Yes ma'am, I know the outside door is locked. You have to use your room key to unlock the night door. I may very well be a mother fucker, ma'am, but that isn't helping us right now. Just show me your key and I will get you up to your room. You don't have to show me your mother fucking key? I'm sorry, but you being drunk and obnoxious doesn't really make me want to buzz you in any faster. How about your name and I will look you up in the computer. Yes, ma'am, I want your mother fucking name so I can buzz you through the mother fucking door. Ma'am, just tell this mother fucker your name and I will look you up and let you in. There we go, that was easy right? Did you know that during this exchange you have more than quadrupled the number of times I have ever been called a mother fucker? Thank you and a good mother fucking night to you too!
(five noise complaints, five minutes, and a elevator ride later)
Hello again! I am truly sorry, but we cant have you sitting in the hallway screaming and pounding on your door. So, what's wrong? Ok, so your mother fucking bitch of a roommate has dead bolted the mother fucking door and now you cant get into your mother fucking room? Ok, let's calm down a bit and try to call her. Oh sorry, I guess you don't want to be mother fucking calm. You already mentioned that you want to get into your mother fucking room. Believe me, I want you in that room more than you do.
So you two were out drinking, she left early and is now not answering the door? And you weren't fighting? Ok ok, you weren't mother fucking fighting. Let's just try to get this situation resolved. You don't want to get this mother fucking situation resolved? Oh, you do. Phew! Ok, first step is to stop pounding on the door and stop screaming at the top of your smoke scorched lungs. Second, it's very kind of you to be entertaining our guests with your screeching and banging, but you may want to close your legs a bit because, between you and me, they aren't great tippers. That's better. What? How much mother fucking money do I want to get you into that mother fucking room? Believe me, getting you out of this hallway is payment enough. You will pay me six hundred mother fucking dollars to get you into the room? Ma'am, at this point I don't want any of your mother fucking money. Besides, that's only maybe $35.
Anyway, the engineer is on his way to help us out. Now, we're not going to start screaming at your mother fucking bitch of a roommate are we? Your neighbors have not really enjoyed the show so far and this maybe one of those times where a cat fight isn't appreciated. Of course you don't care about the mother fucking neighbors. My mistake. Ok, here we go. Oh good, at least your mother fucking bitch of a roommate was the only one on your floor passed out enough not to hear your screaming hissy fit. You have a great night and thank you for staying with us! Mother fucker.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Hate Monger
Like everyone else I know, I'm not prejudiced against race. I'm just not sure if that black guy on the train is rapping or really angry. You see, I love like everyone some people.
But I do have a very deep different kind of prejudice. Oh yes I do. If I find out what city or state you live in, believe me, I will have some deeply scornful perceived notions about you. And lots of the time you don't have to tell me where you are from. I can just taste it. And it's nasty.
Here are a few examples.
But I do have a very deep different kind of prejudice. Oh yes I do. If I find out what city or state you live in, believe me, I will have some deeply scornful perceived notions about you. And lots of the time you don't have to tell me where you are from. I can just taste it. And it's nasty.
Here are a few examples.
- I know you are from New York. You are loud, obnoxious, and seem to think everyone wants to talk to you. I don't care if you can get an saber tooth tiger sandwich at four am in New York. Go to bed.
- I know you are from Detroit. You are shifty and untrustworthy. Within thirty seconds of this conversation, I have checked my pocket to make sure my wallet is still there and my sides to check on my kidneys. And I am going to call my mom and make sure she is all right. I don't care if you once sold crack to the whole Pistons line up. Go to bed.
- You are from New Jersey. You. Ugg. Go to bed.
- I know you are from Toronto. You talk alot yet are unnervingly polite. You are an odd mixture of major American city people and with just enough smugness about not being an actual American. I do feel bad that you had to drive through Detroit to get here. Go to bed.
- I know you are from Los Angeles. You hair is too complicated for Chicago. And you dress like a douche bag. You are either here to film an interview or shoot a porno in your room. You are also likely to answer the door naked and scare the housekeepers. Go to bed.
