This happened a while ago, but my laziness should not impede your entertainment. Some stories need to be told, like Vietnam massacres and the continuing sagas of churlish meatheads.
So do you remember these charming fellows (link success! Thanks, Beth!), as well as my comrade Yusuf's delightful defense of them? Well, there's plenty more where that came from.
My first encounter with these courtiers came shortly after I was first exposed to Yusuf's rendition of the "Guba-Guba" dance. Four, five, or six of them, I don't know exactly how many there were, just that they were occupying two rooms. They all had stubbly facial hair, and each carried just a little more heft than their respective frames called for. One of them nicely filled out the "short-crazy-ex-IRA-asshole-munitions expert," model, except he wasn't Irish, while the rest of them conformed to more general Jungian bitter-former-high-school-football-offensive-lineman archetypes.
I'll channel Voltaire here and say that though I hate you and you add nothing whatever to the commonweal, I will defend to the death your right to have prostitutes in your room if you so desire. But seriously, these weren't just jovial good ol' boys hammin' it up for their big-city weekend; these guys were genuinely awful.
Their full rap sheet against ethical and aesthetic decency:
--The first time I saw them, they came down about midnight, swept across the lobby spewing inane, brutally-phrased horse-shit about "hittin' da clubs." Then the last one, probably the most bland and nondescript of the bunch, as he's swaggering past the front desk, "Hey, buddy! Want my SLOPPIES? (emphasis mine, can't be helped)"
--About four hours later, one of them comes back in, reeking and reeling, and swearing a blue streak. He was of medium height and swarthy, and his swarthiness was increased by his drunkenness. He had lost a great deal of his voice, which I'm conjecturing was rather acute and scratchy to begin with. Mostly he just stumbled around the lobby in circles wailing, "Motherfucker! Motherfucker!" This was his story, as best I could gather it (rated PG-13).
He was just sitting in the fuckin' deli next door with that Chinese motherfucker, chilling the fuck out and minding his own damn business, when some damn plastic bag sticks itself on his damn foot and he's just having a little fuckin' fun with it, y'know, jumpin' around just trying to kick it off, like a fuckin' ninja, FACK, when HE KICKED THROUGH AND SHATTERED THE FRONT DOOR TO THE DELI. And then that Chinese motherfucker wouldn't let him leave until he had paid damn 250 bucks for the door. I mean, he didn't even give a fuck, because he's on vacation and, what the fuck, y'know, he's just trying to have a good fuggin time, so wha's 250 bucks, y'know what he's sayin'? Bu'still, what a goddamn asshole, right? Motherfuggin GOOK!
I know it's been absolutely beautiful so far, but it ain't always pretty, folks.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Ill-considered Consequences.
One thing that the Broadway stagehands who are currently on strike declined to think about when they decided that they hated freedom was the effect they would have on the hospitality industry, in particular hospitality bloggers. This place has been something of a ghost town over the past few weekends. But there were a few interesting things that happened, which I will examine more minutely than they really deserve.
--There is one Spanish girl, cute, with that great accent but also a little bit of a unibrow, who asked me where she could get a tattoo and then left with some girlfriends for apparently just that reason, so I'll keep you up to date on that.
--Two good-natured, cute middle-aged women were quite insistent on me painstakingly providing them with directions on how to get to Times Square from the hotel. The answer to this question is simply "Walk to the end of the block" with a point of the finger to indicate which direction. Our conversation went as follows:
Me, pointing the way: "So just go out the hotel and walk down the street"
Bigger lady: "So how will we know when we're there"
Me: "Oh, I think you'll know. It's a bit hard to miss"
Smaller lady: "So we do need to turn left or right when we get there?"
Me: "No, I mean, the whole area is Times Square...it's a whole stretch of Broadway that runs from like 41st St. to like 48th St."
Bigger lady: "So how do we know we're going the right way?"
Me: "Just...follow the lights"
Smaller lady, confused: "Which..which lights?"
Me: "The brighter, the better,"
Smaller lady, meekly: "And which way out of the hotel?"
--Man, calling down from his room, "What's the number for B-B-Q (sic)?"
UPDATE: The Senorita returns.
Me: Will you show me your tattoo?
'Cita: Ohh, no, I didn't get it. I am going to get it tomorrrrow.
Me: What are you going to get?
'Cita: A sun, on my lowerr back.
Me (Both my accent and my attitude are about 50% me and 50% Zorro): How big will it be?
'Cita: Small, I think. She makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger. This is sexierr, I think.
Me, smiling and nodding so demurely it's like I don't even exist anymore. Yes, I think this is sexier.
'Cita, shifting into flirty general conversation: The barrrs they close so earrly in Amerrica. This is at 4:30 in the morning.
Me, with my head tilted, trying to appear simultaneously languid, as if it wouldn't worry me in the least if a predator were to approach, and poised to strike, should one do so: Well, it's not that early.
'Cita: In Mexico, the barrs don't close until 6 a.m. In New Jers E (sic), the barrrs neverr close.
Me, thrown utterly by this strange New Jersey reference: New Jersey?
'Cita: Si, New Jers E. Big parrty then."
Me: Oh, New Years Eve!"
'Cita: Yes, Yes.
She heads off to bed. "Good luck with your tattoo," I call out, rolling the 'r' as much as I can (but not enough to deserve a second 'r')
She smiles radiantly, and at that moment I hope she and her beautiful unibrow will come back so we can make out.
And, as they always do, she comes back. And as they always do, she simply asks for her key.
--There is one Spanish girl, cute, with that great accent but also a little bit of a unibrow, who asked me where she could get a tattoo and then left with some girlfriends for apparently just that reason, so I'll keep you up to date on that.
--Two good-natured, cute middle-aged women were quite insistent on me painstakingly providing them with directions on how to get to Times Square from the hotel. The answer to this question is simply "Walk to the end of the block" with a point of the finger to indicate which direction. Our conversation went as follows:
Me, pointing the way: "So just go out the hotel and walk down the street"
Bigger lady: "So how will we know when we're there"
Me: "Oh, I think you'll know. It's a bit hard to miss"
Smaller lady: "So we do need to turn left or right when we get there?"
