We just left a week of decadence in Corolla, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. We stayed in a beach house populated by 30 people, 24 cell phones, 15 televisions, 12 iPads or similar devices, 18 DVD players, 9 laptops, 8 electric and acoustic guitars, 48 board games, 2 hot tubs, 3 tons of stray sand, and 300 empty beer bottles and cans. I was so busy having fun and being grumpy in turn that I never bothered to write anything, so that story will have to wait for another day.

Right now we’re relaxing at a Holiday Inn Express in the Richmond, Virginia metro area. We get one easy night’s rest before we hit the Shenandoah mountains for 3 nights of camping.

It’s been so long since I’ve spent any time in the south. I got sucked into the arctic vortex of Wisconsin 8 years ago, and I forgot all about the delights of southern life. Friendly, warm people; more diversity; good food. We stopped by the Richmond Whole Foods and found amazing southern eats at the hot bar — several kinds of pulled meats and barbecue, amazing sauces, mac and cheese, and so on. I was really happy.

Then I got on the hotel elevator and saw this sign glaring at me.

I thought to myself, is this a joke? Is it some sort of post-modern, absurdist segregation? Is it a sardonic riff, a subtle mockery of the history of apartheid in the south?

(Hold on. Nick just told me he needs me to hang out with him while he poops. Excuse me while I go live the good life for a moment.)

Right. So while I wiped Nick’s little ass, my racing thoughts spun out of hand. Why do Coke people get the snacks and Pepsi people get the laundry? What was it about my family that made them place us on the Pepsi floor? Don’t we deserve snacks too? What happens if I vend a Coke and bring it to my room on the Pepsi floor? Will one of those completely insane Virginia highway patrol guys on a motorcycle come do horrible things to me and my kin?

I’ve been partying too much. I need more sleep.