Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Doorman Breaks Down a Bad NYC Bellman Shift - Act II

5:35pm: The elevator door opens, and I'm released into the lobby like an angry bull. Carelessly throw the carts against the wall and position myself behind the bell desk, as welcoming as a rabid wolverine. 

5:38pm: The bells rings. Front. A tall, older gentleman, who strongly resembles Lou Avery from this season's Mad Men- oh, is that too obscure a reference? Fine. Herman Munster. He looks like Herman Munster. 

I approach Herman Munster, who only has a duffle bag. The Front Desk Agent hands me his keys. 

Front Desk Agent - "Okay, you're all set, sir. The bellman has your keys and will show you up to the room."

Herman Muster looks at me as if I were a homeless man masturbating in front of his family. 

Doorman - "Hi, sir. How are you today? Can I take that for you?"

I reach for his duffle bag. He snatches the keys out of my hand and picks up the duffle bag.

Herman Munster - "NO!"

He runs away from me with the fluidity of the Tin Man... towards the wrong elevator. I don't stop him. He'll be back in ten minutes, and I'm going to love every second of it. (For more on this little game I play, CLICK HERE.)

I do everything in my power over the next 5-10 minutes to be in the lobby when he comes down. 

5:45pm: A Chinese man hands me a luggage ticket. Bags down from storage. FUCK. 

I sprint up the stairs, towards the storage room. On the way, I nearly run over a maid who weighs 90lb. I scream a half-hearted "sorry" as I keep trucking. Grab the two large suitcases, run towards the elevator, and there's two bellmen with carts waiting to go down. Fuck this. 

5:48pm: I'm crashing down the staircase with the two pieces of luggage. It's not wide enough to fit everything, so I try to keep one in front of me while carrying the other over my back. I feel a crushing feeling in my neck, and am left with the snap decision of either leaving work early in a stretcher or dropping one of the suitcases down the stairs.

What do you think I did? 

5:50pm: I arrive in the lobby, basing my decision to tell the Chinese man about my dropping his luggage down a flight of steps on whether or not he gives me a tip. He doesn't, so I don't. Fuck him. 

After giving a curt, "no, thank you" to the oblivious Chinese man, I see Herman Munster emerge rom the elevator. 

Oh, sweet baby Jesus. 

He stomps like Godzilla to the front desk. The line is too long. His keys are in hand, his face as red as his kool-aid sweater. He locks eyes with me. I prepare for a showdown. 

Herman Munster - "WHERE'S ROOM 618?!?" 

I dough up my almondy eyes and put on the warmest smile I possibly could. 

Doorman - "I'm sorry, did a bellman not offer to show you up to the room?" 

I'd prepared for a longer exchange, but his eyes just burned right through me. Then, through clenched teeth:

Herman Munster - "SON OF A BITCH!!!" 

He galloped towards the correct elevator, and I never saw him again. A part of me wanted a prolonged confrontation, but I'll settle for the small victory. 

One would think the good mojo would carry over into the next exchange. One would be sadly mistaken. 

6:04pm: Front. Cute, petite blonde woman, about my age. She's from Columbus, Ohio. The second I take her suitcase to do the front, I see her go into her wallet and pull out money. 

Beautiful, now there's no suspense. I can relax and make her feel comfortable with handing it over. Some guys, when they see that the guest already has the money out, will mail in the rest of the front, like taking a knee at the end a football game. I don't like doing that. If the guest is assuring me that they're good people, I'm going to reciprocate. 

We chatted a bit about what she does for a living. Social media and market branding and digital marketing and digital media and digital advertising and programing and branding and blah blah blah all your fucking jobs sound the same to me. She asked about bars downtown. I used to live on the Lower East Side, so I gave her a few options that were off the beaten path. She giggled at my little puns and anecdotes, and for a brief few moments, I thought we were flirting. Maybe with my tip would come with an invite to the bar? 

We get to the room. She thanks me, then hands over the bill in her hand. I don't look at it, because it's the gentlemanly thing to do, wish her a great stay, and leave. No invite to the Lower East Side. 

Take a few steps down the hall, look at my hand, and squeeze it in my clammy fist. 


6:18pm: Bags down from storage. Indian man. 2 suitcases. No tip. 