Me: "No, I mean, the whole area is Times Square...it's a whole stretch of Broadway that runs from like 41st St. to like 48th St."
Bigger lady: "So how do we know we're going the right way?"
Me: "Just...follow the lights"
Smaller lady, confused: "Which..which lights?"
Me: "The brighter, the better,"
Smaller lady, meekly: "And which way out of the hotel?"
--Man, calling down from his room, "What's the number for B-B-Q (sic)?"
UPDATE: The Senorita returns.
Me: Will you show me your tattoo?
'Cita: Ohh, no, I didn't get it. I am going to get it tomorrrrow.
Me: What are you going to get?
'Cita: A sun, on my lowerr back.
Me (Both my accent and my attitude are about 50% me and 50% Zorro): How big will it be?
'Cita: Small, I think. She makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger. This is sexierr, I think.
Me, smiling and nodding so demurely it's like I don't even exist anymore. Yes, I think this is sexier.
'Cita, shifting into flirty general conversation: The barrrs they close so earrly in Amerrica. This is at 4:30 in the morning.
Me, with my head tilted, trying to appear simultaneously languid, as if it wouldn't worry me in the least if a predator were to approach, and poised to strike, should one do so: Well, it's not that early.
'Cita: In Mexico, the barrs don't close until 6 a.m. In New Jers E (sic), the barrrs neverr close.
Me, thrown utterly by this strange New Jersey reference: New Jersey?
'Cita: Si, New Jers E. Big parrty then."
Me: Oh, New Years Eve!"
'Cita: Yes, Yes.
She heads off to bed. "Good luck with your tattoo," I call out, rolling the 'r' as much as I can (but not enough to deserve a second 'r')
She smiles radiantly, and at that moment I hope she and her beautiful unibrow will come back so we can make out.
And, as they always do, she comes back. And as they always do, she simply asks for her key.
The Benevolent Old Vulture: Not so benevolent?
So, the BOV has pretty much been haunting my dreams lately. A lot to catch up on in regard to him.
First of all, I came in a few weeks ago during the week to get a little practice/suck up to the owner, and I found the BOV looking less like a decrepit vulture who likes Pearl Jam and more like a fancy penguin. He had on some decent pants and a shirt that might have been washed and what hair he has was slicked back. It was odd. Also, I heard him speak for the first time. And surprisingly, when he gets going, he kinda gets going. He gets a little animated. I think it's because he has this deep, sad knowledge that no one can really understand him. Partially, it's his basic English and unwieldy Polish accent, to a small degree it's the onset of dementia, and in part it's his absolutely adorable, wispy, reedy, old-man voice. Although I've never been able to look at him to determine his dental health, he sounds just like you'd expect an old person with no teeth to sound--reedy, wispy, undone by sibilant consonants.
But the joke, as it always will be with Death...er, the BOV, is on me. Every night, just when the hour seems longest, when even those most willful and revelrous have departed, I can hear the elevator shudder to life and I know without a doubt that he is coming. I hear the elevator's chime, it's pitch so gay and mocking in a world, a hotel lobby, where he and I must exist together. And now those doors, those panels--if only they were doors that one could lock!--are sliding back with a jolt, and now they have closed with equal clamor, but where is he? He has not appeared. From my guarded perch, I can observe all but a sliver of the gray marble lying before the elevator. Could he really be there? Must he be?
And then, after the seconds and the minutes have oozed agonizingly by, until one is sure that no living thing could wait so long or come so slowly, always, the BOV emerges. In my short time behind this desk, I have developed an uneasy toleration of his presence. I have learned to keep my head down, figuratively, as he literally keeps his head hunched over and shuffles ever forward toward the completion of his singular task.
But two weeks ago, as he padded across the hallway, the Vulture and I locked eyes. He stared deeply into me as he made his way across the lobby, refusing to release me from his gaze in the ninety seconds it took him to walk the length of the desk (that's about fifteen feet). There was death in the look that the BOV was giving me. I don't just mean that it was a look of malice, or that the BOV's wish was for me to drop dead, although there is a Baba Yaga / that old woman who got possessed by a snake in the last Harry Potter facet to him.. I mean that the transmission between us contained all the final and unyielding contradictions and paradoxes that end in death's terrible mystery.
Plus, then, that night, after I had engaged in some late night real politik in fact, I stepped onto the elevator on the 12h floor, an elevator that is mirrored on the ceiling and all four walls., and who should be there, for no apparent reason other than to stalk me until he has harvested my uncorrupted soul. He surrounds me, and I cannot escape.
And if I cannot escape him, must I become him?
First of all, I came in a few weeks ago during the week to get a little practice/suck up to the owner, and I found the BOV looking less like a decrepit vulture who likes Pearl Jam and more like a fancy penguin. He had on some decent pants and a shirt that might have been washed and what hair he has was slicked back. It was odd. Also, I heard him speak for the first time. And surprisingly, when he gets going, he kinda gets going. He gets a little animated. I think it's because he has this deep, sad knowledge that no one can really understand him. Partially, it's his basic English and unwieldy Polish accent, to a small degree it's the onset of dementia, and in part it's his absolutely adorable, wispy, reedy, old-man voice. Although I've never been able to look at him to determine his dental health, he sounds just like you'd expect an old person with no teeth to sound--reedy, wispy, undone by sibilant consonants.
But the joke, as it always will be with Death...er, the BOV, is on me. Every night, just when the hour seems longest, when even those most willful and revelrous have departed, I can hear the elevator shudder to life and I know without a doubt that he is coming. I hear the elevator's chime, it's pitch so gay and mocking in a world, a hotel lobby, where he and I must exist together. And now those doors, those panels--if only they were doors that one could lock!--are sliding back with a jolt, and now they have closed with equal clamor, but where is he? He has not appeared. From my guarded perch, I can observe all but a sliver of the gray marble lying before the elevator. Could he really be there? Must he be?
And then, after the seconds and the minutes have oozed agonizingly by, until one is sure that no living thing could wait so long or come so slowly, always, the BOV emerges. In my short time behind this desk, I have developed an uneasy toleration of his presence. I have learned to keep my head down, figuratively, as he literally keeps his head hunched over and shuffles ever forward toward the completion of his singular task.
