I know, I've got two houses. I've got a cabin on my uncle's land. I have no trouble camping anywhere, anytime.

Nevertheless, all I ever really want to do is to live in the absolute cheapest motel room in the saddest, cloudiest, most forgotten Upstate NY town I can find.

Why is this dream of mine so hard to shake? I want the third-floor room at the Howard Johnson in Watertown; the nearly-bankrupt Quality Inn in Massena or Gloversville or Herkimer. Smell the cheap cleaning product in the air -- hear the tired old A/C churn as I stare out at the empty street.

And I want to watch the sun set from my window, and to wander the dark, rainy streets where the pavement shines under the old piss-yellow sodium streetlamps. A Mickey of Seagrams, a dirty-water hotdog... an all-day lounge at the empty library, or a traipse along the canal or the river or the boarded-up downtowns...

Of all the things I've ever seen or done in my life -- and I've seen and done more than my share -- nothing makes me happier than this. Nothing compares. I could do it forever.