Thursday, June 21, 2012

Smart Phones and the Idiots That Use Them


People are idiots. You don't need me to tell you that. When I was a concierge, I once had a guy run away from the desk, while I was mid-sentence, take a picture of a little person walking outside the front of the hotel. He got right in the guy's face with his cell phone screaming "HOLY SHIT, A FUCKING MIDGET!!!" With this overexposed, exibitionist generation that we live in, where everyone fancies themselves a photographer, filmmaker, and paparazzi, I'm sure you wouldn't be surprised to know that I deal with a lot of idiots with cameras. Give someone an iPhone where they could make any stupid picture look like it was taken with expensive, vintage film, and I'll show you a dunderhead that posts a picture of every meal they eat or every skyline they see on their Facebook feed. Fuck these people.

Think about what we used to do in, say, 2004. We would call, or, if we were lazy, text our friends and say "hey, let's go eat our fat little faces off at ::restaurant::". Friends would go to said restaurant and eat their little faces off, talk about trials and tribulations, relationships, and gossip, get drunk, possibly fuck one another, and go home.

Here's how the same night would go for some average, pot-belly, fucktard  in 2012:

- Post Facebook status- "ugggghhhh what should I do tonight"

- Have a 46 comment exchange with friends debating on what to do to let the world know that you have options. 

- Post Facebook status- "I guess it will be ::restaurant:: with my besties tonite =)"

- Post a "just got ready for a night out pic" on Facebook.

- Travel to said restaurant. Post Facebook status "Gonna be a good nite =)" in car.

- Get to restaurant. IMMEDIATELY IMMEDIATELY IMMEDIATELY check into foursquare or Facebook locations and tag every friend that you're with. Caption something like "about to get ma tapas on". 

- Have waiter take picture of your group. Immediately post picture to Facebook. Caption a lyric from current top 40 song (ex. "hey I heard u were a wild one")

- Order food. Stare at Facebook app, refreshing every 30 seconds to see if there is a new notification regarding all of your recent posts. 

- Get food. Take picture of food. Immediately upload picture of food onto Facebook. Caption the name of the food item verbatim from the menu. Explain to your Facebook friends that this meal may lead to a some sort of "foodie orgasm". 


- Eat food. Refresh our Facebook app every 30 seconds to see all the comments and likes on our recent postings, thus missing out on the company of our "besties" that are actually present at this given time. 


- Complete meal. Post a status on Facebook about the restaurant, good or bad. 


- Rinse and repeat. 


I'll admit, I've done some of those things before. But I'm funny and can make it interesting. Many of you, sorry to say, are far from it. Leave the entertaining to the entertainers. Cheating on your Weight Watchers diet and eating veal parmesan is not interesting nor funny. Stop it. 


Which brings me to a very short story- I can tell you countless stories about morons that try and sneak pictures of me opening the door for their friends only to have me make a stupid face and ruin everything, but this one is my favorite:


At my hotel, up until 7pm, there are two doormen. I'm there from 3pm-midnight. The guy that works the mid-day shift, Sam, and I have a blast. We bust balls, have a good rapport, talk about life and women, and genuinely enjoy each other's company. He's also gotten very used to my subtle ways of fucking with idiots. In the beginning, he would just burst out laughing, blowing my cover. Now that he's been around me long enough, he can anticipate the show that I'm going to put on for him and keep his cool. He'll even, once in a blue, contribute to the little games that I play. 


Sam's shift was coming to close and I was preparing for what I call the "lonely road to midnight", which is the 5 hours that I stand by myself with no one to talk to but smokers and derelicts. We were having one of our usual conversations about how Eli Manning is the greatest man that's ever lived or what's going to happen in the new season of Breaking Bad. Out of nowhere, we're interrupted by a fat southern woman holding up an iPhone as if she were filming us. 


Fatty- "Is this the (my hotel)" 


Me- "Yes, it is." 


Fatty- "Well, thank yaw!" 


(I threw that comma in there because I'm anal about punctuation, not because I thought she understood how to use one.) 


She took a few steps back. 


I turned back to Sam and we continued our little chat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her keeping the camera on us while she slowly stepped to the side. Her friend, equally blobbish, was standing behind her, telling her to keep it steady. They were filming us like we were sloths in their habitat on Animal Planet. Seriously, she couldn't have been more than five feet away and she was filming us talking as if she wanted to prove to her people back in whatever shithole she hails from that we have voice boxes and communicate outside of "can I take that bag for you?" She also doesn't think that I can see her filming me. Ignorant pig. 


I can imagine the Facebook posting: "NYC DOORMAN Y'ALLLLLLLL". 


What are we, monkeys? 


Nah, uh! 


So, without hesitation, before Sam can even see that he's being filmed without his approval, I kick all of my acting training into full-gear. 


I can cry on command, and I was about to put on a show. 


I must have been in the right mid-set, because everything came to the surface immediately. With a camera in my face, I performed. My opened my eyes nice and wide, thought of something sad, and forced a yawn, only to hold it back just as soon as it started. It's my recipe for tears, and tears were made. 


Me- "Sam, my wife is leaving me." 


Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fatty's face drop like a ton of jello bricks. She now thinks that she's accidentally intruded on a very private moment, and feels like the stupid twat that she is. 


Sam knows that I'm single and is lost, then turns to the woman who is still filming, turns back to me, realizes what I'm going for, and drives it home. 


Sam (to Fatty)-  "Ma'am, could you please give us a minute?" 


It was like watching someone getting caught masturbating by their boss. 


Fatty- "uhh... uhh..."


Me- "Thanks, ma'am. Please give us a minute." 


My voice cracked on "please". The water works were about to start. I will win an Oscar one day. 


She puts down her phone and waddled away with her friend, mortified. Sam and I triumphantly giggled and exchange high-fives. I bought him a Snickers and we continued to talk about how much better we were than all of this. It's what doormen do. Turned out that Fatty wasn't even a guest in our hotel. She was just some passer-by with a smart phone. I wonder where she is now...


Fatty, if you ever read this, I forgive you for being an insensitive cunt and would pay you a hefty sum for that video. I can be reached at TBoneHotel@gmail.com. 

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