Leftovers

Last night, around midnight, a brunette woman whose face I remember as square and featureless, approaches me quite directly, pointing to one of a long list of what appear to be all the yarn stores in the Tri-state area. "Is this close?" she asks bluntly, pointing to an address that clearly says STATEN ISLAND. I gently tell her no, that she could take the ferry and then wander around for hours, but maybe she should try this one, on 34th street. Her eyes light up a little. "Ooh, is that near Macy's? How do I get there from Macy's?" I try to tell her that I don't know the exact address of Macy's, but maybe when she gets down to 34th st., she'll be able to read the address numbers and figure out which direction to go. She doesn't want to hear this, and tries to make things more confusing. "So do I go left or right from Macy's?" Finally, I just look up the address for Macy's. Then I try to explain to her that since the address for the sewing store on 34th st. is lower than the address for Macy's that means it's closer to 5th Ave, to the middle of the island. I can tell she feels pleased to be privy to this bit of insider info, even though I know, from experience, that she doesn't understand it, and she sort of wanders off to bed.

Fast forward to the morning, 10 am, who knows why I'm still here, when the woman comes in off the street (somehow I don't remember her leaving), and abruptly asks,"How do I get to 12th Avenue and Chinatown?" I'm totally loopy at this point, so I can't quite stop myself from laughing in her face and I loudly make one of those laugh-catching sounds.

After I understandingly tell her why that's impossible, she gets out a napkin and pen and says, "Okay, one last thing." She draws a dot on the napkin. "Here's Macy's. How do I get to the yarn store?"

When it's better to hold your tongue...

When a very large, very bald, and very grumpy man comes downstairs at 5:30 in the morning asking for a hairdryer.

Who's at the hotel?

A guy who's a dead ringer for the Johny Cakes guy from the last season of the Sopranos. Slightly thicker build, but same Fu Manchu mustache. Last night, he was wearing jeans with a chain in the back pocket and a cut-off jean shirt with a red sheriff star sewn on the front pocket. I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Also, I've been thinking about it a little more, and I'm about 5 % sure that that girl from last night actually was Blair from Gossip Girl

New Development

So the Benevolent Old Vulture just came in to the hotel to pick up the trash, which is strange because I've only seen him come down from somewhere, and he certainly hasn't come down since I've been here tonight, which means he's been outside doing something for at least four hours, and, no matter what that something is, it's probably unhealthy for a man in his condition.

Be careful, Benevolent Old Vulture! You have a home now, you don't have to scavenge!

"Is there Hate in my room?"

That is what a woman just called down to ask me. I've been having a really tough night. Mostly because I suddenly have gotten sick and it feels like there's a sandbag inside my head. I even drank some of that POM stuff, which I hate on principle, in hopes that the "antioxidants" would help, whatever they are. Also, the genius/total asshole who runs this hotel decided that, effective immediately, absolutely no one, even the people who have been coming here for 15 years, would be getting a discount rate. So I get to be cruel, and I get to get yelled at, justifiably, by jilted customers. And I hate to admit this, but I've been having the slightest, creeping doubts about the ultimate redeeming power of love. So yes, ma'am, it's possible there is Hate in your room tonight. What's that? Ohhh, heat. Heat, oh, yes, I'll get right on that, ma'am.


UPDATE: OMG, Hallelujah, Love is all you need, not thirty seconds after my whiny, why-won't-the-world-just-take-a-dive complainathon, a homely, older Scottish couple comes in with some balloons. "Birthday?" I inquire. "Our son, " the woman confirms evenly. The man looks me over a bit, and then sort of nudges his wife. She looks at me more closely, then softens up a bit. "Would you like a piece of cake?" she asks gently, and hands over a slab of decadent (and undoubtedly expensive) chocolate cake. I totally melt and thank them profusely and tell them it was exactly what I needed and my expression makes it clear that I mean that on a number of levels, and they seem rather pleased to have been able to make me so pleased.

