Motor hotels: classic icons of Americana. These establishments, with their garishly sloped roofs, kitschy décor and dusty bedcovers are found everywhere … by the highways of this great land, near landmarks and national treasures, beneath the approaching jets of the local airport, behind Mrs. Bates’s home, in the line of fire of your favorite crack house and on the rural back roads of the United States of America. I recently got to re-experience the magic of seedy motels and walked away with some good old-fashioned inspiration and the need for both a tetanus shot and a scalding-hot shower.It was 9:30 at night, and we were tired. My father and I had spent all afternoon speeding to Beaufort, S.C., to watch my brother become a PFC in the U.S. Marines. But when we pulled into the House of the Rising Sun (a pseudonym for a motel chain known for its famous solar logo), alarm bells started ringing. When you see an establishment proudly advertising its “Weekly Rates,” you know you are in for some trouble. I exited the vehicle and soaked up the local atmosphere. Men and women communed alone on the balconies, Virginia Slims and Newports blazing in the night. The cheap beer in everyone’s hands made the place smell like the open container inside Billy Ray’s ’82 Camaro. While checking in, my father realized that this establishment did not honor any kind of law enforcement discount. Something tells me they don’t want many cops prowling around this place.We hid the car (for future reference, don’t borrow a friend’s Jaguar for trips like this) and approached our room with trepidation. On the way, we passed the wrecked furniture and torn carpets from one room sprawled on the lawn in an apparent attempt at renovation. I guess this is what they do after every homicide (or garden variety assault that leaves lots of bodily fluid on cloth surfaces) at the House of the Rising Sun. I also spied a swimming pool that my father speculated contained a lot of urine. Our room was surprisingly clean, though I wouldn’t dare administer the black light test (ignorance is bliss, after all). We hung up our suits and tried to sleep. Needless to say, this was accomplished in a fitful manner; it never helps when your dad makes a point of leaving a pistol in a conspicuous place near his bed. We could hear the sounds and see the shadows of every person walking by. At 2 a.m., I awoke to these words: “There’s some guy staring at us through the window.” I had the feeling I would one day see this place on “Cops.”In addition to that night of fun, the House of the Rising Sun also gave us the weekend rate for our troubles. Because MCRD Parris Island graduates at least two companies a week, our proud innkeeper gets to mark up the nightly rate every Wednesday! I guess we should have gotten the weekly rate; we might have saved money. Presumably, he also gets a piece of whatever the vendor in the lobby takes in for the Marine memorabilia sold every weekend. After another night of not sleeping and moving my eyes from Dad’s pistol to the window and to the door, inspiration hit me like a sledgehammer to the toe. I need to get into the seedy motel business! I could purchase a site in Beaufort, get it franchised and let the money roll in! I’d jack up the weekend rate for Marine graduations (God bless America!) and make it a real incentive to buy the weekly rate. Then, when those guests left early (and trust me, they’ll leave), I’ll double book the room to someone else and keep counting my cash. I’ll charge money for vendors of souvenirs and illicit goods and services to operate on site; next, I’ll take care of the local constabulary. To keep overhead low, I shall only remodel after messy assaults and the occasional stray homicide (I prefer the term “accidental firearm discharge”). Then I’ll pay off my student loans and live high off the hog as a Low Country innkeeper/slum lord. My parents are going to be so proud. Too bad I needed three years in college to find my calling in life.So dear readers, if I get enough investment capital over the summer, my tender dream could very well become reality. If so, you’ll never see me again unless you’re passing through the low part of the Low Country. On that note, please send all donations for the Augustine Marinelli Retirement Fund to my Villanova post office box. I prefer cash, because most people bounce checks around here. Have a pleasant summer, and remember, at my motel, I’ll always leave the light on for you…