6:45pm: The doorman on duty asks to take a cigarette break. I run to the door with glee to escape this inferno. 

6:47pm: Hail two taxis for eight Argentinian people. No tip, no thank you. 

6:53pm: A Supershuttle arrives. I greet and unload four people from Finland, four suitcases into the lobby. No tip, no thank you. 

My bad inside mojo is affecting my outside mojo. 

6:57pm: The doorman on duty returns from his cigarette break. I walk inside, and the front desk girl rings the bell for a front. It's the people from Finland who stiffed me four minutes before that. Fuck them. I opt to take a leak. 

7:09pm: Standing at the bell desk, and another bellman comes downstairs from a front. We have a log book, which records every time a bellman goes up to a room. We have to write down the room number, reason for going there, and the time. We also record how much they gave us, in a secret code (mostly just stars, checks and abbreviations. I'll let you figure out what "F.C." stands for next to someone who was rude and didn't tip.) 

The bellman took up the people from Finland and drew two stars. One star = $5. I missed a $10 front. I can't begin to tell you how often that happens to me while working the door - when I break my ass bringing the luggage inside and get completely ignored, then the fucking bellman does nothing but wheel it into the room, scoring the big tip. 

7:17pm: Front. Three Japanese girls. I love Japanese girls. Five suitcases. I hate suitcases. Send them up to the room, load a cart, bring it up to the room. They smile and bow and thank me profusely. Adorable. $2. 

7:30pm: Bags down from storage. Young, American business guy. One suitcase. No tip. 

Suit - "I appreciate it."

Doorman - "I'll be sure to take that 'appreciate it' home with me, throw it in the microwave, and eat it for dinner!"

Only one of those lines really happened. 

7:40pm: Deliver dry cleaning up to the room for a middle-aged woman from Oregon. $2. 

7:50pm: I ask the Front Desk Agent how many arrivals we have left - 22. That's a maximum of 22 fronts divided between three bellmen for the rest of my shift. The storage rooms are empty. The second half of my shift looks to be pretty grim. 

8:00pm: Cover doorman on duty on his lunch break. 

8:15pm: SuperShuttle pulls up. Older couple from England, two suitcases. Bring them up to the front, and I already know what I'm getting:

British Couple - "Cheers! Brilliant! Fank you!!!" 

8:19pm: American woman in a cocktail dress, an absolute smoke-show, asks for a taxi to the Standard Hotel.

I hail one. No tip. I understand, though. She gave me the pleasure of looking at her as she got in the car. That should be plenty for me, right? 

8:45pm: Taxi pulls up. I open the trunk. Three suitcases. Look at the luggage tags - Australia. 


A couple gets out of the taxi. They look cool, like a couple of pub-goers. Still, I make a half-hearted attempt to take the luggage out. The Australian Man intervenes, politely:

Australian Man - "Ah, you're alright, mate. I've got it!" 

Not gonna argue with that! 

9:00pm: Doorman on duty arrives back from his break. 

9:05pm: At the deli, ordering a quinoa bowl because I'm "trying to eat better." 

9:06pm: I ask for extra thai chill sauce and chicken in my quinoa bowl. 

9:07pm: I ask for soy sauce on the side. 

9:08pm: Since I'm going the healthy route, I get a ginger ale to go with my meal. It's only 100 more calories, might as well treat myself. 

9:15pm: I dump the entire small container of soy sauce onto my quinoa bowl. That's not enough, so I grab a couple more packets from the cabinet in the break room. 

9:23pm: Shovel the last of the quinoa into my stupid, greedy face. Wash it down with the ginger ale. I feel slimmer already. 

9:24-10:00pm: Troll OkCupid and Tinder. I get one bite, then fuck it up royally: 

She didn't respond back.

Still single, ladies. 

10:05pm: Still kind of hungry because quinoa couldn't nourish an infant, I grab a Snickers bar from the gift shop. It's only 250 calories. I figured I had a few to spare after having quinoa for dinner. 

10:20pm: Front. Older couple from Mexico. Two suitcases. The man looks like a fatter version of Barrack Obama. They're very nice, we chat a bit, and they ask me about a diners in the area that are open late. $5. 

That's my first tip in over two and a half hours. It would be my last for the evening. 