Just then another lady's leaving the hotel and she gives me a really sympathetic look and asks if I want coffee and then tells me to "hang in there,' which I appreciate even if it is totally meaningless. Another older man who looked a little bit like Brian Cox comes in and give me a roguish wink.

Damn you, Jesus! Just when I think I've gotten out, you pull me back in !

Chateau Idiotica

Big News: The Polish band Lady Pank (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Pank , www.lady-pank.pl , for Polish readers) is staying at the hotel tonight. I'm really really hoping they'll go nuts and stick a shark into a woman's vagina, or choke on each other's vomit or something, but they seem to be pretty calm

Spotted

Easily the most amazing piece of clothing ever to grace this establishment. Middle-aged woman, looked a little bit like Joan Cusack with glasses, wearing a somewhat faded sweater, possibly crocheted or macramed or something so that the stitches seemed rather large, that was absolutely overwhelmed by the majestic head of a bald eagle. I only caught sight of it as she was leaving in the hotel, but luckily she came back to ask a question. While she was saying whatever it was she was talking about, I studied the garment more closely. The front of the sweater, buttoned, would have held an equally discolored close-up of Lady Liberty. The sleeves were comprised of a rather confused stars and stripes motif. I expressed admiration for her plucky, unwavering sweater. She thanked me, and proceeded to tell the story of that little sweater all the way from it's birth in her friend's shop in rural Ohio until she unwrapped it under the Christmas Tree all those years ago. Her husband knew just what she liked!

As she left, I heard an old man, sitting with a woman whom I couldn't peg between his wife and his daughter, murmur, "That was a nice sweater"

Live transcript

of a conversation between the students of the aforementioned group of kids. It turns out that they are from Montreal, from something called Dawson College. Apparently college in Canada is something different than it is here, like a bridge between High School and University. Apparently they are all 18, and I am the coolest front desk man evar.

Anyway, a live listen-in:

Girl: "Oh my God. I can't believe we can't drink here.....blah blah blah blah but we got to stand up on the bar and do shots, it was fuckinawesome"

...

Girl A, on her way into the elevator, "Ok guys, get excited, tomorrow we get to go to Century..."
Girl B: "No, Forever 21"
Guy, looking like he's in Menudo, "No, Central Park"

Hopefully this isn't the last we've heard from this Canadian collective, a la The New Pornographers or Broken Social Scene, only the exact opposite.

Getting old...and creepy

So my buddy Yusuf tells me that there are "sooooo many" kids in the hotel tonight. "Like fifty!" he tells me. "But not little. Like 12 or 13 or something. Maybe 15. From a school"

"Not 18," he adds in an even tone.

