Three Days." We also had the pleasure of hearing:

"Ain't No Right"
"Whores"
"Then She Did"
"Ted, Just Admit It..."
"Up The Beach"
"Pigs In Zen"
"Mountain Song"
"Had A Dad"
"Been Caught Stealing"
"Ocean Size"
"1%"

Encore:
"Summertime Rolls"
"Stop!"
"Jane Says"

I of course turned into this jumpy, screamy, whirling freakshow who knew all the words. I even shed little tear when they played "Summertime Rolls", which is my favorite song of all time. I think I was really annoying my neighbors.

Perry Farrell is 50 years old, if you can believe that. His stage style is this blend of Freddy Mercury, the Pied Piper of Hamelin, a ringmaster and a pole dancer. He said weird things to the crowd and strutted around all cock-of-the-walk style. He sounded amazing.

I made a bet with my concertmates as to how long it would take before Navarro was shirtless on stage. He came out wearing a useless vest both nights, which was gone by the third song. Oh, Dave...such a media whore! But he wailed and swaggered like he really meant it. Since he divorced Carmen and stopped doing reality TV (for now), I forgive him.

Stephen Perkins is officially the most underrated drummer in rock. He's simply awesome. And he drummed in his underpants, before donning a sweet Utilikilt.

Of course, Eric's return made the whole night for me. I believe that if you're simply using a bass player to back up the bass drum, you shouldn't have one. Too often bass players are relegated to the job of making the song a little bit heavier by plinking out the base E-A-G and then drinking all the band's beer at practice. Bass lines can make the songs and Eric's bass lines make the songs. For a good example, listen to "Then She Did." Listen to the whole song! If you're too lazy, "Been Caught Stealing" is another good example.

Anyway, when the encore ended I noticed Eric sitting on stage just staring at the crowd and seemingly really incredulous about the whole experience. Despite all the band differences in the past, it was good to see that he seemed to be having a great time.

I'm sure music critics everywhere (not naming names on the Cowtown ones, but anyone who lives here knows who I'm talking about) are hunting for things to nitpick about the show, but my official last word on everything is that it was perfect. A rabid Jane's fan could not have asked for anything more.

Thank you, boys.

P.S. For your enjoyment, here is a very good interview with Eric that gives you a good overview of what he's all about.



P.P.S. Per my last post, I was wrong. Apparently the Lakers rule and the Cavs drool. I admit defeat. But I don't like it.

Dirty night...

I feel it's my duty to notify readers that Trip Advisor's 2009 Dirtiest Hotels list has come out. Last year, I relayed some choice comments from the 2008 list, so I think I'm going to make this an annual thing. Because after driving for 16 straight hours and finally laying down for a good night's rest in a Comfort Inn, only to stick your hand in a load of dried spooge that had been smeared on the comforter for god knows how long...well, I just don't want that to have to happen to anyone else. That's enough to turn anyone into a hotel snob.

Now I'm not being Gwyneth and saying you have to stay at the exclusive Chateau Prétentieux if you don't want to sleep on a bed of assorted pubes. Just do a little research, bring your own pillow and if you see jumping bugs, check out immediately.

Anyhoo, like last year, I'd like to highlight some of the more hilariously disgusting stories of filth submitted by those who lived it. Prepare to puke. Of note: there are three Days Inns on the list this year. Coincidence?

Body found, stoned doorman...YAY, welcome to NYC.

One was able to see through the glass just enough to observe a band of errant prostitutes, soliciting buisness on the front steps of the hotel from a group of equally degenerate drunkards.

This is the kind of place where at any time a pancake makeup-encrusted octogenerian with yellowed teeth, clad in a shabby silk bedcoat and moth-eaten feather boa can be expected to be seen wandering the halls muttering, "Mr. Demille, I'm ready for my close-up."

The front door had a paper sign for a party group meeting in the lounge. It appeared from the context it was a swingers group. Two couples we met later on the elevator seemed to confirm that.

Some people must live there? They had a big pot party and asked my son if he wanted some. Located in porn section. Nothing close by that looked safe. Would not recommend.