10:45pm: Front. British family - two rooms, four suitcases. The rooms are in different towers. They allow the Front Desk Agent to give me the front, then immediately tell me they don't have any cash and would "sort it out with me later". It's almost a week now, and they're still at the hotel. Have they followed up with their promise since? 

You've been reading my blog for a long time, what do you think? 

11:03pm: This is where shit gets weird.

An older American gentleman, red-faced and clearly fresh from bending his elbows all evening, walks up to me with a set of car keys. 

American Man - "I found these in front of Madison Square Garden." 

Doorman - "Okay…"

American Man - "It's a Chrysler car, with house keys." 

He hands them to me, like I'm a locksmith. 

Doorman - "Okay…"

American Man - "I think there's a serial number on there." 

Doorman - "Okay…" 

I hand him back the keys. He reluctantly takes them. For the rest of the exchange, he keeps trying to hand them back to me. 

American Man - "If you bring them to the manufacturer, they can probably trace the keys back to the vehicle." 

Doorman - "Okay…" 

American Man - "So, you know. You might be able to get the keys back to the owner." 

Doorman - "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure we can do anything about that." 

He stares at me for a solid ten seconds, then places the keys onto the bell desk.

America Man - "Well… you just got yourself a pair of keys!" 

And then he walks away. 

Immediately, before he could get more than three steps away from me, I pick up the keys and throw them as hard as I can into the metal garbage can. The velocity of the throw caused the keys to rattle and clank all the way down, echoing throughout the lobby. 

I threw it as hard as I could because I wanted him to hear how little I gave a fuck about his quest to do a good deed by passing it off to me to do the work. Think for a second how arrogant this fucking guy is - he wants to go to bed thinking he's done the right thing, but can't be bothered to do the work, so he passes the buck to the servant, whom he thinks will go to the fucking Chrysler manufacturer to reunite the precious keys with the owner, who was likely blind drunk after an event at the Garden and would have been better-served not driving their vehicle anyway. 

As soon as the keys smashed against the can, he stopped for a second, thought about turning back, then slumped to the elevator. 

11:30pm: An Arab man, dressed sharply, walks into the hotel with documents in hand. I'm alone at the bell desk. 

Arab - "I need you to make a copy for me."

No "hello", no "how are you?", no "excuse me". He gets right to business. His accent is thick and his tone is as subtle as a sandpaper toothbrush. 

Arab - "I also need you to send a fax for me." 

We don't have a fax machine in the business center. That's something you need a manager to do from the office. It sounds silly, but it's a tourist hotel. There's no need for a fax machine to be in the business center. 

Still, his attitude sucks. I inquire further: 

Doorman - "What do you need to have copied?" 

Arab Man - "They booted my car. I need to send over my information." 

Doorman - "Where's your car? Is it in the loading zone?" 

He looks at me like a career criminal being interrogated by a bumbling rookie cop.

Arab Man - "No. It's down the street. I need you to make a copy and fax this for me." 

Doorman - "Are you a guest in the hotel?"

Again, he looks at me like I'm being a nudge, when he's the one who needs assistance. 

Arab Man - "No." 

Doorman - "Then... no."

He immediately throws his arm in the air, ruffling the documents within a couple of inches from my face. 

Arab - "Fuck you, fucking asshole!" 

After all the bullshit I'd been through all night, I just wanted to jump over the desk and fight him. It's not that I cared to beat him in fisticuffs or prove my manliness. No, I just wanted to throw a few punches and get my aggression out. If he beat me up, fine. Whatever. 

I guess that's where I've matured as a man since taking this job. Because that primal instinct to fight passed through me in the blink of an eye, and I was able to calmly assess the situation and react like a gentleman. 

Doorman - "Okay, have a good night, sir!" 

Arab Man - "Fuck you, mother fucker! It's a piece of shit hotel, anyway!" 

After a beat, I couldn't resist the urge to get the last word in: 

Doorman - "You still have a boot on your car, dummy!" 

I never said I've completely matured as a man. 

He gets to the door, then turns to me:

Arab Man - "Come outside and say that to me. I'll shove the boot up your ass!" 

Intriguing as it was, I declined his offer. 

The funny thing about this, is I very-well would have helped him if he'd just been polite. Seriously, the moral of this story is to just be kind to people. He was in need of help, and I had nothing going on. But his arrogance immediately turned me off, and I didn't want to help him. 

