Smackers
October 11th, 2005 / 9 comments »Deep down, I always kinda wondered what I’d look like with a fuller set of luscious lips. Just some bigass smackers. One of those sexy Ryan Phillipe pouts where you’re making out with somebody and they just wanna chew your lips off cuz they’re so delicious and big. B/c I’m pretty shallow like that, I’ve actually checked myself out in the mirror after a really good cry — you know how your lips get really ripe and plump — and I think, “Yeah, I’d look hot with bigger lips.” Turns out, actually? Not so much. Freakish. The word freakish is better fitting.
I don’t have any shame. My life sucks. Keep reading.
No, what you are seeing is not a botched collagen job. It’s a picture of my MUTANT DUCK LIPS, a spontaneous allergic reaction I had the other day that turned me into a human blowfish. Still have no clue what brought it on. I showed up @ work the other morning feeling great, looking fine, fresh-scrubbed and smiley. An hour or two into my shift, the inside of my upper lip starts bothering me. 20 minutes later, BOOM! my lips swelled up so huge that they didn’t even look real. They looked like a set of those candy wax lips, only I couldn’t even lick them. I started popping Benadryll tablets like they’re chiclets and trying to go about work as normal, doing whatever I could to keep my abnormally large mouth out of sight. When you’re a Concierge and your whole job is interacting and TALKING with people in front of you, this proves to be pretty fucking impossible when you look like you’ve got lemon wedges shoved against your gums. A normal person would have gone to the manager right then and there and been like, “Look, I’m having a reaction to something and I don’t know what it is, I think I need to leave and see a doctor.” Not my ass. I was too fucking humiliated and I just stood there in uniform looking like one of the Simpsons. Guest after guest came up to me at my desk, asking questions, needing directions, and I straightup I kept my head down and my hand over my mouth like I was in deep thought. Or I’d take the phone receiver and shove it like a sheild over my mouth and make like I was on hold. At point I even tried just smiling really really big and wide so that my mouth looked semi-normal (as normal as you can look with a glazed grin plastered across your face), but by that point my lips had swollen so large that you couldn’t even see my teeth. No, I’m serious, and It’s not like I have the most common features anyway, me with these bigass cartoon eyes and the tiny stature and now freakishly large mouth: I looked like a discard sketch from a bad Pokemon episode. Hotel guests tried really hard to be polite and not stare at my face, but you can only fake so much before it becomes ovious that somebody’s lips are about to explode all over your suit. Finally, I was sent home for being so damn disgusting.
I called the hotel doctor b/c my health insurance hadn’t fully kicked in yet and as a courtesy he agreed to see me for free. I actually thought I was brave enough to walk to his office — bad idea; I got more double-takes and stares on that walk up the dreaded East Side than I was prepared to deal with. Grown women were screaming in terror, little kids were running away from me, doorman of fancy buildings were rushing inside and locking up the doors. It was horrible. The doctor and I went through all the obvious shit and ruled everything out. I hadn’t eaten anything weird so it wasn’t a bacteria thing, hadn’t cut or bitten into my lip so it wasn’t an infection, and I sure as hell hadn’t been getting frisky with anyone so it wasn’t an STD. The only thing we could conclude was that it was an allergic reaction to something I’d been exposed to recently, which still didn’t really narrow it down, but at that point I was just ready to kill myself so I just left. It started raining out. I tried to catch a cab but the Columbus Day Parade was starting and there was nothing around, so I ended up just cutting through Central Park instead.
That’s around the time my Benadryll kicked in and suddenly the whole world got foggy and real damn trippy. Not in a fun way. There I was, bewildered and drugged, stumbling in the rain through thickets of the Park I’d never been through before (who goes to the upper east side?!), half asleep and looking like a refugee from the Land of Bad Botox. I think I fell down at some point, cuz there’s a grass stain on my jeans, but I’m not sure. I got home eventually and crashed into my bed, but not face first. I’ve spent the better part of two days completely locked up in my apartment, popping Benadryll, dousing myself with holy water, and praying for my pretty face to back to normal. Now I’ll never be a teen model. Today is National Coming Out Day and my ass ain’t going nowhere.
Angelina Jolie. Amanda Lepore. Spriteboy. It’s a sad, scary, UGLY reality. Gross. Be careful what you wish for, dudes.
