Tuesday, February 28, 2012

More fath pleathe?

I'll never forget the day when I declared Dramatic Arts as my major in college. My professor felated my ego, telling me how important it was that I didn't let my talent go to waste and how bright my future would be if I kept honing my craft.


I went to that same professor 3 years later with wide-eyes and a nut sack full of vinegar, ready to become the first Seth Rogen.

Me- "So, what can I do for work with my degree while I pursue an acting career?"

Professor- "Uhhhh, well, you know, uhhh." Fart.


Fast forward another 5 years, and the those "uhhhhs" have turned to "ehhhhs" and I still have yet to use my degree for anything paycheck-related.

So take notice, college students. Don't let reckless cast parties and easy sexual liaisons cloud your judgment when it comes to your future. Unless, of course, you're like me and you enjoy being humiliated so you can write about it.

So, 5 years later:

I'm working the door. The doorman, if you will. Now, hotel doorman, while not the most dignified line of work, is a very lucrative job. You're constantly being handed cash because the doorman gets a cut of everything. EVERYTHING. I won't bore you with a breakdown, but trust me, they make insane money. The drawback is, well, being a fucking doorman. You wear a goofy hat and spend 90% of your shift in shitty weather opening doors for people who see right through you. Ever hold the door for someone and not get get a thank you? Enraging, isn't it? Try having that happen once every three minutes. And those are just the rude ones. Some people just flat-out treat you like an animal... in a goofy hat.

One day, this Brazilian family of 7 comes outside. Anyone who has ever worked a service industry job in NYC knows this family: Six drones who stand there and look stupid, and a 12-year-old who is the lone English-speaker. They're the spokesperson by default, and they're always a cunt.

This snot-nosed little jerk-off topped them all. He looked like any other Brazilian kid does- tanned and retarded, with massive teeth and braces. He also had a really bad lisp, which I found amusing. In the 2 days that I was working outside, he requested "ehhh 2 tacks, theven peopleth"(2 taxis for 7 people) four times, always within a ten block radius of the hotel. When I would tell this entitled little fuck that their destination was in walking distance, he would chuckle and say "ehhh no, no. 2 tack, theven peopleth".

Fine, cock sucker.

After two days of this bullshit and not getting tipped, I was about ready to snap. 7pm rolls around and it's cold and raining in the middle of January. Fuckface and family strolled out all gussied up to see "Ehhh Keen Lion on Broadway" and requested thier "2 tack, theven peopleth". Sure, kid, it's your day. I made the universal "you better give me a fucking tip" gesture by rubbing my index finger and thumb together, and he stared at me like I just told him to make out with his sister.

Ever try to get a taxi in Midtown Manhattan while it's cold and rainy? Not easy nor fun.

They, of course, stayed inside where it's warm and dry. The show didn't start for an hour, so there was no rush, but I see them getting all antsy out of the corner of my eye. Whatever, fuck 'em.

About five minutes go by and I'm soaking wet, freezing, and have beads of water dripping into my eyes from the brim of my hat. I couldn't wipe my face because my gloves were soaked and I had just stepped in a massive puddle, so my socks were also drenched. Finally, I was able to get one, so I signaled for four to come out, and they all piled in with the exception of dipshit and 2 others. No tip, no "thank you."

What I got when I turned around was perhaps the most condescending thing that's ever happened to me. There he was, right behind me, twirling his index fingers together in circles, hurrying me along.

Kid- "ehhhh more fath pleathe"

(more fast, please)

Here I was, a grown-man, educated, confident, and cultured, receiving a "make it snappy" gesture from a fuckin' kid.

I looked at him and before I could suppress the impulse, I screamed, verbatim-


He looked at me, completely unscathed, seemingly unaware that he was an eyelash away from getting his neck rung, and walked back into the warm, dry hotel. It didn't take very long to get the next taxi, but I wasn't done. Before they came out, I knocked on the drivers window, he rolled it down, and I say five magic words:

"Take them for a ride."

I didn't need to say anything else. The man winked and said in his heavy middle eastern accent "you got it, boss."

In New York, having a taxi "take you for a ride" means that the driver sensed that you didn't know where the hell you were going, so they took advantage of you by taking the most out-of-the-way route they could to run up the meter.

They scurried into the cab without acknowledging me and went off to see Keen Lion. But not before circling the block several times. Whatever, a small victory is still a victory.

Cock suckers- 10

T-Bone- 1

Thank you, Dramatic Arts degree.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Moronic 9/11 Inquiries

I was fortunate enough to not lose anyone close to me on 9/11. It doesn't mean I wasn’t affected by it; we all were. It was the darkest day in American history and I watched it all unfold, firsthand. I have plenty of friends who lost loved ones, so as a New Yorker, I’m obviously sensitive to the subject. But I don't blame people for wanting to go down there to see it for themselves.

