It seems all reputable blogs have guest writers and guest editors and the such. So, in my effort to be reputable (or at least seemingly so), I introduce my first guest writer.
Michael J. Lewis (see photo below) of the Daytona Beach News-Journal and I date back to our days at the University of Delaware. In fact, when he was a scrawny freshman in a jean jacket and J-E-T-S necklace, I—editor of the mighty, might Review—assigned him his first story. I don’t remember what the story was, but Mike’s gone on to have a very distinguished career in sports journalism. Hence, I gave him a very daunting task: To debate why Room 242 of the Boston Ramada smelled like 12-week-old vomit. Here’s Mike’s report (Editor’s note: He lives in Florida and never actually entered/saw the room):
It was indescribable. Words failed when one stepped inside Room 242 of the Boston Ramda. The odor was stronger than all the World’s Strongest Man’s competitors combined. Stronger than Popeye after a whole bellyful of spinach. It was stronger than the faith of Mother Teresa.
But what was it, people wondered? What possibly could make a smell that foul, that pungent, that miles away people cried out in unmistakable voices, “Dear God, what is that thing?”
And for decades, nay centuries, the mystery has remained unslolved. Ranking right up there with other unsolved Boston mysteries, like Why does only Cliff Clavin have a Boston accent on Cheers?”
Now, the truth can be told.
Picture it, Boston, 1776. A young blacksmith named Paul Revere is sitting in his room, dreaming of the fair-haired maiden he saw in smelting class just that afternoon. He decides to cook some dinner, when, like a lightning bolt, he learns about a devious plot the British are planning. More devious than he could ever imagine. Suddenly, he throws his dinner under the bed, thinking of how to devise a system to warn all his fellow Massachusetts residents, especially one B. Collins, a man who keeps prattling on about some racket sport he’s been watching.
One if by land, two if by sea, he decides. Quickly, like a thief running out of a restaurant without paying the check, Revere scampers out of the room and begins knocking on doors.
His dinner, a pot of Boston baked beans, remained underneath the mattress.
And it is there that those baked beans lie today, a reminder to all of how dangerous it is to operate a stove during a time of war.
That smell, like a British house-guest who stays too long, is destined to live on for eternity.