UPDATED:
Even though I’m still not sure what brought it on and though I have not fully recovered from my humiliation, my lips have thankfully gone back to normal. They’re sore as hell from being so stretched out, though. I think this is what Star Jones’ skin feels like.
… and yes, these are actual pictures of my lips that I took, cropped, and posted. Cuz I’m just that self-absorbed. Yeah. And? JEALOUS? Don’t hate. You LIKE it. 
Down Drizzle
October 8th, 2005 / 2 comments »
Lower Manhattan on a Rainy Day
The remedy for an emotionally shitty day @ work: Meetup with your Inner Circle for lunch in Soho at a place you’ll probably never eat at again. Hit Pearl River Mart and buy cheap insense sticks – Cinnoman, Coconut, Strawberry and Fizzy Pop (10 for $1). Walk aimlessly in the rain up 6th avenue, gawk at the West Village apartments you will never be able to afford but appreciate anyway. Get home, take a really HOT shower, heat up leftovers and indulge your Gloomy Playlist. You’ll find your day somehow, for some reason, has gotten better. And things are okay afterall.
Concierge Confession
October 6th, 2005 / No commentsThere was an article in USA TODAY last week about NYC hotel concierges. A friend of mine in the industry is actually featured very prominently in the peice. The well-written and generous article paints a very glamorous, very impressive image of what it’s like to do what I do for a living; calls us “miracle workers” and some of the most “connected” people in New York City. It’s true, we are paid to know EVERYONE and have access to all kinds of precious shit, we get hooked-up all over town and rarely find ourselves paying for things we are invited to. In a sense, we make a living knowing what’s cool and telling people about it… Sort of. While I’d love nothing more than to perpetuate this angle and make everyone think I just have the coolest job in the world (I kinda do), I have to drop some truth on the matter. How do I proceed without sounding bitter? I can’t, won’t, and I rarely even try staying consistant with my criscrossing trains of thought; so let’s just jump in.
My job can be rough. Sometimes it straight-up fucking sucks.
I loved and loathed the article. I like that it shines a spotlight on what we do, but it sensationalizes it and only showed you the shiny stuff. Gives the impression that we’re just a bunch of assistants DYING to work for no monetary reward. Yeah, that’s bullshit. One of the biggest frutrations of the job is that there aren’t any clear boundires. I’m kind of there to do what no one else is there to do. I’m there to think for you, there to carry out the annoying details you don’t feel like dealing with. I’m there to be the liason, and in some cases, the bitch.
A businesswoman missed her pooch back home. Could the Concierge find a canine companion to keep her company? Turning to the network of friends and acquaintances she has built during her 25-plus years in the concierge business, Hart quickly found someone who was going on vacation and planning to board his Lhasa apso. Would he consider “lending” his dog to the lonely traveler? The man said yes. The hotel guest got her companion. And the lucky Lhasa slept in a hotel instead of a kennel and dined from the Four Seasons’ canine canapé menu.
Cute story. Nice little button on the end there. I love how the article mentions the strange requests like they’re not strange or stupid at all. A woman was lonely and wanted the Concierge to get her a dog for the weekend? WHAT? That’s weird and I’d resent anyone who had the balls to submit a request like that with a straight face. If you are the kind of person who just travels without planning anything and just expects everyone around you to figure your life out, I’m wondering whether or not you should be getting on planes or even leaving you house in the first place. What if he hadn’t been able to find you a dog? Would that have tainted any of the other things he can arrange for you? Now, I am professional enough to never make a hotel guest feel stupid for asking for my help, I am smart enough to know that in New York ANYTHING can be arranged. I would never treat a request like it’s insane… but let’s not kid anyone here. Let’s not go writing articles that encourage random travelers to begin demanding overzealous attention just for the sake of seeing how “connected” your Concierge is, and that these projects take no effort on our part. They do take effort, and that deserves some recognition.
So what does a concierge’s services cost?
For the guest, nothing. That’s because concierges are salaried employees of the hotels they work for and don’t depend on tips for their livelihood. While none likes to talk about money, salaries can range from $20,000 to $50,000, according to Les Clefs d’Or.