- I know you are from Indiana. You don't want to be here, but your boss made you come. You miss your strip clubs and are afraid of Chicago drivers. You have Chicago envy, but aren't going to admit it. At least your favorite baseball team is here. Take off your trucker hat and go to bed.
- I know you are from the South Suburbs. You are here for a wedding. Afterwards you get drunk you will go to a bar in your grooms men's suit and get into a fight about whether the Sox or Cubs are better. Then you will come back here, buy two cases of MGD across the street and slur at me something about "where the ladies at?" You will drink one half of those beers and pass out on a bell cart. Go to bed.
- I know you are from the North Suburbs. You want to tell me how wonderful the musical or opera you just saw was and how crazy your cab ride was. Go to bed.
- I know you are from anywhere else in Illinois. See Indiana.
- I know you are from Chicago. You have lived here all your life and still complain about the weather. And you are still shocked about how much parking costs in the loop. You know Chicago is better than LA and New York even though you've never visited either. Finish your blog and go to bed.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Nerd Alert
Man, nothing brightens my day like an exceptional nerd. A guy has been staying here the past couple days and he is acing every nerd test. One of those guys who is so unembarrassed by his nerditoid that he is almost cool. Almost.
Greasy black hair tied in a pony tail? Check
Food stained Microsoft sweatshirt? Check
Thick glasses? Of course
Nasally voice? Yup
Talks about his dietary restrictions? Thank you sir, that's good to know
Flirts with foreign employees by using the wrong language? Check
Busts out an accordion in the lobby and plays for about a minute? Check Mate
Tell me you are not impressed.
Greasy black hair tied in a pony tail? Check
Food stained Microsoft sweatshirt? Check
Thick glasses? Of course
Nasally voice? Yup
Talks about his dietary restrictions? Thank you sir, that's good to know
Flirts with foreign employees by using the wrong language? Check
Busts out an accordion in the lobby and plays for about a minute? Check Mate
Tell me you are not impressed.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Room Dispute
My crazy girlfriend has this crazy notion that we should avoid arguments after we've been drinking. This, of course, is ridiculous. How else are we supposed to involve cabbies, bouncers, bartenders, officers, and your friendly hotel desk clerks in our heated arguments about...uhm....err.....what were we fighting about again? Well, whatever is was, I am sorry, you were right, and I don't know what I was thinking, and will you please get back in the car?
Working the night weekend shift gives me plenty of opportunities to see happy attractive couples leave the hotel for a night on the town, have them come back four hours later still happy, but less attractive, and then have them neither attractive or happy after they hit the mini bar and a bathroom mirror.
Fortunately, it rarely gets violent, but it can present uncomfortable situations. Sometimes funny, but uncomfortable. But it happens, so don't feel too embarrassed. Just know that everything you do will be logged down for all of the staff to read and enjoy. And some asshole might even post a blog about it. Nothing to be embarrassed about.
So anyway, last weekend I overheard a intoxicated dude come in from a night out and immediately buddy up with the night bellman. The gems of the conversation were that he was ranked slightly higher than FBI and would show his gun if you wanted. No thanks. He also invited my coworker up to the room for some booze and the promise of some girls. Sorry sir, I'm on duty!
The guy goes up to his room and calls down an hour later saying that he doesn't want any girls to come up to the room. This is a new one for me. I asked if he was expecting any to come and he confirmed that he did, but not to let them go up to his room for any reason. Uhm, ok.
At 4:30am a leggy blond comes to the front desk wearing a dress that appeared to be a thin shiny dishrag. My night audit sense tingled. I stopped her and asked what room she was going up to. Surprise! I asked to see her id and regretfully informed her that I could not send her up the room since she was not on the account. Turns out the formally happy attractive couple went out clubbing, got drunk, he talked to girls, she talked to dudes, he leaves, she stays, he texts explicits, she texts explicits, he locks the door. All of her clothes, money, and two little dogs are locked in the room as well. I knew she was telling the truth, but my hands were tied. Aside from calling the room several times, there was not much I could do since her name wasn't on the room. So she pulls out a cell phone and says she will call the cops. Good idea, just call 311. Now, I should say that the girl was upset and drunk, but surprisingly respectfully and never raised her voice (well, anymore than normal drunk conversation). She was a nice enough of a person which I found odd since she was dating such an asshole and was from Detroit.