I really appreciated the "Hookers" being so kind and thoughtful as to hold the door for me, but I was too tired to take them up on the wonderful offers they had.

The bathroom offered an array of grossness starting with the pubes that were all over the floor. They really sweetened the pot for us with the 1-ply toilet paper and the jar of Vaseline. I still dont know what the heck that was all about. Housekeeping came up and cleaned with some unknown bloodbourne pathogens cleaner that made our eyes water all night.

I've never seen a bigger caterpillar turn up in a restaurant salad. They can't have washed the lettuce. Just as bad: the waiter's complete lack of surprise when he was shown the caterpillar. And filthy carpets are one thing, but have you ever seen a carpet that was literally sticky? I don't want to think about how much non-cleaning it took for it to reach that state.

To top it all off, about 30 minutes after I got into bed, the room started vibrating as if someone was drilling into the floor beneath us, and this continued on and off for the rest of the night. So as it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Sex-a-thon next door weren't the only ones the earth shook for that night.

I want to see some reviews of places like this on GOOP. No more of this Ritz and Plaza business—I want first person write-ups of places called "Ramada Inn and Convention Center of Aberdeen, South Dakota". Could you imagine if Gwynnie found jizz on her sheet at a hotel? That's some GOOP she wouldn't want anything to do with—HAHAHAHAHA! I'm funny!

RoL3.2: Something borrowed, something used

God, here we go again. I've decided that I'm not even going to bother learning these skanks' names because they all look alike. Bev is the only one...she's kind of cool. Which means she doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning.

So today the gang boards the Whoremobiles to travel the long and lonesome highway east of Omaha to go to Indianapolis...where they're all going to marry Bret. Jesus christ. Just when you think these challenges couldn't get any dumber and more meaningless, the contestants are being asked to write wedding vows for Bret and bring him a gift that shows him who they are. What is Bret going to do with 13 pairs of crotchless panties? I guess we'll see...

Porny, for one, is taking this challenge very seriously. She interviews that she's truly in love with Bret for the rest of her life and they should fly on their beautiful wings of love to make the world a better place. I don't know what's scarier—her comments or her nose job. It reminds me of a decomposed Bo Derek.

While she's off being creepy, the others are bent over notebooks writing their vows in bubble letters and dotting their i's with little hearts. The New Age kook plans to dazzle Bret with her mysticism and spends the trip to Indy practicing a ridiculous undulating dance of love.

So the Slutmobiles pull up in front of a church and the gals are directed to a rack of outfits and accessories to create their wedding looks. It's a blur of tulle, fishnet and hot pink stretch satin. Meanwhile, Bret's waiting at the altar wearing a sleeveless tuxedo t-shirt and his ever-present bandanna. The church (must be Unitarian) is decked out in burgandy and black and there's even a leather-clad biker lesbian with a Stratocaster to play "Here Comes the Bride." It's enough to make every stripper feel like Cinderella.

First up is Porny and she's on a mission to put every single one of her feelings out there on the table...with five pages of vows. There's terror in Bret's eyes as she mentions kissing away tears and being an umbrella in the rain. Cue Psycho reet-reet sound effects.

While she's treating this as if it really is her big day, some of the other girls are opting for a different, and more obvious approach. Random Blonde #1 writes her vows in verse and notes that if Bret buys the cow, he can hit it from behind. Brazil Nut promises to love, honor and never wear panties. Penthouse Pet Girl gives him framed pictures from her pictorials and some lingerie. Random Blonde #2 gives Bret an Ed Gein-esque plaster model of her torso. And Dimple Piercing Girl gives him her fucking vag stud. I mean, hygiene is getting compromised here.

Finally, we have the breath of fresh air known as Bev who comes down the isle wearing jeans and some kind of motocross t-shirt. She gives Bret the shirt and a helmet. We all know how one way to this man's heart is with dirt bikes, but the main way is with boobs, and Penthouse, Dimples and Random Blonde #1 win.