About an hour later a cute brunette comes up to the desk. I open my mouth to tell her, "You look just like Blair on Gossip Girl," before I think about it and realize this would be a bad idea on a number of levels.

~~~~~

About twenty minutes later, some kids are taking pictures of themselves playing on the luggage trolley. They ask me to take pictures of all of them, and as I'm doing so, one of them makes sure to tell me that they're only doing this because they're bored because they're only twenty, so they can't drink here, implying some foreign origins. From their complexions and accents, I would guess Turkey.

Question: What does it say about me that the first thing that popped into my head was, "Hmm... maybe I could go buy beer for those kids"?

Bangers, Mash, Haggis, and Coddle

I hesitate to even type this in light of last week's Hasidic riot here at the Hotel Idiotica, but a stream of people from the British Isles just came in, and, so help me God, all the English had terrible teeth, the Irishwoman's breath absolutely reeked of Bailey's, and the Scotsman was tall and brooding, requesting room "Sheven Oh Sheven."

I'm just reporting the facts, not making any general statements about ethnic groups (even though, I mean, come on). But if you think this blog is racist and not a safe space, please write an angry comment. And tell all your friends to come write angry comments, too!

Confession/Warning

So I consider myself a good person and by the grace of God I try to make every day a good day where I am nice to people and do what is right for its own sake. But if you leave a postcard to be mailed at the front desk, I'm sorry but I am going to read it and post some of the interesting parts of it on this blog.

Seems like these two postcards are from a couple with interesting nicknames, to whom I'm going to show a modicum of restraint and refrain from publishing said nicknames, to their children in Kansas. One is to the daughter and very heartfeltly recalls a previous trip to New York, the other is to the son and a bit more perfunctorily mentions going to see Joel Osteen (whose syrupy anecdotes could sell salvation to the Lord himself).

Important: New euphamism for having sex; if you use this euphamism, more people will think you are cool and probably have sex with you.

Smash. This is the new lingo for young people.

Young Hispanic guy, wearing a green and gold letter-jacketish coat with Spanish lettering, trying really hard to be 18, comes in with his shortie, a small girl with auburn-gold hair, and a face that didn't seem to have any lines whatsoever on it, so that it looked like her head was covered in lip gloss.

"Any rooms?" she wonders with a stupid grin.

I'm about to say no, when the boy, quietly yet enthusiastically and forcefully, bangs his fists on the counter and says, "I wanna smash!"

The girl protests and bodychecks him a little, but gives him a look that says, "God, I hope we smash/ he smashes me tonight" (I'm not quite sure of the grammar).

Alas, once again, no rooms.

The girl huffs and puffs, "This is the second hotel we've tried." I suggest a direction where they might find a number of hotels for smashing. "Nah-uh," she declares emphatically, "We ain't going back that way," that way being in the direction of Times Square where all the hotels are.

It's a cold, cold world out there, folks, and none of us knows what tomorrow will bring, so if you've got someone you love out there, remember to smash them tonight.

Also, if anybody wants to smash, you know where to find me.

Marathon Man

Sloooow night, tonight. First incident of note, 11:54 p.m. Sweaty, disheveled, fat man in a white t-shirt comes in breathing quite hard. He is fairly wide, but he has an even more markedly protruding gut. He seems somewhat in shock. He hands me a note with the name and address of the Hotel Idiotica scrawled on it.

"I just walked from the last hotel I tried," he gasps. "All the way from Madison Square Garden!" He bends over with his hands on his knees for a bit, then rests his forearms on the front desk ledge. He seems to take it as a general affront to decency that he has been required to walk that far.

Unfortunately/fortunately, I have to tell this man the same thing I have already told a number of far more athletic/realistic people tonight, namely that we are out of rooms.

The fat man looks at me as if I've just opened the door to the courtyard where he will be court-martialed via firing squad. "From Madison Square Garden," he pleads.

"You could try this place a couple blocks up, " I volunteer and hand him a card, "Or about 100 other places in Times Square"

"How far is that?" he demands; he steels himself for a moment after I tell him it's two blocks.