Two cops come, listen to her story, and ask if the four of us can go up to the room with a pass key to retrieve her belongings. The bellman quietly asked me if he should mention to the cops that the guy said he has a gun. Good idea. The cops were less concerned about the gun, but made the girl promise she would stand back and not start yelling if we got the door open. I knock. No answer except the yipping of tiny dogs. I try the pass key. No dice, he dead bolted the door. Sorry, ma'am, nothing else we can do here. We go back to the lobby and the girl tries to call someone, anyone to put her up for the night while one of the cops told me an awesome story about the time he took his wife to Acapulco, got in an argument in a restaurant which lead to thrown food, tailing his wife back to the hotel room, and a mad dash for the room key. That's some good police work, Lou.
So eventually, she calls mom in Detroit, promises her that she made this mistake for the last time and will break up with him for real, I talk to mom in Detroit, and we arrange a room for the night on her credit card.
Long story long, mom and dad pick her up the next day, the cops are called three more times to get her stuff back, and the dude threatens to sue since we disturbed him all night.
In the end, this situation was the least of my hassles for the night.
So again, this stuff happens. It's embarrassing, but it happens. Just be warned that very little is secret. Just think before you drink. For the dogs sake.
Working the night weekend shift gives me plenty of opportunities to see happy attractive couples leave the hotel for a night on the town, have them come back four hours later still happy, but less attractive, and then have them neither attractive or happy after they hit the mini bar and a bathroom mirror.
Fortunately, it rarely gets violent, but it can present uncomfortable situations. Sometimes funny, but uncomfortable. But it happens, so don't feel too embarrassed. Just know that everything you do will be logged down for all of the staff to read and enjoy. And some asshole might even post a blog about it. Nothing to be embarrassed about.
So anyway, last weekend I overheard a intoxicated dude come in from a night out and immediately buddy up with the night bellman. The gems of the conversation were that he was ranked slightly higher than FBI and would show his gun if you wanted. No thanks. He also invited my coworker up to the room for some booze and the promise of some girls. Sorry sir, I'm on duty!
The guy goes up to his room and calls down an hour later saying that he doesn't want any girls to come up to the room. This is a new one for me. I asked if he was expecting any to come and he confirmed that he did, but not to let them go up to his room for any reason. Uhm, ok.
At 4:30am a leggy blond comes to the front desk wearing a dress that appeared to be a thin shiny dishrag. My night audit sense tingled. I stopped her and asked what room she was going up to. Surprise! I asked to see her id and regretfully informed her that I could not send her up the room since she was not on the account. Turns out the formally happy attractive couple went out clubbing, got drunk, he talked to girls, she talked to dudes, he leaves, she stays, he texts explicits, she texts explicits, he locks the door. All of her clothes, money, and two little dogs are locked in the room as well. I knew she was telling the truth, but my hands were tied. Aside from calling the room several times, there was not much I could do since her name wasn't on the room. So she pulls out a cell phone and says she will call the cops. Good idea, just call 311. Now, I should say that the girl was upset and drunk, but surprisingly respectfully and never raised her voice (well, anymore than normal drunk conversation). She was a nice enough of a person which I found odd since she was dating such an asshole and was from Detroit.
Two cops come, listen to her story, and ask if the four of us can go up to the room with a pass key to retrieve her belongings. The bellman quietly asked me if he should mention to the cops that the guy said he has a gun. Good idea. The cops were less concerned about the gun, but made the girl promise she would stand back and not start yelling if we got the door open. I knock. No answer except the yipping of tiny dogs. I try the pass key. No dice, he dead bolted the door. Sorry, ma'am, nothing else we can do here. We go back to the lobby and the girl tries to call someone, anyone to put her up for the night while one of the cops told me an awesome story about the time he took his wife to Acapulco, got in an argument in a restaurant which lead to thrown food, tailing his wife back to the hotel room, and a mad dash for the room key. That's some good police work, Lou.
