The Jacksons- This Place Hotel (1980)

We didn't ever stay in nice hotels when I was a kid, so I promised myself, as an adult, that it would be four and five stars for the rest of my days.
That being said, I have since learned that the star-rating system is total bullshit.
No, friends, the true barometer of fanciness in a hotel lies in the ice machine.
A couple of years ago, I was on Toronto for a couple of weeks, and stayed at two separate four-star hotels. As someone who greatly enjoys a well-iced drink, my first order of business after checking in is to fill the ice bucket.
When I arrived at the first hotel, I noticed that there was no ice bucket. I called down to the front desk, who promptly sent a handsome bellboy with a silver bucket on a silver tray, filled with the clearest crescents of ice known to man. I called down to the desk several times a day, and no matter what time, or how drunk I was, they would always deliver a shining bucket of shimmering cold crystals with a smile on their face. 
In the second hotel, I lucked out- the ice machine sat directly across from the entrance to my room. A plastic bucket sat on the counter next to the sink. I approached the ice machine with caution, as it sounded like a cement mixer filled with Pop-Rocks. I brushed the dust off of the scoop, and began to chip away at the solid mass of ice inside the machine. I stopped at the first sight of a short, curly hair lodged into the ancient, dingy frost. I'm lucky I didn't find a whole caveman in there. I'm not certain, but there may have been a couple of amorous mice making love somewhere in the back of the machine, too.
I went back to my room, sweaty and defeated. I called down to the front desk, and requested that their bellboy deliver me a bucket of ice. The front desk was hesitant, but a few moments later, I heard the ice machine door across from my room open, and someone picking away at the contents inside. There was a knock at my door, and a surly dude that was a dead ringer the guy on the oatmeal box (if the guy on the oatmeal box had a mild meth habit) handed me a plastic container filled with a single, giant chunk of filthy ice, complete with the lonely pube I had spotted earlier. Oatmeal bellboy stood in the doorway, in some sort of awkward stand-off for a tip, to which I offered, "I think you guys really need to clean your ice machine".