January 15, 2009: It's early. Way too early to be awake. Dragging my luggage (and my tired knuckles), I ride the elevator down to the hotel's lobby. Darren Smith is already there, reading a newspaper, sipping on hotel lobby coffee. He looks as tired as I feel. There's no sign of Spooky yet, but I'm not concerned; Cassie (our designated driver/victim this morning) sent me a text message moments earlier, alerting me that she would be running about 10 minutes late.

10 minutes pass. Cassie arrives. Still no sign of Spooky. I text message him, followed by a phone call to his room. No response. I go up and pound on the door. A sleepy-eyed, sorry excuse for a spooky tour manager stares at me through a crack in the door. He's overslept. With gravel in his throat, he promises to meet us downstairs in 5-minutes. I want to be mad, but Spooky, this disheveled, overslept goth, with Tom Waits morning voice and bloodshot eyes, looks like a f***ing rock star. Plus, he manages to get his s*** together with record-speed; he meets us in the lobby in a matter of minutes, ready to go. - Read the full entry

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