Back on the bus, Porny collapses on the couch in tears and whines "Am I not good enough?" Yikes. I sense and awkward evening. If anything, at least it with be whimsical, too. The gang is staying at the world-famous Fantasuite Hotel, a joint that features themed rooms. There's an Alien Invasion room with a spaceship-shaped bed and a Venetian room with a gondola. Everyone oohs and ahhs over the rooms and then gathers outside for a Tahitian-themed "reception." There's pigs-in-a-blanket, pineapple and ham poppers and booze a-flowing...and then the lap dances start.

Everyone takes turns writhing and undulating and snaking around Bret. Everyone that is, except Porny, who is sitting alone and sulking because Bret didn't appreciate her book of vows. So she decides it's time to turn her game up a notch. She dashes into her room and changes into what appears to be a child's bikini, slathers orange bronzer all over herself and makes her grand entrance with a shake and a shimmy and a "WHOOOOO!!!" Then she crawls across the lawn to Bret and stands on her head and sticks her crotch right under his nose.

Well, now that this party has been killed, the gang moves indoors where Bret announces that they're going to play a little game called Are You Smarter Than A Rock Star. The skanks can earn VIP passes for alone time with Bret by answering questions correctly. Security Goon Big John, who looks like he's starting to really hate this gig, starts reading off the questions and Bret keeps shouting out the correct answers. Since he can't give the passes to himself, he just hands them out to the three chicks that look the hottest: Penthouse, Natasha and Random Blonde #3.

Once again, Porny loses it and screetches to Natasha that she only got a pass because she's black. Dun-dun-dun! It's on, bitch! With accusations of racism flying Porny defends herself by screaming "My grandfather's black! He's a beautiful black man!" Is this really happening? I mean, they are all in a room with a spaceship and aliens so maybe where in an alternate universe of some kind. An alternate universe that reeks of regurgitated champagne.

So the next morning, Bret takes the wedding challenge winners on the world's most boring date in a fucking pumpkin patch. It's painful, so let's skip this BS. Upon returning to the hotel, Bret decides to meet with some of the randoms he hasn't had the chance to French yet. One of those randoms is the New Age freakshow. She immediately starts in about what a passionate, sexual person she is and how she thinks about sex all the time and sex, sex, sex. But, she also thinks the body is a sacred temple and...has vowed not to have sex for three years. Sorry, New Age...pack up your bindis and saris and get off the bus.

Elimination is anticlimactic, too. Of note is Porny having yet another breakdown where she interviews that she's not this "crazy, wild, naked person anymore" and it's becoming clear that her entire future, feelings of self-worth and, frankly, life is hinging on this show. Lucky for her, she's invited to stay around another week.

Next week: the Whoremobiles roll into Illinois, the gals play hockey with Hatchet Face, Random Blonde #4's implant pops and someone has a boyfriend back home and is accused of not being "there" for Bret. AGAIN.

RoL3.1: Open up and say...gahhhhhh

Hellooooo, 2009! Time to start anew. New resolutions, new plans, new things to look forward to...and the same old shit on this blog.

That's right, kids. Just in time for the third anniversary of Stupid & Contagious (yay!), my favorite reality train wreck Rock of Love is back for a third stab at making us think Bret Michaels really just wants a nice girl. The RockitKing has already given up on all of the Of Loves (thanks for nothing, Flav). But I, being mentally ill, am right here again, plopped in front of the TV and hating myself for the entire hour.

And what an hour it is. During the first ep of the last season of RoL, I mentioned my first impression was that I'd never seen so much bad hair in my life. Well, this time my first impression is that there are some plastic surgeons in this world that are on the run to South America as we speak, because what was done to some of these chicks can only be defined as criminally disfiguring. I mean, Michael Jackson's surgeon wouldn't say no and his nose fell off. At least half of these girls are struggling to stand upright. Bret seems to have gotten a little refresher, too. I'm guessing permanent cosmetics and a little chemical peel...

So once again, Bret kicks the show off by taking photos of the girls "for their backstage passes" and makes the same stupid joke for the third time about getting a look at their souls through the lens. The lineup of skanks this time around looks like a fucking sideshow. One girl, Gia, makes a big stink about how she loves being tied up. Another stunner named Brittanya has her dimples pierced and describes herself as "a little bit not too smart."

