Tag Archives: people

More London Hotel Insanity

If you’re sick like just sniffly, well, the only reason why we care is that we don’t want to be around you. If you constantly verbalize your cold, flu, or allergies it’s really mundane and boring. Americans have some form of healthcare now! At this point in our current international climate, your little cold or allergies are whiny 1st world bullshit. No one truly gives a rats ass. And if they (the sick people enablers) cater and constantly kowtow to that shit, the little sickies are gonna’ leech on to that codependency and ride it into their golden years. I’ve seen it!

Anyway, so I deliver to a guy who orders quite frequently. This guy always has some story about his health. Mr. Harmon in 511. He has a different boy toy in the room every time I deliver an order. Most of them look like Santa Monica street hustlers. With their little backpacks and plastic bags of clothes and shit sitting on the couch.

Tonight’s delivery interaction;
I knock on the door. It opens, its dark, and smells like cheap stripper strawberry incense or oil.
‘How you doing Mr. Harmon?’
He’s about 6’2″ and really pale and bloated. He looks like Larry Bird’s estranged brother. And has an eerie fucking vibe to boot.
He throws his hands in the air theatrically.
‘Oh God, no Bueno! I think I caught a bad cold, Ramon is going to get me Theraflu.’ Ramon is grabbing his jacket and rushing out into the cold night.
‘I’m sure the concierge has it.’ I say.
‘No, Ramon loves to walk the streets. He’s been doing that for years.’ He turns on the light, I wish he hadn’t.

‘Listen I have this weird thing with my eyes, they keep going back-and-forth.’ He’s pointing at his eyes. ‘Have you ever had that?’ He’s moving his index finger back-and-forth between both eyes. I’m standing there watching this charade. Why oh why the fuck do I have to get a play-by-play of your present status Harmon? ‘We’ll have you?’ He asks again. ‘No Mr. Harmon. I’ve never had that.’
‘Hmm, yeah it’s a pretty unique thing. Well, the doctor gave me some promethazine, but I already took four Norco so I might not be good to mix them.’ Those were drugs that I used to use quite frequently, sick or not. ‘What would you do?’
Harmon asks. At this point, I’m in total ‘who gives a fuck’ mode. So I’m like, ‘Yeah go ahead and guzzle down the promethazine. You’ll get real drowsy and nod off, and then maybe your eyeballs will stop moving back-and-forth.’ He runs into the other room, ‘Hold on hold on,’ he says. Oh no, I just want to get the fuck out of here.

‘Mr. Harmon can you please sign the check?’
He comes running back with two small packages. ‘My housekeeper gave me these the other day. She gets them from some little bodega botanica place in East Los Angeles. They’re Mexican bath salts. Maybe these will help me.’
It’s probably not a good idea to drink the promethazine and then take the bath, right?’
‘Well unless never want to wake up.’ Which sounds like a great idea for either one of us at this point. ‘Ha ha ha. That’s funny.’ He signs and hands me back the bill. Well ‘pray for me by name!’ He says in a show tune like voice. I finally leave. I look in the checkbook, no tip. I feel like my spirit has been run over by a Stolen Cadillac Escalade.

Same night, two hours later. Simple order.
I’m delivering chamomile tea to a Mrs. Gordon, room 319. I’m taxed and tired.
I just want it to be over. Let this night be done. I knock.
‘Room service.’ No answer I lean in, I hear somebody scurrying around. I knock again. No answer, again I hear scurrying around. I knock louder. Still nothing.
‘ROOM SERVICE.’ Nothing. Jesus what the fuck. I kick the bottom of the door three times. ‘ROOM SERVICE!!’
‘Oh ok. Of course.’ I hear a droll voice say.

A frumpy depressed looking blonde 20 something opens the door. My intuition tells me another mundane, soul-sucking situation lies in my wake.
‘Just put the tray on the bed. Listen, I’m concerned. My sliding glass patio door won’t lock properly. Maybe you can take a look.’ I hand her the bill. She puts it down without signing it. That’s always a bad sign. I walk over to the door. It latches. No fuss no muss.
‘It’s fine ma’am.’ I walk towards the bill.

