Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Doorman Attempts to Own Pretentious Bitch, Fails.

I haven't blogged in awhile because I've been working on getting my website going and partying my heiney off at weddings and my beach house at the Jersey shore. With the summer winding down, I've begun to pick up the pieces of what has been a booze-fueled marathon to wash away the inferiority complex that has been festering in my brain since I took this job in December. There's plenty more on the horizon, but here's a cute little story to hide you over...

I've mentioned that I'm an actor with a deep affection for the theatre. I see as much as my wallet permits, and whatever comped tickets I can come across. It's nice working in a hotel in midtown Manhattan. People like to give you free shit with hopes that you'll send them a million people.  I don't get many opportunities to talk theatre with guests because the idiots that inhabit my hotel are too busy shopping and stuffing their faces with McDonald's.

Once in awhile, I'll have to hail a taxi for some family seeing The Lion King or Mary Poppins. They all assume that I know where these theaters are located. (Not because they know that I'm well-rounded in the arts, but because it's my job.) One night, I had another one of these Mid-Western, menopausal nightmares ask me to hail a cab to the Theatre District.

Hag- "I need a taxi to Times Square."

Me- "Where in Times Square?"

Hag- "I'm going to a play."

Me- "Awesome! What show are you seeing?"

She give me a look like she was Aaron Sorkin and I had just asked her if she wanted to read a screenplay that I've been writing.

I get that not everyone is in the mood to be bothered by some idiot in a hat, prying and asking questions, but humor me for a fucking second. It's my job to ask you what you'll be doing this evening.  Do you honestly think I care about what you do with your time here? No, really, is your life that interesting, where you feel it's beneath you to share it with the fucking doorman? No and no. I'm just being polite.

So, with a scowl, she answers my question-

Hag- "Memphis, ever heard of it?"

Well, yes, I have. It's a mediocre musical whose book was written by some jheri curl asshole from Bon Jovi. It won the 2010 Tony for Best New Musical in a weak season. And this isn't the first time someone challenged my knowledge of the theatre and paid the price. Now, I'm going to make her feel really fucking stupid, like the hag that came before her. I put my cocky-going-to-put-you-in-you-place face on, and stepped into the batter's box:

Me- "You mean the 2010 Best New Musical winner now starring Anthony Rapp from Rent?"


No! Wait!

I fucked up my Rent references. Anthony Rapp played "Mark" in the original cast, but he's not the one in Memphis. Fuck. An actor from the original Rent cast is now in the show, and I know his angelic voice anywhere, but I can't remember his fucking name. Alex? Andrew? Anthony? Adam? ADAM!!! Adam... Adam... ADAM WHAT?!?!?

She knows that I fucked up, and now she's going to take my cocky, erroneous rebuttal and shove it back down my throat.

Hag- "You mean, Adam Pascal?"


I must have sung One Song Glory a hundred times while bored on the door at night. There's countless tour buses advertising Memphis with the tagline "Now Starring Adam Pascal" that passes by the hotel every day. I got over-eager to put this twat in her place, and I choked.

I put her in her fucking taxi. No tip, no thank you. I did my walk of shame back to the door, with my face freshly flushed, defeated. Score one for the hags.

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