Days Inn, Indianapolis. I'm watching planes land. Actually, I don't see them land. My wide window offers an impressive panorama, but the runway isn't quite visible. Some of the planes are rather large. They have "FedEx" painted on their sides. Other than the planes, my view consists of one (1) hotel parking lot, one (1) interstate highway (I-70, specifically), one (1) darkened building across from the parking lot, and last but not least, a whole lotta nothin. Inside, my view consists of The Blandest Hotel Room In America, Possibly The World. It's so bland, in fact, there's no need to describe it. You already know what it looks like.
Appropriately, this extremity of blandness is where I learn of the passing of the 38th Hardest-Working President of the United States, James Rudolph Brown. It seems like only yesterday when the Godfather of Soul replaced Spiro Agnew as Vice Minister of Super Hard Funk. And oh how I seethed when Soul Brother No.1 pardoned Nixon. But let's put that aside for now. Mr. President, you were born, you did your funky best, you died. What more can truly be expected of any of us? Not much. Goodnight, sweet prince.