But two weeks ago, as he padded across the hallway, the Vulture and I locked eyes. He stared deeply into me as he made his way across the lobby, refusing to release me from his gaze in the ninety seconds it took him to walk the length of the desk (that's about fifteen feet). There was death in the look that the BOV was giving me. I don't just mean that it was a look of malice, or that the BOV's wish was for me to drop dead, although there is a Baba Yaga / that old woman who got possessed by a snake in the last Harry Potter facet to him.. I mean that the transmission between us contained all the final and unyielding contradictions and paradoxes that end in death's terrible mystery.
Plus, then, that night, after I had engaged in some late night real politik in fact, I stepped onto the elevator on the 12h floor, an elevator that is mirrored on the ceiling and all four walls., and who should be there, for no apparent reason other than to stalk me until he has harvested my uncorrupted soul. He surrounds me, and I cannot escape.
And if I cannot escape him, must I become him?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Grrr...
Some lady, not really a human being if you go by any number of philosophical definitions, as I'm being besieged by Midwestern grandmothers who want their boarding passes printed, Midwestern grandmothers demanding i stop hiding their tour bus from them, Midwestern mothers who can't make it from 45th and 6th to 43rd and 6th, retching, in a fetid, Rosemary's-premature-baby-voice, to her husband, who has waited about 45 seconds to drop off his key at the desk:
"He can talk on the phone and take keys at the same time!"
"He can talk on the phone and take keys at the same time!"
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Who were just at da Front Desk...der
A taller woman with a large head, glasses, a slight overbite, and a silver-gray bobbish haircut.
She's standing at the front desk for a second, then she picks up a map brochure and says blankly, "A city of the map," and then sort of just sits there as her lower lip falls millimeter by millimeter.
Her friend looks over amusedly. "You mean a map of the city?" A smile slowly draws over the woman's face, like she was remembering her kid who'd been in Vietnam that she'd forgotten. She reminded me a lot of the Allison Janney character in American Beauty.
Probably the single purest expression of dotage since I started working here at the Hotel Idiotica.
She's standing at the front desk for a second, then she picks up a map brochure and says blankly, "A city of the map," and then sort of just sits there as her lower lip falls millimeter by millimeter.
Her friend looks over amusedly. "You mean a map of the city?" A smile slowly draws over the woman's face, like she was remembering her kid who'd been in Vietnam that she'd forgotten. She reminded me a lot of the Allison Janney character in American Beauty.
Probably the single purest expression of dotage since I started working here at the Hotel Idiotica.
Special Guests
Verbatim from the notes to the reservation for a group of meatheads staying on the 11th floor, written by a mystery clerk:
"There are 3 to 4 guys in this room that tried to have 3 prostitutes up to the room. I stopped one prostitute and she announced that her friend was already in the room. Both were asked to leave by writer and they did.
"Later another prostitute arrived for the same room and another guy (who I hadn't seen) came down to the desk and was somewhat belligerent. I sent her away. Later he left the hotel and returned with what was the most unattractive of all the pros of the night and I refused entry to her as well."
I spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out who had written this, which sadly is the most sustained literary analysis I've undertaken since college. I didn't think it was the White Witch or Girl With the Name That Sounds Like a Columbia Dorm because their grasp of English grammar isn't that solid. The prose fits K's (Meet the Idiots feature to come) terse, straightforward manner of speaking, but there's a moralistic streak that's out of place; all K cares about is gettin' paid. And Joey, God bless his little soul, would probably either wring his hands and mutter "Meshuganah" to no one in particular, or just employ his prostitute expertise to take care of the situation instead of impotently writing about it, even though every one of the jocks on the 11th floor could probably play basketball with Joey.
(Soooooo much more to come about Joey at some point, all amazing stuff that you couldn't really make up of course. Joey is pretty much the only other person besides the Porter who knows that this blog exists, so he is a small threat, even though he apparently doesn't actually know how to use the Internet {tutorial given by Porter: click "Firefox"--good job, Porter}. But you're not a snitch, are you Joey?)
Yusuf has had to go deliver a cot to the room in question. When he gets back, I ask him if he knows anything about this situation. He grumbles and shakes his head in disgust. "The man last night. He not gonna let the customers enjoy deir girls."
"You mean John Hernandez?" I ask.
"Yes," Yusuf nods, "They invite their friends over and he say, 'No fuckin' way, you canna come here at 2 in the morning,'
"Well, were there friends hookers?" I asked. I don't think he'd ever heard that term. "Prostitutes?"
"Psssh, no!" Yusuf said dismissively, "they just guys callin' they friends. They pay for they room, why we care who they take up there. Those guys was pissed! All they want they girls and John gotta be a asshole! This is not how treat the customer!"
Now here's where it gets good. "This all they want, " Yusuf says. He then extends his hands out as if to grip on to something firm and smooth, thrusts his hips rapidly back and forth and cries, "Guba guba guba guba guba guba guba!"
I ask him to do that again and he obliges.
"There are 3 to 4 guys in this room that tried to have 3 prostitutes up to the room. I stopped one prostitute and she announced that her friend was already in the room. Both were asked to leave by writer and they did.
"Later another prostitute arrived for the same room and another guy (who I hadn't seen) came down to the desk and was somewhat belligerent. I sent her away. Later he left the hotel and returned with what was the most unattractive of all the pros of the night and I refused entry to her as well."
I spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out who had written this, which sadly is the most sustained literary analysis I've undertaken since college. I didn't think it was the White Witch or Girl With the Name That Sounds Like a Columbia Dorm because their grasp of English grammar isn't that solid. The prose fits K's (Meet the Idiots feature to come) terse, straightforward manner of speaking, but there's a moralistic streak that's out of place; all K cares about is gettin' paid. And Joey, God bless his little soul, would probably either wring his hands and mutter "Meshuganah" to no one in particular, or just employ his prostitute expertise to take care of the situation instead of impotently writing about it, even though every one of the jocks on the 11th floor could probably play basketball with Joey.
(Soooooo much more to come about Joey at some point, all amazing stuff that you couldn't really make up of course. Joey is pretty much the only other person besides the Porter who knows that this blog exists, so he is a small threat, even though he apparently doesn't actually know how to use the Internet {tutorial given by Porter: click "Firefox"--good job, Porter}. But you're not a snitch, are you Joey?)
