At Home With The Hooks…

After a brutally long day consisting of collecting, tagging, sorting and delivering 241 rooms worth of banker luggage, nothing beats relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television.

Of course, in my world, “relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television” quickly becomes “relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television… until the dog shows up.”


VAMPIRELOVER:  Chelsea is so cute! Isn’t she?

ME: Yeah, sure.

VL:  You really care don’t you?

ME:  Cut me some slack, will you? Bankers are high-maintenance guests. Anyone who wants to understand why the economy is in such a state of chaos need only attend a banking conference. I’m exhausted!

VL:  And jealous.

ME:  And jealous… of someone who eats her own feces.

VL:  She doesn’t do that anymore!

ME:  So that makes it all right?

VL:  You leave Chelsea alone! She’s so cute and furry…

ME: Parts of me are cute and furry…

VL:  What’s wrong with you?

ME:  I’m a bad, bad bellman. I think I need disciplining…

She did raise her hand to me – just not in the smooth, sensual manner I was hoping for…

Marriage is a wild ride, kids…

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Random Thoughts From A Weary Bellman.

It’s early morning here in God’s favorite reservoir, Niagara Falls, and the hotel lobby is as desolate as Kris Jenner’s soul.

Bu that’s going to change soon. In an instant, the lobby will be filled with travelers, bus passengers, overweight bus drivers, wound-tighter-than-a-virgin-who-has-just-been-told-she’s-the-guest-of-honor-at-a-prison-rodeo-tour-guides, would-be lotharios, hungover bachelorettes, over-caffeinated Japanese tour guides, tornadic rugrats, frustrated housewives, disillusioned dads, sinners that would make Stephen King wet his bed, the occasional saint, corporate drones, bewildered foreigners, every variety of mammal under the sun, and of course, hookers.

Speaking of, a couple just passed my desk. She was a hooker, dressed to the tens with an outfit that wasn’t painted on… it was permanently fused to her milky flesh (though I’m sure it could be removed in a nanosecond). He definitely wasn’t a hooker, not with a gut that could only come from decades of consuming backyard barbecue, Saturday night hockey game beers, and far too many cigarettes. She looked young enough to be his daughter’s babysitter – which was probably the point. He was old enough to be her parole officer. They were the stereotypical modern-day “How the Hell did he ever land her?” couple.

The answer, of course, lies in the power of cold, hard cash. Many of the mismatched couples I encounter are living a dream. The girls are Sasha Grey in The Girlfriend Experience and the guys simply don’t have enough blood in their brains to land a non-professional companion, and so they hire one. it’s a win/win situation, I suppose.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, inquisitive readers, and yes, I’m happy to help. Here now, are a few ways to spot a prostitute/escort who is being paid to deliver the “Girlfriend Experience”.

1)  She’s wearing a change-maker on her belt.

2)  Her name is Candy. (Simultaneously the worst and most popular hooker name of all.)

3)  All her outfits are Velcro.

4)  She’s adept at negotiating her way through a crowded hotel lobby with a mattress strapped to her back.

5)  Makes knee pads work with any outfit.

6)  Smells of deception, regret, satisfaction, and hard-earned wealth.  (Which, I imagine is how Kim Kardashian smells.)

7)  Calls her “boyfriend” names like “Honey”, “Pookie”, “Sweetums”… anything other than his actual name which she’s incapable of remembering anyway. Not that he cares.

8)  She’s willing to overlook any transgression her temporary partner is capable of.  (Money is a great relationship tool, kids.)

9)  Spider-Man envies her pliability.

10)  Her eyes are as empty as my pockets currently are, her stare is as vacant as Rob Ford’s consciousness (I realize he’ sill but I’m not letting him off the hook, so to speak), and she really doesn’t care where she is, what’s she’s doing (as long as she’s being paid to do it) or who she’s doing it with.

Of course, you realize this all about fun, not the devaluation of young ladies who have chosen to sell their affections to the highest bidder, right? After hookers are people too.