Huh? Who’s salaried? What? Yeah, I’m rich doing this job. Don’t tip me for anything, please. Not everyone is salaried, buddy. The article doesn’t once mention how everything we arrange comes @ a cost. It actually gives the impression that anyone can get anything for nothing at all, just for being there. Um, not really. While the level of service I provide to a high-rolling VIP is the same level of service I’d deliver to a tourist in from Alabama for the weekend, the results are not going to be the same. People want to get outlandish things but also want you to bargain hunt for them? I’m sorry but nothing’s gonna happen there. If you want the impossible, it’s going to cost you, and I’m really not here to find the best deal for you (i.e. booking Ticketmaster, Expedia, or gypsy cab car services). I’m here to glamourize your experience, and that comes with a running tab. People also want to cheat their way around paying out what they know costs cash. Rather than hire a travel agent, or a wedding coordinator, or an admin assistant, they want the Concierge to do it all for them. And they want to hold the Concierge responsible for the things they don’t like.
Don’t even get me started on non-hotel guests trying to pump me for my resources. Oh yeah, it happens every day. “Hi, I’m calling b/c my wife and I have our 15 wedding anniversary coming up, can you help us get into Spice Market?” “Sure, that would be my pleasure! What’s your room number?” “Oh we’re not staying there but we might @ some point. Anyway, we wanna go @ 8:00pm this Friday.” 
Words cannot even begin to describe how much I get calls like this.
I guess what I resent the most about this article is the notion that a GOOD Concierge gets you anything you want without question; this is a lovely approach to our work IN THEORY but it doesn’t really work like that. You can be unable to deliver a lot of things and STILL be an amazing Concierge. It’s about the presentation, the style and charm in which you assist and enhance someone’s hotel experience — not about the hook-up’s you handed out. I once had a hotel guest stay with us for over a month while he organzing a cross-country move to New York. I helped him get his damn life together, man. Found him a broker, advised him on neighborhoods, arranged meetings with interior designers, even setup his cable, cell phone, and security plans. If I hadn’t gone beyond, if hadn’t done any of those things — if all I’d done was get him a few great dinner reservations and recommend a few Broadway shows — I STILL would have been a great and helpful Concierge. But I went beyond that and turned his world OUT. And you know what he gave me when he left? A “Thanks for your help, dude”. No tip, thank-you note, no kind word about me to my manager. Wanna know why? b/c he probably read an article somewhere about how hotel Concierges do nothing but perform miracles for free.
“A guest will never, ever understand what goes on behind their request,” says one Concierge, who trained to be an actor before stage fright caused him to rethink his career. “All they get is it’s served on a silver platter,” he says.
Damn right. And that’s the most honest thing the article says.
Don’t Try Me On
October 5th, 2005 / 2 comments »I just watched an episode of Sex & the City where each of the girls manage to come off completely unlikeable. Miranda uses a lesbian to get ahead with her boss @ work cuz it makes her come off as cosmopolitan and edgy — then once the night is over and they get through dinner, she randomly kisses the woman just to see if she’s into it, like the lesbian is just some whore she rented for the evening. She kisses her, backs off and goes, “Yeah, I’m definately straight” and then straightup ignores her. And we’re supposed to giggle like it’s funny. Then Samantha gets drunk and seduces the lonely doorman of Charlotte’s building, and he’s just so lonely and desperate for contact that he falls for her… which isn’t really unlike Samantha, but Charlotte totally acts disgusted by him and becomes flat-out RUDE when he’s like, “Your friend never called me back.” She like, scoffs and rolls her eyes. WHAT THE FUCK?! How do you do that to a person who stands there and opens doors for you every day? Carrie blew them all out of the water by not only dating a nice guy she was 100% NOT interested in, but later telling him to his face (with no shame) that she was only trying him on to see if he fit “… and you just don’t fit me. Sorry.” I swear, these fucking women. I like the show, but the women strike such a nerve in me sometimes. This fantasy land they live in where they’re these sassy, unappreciated, unrealized Gems of Manhattan who just can’t manage to find someone who worships and amuses them. Also, do you notice how the men they date are always these financially stable and professionally accomplished assholes? This is what kills me the most. Miranda was dating Troy, a creative director at a top ad agency who had just won a Coca-Cola account and closed escrow on a house in the Hamptons. I wanted to hear that Miranda was dating James, a totally nice and genuine guy who attended night classes @ a Brooklyn technical school, worked a non-salaried, non-management-level retail job on weekends, and had a nonglamorous 4th floor walkup in East Harlem… that he shared with a roommate. That’s the kind of man I can get behind for one of these bitches.
