Tag Archives: money

TIP BATING

Whether you’re at a job to make a career, or maybe you’re just there to make money while you’re trying to get your real passion or dreams off the ground, or if you’re some lucky asshole who has a trust fund, but the stipulation of said fund is that you work at least 30 hours a week to collect on it, such as a coworker, you want to get paid as much as you can.

In the food and beverage industry, you rely on tips and gratuities (above and beyond the shitty $9.00 an hour minimum wage) through providing courteous fast and friendly service. That being said, you do what you can to manipulate an extra tip whenever you can. BUT if the guest check already includes a 20% gratuity and you’re already getting a tip, ‘Tip baiting’ is a big fucking no-no. Management makes that very clear. It’s grounds for termination in some cases. BUT when you have to split that 20% with 6 other people in a 24 hour period (tip pool) it really doesn’t work out to 20%. It says this on the bill, yet people still ask, ‘is the tip included?’ Most hotel guests know this, but they ask to avoid tipping more. Therefore I tip bait and manipulate for more money through the most subtle (or outright) of gestures. Here are some examples;

‘Is the tip included?’  ‘Well, it depends on how you look at it. My personal tip isn’t on there. It gets split between me and 10 other of the staff.
(I always add more coworkers depending on my mood or how my night is going tip-wise. This works occasionally, and I haven’t been reported to management.
If I sense that the guest is drunk or high I will automatically say “no, unfortunately, the tip isn’t included.’ or, ‘I wish.’ 9 out of 10 times they tip. And tip well.
If a guest is foreign and has no clue how to read the bill, they sometimes ask me in broken English if the tip is included. I always say ‘No’ in that case. (Not my fault they can’t read English)
One foreign guest asked me, ‘Please, what is the proper amount for a tip, what percent?’ I said “Oh 30 to 40 percent, in some cases 50 percent, but please, it’s at your discretion. That was good for another 25%.

Then you have the people who are ready to tip you, they have the cash-out. Then they read that the tip is included and they say, ‘Oh it’s already included.’ and put the money in their purse/pocket. There is truly a special place in hell for these assholes.
I’ve also had another guest stand between me and the guest who is about to tip and says, ‘No need for that, the tip is included.’ These are ‘Tip Blockers’ The worst. Real douchebags.

A bellhop friend of mine likes to squeeze in a hard luck story On occasion while Taking luggage to and from the room. He says it’s usually good for a little bump. Another co-worker faked a speech impediment and he got a big cash tip. He suggested that I try that, or even limp like I have a bad leg or some other physical disability. If things don’t pick up around the holidays, I may just take his advice.

 

 

 

 

 

MY DAYS WERE NUMBERED AT TECHNICOLOR – CIRCA 1994

It’s physiologically staggering how much I detest most of the employees here.

One big dysfunctional family.

Alcoholics, gamblers, drug addicts sex addicts these are obvious. 

I’m sure there are also plenty of wife beaters, masters of molestation, pedophiles and judging by where some of these hicks live—bestiality. 

I hang in because the money is good. Bad move. Bad idea.

That rationale, that saying, “Well, at least the money is good…” America.

The phrase that pays. The Lie. The justification of lost passion, of the soul’s complacency, the collapse into a false sense of security and an even more false sense of self.

Speaking of delusion, working here does give me the delusional sense of being an intellectual… because the intelligentsia is so stiflingly low.

One of the bosses told me that he would “break both my fucking arms and legs” if I pressed a power button on a broken machine.

HE LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE COSMO SPACELY FROM THE JETSONS.

Not the least bit intimidated, I glared at the diminutive little man and I laughed. I could crush his windpipe in one fell swoop. I already had it telegraphed in my head.

 The money is good. But how far does that ever take me?

When your soul and spirit is broken, waded up like a Milky Way wrapper, and thrown to a needy corporate dungeon of chemical death, it makes you wonder, what the fuck am I doing here? Or anywhere?

Everyone in the Positive Developing department has a glazed look and is stupefied from watching monitors of the same 35 mm film going backward on a high-speed developing machine at 500 frames a minute for 12-hour shifts. This was the process of film, before digital.

Most people here break the monotony by drinking, gambling, doing drugs into oblivious states of delusional ultra temporary contentment. 

Or… they eat and eat and eat…to fill the senseless void of an unaccomplished, and molested life. 

Me: I’m terrifyingly sober. Dry as Death Valley in July. 

I read, write, exercise and get laid if I’m lucky. Sometimes I obsess on all the above that I can’t do—gamble, drugs, drink. Wait, murder? 