Well, my day is about to truly begin. See you in the lobby, kids…


Check out this post from Brother Jon. He’s a good man in every way that counts, and I intend to honor him further soon. Thanks, Jon.

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Tolkien Had WW1… I Have Hookers.

I’ve certainly not been at a loss for words – or tweets – since I’ve returned from my self-imposed (sorta) exile… even during those dreaded moments of downtime.

Unfortunately, these observations land me in hot water when VampireLover scans my twitter feed…

VL:  (In a sing-songy, slightly school marmish tone) Hey, boy…

ME:  (Detecting her tone and preparing my self for a tongue-lashing of the negative variety.)   Yes, sweetie?

That never works, by the way.

VL:  I’m just looking at your Twitter, pookie, and I noticed this…

And so she pointed my tweet out to me and very carefully studied my face as I re-read it, hoping to see some sign of guilt.

ME:  Yeah.. so?

Guilt is overrated. I don’t like it so I don’t allow myself to experience it.

VL:  Hookers?

ME:  Yes, hookers. So?

VL:  You’re writing about hookers now?

ME:  I’ve always written about hookers at the hotel. Of all the things I could be doing with hookers I would think you’d be glad I’ve chosen writing.

VL:  You can’t afford to do anything else with them anyway!

ME:  That’s painfully true but I’ll never stop writing about them. They’re too fascinating. Muses come in all shapes and sizes. Just like hookers.

VL:  No to me. I’d never be interested in a hooker.

ME:  What if he looked like a vampire?

VL:  Do you really want the answer to that?

After a nanosecond of pondering.

ME:  I love you.

VL:  Yeah, yeah.. Butt Boy.

Ours is a complicated relationship.

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A Bellman’s Greatest Enemy.

After three months on the sidelines – otherwise known as “my front porch” – I’d forgotten that a bellman’s life isn’t all about racing the clock to deliver luggage, manipulating surly personalities to procure a gratuity,  dodging frisky hookers, cougars and drunken bridesmaids/bachelorettes, and expecting the unexpected… it’s also about managing your downtime, something a bellman has in abundance on given days.

Today is one such day.

And how.

The day started out with a metaphorical bang; the first sight that filled my consciousness when I arrived at work at 8 am was a stack of lists. Specifically, passenger lists – for four buses: two had been scheduled simultaneously, one was to be dealt with at 8:30 and another for 9:00. My first thought?

“By the time this wave of buses is over, I’m going to be that guy, ‘the bellman with the bad leg'”

And so I was. Still, I didn’t have a problem with the routine in general. I almost missed the frantic dash across the length of the hotel, dodging guests of all varieties and mindsets along the way, the challenge of loading twenty bags on a cart designed to hold less than half that number, the sheer fun one can derive from attempting to converse with tourists whose only grasp of the English language is derived from North American television shows, and of course, frigid, soul-sucking tour guides and crusty, slovenly bus drivers who are so filled with resentment over their life choices they literally spew venom when they holler, “Where are my bags, pal? I’ve got a schedule to keep!” Of course, “almost” is the operative word here, but you knew that, didn’t you?

Anyhoo, thanks to an overloaded schedule, the morning has come and gone in a cocaine nanosecond. However, now I’m faced with the unenviable task of burning through what remains of my shift. Wish me luck, gang. I’m going to need it; I’ve only seen one hooker all day – which is truly bizarre when you consider that the hotel is currently playing host to a corporate  conference with money to burn.

Oh well, this too shall pass.

See you in the deserted lobby, kids…

Welcome to my world, kids.

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“Follow my advice, pal, don’t knock up a stripper! She’ll give you a less-than-perfect kid!”

8:00 am: This is my first Sunday back in the trenches, kids, and so far the travelers are trickling out rather than flowing like a river of tourism madness.