"I walked from Madison Square Garden," he reminds me one last time before he turns to leave. Now usually when someone looks for recognition from me for their Herculean labors of touristry, like watching TWO Broadway shows back-to-back, or shopping at Macy's AND Barney's in one day, I manage to project a genuine sense of awe, and that's what I'm expecting to do this time, but when I dig deep for my indulgent smile, I find that it's just not there.

"That's really something, " I say to him as he leans expectantly over the counter, in a voice that's so empty I even surprise myself. Then, back to my usual saccharine goodness, "Bye-bye now!"

Anti-climax

So the moral proctor from last night called back tonight around midnight, said that he wasn't gonna be able to make it tonight. Sounded a little chagrined. He had me fix up some reservations for him. Told me he'd give me weed for helping him out. "Just doing my job," I said.

Meet the Idiots: The Benevolent Old Vulture

Ok, so this post is truly a live-blog. Every morning, at around half past three, an old, bald, hunched-over man, shuffles veeery sloooowly across the lobby to get the trash from behind the desk. In profile, he looks a lot like a vulture, what with his bald head and his protruding probiscis. But he's not leering or scavenging. He's like that old vulture in that kid's book with the lion. And not like the Spiderman villain The Vulture in temperament, even though he looks just like him.

He's shuffling across the lobby as I type. OK, now he's behind me, emptying out the trash. He almost always wears a flannel shirt. Tonight it's light brown and dark green plaid. I think it was last night, too. Last night, he actually didn't come down until about 6:30. I was getting really worried. But when he finally did come down, he had on a black pullover hat (these are called TOBOGGANS. Back me up, people from the South). I guess it took him an extra 2 and a half hours to put the black hat on. I feel pretty bad saying that. He's something of a pathetic figure. Apparently, he came over from Poland a long time ago (maybe the Boss Lady knows him or something), and now he lives here at the hotel, maybe gratis, in exchange for taking out the lobby trash in the wee hours of the morning (I don't know why he does it at this hour). Now he's dragging the trash bags backward through the hotel door an inch at a time.

My first night here, he came down, and I had no idea who he was. As he (the exact opposite of) barreled around the counter toward the trash can, I tried to ask what he was doing. I thought he was just a crazy guest. I thought about blocking the trash can. Then I tried to get him to let me handle it. But the whole time, he was giving me the most pleading, pitiable look that said, "Please, just let me do this." So I let him. This man is old. Frankly, I'm kind of scared to look at him now.

Further surveillance reveals that he's now outside, cleaning out the street gutters. And now he's shuffling back across the lobby, to the elevator, and...to where exactly?

See you next Saturday, Benevolent Old Vulture Man

Who Just Came Into the Hotel?

Three young, very stylish diplomats from Burkina Faso check in around midnight. One of them is wearing a columbia blue blazer with matching pinstripe shirt. very slick. All three of them are exceptionally good looking. They work at the UN. I'm going to ask them how old they are. I wonder which one my dad would think is better, diplomat or hospitality industry blogger?

One of the guys was really nice. His name was Winfred. I talked to him a little bit about Burkino Fasan history (pretty much just about how it used to be called Upper Volta), and he told me that Burkina Faso means "Land of Honest People." I really liked that a lot. He gave me several hundred dollars in cash to pay for the room, and when the count was right he said to me, "See? Honest people!"

When they came back down from their room, Winfred asked me for my name, which he wrote down on a card, so he's either going to say good things about me or complain that I'm a colonialist. The man in the dapper jacket, who's a dead ringer for a young Avon Barksdale, totally called me out on how I speak English weird to foreigners. I tend to do a lot of shrugging and head-cocking and even a little momentarily closing my eyes and jutting out my jaw to mull things when I'm talking in my pan-accented English. Avon leaned over the counter and, a little mischievously, a little menacingly, demanded, "Why you talk like that?!?"

Also, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit from drinking too much Sunkist too fast (A liter in about half an hour).

Wake-up Calls?

Here's your weekly Monday morning wake up call thread. I promise I'll be very gentle, and I'm d/d free. You won't be contracting any cases of the Mondays from me. So leave your name and the time you'd like me to wake you up. If you want a song-a-gram, I'll do that, too!

I'm not chicken, you're a turkey!

One thing I forgot to note from last night:

Wiry, light-skinned African-American guy comes in to the lobby, wanders around a few seconds, then leaves. I don't think much of it because this guy's a real regular; he's here pretty much every weekend, and apparently, he's been coming here for the better part of a decade. He owns or works at a restaurant nearby.

Usually, he'll just bark at me to "Wake up!" on his way out the door, but sometimes he'll even ask me if I want a cup of coffee or anything. Last night, though, he comes back in about half an hour after he puttered about before, and he's just reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. And in a way that confirms my suspicions that he has some kind of drug problem. He's just too slick. He looks around for a second (I think he had waited until Yusuf went downstairs to get something), then approaches the desk and says something like,

"Hey, man, hey, you remember me?" I nod. "Brad, right?" I correct him. "Hey listen, man, I've been coming here awhile, and me and some of the guys had a little deal where I'd come in late and if there was a dirty room where someone had already checked out, I'd slip 'em 20-30 dollars and they'd let me sleep there til 7 in the morning [an hour before my shift ends]. Whatchu think about that?"

I try to appear noncommittal: "Hmm, I dunno man. Let me check and see if we even got any dirty rooms." I'm stalling, so I go over to the drawer where we keep the keys to dirty rooms, positioning myself so that he can't see what's in there. Thankfully, we actually don't have any dirty rooms.

"Hey, sorry man," I drawl and empathize, "but we just don't got any rooms. I'd probably help you out, but there's no dirty rooms." His eyes turn down for an instant, but he seems resigned to this.
"Yeah," he says, "y'know I got an apartment, but the hot water's out 'til Monday." He flinches just the tiniest bit, so he could be lying, or then again it could just be a coke side effect. He sighs for a second. Then he starts talking about something, just drunken prattling for ten minutes or so (this is not uncommon). Finally he cuts to it: "Y'know, I'll just tell you, I ain't gonna wanna stay at my place tomorrow night. So if I come by tomorrow night, you think you might have a dirty room for me? I can bring you some money, a hot meal, whatever man."

I shrug. "I dunno, man, 'm not sure if we'll have anything or not." There was probably a little more "let's do business" than "you're fucked" in that shrug, but I can't be sure how he took it, or if he even remembers the conversation.

Finally he turns to go, but then he stops a few feet from the door and turns back. "You puff?" he asks. This genuinely throws me. There have probably been five times in my life where someone completely unexpectedly asks me to smoke weed, and I always respond like I'm in middle school.

I stutter for a few seconds, then manage, lamely, "Which one?" He looks at me like I'm a little slow. "Weed," he says, and pulls out a small, cerulean piece, holding it close to his chest. After I nod uncomfortably, he motions outside. "You wanna hit?" Now I'm buggin' a little, and I say I can't, not on the job. He says c'mon, its no big deal, it's not gonna mess with your job or anything. At this point, I step back and try to be dignified and mutter something about "lacking the confidence." He shrugs,"Aight, man. See you tomorrow."

Well, good reader, who could have known that your stay at the Hotel Idiotica would be so fraught with ethical trials? Will our hero follow the path of righteousness? Or stumble through the wilderness of intoxication and, um, usury? Be sure to tune in tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion! Or influence my behavior by telling me what I should do in the comments section!

Meet the Idiots: Girl With Name that Sounds Like a Columbia Dorm

There are two women who are the two main front desk people at the Hotel during the week: GWNTSLACD and the White Witch. They are both pretty awful people, but they have really fake smiles and they know the booking system really well, so they are basically the manager and the assistant manager of the hotel.

While the White Witch is one of the most heinous people I've ever encountered, GWNTSLACD is somewhat redeemable. She's in her late twenties, she's from Spain, and she's been working here for about three years. She's slender, of short-to-medium height, with a thin face and a prominent nose. I suppose she's not really all that bad; she can be fairly supportive in an I-would-never-do-anything-wrong-but-its-not-really-your-fault, -it's-your-inexperience's-fault kind of way. Her biggest flaw just seems to be that she spends too much time around the moral black hole that is the White Witch, and she hasn't had the strength to resist her. Apparently she divorced her first husband at the urging of the Ice Queen (he probably wasn't hot enough or something) and she used to be kind of sweet, but three years of working alongside the White Witch has left her chilly done the opposite of thawing out her feelings towards others (ok, I'm done).