Yusuf has had to go deliver a cot to the room in question. When he gets back, I ask him if he knows anything about this situation. He grumbles and shakes his head in disgust. "The man last night. He not gonna let the customers enjoy deir girls."
"You mean John Hernandez?" I ask.
"Yes," Yusuf nods, "They invite their friends over and he say, 'No fuckin' way, you canna come here at 2 in the morning,'
"Well, were there friends hookers?" I asked. I don't think he'd ever heard that term. "Prostitutes?"
"Psssh, no!" Yusuf said dismissively, "they just guys callin' they friends. They pay for they room, why we care who they take up there. Those guys was pissed! All they want they girls and John gotta be a asshole! This is not how treat the customer!"
Now here's where it gets good. "This all they want, " Yusuf says. He then extends his hands out as if to grip on to something firm and smooth, thrusts his hips rapidly back and forth and cries, "Guba guba guba guba guba guba guba!"
I ask him to do that again and he obliges.
Priceless
Ambiguously Asian messenger person comes in at about 10:30 to deliver some papers to the Boss Lady. They talk for a few minutes, even though I'm pretty sure neither of them could understand the other.
After the messenger leaves, the Boss turns to Yusuf and asks, "Mongolian?"
Yusuf shakes his head and says, "I don't think so, Mami"
"Mexican?" she wonders
Readers who got in on the ground floor will remember how I suspected that the Boss Lady referred to all Asians as Mongolians, because that's how she described the three Asian people who work here. But then it turned out that those three people were actually from Mongolia.
Needless to say, I'm more than a little pleased by this (re)development.
After the messenger leaves, the Boss turns to Yusuf and asks, "Mongolian?"
Yusuf shakes his head and says, "I don't think so, Mami"
"Mexican?" she wonders
Readers who got in on the ground floor will remember how I suspected that the Boss Lady referred to all Asians as Mongolians, because that's how she described the three Asian people who work here. But then it turned out that those three people were actually from Mongolia.
Needless to say, I'm more than a little pleased by this (re)development.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Not a Closet Banya Fan
There was a man at the hotel last weekend. He was fairly nondescript--shorter, brown hair, round head--and he wore a black cowboy hat. He wore that black cowboy hat all weekend. The other thing he did all weekend was make incredibly hackneyed, semantic ontological jokes. He reminded me a lot of that character in Airplane!, the assistant in the control tower who just prances around shouting completely inane things (according to IMDB, he's "Johnny," and in Airplane II he's "Controller Jacobs," so my hypothesis is that the character's name is Johnny Jacobs. Real life: the late Stephen Stucker). He actually looked a lot like him, too.
When he first came in on Saturday night, I complemented him on his hat. This was a mistake, because evidently it gave him license to say things that no one should ever say. Sometimes, being warm and kind to everyone really comes back to bite you in the ass.
Anyway, he comes in on Saturday, and asks for the key to room number, I dunno, 1313. He asks kind of gruffly, so tell him I like his hat, because I like it when people do things gruffly. Immediately, his face lights up like it's his first big number on Broadway. "Oh my God, wow!, are you like a fortune teller or something??" He's referring, obnoxiously, to the fact that I didn't check who he was before handing him his room key. I say, "nope," and grimace a little.
The next morning, after I've been standing behind a desk listening to Lucinda Williams for 11 hours, he comes downstairs. He seems shocked and frightened. "There was a stranger in my bed last night!" Pause. "It was me!" Then he giggled uncontrollably.
That night, I'm talking to a young lady circa one in the morning (I used the 'Let the terrorists win' gambit), when the cowpoke comes rollin' in. Sadly, he only manages to lamely recycle last night's non-sequitur: "There's some hot guy in my room!...Me," he yelps, wiggling his chest.
I expected better of you, Mr. Lame Semantic Ontological Joke Man.
The next morning, after I've been standing behind a desk listening to Lucinda Williams for 11 hours, he comes downstairs. He seems shocked and frightened. "There was a stranger in my bed last night!" Pause. "It was me!" Then he giggled uncontrollably.
That night, I'm talking to a young lady circa one in the morning (I used the 'Let the terrorists win' gambit), when the cowpoke comes rollin' in. Sadly, he only manages to lamely recycle last night's non-sequitur: "There's some hot guy in my room!...Me," he yelps, wiggling his chest.
I expected better of you, Mr. Lame Semantic Ontological Joke Man.
Meet the Idiots: John Hernandez
John Hernandez is my doppelganger, my mummudrai, my secret sharer. He works the night shift during the week, Monday through Friday. He is a bald, white, egg-shaped gay man with a goatee. For all you politicos out there he bears (get it?) a striking resemblance to Andrew Sullivan.
I first met John Hernandez a few weeks ago, when I came in one night to talk business with the Boss Lady. She wasn't there, unfortunately, but John was, with Yusuf, who was overjoyed to see me. John thought that I was there to pick his brain about the fiendishly technical skills that you only pick up after a decade in The Game (just kidding, we don't actually call it "The Game")
So I asked him some question or another, refunding credit cards or something. This is how he answered: "My first rule for the hospitality industry is right there in the name: You have to be hospitable to the guests."
John then proceeded to just talk and talk and talk some more about all aspects of hospitality-industrial complex, and especially about the grave responsibilities of the night-watchman, the last line of defense between our fair-eyed virgin guests and the Visigoths who could overrun the lobby at anytime.
I quickly learned that John was very serious about his job, and that by "hospitality" he meant interrogating every guest who didn't check in with him about whether their intentions were noble, or did they not plan on raping the guests and stealing their money?
I stood with John for about 15 minutes on a weekday night around 11:00. During that time, he stopped every single person, maybe 50 people, and asked them to state their business.
The hotel has a policy of keeping all the keys, which are actual keys, at the front desk when guests go out. So anytime a guest would go out without dropping off the key, or come in without stopping to pick up their key at the desk (meaning that they didn't drop it off when they left), John would make them stop and tell them the following:
"Excuse me, sir/ma'am. They may not have told you about this when you checked in, and that's our fault, I apologize, but this is a European-style hotel, which means that there's only one key per room, so you absolutely have to leave the key with us when you go out. No exceptions, okay?" He gave this speech 11 different times in the 15 minutes I was there.
