Me tell you a story.
GEORGE. No, but we must carry on as if we did.
MARTHA. Amen.
—Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Edward Albee
SWAMI. A psychologically tested belief of our time is that the central nervous system ... is unable to discern between the real and the vividly imagined experience—if there is a difference; and most of us believe there is. Am I being clear?
—Head screenplay, Jack Nicholson and Bob Rafelson
In January I hunted for a Gulf Coast pied-à-terre that would allow easy (~90 minutes or less) access to a majority of Florida's Spring Training stadia: Rays in Port Charlotte, Braves in Venice, Orioles in Sarasota, Pirates in Bradenton, Yankees in Tampa, Phils in Clearwater, Jays in Dunedin, and, inland, the Tigers in Lakeland. I found an inexpensive AirB&B room in Wimauma, Florida—just south of Tampa, due east of Pinellas Point in St. Pete's—a place that I could rent for almost the entire duration of Spring Training for $773.
I booked it, despite the 'no refunds' clause. Because I am a fucking idiot and life is a vat.
As we all know (heh), the MLB Players' Union dispute that began with a lockout in December lasted until last week; and upon its resolution it was announced that Spring Training games would start today, Friday, March 18. In the interim I already lost 20 of the 28 days I had paid AirB&B for. (I did ask about a refund in late February, but the host was firm on her policy.)
Well, anyway—I rejoiced, as it were—at least I'll get a few games in in the last 8 days of this reservation! So I purchased a ticket to the Toronto Blue Jays @ Baltimore Orioles game in Sarasota—the first game of the pre-season, which started a few minutes ago as I type this.
On my laptop.
In my home office.
Where there is not an MLB Spring Training game going on, in case you were wondering.
Wednesday night I messaged the host through AirB&B stating that I would finally be checking in on Thursday. "Hi Gordon you can check anytime", wrote the host, re-providing her phone number. (She had already messaged me with check-in instructions, including a numeric code for the front door lock.
I drove from the Space Coast to Wimauma last night, messaging the host on the way that I should be arriving between 11:00 and 11:30 p.m. I got no response. I arrived at the property at 11:38. There was no sign of life thereat. Tried the door code. The lock mechanism whirred for several seconds and then flashed a red 'locked' sign. The door was still locked. Tried again: same whirring, same still-lockedness. Rechecked the code. Tried again. Rechecked the street address. Tried again. And again.
Called the host; got voicemail. Called again; got voicemail. Left voicemail. Waited. Tried the lock again. Waited. Waited. Called AirB&B. Waited 20 minutes to speak with a human who said, as expected, she could not provide resolution to my issue until she had talked with the host. Waited. Waited.
'Get a hotel,' texts the (abandoned, forlorn) Widda McCoy. I look around. Nothing nearby with a decent rating below $230 a night—another $230, not by any stretch of the imagination recoupable, on top of the $773 I've already paid for the room outside which I am now sitting and which I am unable to access. Sarasota is even more expensive; my favorite hotel near Busch Gardens in Tampa has no vacancy.
I have a proposal review Zoom meeting to run at 10 a.m. Friday—at this point 9 1/2 hours away. Was planning on running that from my AirB&B room, then driving to Sarasota. So: $230 for a hotel room and an extra two hours' sleep?
Nope. I drive home.
At 2:20 a.m. the host calls my phone twice and messages me via AirB&B: Hi Gordon I am so sorry I was sleeping when you call me please try pulling the door towards you and then put the code because everything still the same the code is xxxx I really apologize give me a call as soon as you can thank you"
The host has now cost me $773 for the rental, $50ish for gas ($162.63 by the 2022 federal mileage rate), and ~$60 for the game ticket/parking/fee/fee/fee. And >5 hours of my life wasted driving to and fra' motherfucking Wimauma, Florida.
AirB&B emails me this morning asking me for documentation of my difficult accessing the property—preferably video.
Told ya that to tell you this: I am no longer on the fence about this [gestures vaguely] being a vat or the matrix or some other species of sim.
So why am I writing this out, since absolutely none of you are real, autonomous intelligences?
Because I must carry on as if you were.