So eventually, she calls mom in Detroit, promises her that she made this mistake for the last time and will break up with him for real, I talk to mom in Detroit, and we arrange a room for the night on her credit card.
Long story long, mom and dad pick her up the next day, the cops are called three more times to get her stuff back, and the dude threatens to sue since we disturbed him all night.
In the end, this situation was the least of my hassles for the night.
So again, this stuff happens. It's embarrassing, but it happens. Just be warned that very little is secret. Just think before you drink. For the dogs sake.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Truth, Justice, Yada Yada Yada
When I started this blog, I made a few rules for myself. One was to not identify which hotel I work at. Two was not to use my real name or have my friends post it here, even though Jeremy the Dummy already did that. These rules were made because I respect my workplace and don't want to bring any accidental bad attention to it. Not that it really matters, as far as I know only friends of mine read it, which is awesome. If I don't know you and you found this blog, feel free to email me at graveyardchicago@gmail.com or leave me a comment here. I want to be virtually popular. The third rule I made for myself was not to use the real names of guests who stay here (unless they are celebs who have already checked out or hotel room porno makers). In my other blog, I have poked fun of people's names at my old property, but I've matured beyond that and gained respect for privacy. Until now. I cant help it. I am going to break rule number 3.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Bruce Superman is staying over tonight.
Holy shit. Bruce Superman! There's no way anyone could really have this name! Well, the credit card he used swiped the name Superman, B into the system, so KAPOW non believers! Now, I haven't met Bruce Superman. I don't think I need to. I know everything I need to know about him. Or at least everything I decided that I am going to pretend I know about him. Even though I'm sure this is impossible, but I want to make sure I like Bruce Superman and couldn't bear to take the chance to have him look down on me if I ever disappointed him. Who knows what Bruce Superman would do if his bath towels didn't come up in time.
What I know about Bruce Superman:
He's an AAA member, he'll drop $120 on room service, and another $150 in assorted restaurant charges. Obviously a man with developed palate and a heightened sense of bargain hunting. He hasn't rented a porno, but I doubt Bruce Superman has ever needed pornography. He also enjoys scented bath balls.
What I can assume about Bruce Superman:
He is a bad ass. If he was born Bruce Superman, no kid would ever mess with him. He probably never had to fight anyone in his life, unless they were a bully from another school who made the mistake of jumping the wrong kid for milk money. Granted, there is a strong chance that he decided to become Bruce Superman. If this is the case, he either is a laid back dude with a good sense of humor or he was forced to become Bruce Superman after his parents were shot down in an alley and rocketed out to an exploding planet. So he may be a witty swashbuckling crime fighter or a dark brooding vigilante. Or he might be an above average accountant. Whatever he does, I am sure he does it well and with honor for the American way.
Of course, being Bruce Superman has to have some downsides too. He probably had a hard time with his ID while trying to get into bars when he turned 21. And I'm sure some of his coworkers (under either identity) may tease him behind his back. And of course he has to hear the same comments over and over and have people stare at him with a stupid smile on their face when they first hear his name. Morons. You have not the right to judge Bruce Superman, just be thankful that he is in your presence! And of course, Bruce Superman has to have some arch enemies. Like that goon in shipping named Lex DrDoom. And his nosey landlord, Zod Magneto. Or his untrustworthy on again/off again ex girlfriend, Selina Mystique. Bruce Superman probably has a couple serious trust issues. He's been hurt before, emotionally and once thrown into a vat of acid sharks.
I am sorry that I had to broke my third rule, but it's quite obvious I did so out of respect to you, Bruce Superman. I hope your Mediterranean suite was as comfortable as your cave of solitude. Thank you for staying with us and we do truly hope you come back someday. Check out is at noon.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Bruce Superman is staying over tonight.