She looks over at the checkbook. ‘I finished a production job early, and I’m here for a couple of days. I’m so bored. What should I do? Don’t say the movies, Universal Studios or Disneyland. Those are stupid suggestions. I already got mad at the bellman for suggesting all that garbage.’ Her voice is high pitched like lee press on nails on a chalkboard, or metal patio furniture being pulled across concrete. I offer up museums, and exhibits, coffee houses, and quaint little hipster neighborhoods.

‘Boring. Boring.’ She says. ‘I need some action!’
‘Maybe go pick up an LA Weekly. You’ll find the back pages loaded with all kinds of activity.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘What are you talking about? Sex, S and M, sex clubs, prostitutes?’
That’s not what I’m talking about. God.’
I looked over at the bill, and made my way to the door. She signs it and is shaking her head.
‘I was talking about music venues, nightclubs, dance clubs. But hey, whatever.’ She growls at me and hands me the bill. I walk out. I’m done for the night. I’d rather fill catsup bottles or do some other form of side work then deal with these people. Just for tonight, I need to get my mojo back.

 

My days at the London Hotel were numbered. Essay #1

#2:00 AM London Hotel, West Hollywood.

I was walking the halls collecting trays, and picking up early morning orders left on doorknobs. As I made my way from floor to floor, I pondered all the decisions and wrong turns and I made in my life. Disastrous turns that led me up to my current position at 50 years old.

Sure, there were drug and alcohol incidents here and there, also some jail stints. There was also first-degree burglary, grand theft auto, possession of controlled substance as well as assault with a deadly weapons charges but all that was many years ago.

When I applied for this job, Jill Myers in human resources said The London was to do an intensive background check. Apparently, it wasn’t that intensive.

Truth be told, I lost all my hustle when I sobered up and I stopped doing hard drugs. Thank baby Christ I’m not permanently psychotic or paranoid. These thoughts were broken by a woman in a nightgown running and screaming coming down the hall straight towards me.

‘I left my key in my room, I left my key in my room! She looked distraught and flustered. At first, I thought she was dead on the reincarnation of Leona Helmsley, or the ghost of Leona Helmsley stuck in a Hell-like hotel purgatory.

Was it Leona? At 2 AM your mind really plays tricks with you. Think the Overlook Hotel but I’m way more passive Mr. Torrance.

‘Okay okay, ma’am. Ma’am, what is your name?’ This was the protocol. Simple enough.

‘What the hell does that have to do with it! Just let me into my room! That’s private information anyway!’ She seemed to be moving closer toward me. I started stepping backward.

‘Ma’am, I’m sorry I just can’t let anybody into any room without proper identification.’

Her eyes lit up, ‘Anybody, anybody? Into any room? I’m Sofia De Aragon and I’ve been staying at this hotel on and off since it was The Belage! How dare you!’

A door in front of us opened and a guest popped his head out. He took one look at Mrs. De Aragon and quickly went back to his room and shut the door.

‘That’s right! You mind your business!’ Sofia said as he bolted the door.

Suddenly I felt like a scolded eight-year-old. ‘Okay okay, I’m sorry. What room are you in? ‘Well that’s just it, I don’t know what room I’m in. They used to put the room numbers on the key, how the hell are you supposed to remember what goddamn room you’re in?’

‘Well, I guess we’ll have to call the front desk.’

She looked angry, ‘Well where is that god damn phone to even call them? We’re on the eighth floor! Do I have to run downstairs?’

I started moving towards the lobby of the eighth floor, I knew there was a phone there. I had to get away from this woman. I felt like she had stuck an invisible straw into my chest and was sucking the very last bit of life that was left in me. It had to stop. I picked up the phone. ‘Hi it’s Mike, In-room-dining attendant, I have a Mrs….’ I looked up at her, ‘Ma’am your name?’ She shook her head and whispered, ‘give me the phone, give me the phone.’