The first ho to step up and get her picture taken is Brittaney (not to be confused with Brittanya) and she looks a little familiar to Bret. Surprise! She's a porn star! And Bret, of course, is familiar with her "work." She hopes Bret won't hold her past against her. Seriously.

Then we have Constandina who hails from the "Appalachian mountains" and has a master's degree in storytelling. She references her "third eye" and I can already tell she's not going to win so let's not waste too much time on her. We also have Ashley, who Bret says looks like Juliette Lewis, but looks more like a Barbie doll, but when you squish its forehead into its chin, to me. Next in line is wild animal trainer Megan; brothel-madam-wannabe Natasha; Brazilian nut Marcia; a 40-year old with chicken cutlets for cheeks named Maria; Poison groupie Beverly; a Penthouse Pet named Taya who shows Bret her ass; and finally Mindy, who recently had her face sharpened.

And then there's Nikki, or as she calls herself, DJ Lady Tribe, or as I like to call "her," The Thing. The Thing makes Daisy and Frenchie from last season look like pillars of class and sophistication. I mean, she is seriously the most disgusting hot mess of melted plastic, synthetic hair and goofballs I've ever seen in my life. To tantalize Bret, she sings him a rap that she wrote herself...on two pieces of paper with the headings GENITAL HERPES and GONHORREA. I wish I was making this up. Then she appears on camera slurring that everything she's on "is legal" before belching into the camera. And it only gets worse from here, if you can believe it. Just you wait.

So this season, Bret decides that he can't keep a girl because he can't find someone who can hang on the road. So he's loading all the hobags on tour busses and dragging them around the country with him on his solo tour. Of course, he makes the same wisecrack about rock n' roll being the cause of and the solution to all his relationships. Thank god he doesn't reference rock as his "bitch goddess" again, though. The bitches load up on blue and pink tour busses, with help from our old friend Security Goon Big John, who is shown emptying a trash can that seems to be filled to the brim with tampons. Oh god, please bleach your hands after that, Security Goon Big John.

As soon as the busses hit the highway, the drama begins. Squishy Barbie Doll Head and Brazil Nut start fighting right off the bat all the way to the first stop in Louisville. There, they meet Bret at his concert and are immediately brought out on stage to skank it up for the crowd. All manner of drunken antics take place including make outs, boob reveals and ass lickings. About three-quarters of the girls act like mega-sluts in front of the audience while the rest interview their disgust. Then if that wasn't bad enough, the real action starts in at the after-party.

OK, when I say real action, what I really mean is likely the skankiest thing to ever happen in the history of reality TV. I mean, it's so skanky that even the skanks were grossed out. Want me to tell you what it was? OK, brace yourself. Gia the Masochist announces that she's not wearing underwear and hops up on the bar to prove it. The Thing announces that she's horny and proceeds to...how shall I say this? OK, she has a test tube shot, and she puts it in the test tube rack, and then she drinks from the test tube...oh hell, we don't get to see it, and thank god, because even Bret looks disgusted.

Ick, yuck, blech, gahhhhhh...anyone know how to do an at-home lobotomy?

Anyway, moving on from that unpleasantness...

The next day (?), the miscreants are allowed to leave the cramped shittiness of the tour bus and move into cushy hotel rooms, stocked full with all the booze one could ever hope for. Brazil Nut is in heaven with her bottle of tequila. She's like a chain smoker, except with shots. She's dancing around, whistling, doing cartwheels and you know what's coming next. That's right: vomit on the first episode!! A RoL first! And to make it even better, she staggers out of the bathroom, lurches up to Bret and Frenches him. Toilet seat to Bret's lips—this may be the best RoL episode ever!

After that traumatic experience, Bret pulls tomboy Beverly aside for some alone time and instantly takes to her when she says he's the only one on her free pass list, not including Edward Norton in American History X. Is that before or after the curb stomp scene, Bev? Of course, Bret doesn't ask that or any other important questions. He just immediately starts giving Bev a tongue bath.