Three or four times he stopped people who came into the hotel as friends of the guests and wouldn't let them go up with the guests until they had given him their names to be put on the guest list, no matter how large the group. When I asked him whether this was necessary, he said, "Oh, yeah! You've got to know every single person that's in the hotel. What if there's a crime?' He paused for a moment. "Or what if there's a fire and the fireman just pull out a bunch of charred bodies?" He laughed a little to himself at this.
At some point, while he was telling a customer why she couldn't take her key outside even though she was just going to smoke a cigarette, the phone rang and I picked it up. It was a woman calling for her husband from India. After I looked up her husband's name to find out his room number I told the wife that, for future reference, her husband was in room 7--. After he finished dressing down the guest, John looked at me.
"You never give out a guest's room number, to anyone," he said soberly. "One time a woman came to a hotel I used to work at after she left her husband. The husband found out where she was staying, called the hotel and got her room number, and then came to the hotel and beat her to death."
I would like to personally thank John Hernandez for running the Hotel Idiotica so competently while I am gone during the week. But I just want to reassure all the criminals, vagabonds, and general vendetta artists that the Hotel Idiotica on the weekends is still a place where you be benignly ignored.
I first met John Hernandez a few weeks ago, when I came in one night to talk business with the Boss Lady. She wasn't there, unfortunately, but John was, with Yusuf, who was overjoyed to see me. John thought that I was there to pick his brain about the fiendishly technical skills that you only pick up after a decade in The Game (just kidding, we don't actually call it "The Game")
So I asked him some question or another, refunding credit cards or something. This is how he answered: "My first rule for the hospitality industry is right there in the name: You have to be hospitable to the guests."
John then proceeded to just talk and talk and talk some more about all aspects of hospitality-industrial complex, and especially about the grave responsibilities of the night-watchman, the last line of defense between our fair-eyed virgin guests and the Visigoths who could overrun the lobby at anytime.
I quickly learned that John was very serious about his job, and that by "hospitality" he meant interrogating every guest who didn't check in with him about whether their intentions were noble, or did they not plan on raping the guests and stealing their money?
I stood with John for about 15 minutes on a weekday night around 11:00. During that time, he stopped every single person, maybe 50 people, and asked them to state their business.
The hotel has a policy of keeping all the keys, which are actual keys, at the front desk when guests go out. So anytime a guest would go out without dropping off the key, or come in without stopping to pick up their key at the desk (meaning that they didn't drop it off when they left), John would make them stop and tell them the following:
"Excuse me, sir/ma'am. They may not have told you about this when you checked in, and that's our fault, I apologize, but this is a European-style hotel, which means that there's only one key per room, so you absolutely have to leave the key with us when you go out. No exceptions, okay?" He gave this speech 11 different times in the 15 minutes I was there.
Three or four times he stopped people who came into the hotel as friends of the guests and wouldn't let them go up with the guests until they had given him their names to be put on the guest list, no matter how large the group. When I asked him whether this was necessary, he said, "Oh, yeah! You've got to know every single person that's in the hotel. What if there's a crime?' He paused for a moment. "Or what if there's a fire and the fireman just pull out a bunch of charred bodies?" He laughed a little to himself at this.
At some point, while he was telling a customer why she couldn't take her key outside even though she was just going to smoke a cigarette, the phone rang and I picked it up. It was a woman calling for her husband from India. After I looked up her husband's name to find out his room number I told the wife that, for future reference, her husband was in room 7--. After he finished dressing down the guest, John looked at me.
"You never give out a guest's room number, to anyone," he said soberly. "One time a woman came to a hotel I used to work at after she left her husband. The husband found out where she was staying, called the hotel and got her room number, and then came to the hotel and beat her to death."
I would like to personally thank John Hernandez for running the Hotel Idiotica so competently while I am gone during the week. But I just want to reassure all the criminals, vagabonds, and general vendetta artists that the Hotel Idiotica on the weekends is still a place where you be benignly ignored.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Diplomacy
We get a fair number of diplomats here at the hotel, mostly from the 3rd world, and particularly African countries. I've already told you about the Burkina Fasan smooves, but we also get a lot of business from Gabon, Angola, and Rwanda. We also host a sizable number of Mongolians, because a decent percentage of the population of Mongolia works at this hotel.
This week, some Center for Kids Who Can't Read Good, the Friedrich-Ebert Foundation, is sponsoring a conference to end global bad things, and they're putting up a number of the delegates right here in the cozy confines of the Hotel Idiotica. I'm really excited because it'll really give me a chance to show everyone that I should really be running State or Defense in this country, not stuck behind the desk of some roach motel for snaggletooth retards. And there's nothing I love more than an opportunity to prove myself.
Things started off well when a pair of Kenyans checked in early in the morning. One of them was a tall, thin, quiet man with a very small head, and the other was shorter with glasses and spoke seriously but with a glimmer in his eye. As I was helping them with their luggage, I asked them where they were from.
"Kenya, in East Africa," the shorter one said.
"I know where Kenya is," I responded, a little too smartly, and then I just sort of blurted out all the things I knew of Kenya. Mau Mau. Kikuyu. Great Rift Valley. Lake Victoria. Kenyatta. Mind you, I wasn't talking about these things, I was just listing the things I knew existed in Kenya. I closed by asking if they were from Nairobi.
This didn't exactly rub them the right way, but I made up for it by letting the short one use my cell-phone and asking them about the conference. It seemed to be about how the United Nations can be more effective in smaller, poorer countries, and how those countries can be more of an influence on the UN. That night, they seemed genuinely excited to see me again.
By midnight, only one delegate hadn't yet checked in. She finally arrives an hour later, with her mother, and she is beautiful. She's probably just this side of thirty, and the physical lines of adulthood are just starting to form on her face, but she carries herself easily and her eyes are full of humor. She seems really glad and relieved to be here, and she has a wide and relaxed smile and we banter a little bit, and, wow, is it just me or is she laughing a lot, and being reeeaally friendly? Also, she's Spanish, so she has the sexiest accent in the world.
I ask her about the conference. "You guys have a lot of work to do. The world has a lot of problems," I say ruefully, shaking my head with mock resign. I am using my pan-Hispanic accent.
