Sunday Morning Roundup

Ok, so live-blogging was a little more complicated than I expected, mostly because I got bored and wanted to watch "The Wire" instead. Hey, its a work in progress. The future should hopefully hold more instantaneous analysis of just who's coming into the Hotel Idiotica on weekend nights between 10 at night and 8 in the morning, including (mostly negative) observations on their personalities as well as speculation about what in their past might have made them so terribly themselves. Also some in-depth features on the all the zany (read: wooden, plastic) employees here at the Hotel Idiotica, detailed itineraries of what exactly it is a frontnightdeskwatchman does, blasts from the past of the many highlights from my brief tenure thusfar, and unflinching psychological inquisitions into the self's inability to bear the weight of a decision, which might lead one to take a job at the Idioteque. Its coming to you raw and uncensored, folks, so bite your pillow and hold on.

And with that, a brief recap of the high- and lowlights of the past 10 hours (all subjects drunk unless otherwise noted).

--Short, cutish lesbian with a pink polo shirt, asking far too glibly about the hours of the Holocaust Museum, then showing her appreciation by winking, cocking her finger and making that terrible sound with the tongue on the roof of her mouth, then saying, "Thanks, hon." Now I know what a secretary at a golf club feels like.

--Pretty much every night I'm here, some girls will decide that its romantic or sexy or something to take the guys they've just picked up from god knows where and just hang out with them in the hotel lobby for three or four hours. Tonight it was two curvy Russians with a little bit of butterface to them, and I don't feel bad about that because first this is just some blog, but also because they were pretty vapid. I actually had to settle a bet between them over whether Times Square referred to the entire island of Manhattan. They brought in these two Russian punks who had the same red hats and white t-shirts with some really tacky, bullshit graffiti. At one point, they actually started making farting noises, and not the really funny ones you can do if you blow against the heels of both hands.

--Really sweet older Irish man just wistfully told me about his Jesuit priest friend and then tipped me 10$. We get a lot of Irish and they are awesome.

--Not too many "come-hither" type looks or moments tonight, which based on pure gut reaction are definitely the thing I like most about this job. The fear of elevators still haunts the women of this city.


Blueballs Moment of the Night, brought to you by Dr. Scholl's: 5:30 a.m, truly stunning, leggy Latina glides in and seems coyly broken up that she's locked her key in her room. A thousand possibilities flash through my mind. In the end I settle on giving her the spare key and she goes up to her bed and goes to sleep.

Well, that about wraps up the shift for yours truly. Thanks so much for staying with us at the Idioteque, have a lovely day, and I'll see you tomorrow night!

G'night,

The Concierge