Greetings from Norcross, GA, a suburb of Atlanta, just 15 miles from the cradle of the birthplace of the finest restaurant in all the land. Waffle House got its start just 15 miles from here. I’m so close, I can almost feel the grease afterbirth dripping off of me.

I celebrated my first night here by pulling over at Unit 828 for a meal of a Texas Cheesesteak sandwich plate with the hashbrowns scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked. (I passed up the “topped” because, good as it is, I just don’t have that much antacid with me this trip.) It was goooood.

My hotel is… eh. They “upgraded” my room, which I guess means I got a fireplace that doesn’t work. I also got two double beds instead of the king I always ask for, and a room on the ground floor instead of on a high floor like I always ask for (the better for “view from here” pictures, my dear). But there are nine Waffle Houses in a three mile radius, so ain’t nothin’ botherin’ me.

Here’s the view:

And here’s the room:

You see the chair in front of the fireplace? That chair tried to kill me last night. It’s a La-Z-Boy type chair, and I’m all about chairs that recline and prop my feet up for me. I’m so all about them that I reclined this one allllll the way back while I was on the phone with Zoe last night, and about a half-second after I was marveling over how far back this particular chair let me recline, I realized that the stupid thing was tipping over and I was “reclining” even further and faster on a trajectory that was going to land me right on top of my big fat pumpkin head with my ass in the air and my feet against the wall behind me. Which is exactly what happened.

Who says business travel isn’t exciting?