But really, the worst thing about her, and what causes me to have general ill will towards her, is the way she answers the phones in the mornings. She says the same thing every time: "Good morning, Hotel Idiotica, how may I help you?" in the same lilt that anyone would develop after answering phones for three years. Doesn't seem so bad, right? And the Spanish accent is the sexiest of all accents (It is too sexy!). So what's the problem?

Well, to synesthetize it for you, her morningtide phone manner is essentially verbal diarrhea. It starts off fine, the "Good Morning," is almost normal, but by "Hotel Idiotica," she's pushing out the words in this high-pitched, droney whine. But then, holy God, the words, "How may I help you?" sound like they were forced out by pushing on the chest of a dead muskrat. They sound like you wished you could when you held your nose and stood on your tiptoes and pretended to be a posh older woman offended by a terrible smell, except even higher-pitched and more nasally. The timbre is probably closest to the witches in the movie The Witches after they've all been turned into rat-monsters. Honestly, to me, it sounds like black poop.

And that is Girl With Name that Sounds Like a Columbia Dorm

Rabbit Season

So if you haven't noticed, it's been veeeeery quiet here at the prime hotel for blog-fodder in this grand city. That's been welcome news for my cholesterol, but bad news for you, my readers, so I'm going to try to pump out a few Meet the Idiots and Blasts from the Pasts before my face falls into my soup.

Shattered Dreams

Flock of women of indeterminately young ages comes rolling in around 1 oclock. Dressed very strangely. 1 with blue eyeshadow so pervasive it borders upon rouge, another with a poofy, white, lacey dress, reminiscent of Bjork w/out the swan. 2 others seemingly somewhat shabbily dressed. Can't really take in too much because I'm trying to help an older gentleman at the time.

"Wedding?" I call out, desperate to engage. "Ha, nope!" laughs the girl with azure cheeks, who seems to be the queen bee. "Prom!"

Hoo-boy. Eyebrows officially raised. Interest officially piqued. I cannot think of anything I would rather have happen at this hotel, in terms of pure hilarity and opportunity for mischief-making, than a prom after-party.

But something's off. Where are all the guys? Don't these girls seem a little old for prom? And who would come back to a glorified bathhouse like the Idiotica for post-prom?

"It was an 80s prom!" one girl enthuses. "1989," said another in the background.
"1989?" mused the old man, whose face would have been more aesthetically appealing if all the features weren't scrunched together in the middle. "Wasn't that the year all those girls got into all kinds of trouble?" This old man is not as sweet as he seems from that quote, but he is a little sweet. The girls indulge the ol' perv and then swoop up to their rooms.

Update: The ringleader comes down with most of her whorish make-up off, and I learn from her that this 80s prom was some sort of interactive theater performance, which is pretty cool, but for our purposes is notable for being far and away the most interesting thing a guest has ever done at this hotel.

Fun Fact

New York City, at least to the Irish, is notorious for its faulty plumbing.

Who Just Came into the Hotel, asking ridiculous questions and giving out staggeringly unhelpful tips

2 chubby women, one blonde in a pink sweatshirt, the other brunette with a red hoodie, and their cute, bespectacled 16 year-old daughter (2 mommies?) stop at the desk to ask me, a burly Amishish man, and my colleague Yusuf, a 40 year-old Guinean man, where exactly the Victoria's Secret they walked by today is?

The brunette in red is pouring some powder into her small Poland Spring bottle. "Coffee?," Yusuf wonders.

"Grape mix!" she responds enthusiastically.

I start to try to look up the locations of Victoria Secret's on the computer. "Its on the corner," the girl calls out hopefully. I wait for her to elaborate, but that's all she says. It's on the corner.

I'm thinking this is probably the dumbest thing anyone has said during my tenure at the Hotel Idiotica, but I'm willing to write it off since she's just a kid. The one of her mommies starts chiming in.

"Yeah, it was on a corner. Not on one of those side streets." Oh. Hmm, let's see, ma'am. Well I know it's not on the corner of 112th and Broadway. I'm not sure about 49th and Lexington, or any of the other 3,147 street corners in Manhattan.

I try Google Maps, Victoria Secret, 10036, the hotel's zipcode. A number of options come up. "Put the American Eagles on there," pink woman hollers. "There was an American Eagle close by." Her companion just stands there, slurping her grape-ade.