While I was working as a Concierge, though, there wasn’t much to see at all. It had basically become a construction site for the new World Trade Center or “Freedom Tower”, with sporadic posters to visit the 9/11 museum when it opens, which never happened while I did that job. Before they started working on the new buildings, there was a large wall that surrounded the entire property. On it was a timeline of the cleanup and rescue effort, along with artwork and tributes made by people from New Yorkers and people from all around the world. It was perfect. But once the reconstruction commenced, they ripped it all down and threw up “coming soon, the 9/11 museum” posters. Nice. They get rid of a moving and heartfelt memorial that really captured the spirit of Americans and New Yorkers in favor of an advertisement for some museum that visor and fanny-pack wearing fuckheads will sink 20 or 30 bucks to get into. Good one.

I told this to any guest that would listen, but they didn’t give a flying fuck about what I had to say on the matter. I don’t live here or anything. Anyways, here are the worst 9/11 inquiries that I’ve dealt with. Believe it or not, the vast majority of these golden nuggets came from the mouths of white Americans:

-“Is there a gift shop at Ground Zero?”

My Concierge friend, @TwittsMcGee, had the best response: "Yeah, it’s called Century 21."

Century 21 is a massive department store located across the street from Ground Zero. You may find the occasional sweet deal there, only you have to obtain it by climbing over hoards of drooling eeeehhhhs and their shitty children. No thanks.

-Two regular, Mid-Western women, unaffiliated, within an hour of each other:

“Where is 9/11?”

“Oh, Honey! Do you wanna see 9/11 while we’re here?”

-I was helping a really attractive British woman who seemed to have a decent grasp on reality. She was asking about small, specific museums in Brooklyn and off-off-Broadway shows near the Bowery. I've always enjoyed talking to people like that because they’re more likely to be open to a good suggestion that isn’t Mary Poppins or Carmine’s Restaurant. She also had a friend in Hoboken that she wanted to visit, and needed directions to get there. I opened the map and started to show her how to get to the New Jersey PATH train, which departed from the World Trade Center:

“Is that the place where those 2 buildings fell down?”

I looked at her and made a split decision to "accidentally" send her in the opposite direction to the Bronx for that one. Limey cunt. Never saw her again after that.

-A college student from Canada:

“How much is it to get into Ground Zero?”

-A sketchy looking dude from Arizona that reeked like pot:

Dude- "Do they check bags at Ground Zero?"

Me- "That's a scary question, sir."

He said nothing and walked away. I nearly called 911, but I figured he must have been trying to figure out if he should bring his weed or not. Still, I never saw him in the hotel after that, and I was paranoid about it for nearly a week. Can you imagine if he actually did something and I didn't do anything to stop it? You would have had to put me on suicide watch.

-This is the only French-related 9/11 grievance that I have. He was your typical French 30-something male. It wasn't offensive, just really amusing to me:

Him- "Ehhh. Where is Twin Center?"

Me- "Where?"

He puts up a peace sign.

Me- "Peace?"

Him- “Ehhh. No. Ehhhduex."

He put up the peace sign again. Then it occurred to me that he wasn’t using the peace sign. He was standing his index and middle fingers straight up next to each other, forming two towers.

-I think this guy was from Italy:

Him- "Ehhhh. What to see at Ground Zero?"

Me- "Really?"

-This isn't a moronic inquiry, just a serious fucking close call.

It's common sense that screwing around with a registered guest is a big no-no. It's grounds for immediate dismissal. Being a single guy in the hotel industry is tough, especially if you're working nights and can charm the pants off of people, like this guy (it's a visual). I've had plenty of temptations (see: My Iceland Princess. Coming soon.), though have yet to grow balls big enough to act on them. This, however, doesn't mean that I can't flirt.

One night I was working the door and a cute girl from Holland came outside for a cigarette. I don't smoke anymore, but I keep a lighter in my doorman jacket in case someone needs a light. It's a perfect ice breaker to segway into a conversation that puts dollars in my pocket, like recommending a restaurant or a private car back to the airport. She asked for a light, and we struck up a nice little conversation. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was here with her extended family. I flirted with her a little, made her laugh a bunch of times, and in my head began to think of scenarios where I could hang out with her without getting into trouble, like I always do when I find myself doing well with an attractive female guest. She had been to Ground Zero earlier in the day, so we started talking about 9/11.

Me- "Yeah, it was a scary day. I was in high school at the time, and no one told us what was going on till around 10am. It's not like we could have just went on Facebook on our phones and got the news. But we all knew something was up, and for some reason, the faculty wasn't telling us anything."

Guest- "Yeah, I was 5."

Me- "And you know what the messed up part about- Wait, WHAT?!?"

I screamed "WHAT?!?" in her face like Lil Jon finding out that he's NOT the father.

Me- "How old are you?"

Guest- "I'm 16."

There may have been a series of awkward "umms" and "errrs" before I pretended to retrieve a taxi for another guest.

Me- "You shouldn't smoke."

I walked away. To my credit, she looked like she could have been at least 25, and was brazenly smoking a cigarette in front of the hotel with her family inside. And she had a pack of Marlboros that she clearly purchased from here. I smoked Marlboros for 4 years, and I know the difference between an international pack and one from the States.

But here I was, thinking that I was doing well with a girl who was in Kindergarten when I was a senior in high school. 5 years from now, that makes me awesome. Today, it makes me a pedophile.