I attempted to walk away. Let them come up and let her into her room, or figure out what room she’s in. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

‘Hey where are you going? I’m in room 416 you need to let me in.’ We were both on the 8th floor. I don’t even know how she ended up on this floor. You need a room key to use the guest elevator to go from floor to floor. Which I don’t even have. And I was told under no circumstances were guest allowed to use the service elevator. I walked towards the phone called the front desk again. I hung up. Then I explained the situation to her and that she would have to wait here while somebody came up from the front desk.

She was flustered and upset ‘Why can’t you just let me in?’

‘Ma’am if you don’t have your room key we can’t get down the elevator to your floor, I don’t have access to that elevator with the key that I have.’ We both stood there looking at each other for a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

‘Well that’s absurd, what kind of bullshit operation are they running here?’ I walked away. She was saying things to me as I was walking away. They can fire me, they can discipline me, they can do whatever they want. Bottom line, I was not talking or looking at this woman for another fucking minute.

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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Observations At The Gym

Never gets old.

The huge shirtless guy with cystic back acne and pink angel wings tattooed on his back. He is constantly told by staff to put his shirt back on, but then quickly removes it again to display “Winged Bacne.”

The emaciated girl with a tit job and ass implants that is so done up with foundation and mascara that she makes absolutely sure not to sweat at all.

The guy at the squat rack who grunts and screams like he’s getting ass raped or doing a deep knee bend on a 19 inch dildo.

The wanna’ be gangster dude who is buried in a hoodie and oversized sweats, occasionally peering out of his hoodie and mad doggin’ every one. Then goes back into his little hoodie cave for self involved enrichment.

The Lilly white granola eatin’ hippie girl with stinky dreadlocks, hairy armpits and a yoga mat, living in her little world of spiritual make-believe.

The ‘roided out guy that tries to intimidate everyone like we’re all on the yard, but then gets seriously put in check when he tries that stupid shit on me. TRUE STORY!

The hipster fellow who walks the treadmill in what looks like ‘Newsie” or “Steam Punk” turn of the century fashions.

The slack jaw, gamer / hunch back postured, body like a tube of toothpaste guy, who can barely bench press what looks like a 1/3rd of his own bodyweight.

The ‘roid red rosacea little queeny man who obsessively compulsively cleans up all the loose weights and dumb bells, while passively aggressively saying, “Ok. Are you done with that?”

The chubby gay Perez Hilton guy with the skin-tight deep v t-shirt and Dolphin style shorts, saying “GIRL” to his like-minded and similarly fashioned friends.

The rude guy/girl who sits on a machine texting or talking or doing who the fuck knows what on their cell phone while people (spineless people who don’t have the balls to say anything to these inconsiderate machine suckers) stand by sighing. By the way – I ask immediately ask if I can work  in. I ain’t there to watch you kibitzing on your (smart) Phone while I stand there with my dick in my hand.

The dude who uses community locker blow dryer on his nuts, for what seems like hours, in the locker room. The other guy that washes his clothes in the sink, then uses blow dryer on them. Then blow dryer  burns out, then never works again.

The trainer who has his clients doing the most awkward and bizarre exercises on equipment that is clearly used for a completely different purpose.

The high as fuck towel dude at the entrance of work out area that has extreme difficulty multi-tasking, i.e. validating parking tickets and checking memberships and passing out towels. This guy constantly being told by staff or gym members “Um, dude. Towel.”

“Fuck You Huero!” A rant from Marisella Morales (aKa) sHyGrRl

*Excuse the vernacular, spelling errors and outright butchering of the English language. Trying to keep it hood.