The Tipping Point

Familiar readers will know how much I LOV talking about Malcom Gladwell and "punctuated equilibriums" and other really not-obvious things, but its rare when you get to experience one of those moments in the first person.

To wit:

At about 2 in the morning, young woman calls down from room 911 requesting extra bedsheets. There have already been a few inquiries regarding the whereabouts of the key to room 911 (All rooms at the Hotel Idiotica have physical keys, not keycards, that are supposed to be left at the front desk when a guest leaves the hotel), so I know that room 911 is occupied by an attractive blonde with stringy (crimped?) hair, and a sallow face (but in a good way somehow), as well as her two less attractive but still cute and vivacious young lady-friends.

Now since I'm the only staff here on Sunday nights (on Saturdays there's also a security guard), I'm really not supposed to leave the desk. Also, I was feeling pretty beat up and pretty much just wanted to stare blankly at the computer screen. So I told her if she could come down to the desk I could fetch some sheets from the basement.

She protested, and I was about ready to tell her she could freeze to death. But then she pleaded one last time really animatedly could I pleeeeeeaaaaase come up, and I heard her friends giggling in the background.

In this instance, the giggling was the tipping point. This faint background noise led to seismic shifts in torpor, disillusionment, and infecundity.

I'll be right up.

(As you can probably guess, this was also, sadly, the Dr. Scholl's Blueballs Moment of the Weekend)

I Can't Seem to Make it through Sunday

So for whatever reason, I can't seem to muster up much energy for blogging on Sundays. I mean if I was vlogging, that would be one thing, but for blogging? On Sundays, it seems I'm just too tired to bother. But once more into the breach, for you all, before I head to my treehouse for a long nap.

Blinded by the Light

I'm playing air drums out of control and just spinning around with a lobby crowded full of people looking at me weird.


Now I'm pretending to play keyboards on the keyboard!
klds lkjsdS ADLKnvcOIYHAIDFLJl;klfdl;kjhapoihlk,mb ,vuhakuyd;lkadh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thoughts on the day shift

FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK WHERE ARE THOSE MONGOLIAN FUUUUUUCKS????

SERIOUSLY I'M ABOUT TO PUT ON SOME KORN OR LAMB OF GOD OR SOMETHING

What would happen if I just left?

Though, to be fair

Slinky and Erika Estrada did come back at around 5:30, winning the Lonely Key award for staying out latest, not surprisingly, but to their credit they were significantly less asinine and flashed a couple of halfway decent smiles. And Erika Estrada is prettier than just a female Erik Estrada/

To prove how dedicated I am to channeling the experience of manning the front-desk at night for a poorly run, spartan boarding hall to you, dear reader, I'm going to continue blogging as my fury rises, since my replacement was supposed to get here half an hour ago and there aren't any signs of him. Participatory Fucking Journalism! You better believe people are gonna get some goddamn winning smiles this morning!

Tell that to Takagi

Picture-perfect Prussian family- bright-eyed father, homely mother with short hair and two teenage boys, all blonde- headed out the door for a little sightseeing--at 5:45 in the morning.

Who's Outside the hotel right now?

5 young Irishmen, Irishtwentysomethingpunks more like it, one looking like a hipster with a huge afro and none of them looking traditionally irish (dark hair, mostly), are singing a rollicking version of "It Ain't Me, Babe." They're trying to make it into a drinking song with a clapping beat, and I'll just say that I think that other, more traditional Irish drinking songs are more than suitable for this purpose.

Also, a middle-aged Midwestern man with (another) hefty mustache just called his fratty, pockmarked post-college companion (son?), in vintage Fargoan dialect, "a fuckin' homo"

Who Just Came Into the Hotel

2 men, heavyset, very light gray mustaches, same height, both wearing dress shirts, one very light pink, the other very light yellow. There's just no way that these guys aren't like twin gangster enforcers, either for some mid-level hood or a Turkmen strongman.

Bleeding Shit Show

I try not to burden you all with the tedium involved in running a hotel at night (only zany antics and shallow, instantaneous judgment), but I just want to say that generally, in my opinion, it's bad business for a hotel to confirm more bookings than there are rooms in the hotel, and then leave the problem for the young, inexperienced (though unflappable) night clerk to deal with when those poor, bedraggled, cranky travelers stumble in only to find, to their rising (French) ire, that despite confirming their reservation the previous morning, they are shit out of luck.