All he had to do was say, "Hello, sir. I'm in a bind and need your help. Do you have a fax machine I could use? My car was just booted."

I could look past the fact that he probably deserved it. That he likely parked his car wherever the fuck he wanted over time, accumulated a shitload of parking tickets, and didn't pay them because he though the world owed him something. Now he's humbled, stuck, and in need of a little human decency. I would have been the right guy to talk to, but he chose to talk to me as if I were indentured to him. And look what happened? He left, angrier than he was when he walked in, worse off than he was before. All because he couldn't muster up a few pleasantries. 

11:50pm: Exhausted, I hide in the storage closet for the last ten minutes of my shift. 

11:59pm: I make my way from the storage closet to the front office, where the time clock is located. I try not to make eye-contact with any guests on the way over. 

Just before I get to the door, leading me to the promised-land of punching out and starting my weekend, I see a familiar face - the Brazilian Man with the ugly sweater. 

He jolts and digs into his pockets right way. 

Brazilian Man - "Ehhhh… sorry. Ehhhh… I have money."

He riffs though his pockets and scrounges up a few singles.

Brazilian Man - "Ehhhh… thank you!"

He hands them to me. I give him a press-lipped smile and say thank you. I count up what he gave me, which for the work I did was subpar, but am grateful for it in what had been one of the worst nights I've had this year. $4. 

12:00am: I punch out. 

Total in tips and commissions for the evening: $34

Shift pay, after taxes: $80. 

Total earnings: $114. 

As bad as this was, that's more than I ever made in one day in my four years working as a special education teacher. I don't write about this much, but I worked in the severe autism spectrum prior to taking this job. Even on my worst days here, humping bags and acting like a spoiled wise-ass, I consistently earn more than double than I did making an impact and doing challenging, rewarding work and having an influence on young people.

Kinda fucked up, huh? 

Friday, May 23, 2014

Doorman Breaks Down a Bad NYC Bellman Shift - Act I

Doorman Breaks Down a Good NYC Bellman Shift is my most popular post, mostly due to people researching bellman and doorman salaries on Google. I promised I would write a contrasting piece, showing how shitty one of these shifts can be. Here it is. 

We've recently lost a few guys due to termination and injury, so the schedule has me working inside as a bellman a couple of days a week to help out. I was hired as a bellman, but took the door for a few reasons: 

1- At the time, I was fully immersed in gathering material for the blog. 

2- I like working outdoors. 

3- Working as a bellman on the night shift flat-out sucks. 

Having a bellman day shift is much more lucrative. You're booking car services all day, stacking up commissions, and getting tipped for binging people's luggage down from the rooms. To make it simple, you're actually working and earning your money. Problem is, you're going to have to put in at least ten years before you can so much as smell an early-afternoon shift. 

Working at night is a different bird. Everything slows down. No one is checking out, and the ones who are have already made their transfer arrangements with the morning guys. So, what you're left to rely on is retrieving luggage from the storage room, and "fronts". 

Fronts are the most soul-crushing part of working as a bellman. In many old-fashioned hotels, a guest is not allowed upstairs to the room without being escorted by a bellman. It's mostly to ensure the keys work and it's the proper room the guest booked. Far too often, when the bell rings and I hop-skip over, fresh with a goofy smile and combover, the guest will look at me like I'm a steaming piece of shit, turn to the Front Desk Agent, and bluntly say, "Oh, I don't need him to show me", as if I weren't even standing there. 

Truth be told, I get it. I really do. Why should I have to be forced into a tipping situation when all I have is a carry-on suitcase, which I've managed to heave on my own since Scottsdale, Arizona? Why should I, after a long day of traveling, be forced to strike up meaningless small-talk with this double-chinned luggage monkey, who is just fishing for a couple of bucks? 

People, I feel your pain. This is why I hate working as a bellman. It's embarrassing. With all of the bullshit I deal with working as a doorman, one thing is for certain - I never have to beg. People have to come to me and ask for help. They have no choice. Whether they want to tip me or not is up to them, but I never feel like I have to be invasive in scoring my gratuity. 