Even though this freedom sucks it’s better than jail, (more morbidly senseless justification for staying stuck in this chemical hell with toxic people).

There really is no glamour in Hollywood.

But based on the that there is, well this would be the least glamorous of film industry jobs. 

No fucking doubt.

My worth in the eyes of management is contingent on just how many hours of overtime I’m willing to work, but I have a modicum of self-esteem, self-care, and self-worth so I frequently refuse the OT request. 

So in their eyes, I’m a worthless piece of liberal shit and I have even been told so.

And (again) it’s rammed into my consciousness that Hollywood is filled with wolves parading around in liberal wardrobe.

The job, this existence, It’s an amazing concept that a job could be somebody’s whole life, somebody’s identity. 

More Americana that’s as shallow as a bird bath. Like a Junkie math equation. Good paying job = good life

The job collapses.  They collapse.

These gears here are oiled so well that word of layoff, fiber optics, digital anything that would threaten the weak foundation of their existence sends them scurrying in a panic, like roaches running from a homemade aerosol & Bic lighter flamethrower.

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Untitled In Progress

 

     He puts on an Affliction exercise outfit, with matching workout gloves, high heel Chucks and grabs a stopwatch. Before we leave he asks me if I like his outfit? I say yeah it’s fine, he tells me it was made for him, exclusively for him by a top designer at the Affliction company. I don’t know what to say. Then he tells me it cost 4500.00. I still say nothing. Which works.

We go to the gym in the complex. After about ten minutes of light weight lifting (between vaping) he says his ribs hurt and we go back to the unit. He spends time with his GF Serenity then he showers. She comes into the living room. CNN blairs. I’m sucked into a mainstream media loop of terrorist hell. She’s wearing a t-shirt only, seems nice but looks crazy in the eyes. If eyes are the window to the soul, well, these windows lead into a dark place. She speaks to me and tells me about his relapse two months ago. He ran away from a Malibu rehab and called her, she stated that they met just weeks before at the ‘Spiritual Solutions By The Bluffs’ meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

They went to the Chateau Marmont and she says that being from Bellflower she was very impressed and overtaken by his class, elegance, grace, and impeccable taste. So then he coaxes her into getting drugs. So she texts Sinbads and he brings coke and heroin up to the room. She said his disease, the disease, whatever tricked her and she accidentally relapsed but only did two lines. So she immediately blew her nose and flushed it out with Evian water. She said she still has 17 months of sobriety and she’s not giving up her time. To be safe she spoke to her sponsor, she referred to her as a hardcore bitch, Ex-Chola from Venice etc etc…So Sylvia told her that her clean time is between her and her higher power, and IF anyone has a problem with that tell them to go take a flying fuck off the Santa Monica pier, don’t put up with that shit Mija.

Anyway back to the hotel, she said she kept a close watch on him while he snorted coke and heroin so she could save him if need be. But then unfortunately then she fell asleep and when he snorted out of a fresh balloon turns out it was Fentanyl, and when she woke he was foaming at the nose and mouth, she said “Pulp Fiction” style. She called 911 and so then he needed Narcan and those paddle thingys. Then she goes into detail about the relationship, they don’t go anywhere, he just wants to watch the CNN and the Game Show Network. He doesn’t hug or kiss me, he’s really not that intimate and they only fuck occasionally, and the lights have to be off. Or, he won’t fuck her at all.

Her eyes start to water and she says he calls me fat and stupid. Then she asks me if I think she’s fat and stupid. I tell her I don’t know her. She says of course, I’m sorry. I guess you wouldn’t know my IQ. But then she asks me if I saw her on the street would I think she was fat, and am I YOUR type, would you fuck my body type of girl? I tell her that this is all inappropriate and I’m really am not comfortable with this conversation. She goes in the bedroom and comes out with a big purse with a small Maltese dog in it, gives me a dirty look and leaves abruptly…

 

Fourscore And A Little More

Fantastic Scams™

Bait And Switch®

Meteoric Rise©

Easy Money™

You’d be a fool not to fall for a this! Don’t miss the boat! The trains leaving the station! You’ll be living a lifelong vacation! Work from home! Make $8000.00 monthly posting ads for Sir E-Bay & Lady Google!

Jack off or diddle your cunt, while you watch the latest version of Alan Funt!

Excuse the candor and rancor But let’s get to the pointless meaning of what I’m screaming. The easy money is for easy wallets, with disposable Dead Presidents past and present. Otherwise, You’re the pheasant for a ‘Cheney like’ hunter, you’ll be put out to pasture in a dead field of wheatgrass, just what do I mean?