Thass right you pinche fuck head. It’s Friday nite aye and we jus burly started to party cuz liL SpOoKy brought over a kegger and mi abolita made menudo and carne asada and my cousin RaScAl jus burly got out of Wayside cuz he was in there for some bullshit violations of probation like he was hangin’ out with another homeboy and some bullshit about not supposed to disasscociate with known gang members so like anyways we were getting’ down listening to narcos corridos music and like Sylvia (aKa LoNeLy) my homegirl from v13 came over and like she’s cool but that chica’s always judges me like how I’m a mother, how I keep house and there’s roaches and everything is greasy and filthy and especially when she says like, ‘don’t give meha flaming hot cheetos and diet coke, cuz meha looks like she’s sweating and red and her belly looks all distended out and shit and every time she sips at that cola she like makes a face like it’s fukin lickwid plummer aye least just give her regular like seven up or mounten dew’s and I’m like ‘LoNeLy mind your own bizzness bich’ and sometimes we argue and that’s when fukin pinche huero was all ‘um hello uh can you keep it down pleas?’ like all smart assy And I was like ‘mind your own bizness, this got nothing to do with your huero ass’ and then he’s like ‘it’s 12:30 and it’s got everything to do with me because your outside my window, I’ll call the cops’ and this huero had balls aye, cuz like we got homies all over the block, I was like ‘shit whatever, call the huda then liL SpOoKy was all ‘I’ll blast that foo aye fuck that lil’ blanco bitch’ and I was like ‘you ain’t blasting no one’ and my abolita came in from the back room and was like what are you locas doing? why is the huero yelling? what is happening? And I’m like ‘gramma go back to your little room, we got this go watch your programs’ we converted a walk in closet to a bedroom for her she has a little tv and we cut into the cable cuz my homeboy 5nIpEr works for Time Werner but gramma pitches in for rent with her social security and also I get WIC and that’s my monthly card for womans infants an childrens like milk and cheese and diapers and eggs and shit so like my tio biG pAnThEr lives here occasionally but he gets all perverted when he drinks and does speed and so my tia LiL’ dReAmEr who used to be with him but she went all machona tortillera when she went to the pen in chowchilla she loves to eat pussy she came at me and was like ‘sHyGiRl lemme taste that sweet lil pinoche’ like at her own daughter’s quincinera and I was drunk and horny and tempted but the bible says that shit is wrong so… then like last week she warned me and said that pAnThEr weird sexual extendencies but only just when he drinks and does tweak – but then I decided I still I don’t want him around my dotter… because another tio of mine bIg JoKeR is a sick fucker who touch my lil cussin Carla and she said he showed her his serpiente and she should touch it til it recoils back to its cave and shit and then he said she made it bled white on her hand, so she should pt it in her mouth to get the rest of the blood out of it and make it better, so he had to fkn go so but that sick motherfucker disappeared after I toll liL SpOoKy, I think liL SpOoKy he put his ass somewheres – but bIg JoKeR was abuse by has papi mR. sMiLeY like bIg JoKeR had to suck his papi mR. sMiLeY dick and got buttfucked by sMiLeY so, like they said shit rolls down hill so we nips that shit in the butt like quik fast I think he brought jOkErZ ass to TJ and blasted that sick ninos toucher and put his ass somewhere anyhwowz so then we jus kep partying and listnin to my favrit narco corridore jamz (rip Ariel Comacho mi corazon) Then like huero was slamming windows and shit like a lil’ bitch and then at like two in the morning pUpPeT and 5iLeNt show up they just came from the clubz and pUpPeT has blood all over his boots and jeans and he’s like ‘I just kikd this mother fuckerz head in like bad, he tried to talk shit when we were leving’ and there like gacked out smoking speed and I was like ‘you fuckerz cant do that here because last time the speed was all hot an likwid and spilled out the pipe onto meja’s feet an burnt it and I don’t want that shit and I was by the stove cooking and then 5iLeNt was like, ‘Shud up sHyGiRl bitch you still got that infection cuz my verga burns like fuck after putting it in your culo’ and I was fkn mad so I grabbed a hot pot of menudo and threw it on his back and he let out a bitch scream like you here in the movies and shit and I was like don’t ever put my shit on the streets pinche motherfucker lil’ dick bitch! Jus then the door knocked and was like police and these fools all bugged the fuck out and pUpPet 5iLeNt an rascal are all on probation so it was fkd up cuz it was like three am and the cops saw the kids awake and on the floor craw ling round the kegger and the ese’s are all bug eyed and jacked up and I toll them kick back aye and they started all this shit and the funny part too was that they tased 5iLeNt because he was like trying to fan his back with a dish rag and huda thought he was coming at them so like they zap that foo! And my abulita like ducked her head out and waved it all off and went back to her program. And those fools all got taken in and sent up for violations and now I gotta find more people to move in and pay the rent or something.