However, allowing a bellman to bring you up to the room can have it's advantages. If you have a good, sociable guy who knows the city and doesn't mind answering a few questions, you've just made a new friend in the hotel by throwing him five bucks. People take that for granted - a friendly, approachable face in the lobby. I never, ever snub people who tip me in the beginning. In fact, I go through obvious lengths to avoid people who stiff me in favor of those who were generous with their small bills upon arrival. 

But I digress- here's a breakdown of a shitty NYC bellman shift, which occurred this past Wednesday. There's a tidbit at the end of Act II regarding salaries that will surely make your blood boil. 

And GO: 


Bags down from room = A guest calls to have their bags brought down from the room.  

Bags down from storage = Guest gives me a luggage claim ticket and I bring the bags down from the storage room. 

Front = When a bellman escorts a guest to the room. 

Room change = Escorting a guest who is unhappy with their room into a new room.

4pm: I punch in. 

4:03pm: Collect a car service commission from one of the morning bellmen. $7. 

4:11pm: Bags down from storage- French couple hands me the ticket. 2 suitcases. Checking into a room in the East Wing. The East Wing is separate from the storage room elevators, and it's another staircase that I have to lug the suitcases down. Time to lube up. I send them up to the room and tell them I'll be there in five minutes. Get the bags from the storage room. Both of them have broken fucking wheels. 

Ever drag a suitcase with broken wheels on carpet? Doesn't work. I have to carry them, like the good old days. They both weigh at least 50 lbs. Take the elevator down, carry them through the lobby, down the steps to the East Wing, up the elevator to the 7th floor. I arrive, ask them how the room is, they are all smiles. I see a lone dollar bill on the nightstand. I deflate like a whoopy cushion. Drop the bags right in front of the door and consider telling them to keep the fucking dollar. I don't, because I hadn't been tipped yet and don't want to bring on any bad mojo. The French man hands me the dollar like he's my dad sending me to the candy store in the 60's. I snatch it out of his hand, don't say thank you, and slam the door behind me. $1. 

4:32pm: Front. Guy in a Hawaiian shirt who looks and sounds like a straight Rip Taylor. He's there with his wife, who looks relatively normal, carrying a bouquet of flowers. 

They're all smiles. After the initial bit of bullshit banter, I inquire about the occasion, which is their daughter's graduation at Lincoln Center: 

Doorman - "Wow! They're having the commencement at Lincoln Center! That's amazing! I had mine on the lawn of my campus when I graduated!" 

The wife laughs. She likes me. Her husband says this: 

Husband - "And look where you ended up!"  

I guess I set myself up for that one. For a moment, I let my guard down and thought I was talking to a decent human being. It was early in my shift, so I was still chipper, but that gut-punched the life out of me. Instead of snapping back at him and defending my work ethic and tenacious pursuit of a career in writing and film, I just turned my back on them for the rest of the elevator ride. They continued their conversation in outdoor voices:

Wife - "Bill! That's not nice!" 

Husband - "What? The guy's probably gonna have keys to the place soon!" 

Wife - "Don't say that." 

Husband - "What?!? The guy looks like he's got all the connections!" 

Wife - "Bill..." 

We mercifully get to their floor. I power walk to their room, dump the bags in side, wish them a nice trip, and try to escape before he says anything else that would prompt me to punch him in the mouth and ruin what was likely going to be the proudest weekend of his life. 

Husband - "Wait! Hang on, buddy!" 

I really didn't want his money, but he pulled a ten out of his pocket. He was shaking, as if he wanted to make amends for his douche bag comment. He hands me the sweaty, crumpled up ten.  

I'll allow it. $10. 

Needless to say, that set me off into a tailspin. I'm perfectly content with where I am at this point in my life, and I don't need to prove myself to anyone, especially that fucking idiot. With everything I have going on outside of work, I should let a shitty comment like that roll off my back, because the second I walk out that door, they're going to forget about me. I should be doing the same. But it isn't that easy. It's not going to change the fact that, yes, after 7+ years in the real world after I graduated from college, I'm still schlepping bags and taking shit from people. 

Remember in the Good Bellman Shift post, where I mentioned that luck and mojo were important, like a casino? That keeping a positive mindset will keep the tips flowing? Well, same goes for when you're in a bad mood. The stiffs and assholes flock to you. And when you're not smiling, the nice people are less inclined to be generous. Once you set yourself up in a bad state-of-mind, your tips diminish rapidly. 