She laughs, a wonderful laugh, then says something about the goodness of the wave of left-wing governments in Latin America (although Chavez is a bit much). I throw something out there about Bolivia (seriously, I just sort of waggle my head and say "Bolivia") and then play the only other plotline I've mined from the papers about South America: "How 'bout those lady Presidents?"
She finally goes up to her room (of course it hasn't really been very long), but only a few minutes pass before she comes back down. I don't think I'm exaggerating in describing her movement from the elevator to the front desk as a sort of "slinking."
"Hello, again," she says, laughing, "We are having some difficulties with our door."
The ride up in the elevator. How does one act widely read, wry, and sexy all at the same time?
When we arrive at her room the door is already open. The possible implications of this don't strike me at the time. And sure enough, her mother peeks out from behind the door.
"Will we have these problems with the door the whole time?" wonders the diplomatrix.
"Here let me show you some tips," I say. I insert the key into the lock and cup the knob (I know, I can't believe that sentence either). "You have to have that special touch." I look up at her and smile shyly as I jiggle the knob (look, that's what you do with doorknobs). "You have to be gentle with it, treat it like a work of art." ''
After I wish her a heartfelt good night, it's not until I'm halfway to the elevator that I realize what I wanted to say: "You have to treat it like a beautiful woman." I wonder if she would be glad I didn't say that. Probably so, since her old mother was standing just a few feet away.
So perhaps my diplomatic skills aren't best suited to the quotidian humdrum of policy analysis. I think a general ambassador for global good will might be more appropriate. Hopefully I'll be able to discuss it with the diplomat next weekend, when her stupid Mom will be gone!
This week, some Center for Kids Who Can't Read Good, the Friedrich-Ebert Foundation, is sponsoring a conference to end global bad things, and they're putting up a number of the delegates right here in the cozy confines of the Hotel Idiotica. I'm really excited because it'll really give me a chance to show everyone that I should really be running State or Defense in this country, not stuck behind the desk of some roach motel for snaggletooth retards. And there's nothing I love more than an opportunity to prove myself.
Things started off well when a pair of Kenyans checked in early in the morning. One of them was a tall, thin, quiet man with a very small head, and the other was shorter with glasses and spoke seriously but with a glimmer in his eye. As I was helping them with their luggage, I asked them where they were from.
"Kenya, in East Africa," the shorter one said.
"I know where Kenya is," I responded, a little too smartly, and then I just sort of blurted out all the things I knew of Kenya. Mau Mau. Kikuyu. Great Rift Valley. Lake Victoria. Kenyatta. Mind you, I wasn't talking about these things, I was just listing the things I knew existed in Kenya. I closed by asking if they were from Nairobi.
This didn't exactly rub them the right way, but I made up for it by letting the short one use my cell-phone and asking them about the conference. It seemed to be about how the United Nations can be more effective in smaller, poorer countries, and how those countries can be more of an influence on the UN. That night, they seemed genuinely excited to see me again.
By midnight, only one delegate hadn't yet checked in. She finally arrives an hour later, with her mother, and she is beautiful. She's probably just this side of thirty, and the physical lines of adulthood are just starting to form on her face, but she carries herself easily and her eyes are full of humor. She seems really glad and relieved to be here, and she has a wide and relaxed smile and we banter a little bit, and, wow, is it just me or is she laughing a lot, and being reeeaally friendly? Also, she's Spanish, so she has the sexiest accent in the world.
I ask her about the conference. "You guys have a lot of work to do. The world has a lot of problems," I say ruefully, shaking my head with mock resign. I am using my pan-Hispanic accent.
She laughs, a wonderful laugh, then says something about the goodness of the wave of left-wing governments in Latin America (although Chavez is a bit much). I throw something out there about Bolivia (seriously, I just sort of waggle my head and say "Bolivia") and then play the only other plotline I've mined from the papers about South America: "How 'bout those lady Presidents?"
She finally goes up to her room (of course it hasn't really been very long), but only a few minutes pass before she comes back down. I don't think I'm exaggerating in describing her movement from the elevator to the front desk as a sort of "slinking."
"Hello, again," she says, laughing, "We are having some difficulties with our door."
The ride up in the elevator. How does one act widely read, wry, and sexy all at the same time?
When we arrive at her room the door is already open. The possible implications of this don't strike me at the time. And sure enough, her mother peeks out from behind the door.
"Will we have these problems with the door the whole time?" wonders the diplomatrix.
"Here let me show you some tips," I say. I insert the key into the lock and cup the knob (I know, I can't believe that sentence either). "You have to have that special touch." I look up at her and smile shyly as I jiggle the knob (look, that's what you do with doorknobs). "You have to be gentle with it, treat it like a work of art." ''
After I wish her a heartfelt good night, it's not until I'm halfway to the elevator that I realize what I wanted to say: "You have to treat it like a beautiful woman." I wonder if she would be glad I didn't say that. Probably so, since her old mother was standing just a few feet away.
So perhaps my diplomatic skills aren't best suited to the quotidian humdrum of policy analysis. I think a general ambassador for global good will might be more appropriate. Hopefully I'll be able to discuss it with the diplomat next weekend, when her stupid Mom will be gone!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
We must all do our part
When I'm here by myself on Sunday nights, sometimes people will come down to the desk to request things like pillows, blankets, a plunger, etc. On Saturdays, Yusuf takes care of those kinds of things, but on Sundays I have to go down to the basement and get them myself. Since I'm the only person working at the hotel at that time, a lot of times there's this sort of unspoken question in the air around the guest, something like, "Is he really gonna leave me here alone beside this mysterious font of all the hotel's power, the front desk?"
So I usually try to alleviate the tension by calling something out to them as I'm loafing off to the basement. For a while, it was, "Try not to rob the place blind!" When I was real tired or if the supplicant was a bastard, it was just a gruff, "hold the fort down" Sometimes, I'd ask them to "take over or a few minutes, will ya?"
But the last few weekends, I've come up with a go-to routine. First I tell them something like, "Keep an eye out for bad guys, eh?" Then, after they tell me, "I'll try," or, "I'll do my best," I call out to them, echoing from the stairwell, "Don't let the terrorists win!"