Who Just Came into the Hotel?

Bald, short, French man in a coat and tie with a a very round head, glasses that slid down onto his nose, and a really awesome, thick gray mustache. Absolute picture of the whimsical academic. I'm sure if I looked closer, his eyes would have twinkled.

Who just came into the hotel?

Thickset older guy, with long, white, manly beard, Harley-Davidson shirt and blue jeans. Not exactly a Southern accent; I would almost call it more of a biker accent- don't really know how else to put it. Anyway, we don't get too many mensches like that.

Who just came into the hotel?

A taller woman, full-figured (not as a euphamism, just to say she's not dainty but kind of forceful), Southern by accent, in and out of the hotel all night, wearing a thin, brown dress with sheer flowers, plain blond hair, slightly ruddy face, peeved that we don't an extra hair dryer, with big, big, breasts, and, i dunno, somebody else.

Childhood Flashback

When I was a kid, like 9 or so, we had this Korean housecleaner named Miss Chen, who had this husky voice and didn't speak English too well. Whenever she would call our house and leave a message, she would always, like clockwork, for over two years, begin it by saying, "Miss Becky. My name is Chen." Before we realized it might be a little racist (full disclosure: we never actually realized this), all of us took great pleasure in opening familial conversations with this phrase in poor attempt at her inimitable timbre.

So it was no small secret pleasure for me when the Asian woman in room 403 asked for her key, and I found her name on the computer and there it was, and I looked up at her, with a sly grin, and asked, carefully phrased and enunciated, "Your name is?"

"Chen," she complied, rather stoically.

Who Just Came into the Hotel?

2 women probably mother (mid 50's) and grandmother (late 70s). Mother's having a little bit of trouble choosing which elevator. One elevator, the one they weren't standing by, closes just before they can scuffle over. Mother pounds on the elevator button, saying forcefully, "Open, you idiot!"

Aaaand Who just went out of the hotel?

Slinky (blonde), the one who doesn't understand what a magazine is, and Erika Estrada (brunette, there is a tiny semblance) just came immediately back out. Some edifying details:

Slinky is pretty much just straight blond, with ringlets, and she's a total bitch, though she is a little more attractive than I first though. She's wearing too much makeup and you can just tell from her face that no one loves her. Erika Estrada had a leopard pelt bra strap (it was actually furry) that was about twice as wide as normal. They got all animated when the night security guard, a wonderful man named Yusuf, suggested that they leave their key at the desk. I chimed in with something, like two words, and Slinky whirls around and, frankly, just pwns me: "Nice accent!" in this really derogatory tone. Which is strange because everyone who knows me knows its a bit strange that I don't have an accent. And I'm not really sure what Erika Estrada was going for, but whenever she answered Yusuf's questions, she kept giving him these really wide eyes and ending every answer with "Yessuh!" My only guess was that she was making some connection between Yusuf, who is African, and slavery, which would be both repugnant and also wouldn't really make sense. Finally, Slinky gets pouty and tired, grabs Erika Estrada's arm and says, "C'mon! We got a club to do."

Who just came into the hotel?

2 ladies, gussied up, one curvier with black hair and bronzed skin, the other paler and wispier with freckles. Both in high heels, black dresses, the thicker one with her hair all fancy and put up. They glide in, from some ball or whatever at midnight. Only noteworthy because the reedy one, as she's walking by the desk, holds up what a picture with one of those paper, black frames, something she obviously bought on Central Park South or something, and crows, "Magazine!" I was wearing my glasses, and it was obviously not a magazine.

Wake-up Calls

Ok, folks, we're debuting a new service at the Hotel Idiotica this weekend: Wake-up calls. Some good friends of ours have already gotten in on the ground floor, and we've been getting absolutely rave reviews when we wake them up at 5:30 in the morning, so if you don't trust yourself not to throw you alarm clock at the wall after a debaucherous weekend, please leave your name and the time you want to be woken up on Monday morning (or Sunday, if you wanna, i dunno, go to church or something) in the comment section! I'll be very soothing, and I'll make you promise not to just go back to sleep.

See you this weekend,

The Concierge