Holy shit. Bruce Superman! There's no way anyone could really have this name! Well, the credit card he used swiped the name Superman, B into the system, so KAPOW non believers! Now, I haven't met Bruce Superman. I don't think I need to. I know everything I need to know about him. Or at least everything I decided that I am going to pretend I know about him. Even though I'm sure this is impossible, but I want to make sure I like Bruce Superman and couldn't bear to take the chance to have him look down on me if I ever disappointed him. Who knows what Bruce Superman would do if his bath towels didn't come up in time.
What I know about Bruce Superman:
He's an AAA member, he'll drop $120 on room service, and another $150 in assorted restaurant charges. Obviously a man with developed palate and a heightened sense of bargain hunting. He hasn't rented a porno, but I doubt Bruce Superman has ever needed pornography. He also enjoys scented bath balls.
What I can assume about Bruce Superman:
He is a bad ass. If he was born Bruce Superman, no kid would ever mess with him. He probably never had to fight anyone in his life, unless they were a bully from another school who made the mistake of jumping the wrong kid for milk money. Granted, there is a strong chance that he decided to become Bruce Superman. If this is the case, he either is a laid back dude with a good sense of humor or he was forced to become Bruce Superman after his parents were shot down in an alley and rocketed out to an exploding planet. So he may be a witty swashbuckling crime fighter or a dark brooding vigilante. Or he might be an above average accountant. Whatever he does, I am sure he does it well and with honor for the American way.
Of course, being Bruce Superman has to have some downsides too. He probably had a hard time with his ID while trying to get into bars when he turned 21. And I'm sure some of his coworkers (under either identity) may tease him behind his back. And of course he has to hear the same comments over and over and have people stare at him with a stupid smile on their face when they first hear his name. Morons. You have not the right to judge Bruce Superman, just be thankful that he is in your presence! And of course, Bruce Superman has to have some arch enemies. Like that goon in shipping named Lex DrDoom. And his nosey landlord, Zod Magneto. Or his untrustworthy on again/off again ex girlfriend, Selina Mystique. Bruce Superman probably has a couple serious trust issues. He's been hurt before, emotionally and once thrown into a vat of acid sharks.
I am sorry that I had to broke my third rule, but it's quite obvious I did so out of respect to you, Bruce Superman. I hope your Mediterranean suite was as comfortable as your cave of solitude. Thank you for staying with us and we do truly hope you come back someday. Check out is at noon.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Pet Friendly
Highlight of the day:
A working seeing eye dog going ape shit when passing the front desk since he knew we had treats at the front desk. Not very professional, dawg.
Sorry. I punned.
A working seeing eye dog going ape shit when passing the front desk since he knew we had treats at the front desk. Not very professional, dawg.
Sorry. I punned.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
If The Shoe Fits
Stereotyping is bad, right? Well, yes, I suppose it is, but sometimes people make it so very easy to lump them into a category. I didn't make up the stereotype and I am not the one enforcing it. But I guess someone did and some people just wear it well.
Anyway, we had a wedding tonight that fitted into a stereotype that is probably safe politically correct wise to make fun of. Hill billies! Everywhere. I heard a "YEE HAW!" and a "Git er done!" yelled within 10 seconds of each other.
One guy came by the front desk and asked if I was a California surfer dude. I said no, born and raised in Chicago. Then he told me he doesn't like Chicago weather and how in Texas he likes to ride around on his motorcycle while wearing shorts. Uhm, ok. And he asked me what we do when NASCAR comes to town.
You did it. You said NASCAR. You have been judged. It is out of my hands.
Anyway, we had a wedding tonight that fitted into a stereotype that is probably safe politically correct wise to make fun of. Hill billies! Everywhere. I heard a "YEE HAW!" and a "Git er done!" yelled within 10 seconds of each other.
One guy came by the front desk and asked if I was a California surfer dude. I said no, born and raised in Chicago. Then he told me he doesn't like Chicago weather and how in Texas he likes to ride around on his motorcycle while wearing shorts. Uhm, ok. And he asked me what we do when NASCAR comes to town.
You did it. You said NASCAR. You have been judged. It is out of my hands.
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