I think maybe it works for me so well because, really, this is the only situation that the phrase hasn't been used for yet.
So I usually try to alleviate the tension by calling something out to them as I'm loafing off to the basement. For a while, it was, "Try not to rob the place blind!" When I was real tired or if the supplicant was a bastard, it was just a gruff, "hold the fort down" Sometimes, I'd ask them to "take over or a few minutes, will ya?"
But the last few weekends, I've come up with a go-to routine. First I tell them something like, "Keep an eye out for bad guys, eh?" Then, after they tell me, "I'll try," or, "I'll do my best," I call out to them, echoing from the stairwell, "Don't let the terrorists win!"
I think maybe it works for me so well because, really, this is the only situation that the phrase hasn't been used for yet.
True or False?
Meet the Idiots: Yusuf
Yusuf is the man who works with me as a security guard/handy man on the Saturday night shift. He is about 50 years old, although he could pass for anytime in his 40s. He came over here 17 years ago from Guinea, a country in West Africa (there are like 4 different Guineas; if you look on the map, his is the one that isn't really tiny). He has five daughters, all of whom are under ten, here in New York with his wife, who works as an African hair-braider in Harlem. He has another daughter who is older, maybe 17, in Guinea. I'm not sure if she has the same mother. In fact, from what I gather, Yusuf only learned of her existence, or that she was not dead, or something, shortly before he met me. He works every night of the week except Sunday, from 9 until 5 in the morning, although I encourage him to leave much earlier when he's working with me.
Yusuf is an ebullient, ebullient bear of a man. On Sundays, I really miss him. All the time, he is telling me these completely random things about himself. For instance, for a long time he says he played on the Guinean national soccer team. When I asked him what position he played, he said, "7, 8, or 9." which I eventually gathered meant midfield. Last night, I found out he was actually born in Sierra Leone, and that when he was younger, I'm not exactly sure how young, he worked for his father panning for diamonds. He was the one who had to watch all the other workers to make sure they didn't hide the diamonds under their tongues. Also, his name is not really Yusuf. I don't mean that in the sense that Yusuf is a pseudonym, though it is, albeit not a very good one. I mean when he came to this country he chose a random common name that he thought would be more palatable. Obviously that's not that weird. What's weird is that the name he used to go by is Ibrahim, but for some reason, he decided not to just switch it to Abraham. And then he got a little fussy when I started calling him Ibrahim.
Yusuf has a tendency to try and extrapolate larger meanings from all of the random stories he tells me, and these are a bit more hit or miss. I think about half of his wisdom gets lost in translation (English is his fourth or fifth language), and half gets lost in the gap between someone who grew up having to worry about blood diamonds and someone who grew up going to play four-square at the pool. And the other half goes into elocutions like the following: "The Indians and the Muslims [by which he meant Pakistanis; the two ethnic groups work at rival delis nearby], mami, they hate each other, Oh mygod! And all the Indians, they have the towels on the heads, and they see a cow, whoop!"
A Muslim himself, once or twice a night Yusuf finds a secluded room in order to say his prayers. Once or twice a night, he goes outside to smoke a cigarette. He spends most of the rest of the time prowling between the basement, where he sometimes does his laundry, and the stoop outside, where he yuks it up with the local deli-wallahs, and the back room, where he just sort of lies on the couch.
I feel like a lot of Yusuf's interaction with me is a bit forced. He vaguely refers to me as the boss--I can't tell if he's joking or not--and while I don't think he's trying to impress or please me per se, I do think he wants me to like him, maybe just on a personal level. A lot of the definitive observations he delivers are just bland rewordings of what someone else just said, and I would say that about half the time he's laughing, he's faking it (He has a fantastic hyena laugh, though). But he really is the only one who understands the true depravity, in one way or another, of everyone who works here, and we really do share some belly laughs at the riff and the chaff that straggle in here in the wee hours of th morning.
And once in a great while he will totally move me. Usually when he's just talking about his life, unassumingly, without trying to think of something grander. Like tonight, when he just said resignedly, "My life here is no good. I work and I work again, and then I sleep. And then I work again. How can there be nothing else?" I only recently found out that his position at the Hotel Idiotica, where he works 6 nights a week for 7 hours a night, is only his second job. During the day, he works at a factory, making...I still can't believe it, the stuff that appears on this web site: www.jeremysplace.com. Novelty food items. Fake poop. Fake vomit. Plastic ice cream sundaes. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Lately, Yusuf and I have been bonding over the universal language: guitar licks. I get through the night by playing music on the computer and while its usually bluegrass or the newest Scandinavian indie rocker, one night I decided to blast some Neil Young and Crazy Horse. Yusuf runs up to me with wide eyes, I can tell he's being serious, "Oh MyGod! What is this? I love this!" Then he mimics shredding an ax for a while. He made me play all the Neil Young guitar songs I could think of, so I played "Cowgirl in the Sand," "Like a Hurricane," "Rockin' in the Free World," "Cortez the Killer," et al., for about two hours, while Yusuf lay back on the couch with his eyes closed. Before he left, Yusuf made me promise to bring him all the rock and roll I could think of next weekend. Yusuf loves Neil Young, Guns n' Roses, Led Zeppelin, and Allman Brothers with Duane. He's not so high on Stevie Ray Vaughn, Allman Brothers with Dickey Betts, or Talking Heads (actually, I'm just not that high on The Talking Heads).
To conclude, I like Yusuf.
Yusuf is an ebullient, ebullient bear of a man. On Sundays, I really miss him. All the time, he is telling me these completely random things about himself. For instance, for a long time he says he played on the Guinean national soccer team. When I asked him what position he played, he said, "7, 8, or 9." which I eventually gathered meant midfield. Last night, I found out he was actually born in Sierra Leone, and that when he was younger, I'm not exactly sure how young, he worked for his father panning for diamonds. He was the one who had to watch all the other workers to make sure they didn't hide the diamonds under their tongues. Also, his name is not really Yusuf. I don't mean that in the sense that Yusuf is a pseudonym, though it is, albeit not a very good one. I mean when he came to this country he chose a random common name that he thought would be more palatable. Obviously that's not that weird. What's weird is that the name he used to go by is Ibrahim, but for some reason, he decided not to just switch it to Abraham. And then he got a little fussy when I started calling him Ibrahim.
