TBT ONE OF MY MANY SHITTY JOBS…
Rated R: For retardation, redundancy, rudeness, & rhetoric.
Let’s start off with the ‘glam squad,’ and the assistants to the ‘stars.’ These are people whose self-importance reigns supreme. They possess entitlement that depends on the proximity of the celebrity they’re sucking the ass of.
J-Lo’s people first; extremely dismissive, totally cheap. They’ve been ordering all day and night and never tip, and are surly, contemptuous and angry. But most of Hollywood is just wolves in hipster clothing anyway.
Knock knock, ‘room service’
I get in the suite and they’re ordering me around all servant style.
First an agro pierced Chubby girl: ‘Um, yeah, hi or whatever, just quickly push the cart over there.’ She’s wearing skintight jeans and a sweater that shows every roll.
Me: ‘Ok’ I say, handing her the bill. Pushing the cart as slowly as possible.
Agro: ‘Ok so we’re gonna need all this other shit out of here, like yesterday!’ She says this while sweeping her hand on the air then points to a HUGE conference table that’s loaded with dirty plates, glasses, Perrier bottles, Fiji Bottles, et al. More than will fit on two or three carts. There are small flies and gnats en masse around the buffet. I have no cart or any way to remove all of it. (By the way delivering & clearing the room is usually a no-no, but this hotel is so incredibly fucking cheap they expect you to do all of that, two guys for eight floors.)
‘I’ll have to go get some carts for this.’
She says, ‘Oh my god! Can we call somebody and get those up here immediately!? We need this all CLEARED OUT!’
Now I’m fucking annoyed, ‘Nope. I have to go down and get them, give me 10 or 20 minutes and I’ll be right back.’
‘Oh my god! Okay, whatever!’
I left. I never returned to that room again.
Let somebody else do it.
-At three o’clock we get a rush order for champagne and hors-d’oeuvres. A fancy word for quesadillas, deep-fried rock shrimp, chicken wings, and other less than big word worthy greasy goodness…and cheap champagne (Sharfenberger? Wtf is that?) I Rush the order up to the room, woman answers in what looks like a Met ball gown. The room is filled with people dressed to the nines, ‘Wow you all going to the Academy Awards?’
A couple of people laugh, and I here scoffing.
‘No love,’ she says. Gross. Please don’t call me love. Ever.
‘Oh.’ I say.
‘We’re having a little Oscar gathering. Um, it’s a little more than just a party.’
‘Oh.’ I say. I hand her the bill. It’s 450.00 for a spread of garbage that you could have bought at a low-end grocery store and made yourself for about $114.00. She doesn’t tip. Of course, she doesn’t. None of these people do.
I’m drained from the sycophantic non-stop star fucking and the very idea that awards should be given for art. Especially ‘based on’ bullshit movies that are revisionist history. (I.e. American Sniper fuck that movie).
The orders keep coming, I continue my night and become a completely disinterested, disenfranchised, disassociated shell of a man. I think of moving to a third world country, and helping lepers or hair lipped children. Somewhere else, something else, somewhere, anywhere, but here.