4:43pm: I storm back into the lobby. Bags down from storage. A white American guy, about my age, in a sharp, fitted suit, hands me a ticket. I snatch it from him and take the stairs to the storage room. I fight the urge to take a quick detour to the locker room to smash a chair and punch a locker or two. 

There's a "3x" on the ticket, meaning he has three pieces in the storage room. One was a carry-on suitcase, the other a suit bag, and the last item being a light purple shopping bag from Bergoff Goodman. Bergoff Goodman is a high-end clothing store on Fifth Avenue - the type of place where you can buy a scarf for the bargain price of $300. 

I bring the bags down and hand it to the Suit. He takes them, says "thank you", and walks away. The mother fucker can afford to shop at Bergoff Goodman, but he can't give me three bucks to assure that nothing in his precious little Bergoff Goodman bag goes unharmed. 

Doorman - "No, thank YOU!" 

I stomp off. He takes his shit and leaves, either ignoring or oblivious to my facetious rebuttal. 

4:48pm: A Brazilian man stands waiting to be helped. I approach him with the warmth and hospitality of a drill sergeant. 

Doorman - "You being helped, sir?'

Brazilian Man - "Ehhhhh... yes, I need to get something out of one of my bags, but I don't have the ticket. 

Oh, hell no. This is a nightmare for two reasons: 

1 - There are five storage rooms. If he doesn't have his luggage ticket, it means I have to walk him to each one till he finds his crap. 

2 - People never tip you when you bring them to the storage room because they've left something in their bags. It takes up time you could be spending on the floor making money.

As the man is telling me this, the bell rings. It's a front, and it looks like Hispanic people. Do I take the risky front, or walk around with this moron till he finds his bags? 

I opt for the former. 

Doorman - "Okay, someone will be right with you, sir." 

He's visibly annoyed. I don't care. 

4:49pm: Front. Two women from... Spain. FUCK. Spaniards don't tip. I take them to the East Wing. Two suitcases. They don't speak English. I speak my best Spanish to them, managing to ask how long they're staying and if they've ever been to New York before. I'm sure the effort to communicate saved me here, because they managed to scrounge up a couple of singles together. $2. 

This dark cloud looks like it may have been averted. Getting a tip from a notoriously ignorant culture when it comes to tipping is always a good omen of better things to come. 

4:55pm: I hustle down to the lobby, hopeful to get the mojo in my favor. 

I get to the front desk, and guess who's there waiting? 

The Brazilian Man, who I'd just snubbed, got a picture message of the luggage ticket from his friend. Eight suitcases, which he now wants brought up to the room. 

With the Front Desk Agent already handing me the keys, I have no choice. Front. 

Eight suitcases are a pain-in-the-ass any day. Eight suitcases from Brazil is as physically exhausting as trying to manually move Stonehenge.

I find the pile of suitcases in the storage room - just a menacing, gluttonous mountain of cheap, overstuffed sacks of testicle-popping hell. 

I painstakingly load two carts, sweating like a fucking hostage. Push one cart while pulling the other down the hallway, every vein in my forearms bulging out like a couple of porn star dicks. 

Since I had two carts filled to the brim, I couldn't share an elevator, so I had to let three or four pass before I could get an empty one. This cost me about 15 minutes alone. 

5:25pm: Finally drag the carts to his room and pound on the door. He answers, wearing a stupid sweater. I don't remember what color it was or what patterns it had on it, all I remember is looking at the sweater and thinking, "what a stupid sweater", as I worked.

He watches me bring in every suitcase, keeping a close eye, you know, in case I decided to steal a few things while he was in the room, instead of the twenty minutes beforehand when I was alone with it all. 

Every time I bring a bag in, I look at his hands. I look at the dresser. I look at the table in the kitchenette. My eyes scan the room, looking for money. He has no money out for me. He has nothing ready. His hands aren't in his pockets. His hands are free. I get down to the last bag, and still, hands out of pockets with no intention of going in. He's not going to tip me. 

I say my Hail Mary line, which I always use when I'm stalling for a tip: 

Doorman - "Okay, sir. How's the room? Is there anything else I can do while you have me up here?" 