Next Bret is accosted by Porn Girl, who looks like an even more broken down Jerry Hall, and who starts showering him with neediness. Last season, Inna the Tank introduced herself to Bret with the immortal line, "My father was never there and I just want someone to love me." Porny says essentially the same thing and adds, "If you want me to be bisexual, I will" which is even more pitiful. Bret actually interviews that she's coming off too needy and wisely gets the hell out of the situation ASAP.

After a couple more fights, it's elimination time, and The Thing is wearing a red bathing suit and can barely stand up. Bret says there's urgency in the elimination ceremony this year because "I have to be in Indianapolis by morning." Better get moving, Bret! It's a long haul from Louisville! To make it snappy, Bret calls the names of the girls on the chopping block and it's all the ladies that caused the most drama on this ep. Of the group, Bret decides to keep Brazil Nut and Porny around for another week, which means Gia's out and, goddammit, The Thing is gone! The Thing is splayed out on the floor of the studio while the PAs are tearing down the set around her. Two hapless assistants have to drag her off the set. Oh, Thing, no one will ever forget you. You and your test tube shots...

This season: boobs, ass painting, bikini hockey, boobs, Hatchet again, "bitch," "I'll knock your ass out," boobs, Mud Bowl 3, and big john saying "I specifically asked you guys not to be slutty." Happy new year!

Motel hell

A few years ago I went to Miami with a couple friends and we reserved a room in one of those art deco-style hotels that are all over the place there that was a block from the beach. If the lobby of this place was the mouth to hell, our room was literally Beelzebub's anus. All the mirrors were broken, the floor was layered with dust, dirt and suspicious-looking hairs, the mattresses were wrapped in plastic and oozing what looked liked creamed piss. Not only that, but there was music blasting, people screaming and fighting and shady activity in the hallway and in the alley outside our window. It was like being at Lohan's house.

After a battle royale with the Nurse Ratchet-esque desk clerk, we got our money back and, thankfully, got upgraded to a sweet resort hotel with a private beach for our troubles. (In case you're wondering, the hellhole in question is the Parisian/Geneva Hotel—the Geneva is literally the back of a Thrifty Car Rental place. Seriously.)

The moral of this story is: never book on hotels.com. And always check TripAdvisor.com before you go.

I was reminded of this sordid experience when an esteemed colleague sent me a link to TripAdvisor.com's 2008 10 Dirtiest Hotels List. Frankly, I was a little surprised that the Parisian/Geneva didn't make the cut, but from the looks of this year's "winners" there are some places out there that are just as bad, if not worse. I mean, at least we didn't actually see cockroaches, although I'm sure they were lying in wait for the right moment to descend and kill. And lucky for us we didn't actually sleep in the beds, which were probably swimming with bedbugs, crabs, nits and probably worse.

While you're pretty much guaranteed to gag at some point while reading some of these reviews, they are also wildly entertaining at the same time. Some of the horrific experiences are beyond crazy, and some of the descriptions are hilarious. The best part is that this gives the poor travelers an outlet to not only warn others about the unsanitary shitholes some hoteliers are "running", but it also gives them a chance to collectively humilate the proprieters in public.

So if you've ever had a Parisian/Geneva experience, don't just share that sordid tale with your friends. Write a review on TripAdvisor so no one else has to bathe in rat turds and roach juice. For your enjoyment (and revulsion) here are some of the choicier comments and stories from this year's "winners."

A transfer to Guantanamo Bay would have been preferable to a stay in this hell hole. Liked—The view in the rear view mirror as we left.

I wished for the first time in my life that I had a handgun license, as the first thought that struck me as I entered the creaky gates of Hades (from here on out to be referred to as Room 34) was 'Oh good God, how do I survive the night?!' This place is an absolute disgrace, a miserable den for who knows what illicit activity.

Upon arrival at the hotel there was a CSI team in front of the hotel investigating a triple shooting at the hotel the night before.

The woman who checked out in front of us was lucky enough to have used hypodermic needles in her room as a bonus.(Note: this one's from Lancaster, PA, aka Amish country, and don't get me started on the Amish...)