They’ll wax that ass, then put you in the Unseen Museum… Where a thousand dead souls spend recess doing the dance of a thousand recessions, coupled with a line dance featuring the legacy and the lord of this dance the one and only, Sir Ronnie Ray Gun – cutting a rug and a budget with a trickle-down break dancing routine that will have you squirming in your (once upon a time) Wrangler Jeans.

…Meanwhile, Tommy Two times at the outdoor bar repeating, “You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

If that isn’t enough, Well I don’t mean to get gruff, but you can high tail it (or Low ride) back to Toonerville, Tommy! And take that Pitbull with ya’- He’s bad for business! Seems he ate all the gunpowder and blood sausage. And he makes whitey uptighty. He’s not fixed and his balls collide with the consciousness of dimly lit buffoons. And you there, yes you, where you from, Rangoon? Or another place?

I can’t place the face, but we don’t allow that click-click language in this here saloon so hit the bricks and tell your story walking or face La Migra, who are suffering from maximum migraines brought on by the same paranoia of the simple solipsistic suckas that sing and dance to the drum of Sir Donnie’s Republican Tantrum.

My new Neighbors have been Scientologists for 35 years.

But they haven’t raked in any financial benefits. When they first moved in I asked them about Dianetics (there was a large bumper sticker on the car which appeared to be a serious broken down ghetto sled with the “Dianetics” sticker and the symbol, which by the way, looks like a reworked Swastika.

“Yep, we’ve been with the church 35 years,” said Ray, “haven’t we Sally.” said the 60 something gangly 6′ 4″ Toby Jones look-alike. Sally looks tired, quite older and using a walker. I asked about the “Going Clear” doc regarding the church on HBO. “Bunch of Bullshit, those people didn’t get what they wanted,” He said angrily. “C’mon, what could Paul Haggis possibly want from Scientology.” “What everyone wants! To be an OT! An Operating Thetan!” We sat and looked at each other for a moment. “So Paul Haggis did not achieve “OT” status and quit? that’s not what he said in the Doc.” “He’s lying, they are all lying. It’s a shame after everything the Church did for those fuckers.” He said sadly. “What about the money it cost to get through all those levels?

I mean, I’ve heard it’s really expensive.” He grinned, “So is college, look this is cheaper than any university you go to, it’s less of a scam then university as well.” Ok he has a point there, But, “Well yeah but the money you pay for Scientology is only good for just that.” He was now going through boxes and boxes of books. all Dianetics teachings. “Look I will give you all the literature and info you need on it and give you some free tests, you’ll see once you get involved with The Church, there is nowhere else you need to go.”He handed me what look liked a thirty-five-year-old large (possibly 800-1000 page) book, titled Dianetics: Everything you need to know. “Look read this It’ll read this, it’ll explain everything.” I was already in the middle of a thousand page plus book, “Infinite Jest.” Which were at least 1000 times more fascinating. I looked him in the eye, “I’m never gonna’  read that, but thanks anyway.” I walked away. “Ok but you’ll never know the truth, the church can save you.” Man, how many times have I heard that in my life.

Money Money Money Money….MONEY!

I spent most of my life hustling or making ill-gotten funds through rippin’ and running, scamming and stealing and wheeling and dealing drugs. When I sobered up and got clean off of cornucopia of opiates, copious amounts of crack and vicious amounts of vodka I still tried to do scandalous shit.

But my consciousness just wouldn’t allow it anymore. I felt every lie. I felt it every time I stole, and every little stupid manipulation for a little more money. I was locked into that behavior, and always so filled with guilt and shame. All the shitty little acts that I was committing in a sober state. I was hard-wired for the criminal lifestyle.

I’m not gonna’ blame my father, my mother, my stepfathers (2) or any of my stepmothers (4). But the fact of the matter is I grew up watching people steal, deal drugs, get over on their taxes, profit from bullshit insurance claims, and just the general felonious quick money scams and ideas. (Shameless plug time)

This will all be covered in my book which is coming out on Punk Hostage Press. The real scary thing is I saw that my dishonesty (stealing, lying, and cheating) was completely connected to my next drink or drug. So I’ve had to learn to live a life of honesty and pursue my creative dreams, which were drowned out for so many years by drugs alcohol and a completely low self-opinion. I’ve had to take jobs and make humiliatingly low pay. But I have a solid clear conscience.

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