He doesn't go into his pockets.

Brazilian Man - "Ehhhh... no." 

I stand there for a moment, waiting for my tip. Most bellmen will do this in any situation- stand there and wait with a smile for a tip. It's excruciatingly uncomfortable for me, which is why I never do it, but I just worked my balls off and wanted to pull out all the stops. 

Brazilian Man - "Ehhh... I will find you. Ehhh... in the lobby... and... ehhh... give you some money." 

If I had all of the money I was promised by people who said they would "get me later", I could retire at the age of 40. 

I leave the room and push the carts down the hallway. It's funny, I got the sense that he probably enjoyed that, seeing that I snubbed him in the lobby just before. The second I left the room, I literally said aloud to myself, "yeah, I had that coming."

And now the precedent is set for the rest of the evening... 

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Best of: Doorman's YouTube Videos

Hi Readers,

It's been a truly hectic couple of weeks because of reasons I don't expect you to care about. Or maybe you might? But it's none of your business. Sorry.

Also, work has been fairly uneventful over the past month. And by "uneventful", I mean "it's been busy and I've been making money", so I haven't had much of a chip on my shoulder as motivation to write about anything interesting. See? I don't want to be boring. It shows that I care.

To avoid falling off the grid again, I've decided to treat you all to a few videos I've done over the years. Most of them are sketches and scenes I wrote and produced, and the rest are ones where I was just a hired actor.

Whatever the case, I hope they make your day go by quicker. I obviously no longer have a problem with associating my face and name with this blog, so I might as well share it all while I still have you here. Enjoy!

Troy the Tornado (2007) 

This was my first audition out of college, a viral commercial for Nathan's Famous to promote the annual 4th of July hot dog eating contest. First audition out of the gate into the real world, and I beat out hundreds of guys to land a Nathan's commercial. I thought I was destined for fast-food stardom.

The idea was that they would post this viral video and have it circulate about a month before the contest. The premise of the clip was an American, played by me, furiously training and calling out perennial champ Takeru Kobayashi in hopes of bringing the title back to America. Unfortunately, some asshole named Joey Chestnut came in and did just that, leaving Troy the Tornado swirling in the wind. Still, I think the video is hilarious. (I also ate 19 hot dogs in 6 hours while filming this, so, yeah, labor of love and stuff.)

You're Beautiful (2006) 

Written and Directed by a hilarious comedian named Juliet Fitzgerald, this parody will eternally ruin the creeptastic James Blunt song about falling in love with a woman on the subway. I got this gig by responding to a MySpace bulletin, and it quickly went viral shortly after it was posted.

Blogger is not letting me embed it, so you can find it by CLICKING HERE. Fucking blogger.

Love Stinks (2008)

Technically, this is my first short film. Shot in three hours at my buddy's house, this 6-minute movie was based on the time I was on a date and accidentally made a romantic gesture while trying to cover up a putrid fart. Obviously, everyone thought I was the second coming of Paul Thomas Anderson at the time of it's release:

This is the first pilot Greg Caiafa and I produced together along with a good friend of ours named Dru Robertson. It was called West Brighton, a post-9/11 family drama which takes place in my hometown of Staten Island, written by Dru and myself. We were all fresh out of college and still figuring out how the fuck to make a movie. The show never panned out, but this scene, albeit a little sloppy technically, was one that we were really proud of in the end: 

I think it's a taboo thing to openly talk about loving Coldplay, but I'll admit anyway - I do love me some Coldplay. One of my favorites by them, Fix You, is a song that has a certain formula when used in film and television. I've seen it used several times and every time, without fail, the filmmakers do the exact same thing when the music swells. So here's a parody I came up with that was co-developed and directed by Kevin Losani, founder of the sketch group Muckrakers. Enjoy! 

I was part of the writing team of this short superhero film, which was written, shot and edited in 72-hours as part of the National Film Race. See if you can guess which costumed character I play: 

Once again, fucking blogger won't let me embed the fucking video. CLICK HERE TO WATCH.

And, finally...

Because, why not? Also, I want to shoot more this summer, and I want you to be as excited about it as I am!

That's all for now. Maybe I'll update it later, but I have to leave for work. Hopefully something bad happens and I'll have something to write about tomorrow.