If you have a choice between the Bates Motel and the Eden Roc, choose the Bates. At least Norman was pleasant and gave you a nice sandwich with a glass of milk before you realized what a terrible mistake you've made. Mother.

I started to check in when I noticed what looked like a pimp and two whores. If you and your frat boys are looking for a place to have a kegger and trash with no remorse then this is it. You don't have to worry about damaging much here. Don't bring your wife or girlfriend here for a romantic getaway unless you are trying to get rid of her.

I got LICE staying at this location. I couldn't believe it! I'm 32 years old! with Lice Bugs!

We chose the facility because of location, price and shuttle service. We didn't realize it was the "Hotel California" or the next thing to hell.

He fumbled with the key and the door, but nothing happened. Guess what he did to get in the door? He got down on his back and kicked the entire AC unit inside the room. YES KICKED IT IN!!!!! He then crawled through the hole to unlock the door. My three year old son thought it was the coolest way to enter a room, he wanted to try it too.

The air conditioner sounds like a Boeing 727 coming at you all night long.

Disliked—The Hungarian beast-woman in the resteraunt

The location suckered us in but it's not worth the whole family going home infected with scabies.

The room was haunted. The first night the lights were flickering on and off and the shower was turned on when I got there. The TV was the same as the TV in poltergeist. Other then that, I loved the location —originally an old indian burial ground. But is close to Times Square.

The whole place smelled like a dollar hooker parlor. I wouldn't let Satan stay here. Actually he probably owns the place.

When we got into the room, the smell was awful, a cross between smoke from cigarettes and drugs, foul sex and vomit. There were syringes in the trash can, and someone had taken a dump and the toilet was not flushed. My wife complained, but came back with what I knew would be no help. Apparently when she commented on the dump in the toilet she was told that it was "complementary Steam Boat Dumplings on the house!" Not only did it not make much sense, it was gross and the people at the front desk laguhed at it.

We awoke in the middle of the night to find a possum in the room! It scared us half to death.

The overall vibe of the place edgy and threatening. I should have left when I was asked to sign the waiver for theft or 'any personal injury' on the premises. Half a star to the cheery shuttle driver who brought me from the airport, singing Temptations songs all the way—deducted for not warning me what I was getting into.

My, my, my, I'm so happy, I'm gonna join the band!

Omigod, omigod, omigod!! My face is cracked from smiling...and I seriously just peed my pants!!!

Led Zeppelin frontman Robert Plant has confirmed that the legendary rock band will be reuniting later this year.

A reunion has been strongly rumoured for the last week or so and today (September 5) the singer confirmed it's definitely on.

A fan who met Plant in London today contacted NME.COM explaining that the singer said he was on his way to meet bandmates Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones.

"How did you find out about this?" asked Plant when asked about the prospects of a reunion show by the autograph hunter. "Well we've got a band meeting about it this afternoon about it. There's not a lot to work out as it's only going to be one-off gig."

NME.COM has also learned from a music industry source that the show, possibly to take place in November at the 02 in London, will be a charity gig organised by promoter Harvey Goldsmith.

The National Park Service needs to get with it

The National Park Service announced last week that Graceland will now join the parade of dead presidents' homes and other boring historical sites as an official Historic National Monument. Yee-ha—I love it! It's a rock n' roll mecca and one of the most popular tourist stops in the country. It's well-done, serving as a one-stop-shop to all things Elvis, where you can see the house, cars, planes, costumes, awards, etc., plus visit E's final resting place. And it's also a very fucking cool attraction that is very deserving of this honor.

Which brings me to my point du jour: it's about time the Park Service made an effort to ramp up their cool factor. For years schoolkids and tour groups have had to suffer through tedious monologues about the War of 1812 or how years of erosion shaped this or that, blah blah blah. Thousands of family vacations have been ruined because, hey, who wants to go to Gatorama or to see a two-headed cow when we can listen to some elderly docent drone on about Thomas Jefferson's swivel bookstand or Millard Fillmore's chamberpot? We've all been dragged through some stale-smelling "historic home" and subjected to placards and stories about looms and smithing and life on the farm. God help you if there is a gristmill out back.