Yusuf has a tendency to try and extrapolate larger meanings from all of the random stories he tells me, and these are a bit more hit or miss. I think about half of his wisdom gets lost in translation (English is his fourth or fifth language), and half gets lost in the gap between someone who grew up having to worry about blood diamonds and someone who grew up going to play four-square at the pool. And the other half goes into elocutions like the following: "The Indians and the Muslims [by which he meant Pakistanis; the two ethnic groups work at rival delis nearby], mami, they hate each other, Oh mygod! And all the Indians, they have the towels on the heads, and they see a cow, whoop!"
A Muslim himself, once or twice a night Yusuf finds a secluded room in order to say his prayers. Once or twice a night, he goes outside to smoke a cigarette. He spends most of the rest of the time prowling between the basement, where he sometimes does his laundry, and the stoop outside, where he yuks it up with the local deli-wallahs, and the back room, where he just sort of lies on the couch.
I feel like a lot of Yusuf's interaction with me is a bit forced. He vaguely refers to me as the boss--I can't tell if he's joking or not--and while I don't think he's trying to impress or please me per se, I do think he wants me to like him, maybe just on a personal level. A lot of the definitive observations he delivers are just bland rewordings of what someone else just said, and I would say that about half the time he's laughing, he's faking it (He has a fantastic hyena laugh, though). But he really is the only one who understands the true depravity, in one way or another, of everyone who works here, and we really do share some belly laughs at the riff and the chaff that straggle in here in the wee hours of th morning.
And once in a great while he will totally move me. Usually when he's just talking about his life, unassumingly, without trying to think of something grander. Like tonight, when he just said resignedly, "My life here is no good. I work and I work again, and then I sleep. And then I work again. How can there be nothing else?" I only recently found out that his position at the Hotel Idiotica, where he works 6 nights a week for 7 hours a night, is only his second job. During the day, he works at a factory, making...I still can't believe it, the stuff that appears on this web site: www.jeremysplace.com. Novelty food items. Fake poop. Fake vomit. Plastic ice cream sundaes. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Lately, Yusuf and I have been bonding over the universal language: guitar licks. I get through the night by playing music on the computer and while its usually bluegrass or the newest Scandinavian indie rocker, one night I decided to blast some Neil Young and Crazy Horse. Yusuf runs up to me with wide eyes, I can tell he's being serious, "Oh MyGod! What is this? I love this!" Then he mimics shredding an ax for a while. He made me play all the Neil Young guitar songs I could think of, so I played "Cowgirl in the Sand," "Like a Hurricane," "Rockin' in the Free World," "Cortez the Killer," et al., for about two hours, while Yusuf lay back on the couch with his eyes closed. Before he left, Yusuf made me promise to bring him all the rock and roll I could think of next weekend. Yusuf loves Neil Young, Guns n' Roses, Led Zeppelin, and Allman Brothers with Duane. He's not so high on Stevie Ray Vaughn, Allman Brothers with Dickey Betts, or Talking Heads (actually, I'm just not that high on The Talking Heads).
To conclude, I like Yusuf.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Back in the Saddle
Dear Readers,
A thousand million apologies for the dereliction of duty here at the Hotel Idiotica over the past few weeks. I know it's been slim pickin's as far as posts are concerned. Part of that is due to a yawn-inducing tale of intrigue and deception and one young person's quest for meaning that combines the absolute worst of Le Carre, Richard Bach, and Office Space. Also, there was something of a pregnancy scare. But all that in good time.
But the heart of the matter, and this is not very hard at all for me to say, is that I'm just not very dependable. And while it's true, and I hope this is the case with me, that artists are moody and temperamental and can't really be counted on, these qualities apply equally to malingers and general layabouts. Basically, I'm saying that this is the kind of behavior you should expect from a feckless human who refuses to bow before the twin idols of Morgan Stanley and Teach for America. And I'm not gonna apologize for it (except for the thousand million above). Basically, I occupy my time about as well as the United States occupies Iraq, and unfortunately I don't expect that to change until well into the next presidential term.
But that doesn't mean I can just pack up and go home. I'm here and I have a job to do. I have a mission to bring you all the banal zaniness that the Hotel Idiotica is known for. And can you imagine the carnage that would ensue if this blog were absent from your lives?
So we'll be coming at you, live, raw, and totally insensitively, building up to a BIG ANNOUNCEMENT in about two weeks. What could it be? More staff here at the Idioteque? The grand opening of the Idiexotica, the official brothel of the Hotel Idiotica? And how could I be pregnant? All will be revealed, TWO WEEKENDS post-hence. In the meantime, bite down on your pillows.
A thousand million apologies for the dereliction of duty here at the Hotel Idiotica over the past few weeks. I know it's been slim pickin's as far as posts are concerned. Part of that is due to a yawn-inducing tale of intrigue and deception and one young person's quest for meaning that combines the absolute worst of Le Carre, Richard Bach, and Office Space. Also, there was something of a pregnancy scare. But all that in good time.
But the heart of the matter, and this is not very hard at all for me to say, is that I'm just not very dependable. And while it's true, and I hope this is the case with me, that artists are moody and temperamental and can't really be counted on, these qualities apply equally to malingers and general layabouts. Basically, I'm saying that this is the kind of behavior you should expect from a feckless human who refuses to bow before the twin idols of Morgan Stanley and Teach for America. And I'm not gonna apologize for it (except for the thousand million above). Basically, I occupy my time about as well as the United States occupies Iraq, and unfortunately I don't expect that to change until well into the next presidential term.
But that doesn't mean I can just pack up and go home. I'm here and I have a job to do. I have a mission to bring you all the banal zaniness that the Hotel Idiotica is known for. And can you imagine the carnage that would ensue if this blog were absent from your lives?
So we'll be coming at you, live, raw, and totally insensitively, building up to a BIG ANNOUNCEMENT in about two weeks. What could it be? More staff here at the Idioteque? The grand opening of the Idiexotica, the official brothel of the Hotel Idiotica? And how could I be pregnant? All will be revealed, TWO WEEKENDS post-hence. In the meantime, bite down on your pillows.
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