Work has been consuming me lately. I hands-down love it there but the newness has worn off and it’s a real JOB most of the time now, with frustrations and headaches and, at time, interoffice tension. I probably shouldn’t talk about this on here, but I just had my 90 day review and it left me somewhat disgruntled. For the past 3 months I’ve just been hearing about how amazing and wonderful they think I am, how I’ve just blown them away. Then I look @ my review on paper the other day and WOOSH, all the hype is gone and I seem to come off as… well, a really good hire but not the STAR hire I was being touted to be. Not the Star Concierge I know I prove myself to be. Despite the literal FLOOD of positive guest comments, emails to the corporate office, and thank-you notes that have been written about me, about 80% of my review rounds me down to “meeting expectations”. The only points on which I “exceed expectations” are things that have nothing to do with my actual skills, stuff like, how GREAT I interact with my colleagues and with hotel guests. I mean, that’s nice but that’s stuff anyone can fake. I was hoping they’d be wow’d by how efficient I am and the speed of my results and by how creative I approach problem-solving. Whatever, it’s only been 3 months. Maybe I’m just buggin cuz I’m bored. All in all, the review went great. I’m officially a full time associate with full benefits, health coverage, and all the perky trimmings I’m not supposed to advertise! That’s definately something to smile about. It’s felt weird being in limbo.
Oh, I saw them again today! AGAIN. They were running across 14th Street, just sprinting and sweating and barely wearing those little blue shorts. I love living here.
A special howdy to the new readers visiting from PrincessMelissa.com. It seems everyone’s favorite chair-thrower is finally figuring out HTML code and got her linking shit together — all those hours of coaching her through it over AIM is finally paying off (“Ok, Melissa, type A then press space then type R E F— ” “I CAN’T DO IT!” “Yes, you can.” “IT’S TOO COMPLICATED!” “Dude, just cut and paste from that email I sent y—” “I HATE THE INTERNET! THIS SHIT IS FUCKED UP!”). Anyway, you guys have been piling in and sending lots of emails and shit. Thanks, I’m glad you enjoy the site! Her last entry, btw? adorable. I host love for that 3 foot ho and her brand loyalty. I’m the same way. Plus, anyone willing to spend a precious Friday night huddled up on my futon watching shitty TV with me and my dog (we three agree, btw, that the overconfidant ugly girl on Real World Austin needs to die) while the rest of the cool world is outside moving and shaking around? and has FUN doing it? that’s a fool I can co-sign.
While I’m on this though, I’m gonna pass on the linklove: meet my friend Kev. We went to school together, he dropped out halfway through the process and ended up getting more work than all the people who dared to look down on him. When I was a steady little film/tv actor, Kev was working the shit out of international tours, and between the two of us we decided that stardom would just spontaneously happen. Our agreement was that whoever made it first would pull the other one into the spotlight (ala Ben & Matt) and we’d buy this bigass apartment building on Lafyette and Astor Place and just live there forever. Alas, I sold him out when the acting passion flickered out of my eyes, and he sold me out when he moved his ass out to L.A. But we’re still in touch. He’s currently making a shitload of money touring with Mama Mia (and sleeping his way through most of the midwest in process) so he’s got this professional site going. Go sign his guestbook when you get time, it gets lonely on tour and I’m sure he’d love your feedback.
Proof that the devil is out there: Katie Holmes is pregnant with Tom Cruise’s baby. That child is going to be the anti-christ. It’s in there right now, gestating, jumping up and down, screaming “I LOVE this womb! Wooo!”, and probably plotting how to take over the world. It’s a sick kind of wicked, ya’ll. What has Katie gotten herself into? She should’ve stuck with her Joey Potter schtick, cuz shit man, now she’s doomed to damnation. I’m thinking even Jesus won’t wanna take her with him when he comes for the rest of us. Do you see what happens when you leave the Creek, Kaite? Do you see?!