Now the swingin' crash pad that's filled to the hilt with the tackiest shit you've ever seen in your life, where the King of Rock & Roll died on the toilet, is considered historic! I have hope that perhaps the NPS is finally coming around. Why stop there? No more of this "Paul Revere Stood Here" bullshit—let's add some more cool sites with historic merit to the list. Here are some helpful suggestions:

• The Hotel Chelsea, New York City
OK, so this place has been around since 1884 and the list of notable people that have stayed there is endless—Mark Twain, O Henry, Thomas Wolfe, Dylan Thomas, et al—but I'm sure nine out of every 10 people that passes by the building says, "Oh my god, that's where Sid killed Nancy!" The King of Rock n' Roll lived and died at Graceland, and the King and Queen of Punk Rock lived and died at the Chelsea—it only makes sense.

• The Liberace Museum, Las Vegas
This place would give Graceland a serious run for its money in the tchotchke department. Where else could you see a disco-mirrored grand piano, feather-adorned outfits that would make that thing that Cher wore that one time look like a nun's habit, and a collection of tasteless costume jewelry that rivals no other (including a 115,000-carat rhinestone). Imagine school groups learning about "Mr. Showmanship," while being led past his very own red, white and blue hotpants outfit and rhinestone-covered roadster—the kids would be all over it! I believe this man's world-class collection of gaudy crap is of historic interest and should finally get the iconic recognition it deserves by the U.S. government.

• The Brady Bunch House, N. Hollywood
If I showed the average person side-by-side pictures of this house and, say, Chester A. Arthur's boyhood home, which one do you think they would recognize? And if this modest-yet-mod, middle-class abode doesn't just scream "Americana", well, then I don't know what does. The current owners are apparantly very upset by all the tourists tromping around in their begonias and shouting "Porkchops and applesauce!" at all hours of the day and night, so they have erected some kind of privacy fence to keep curiosity-seekers at bay. The NPS should buy them out, open the house to the public and give the people what they want. Think of all the questions that could finally be answered. Why would an architect with six kids design a house with only three bedrooms? Was there really no toilet? Where did Alice sleep anyway? And finally, the age-old mystery of who got the attic would be solved! Sick side note: Another house I thought about mentioning for a possible historic marker was 10050 Cielo Drive, but decided that it would be in poor taste. In my defense, it IS the site of arguably the most infamous crime of modern times, and Alcatraz and Ford's Theater are on the list, so you can see where...oh, nevermind. I'm ashamed that I even mentioned it.

• The Cathouse, Los Angeles
So much debauchery has happened at this infamous Sunset Strip rockery that there needs to be, at the very least, some kind of monument here—a bronze reproduction of Vince Neil passed out on the sidewalk out front would work. Anyway, imagine how much fun it would be to lead fanny-packed tourists through as they eagerly snap keepsake photos of the very spot where the bass player from Jetboy ODed. "And this is the barstool that Nikki Sixx crashed his Harley into when he rode into the club naked." "Slash once fell down this very staircase, taking an artificial Christmas tree along with him." "That vomity stench you smell comes from years and years of throw-up jettisoning from the throats of '80s rock greats like Taime Downe, Tracii Guns and Chip Z'Nuff." I really think I'm on to something with this one. Does anyone know how to get ahold of Riki Rachtman? We need to start the paperwork immediately and assemble a dedicated group to lobby Congress—if we could get Axl on board, I think we could really win them over.

Speaking of famous rock clubs, I seriously think CBGB has some pretty good clout to be made into a National Monument. It would be the perfect way to help save it from foreclosure—turn it into a monument and preservation society to American rock and punk. I would go as far as to say that this club has introduced more Rock N' Roll Hall of Famers, like The Ramones, Blondie and The Talking Heads, into the public lexicon than perhaps any other place in the world. What do you say? Let's put a little more of the "H" into history and a little more of the "cult" back into culture. No more should innocent children and travelers be exposed to dull lectures on trundle beds and silt loam and boring white guys wearing powdered wigs.

Come on, NPS, let's make learning SEXY!