Believe it or not, I’d rather have the deluge.  The Niagara Falls Barrelman Triathlon will be zooming by the hotel later today – directly in front of our valet deck exit, to be exact – and The Powers That Be expect the resulting chaos to be anything but controlled. Personally, I’m still rockin’ a wicked mellow buzz so I doubt I’ll even notice.

Let’s face it, anyone who has ever read this blog knows that Sunday mornings are the mirror image of the fall of Saigon – including the screaming Asians, the horny, drunken American soldiers and civilians, and on occasion, the explosions and helicopters.

Yeah, I realize I may get comments about that last line. Good, this blog could use a shot in the virtual arm, so so speak. I need to catch up to my buddy/arch-foe Ned Hickson, who appears to have become a blogging sensation after years of ranting and sacrificing virgins to Pagan gods or as he puts it, “hard work”.

As for me and my Sunday morning routine, I didn’t have to wait long for the “fun” to begin. A put-upon father just stumbled by my desk with his demonic spawn/child in tow. To clarify, the larvae in question was being towed – on Big Daddy’s suitcase. They made the journey through the lobby, across the valet deck, into the garage, into the elevator to the second floor, across the second floor, right to the requisite mini-van. All the while, BD slowly shook his head, no doubt searching his memory for the exact moment his life went off the rails. As for his progeny, the wee bugger just bounced up and down like a lap dancer earning her keep on a Saturday night.

Finally, they arrived at the Daddy-mobile, where Big Daddy was forced to lift his suitcase up into the van with Little Nicky still clinging on. Fortunately, I was there to assist.

“It’s a good thing morbid curiosity forced me to follow you along your perilous journey, sir.”

To his credit, Big Daddy took my stalking in stride. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame you, Boss. I’d follow the Big Jagoff with the crazy kid if I was you, too! Follow my advice, pal, don’t knock up a stripper! She’ll give you a less-than-perfect kid!”

I should have let the matter lie, but where’s the fun in that?

“Actually, I’m married so there’s no chance that’s going to happen, sir.”

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

“Hey. I’m married too, buddy! Why do you think I came here all the way from Boston? My ‘other family’ here is my little secret!”

As soon as he had finished his segment on Parking Garage Confessions, his Baby Momma appeared. My friends, I’ve seen many a stripper in my day but this piece of dance hall meat was as the top of the peeler food chain. She was the living embodiment of Stephen King’s Rose the Hat, with razor-sharp cheekbones, toned limbs that stretched to infinity and beyond, raven locks and nipples that were winning the fight against the thin white t-shirt that barely covered her made-for-sex form.

She wasted no time establishing that her inner-self matched the black, tangy, candy-coated exterior.

“I didn’t know you were getting help, honey! Did you tip him or should I give him a “little something something extra’?”

I screamed “God, no!” repeatedly in my head, but fortunately Big Daddy reached into one of his ginormous pockets and produced a crumpled five-dollar bill.

After that bit of blogging gold, I honestly felt I owed this guy a tip.

5:00 pm: I hope you found this fragment of my morning tasty, my friends. It’s currently early in the evening and the day has nearly burned to its core. I hope you enjoyed reading about my day as much as I enjoyed living it. It’s good to be back, isn’t it?

See you in the lobby, kids…

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This Post Raises An Intriguiging Question: Whatever Happened To Adrian Zmed?

I’d almost forgotten what it was like to serve a bachelorette party, post-party.


One whiff of stale alcohol, cheap perfume, sticky-sweet body odor, body spray and regret refreshed my memory instantly. Incidentally, my memory was the only thing that was refreshed in that room. Cultural convention – and Ton Hanks’ early work –  tells us that males are the master of the party meant to signify the end of one’s existence as a single entity, but trust me, the ladies are every bit as adept as their penis-wielding counterparts when it comes to rockin’ a hotel room bachelor party.

These chicks were spittin, cursin’, coughin’, belchin’ and grabbing their crotcheral areas with gusto unmatched by any male I’ve encountered in seventeen years. But as they say,  the devil is in the details. Check out this inventory of their luggage/belongings/junk:

  • Fifteen opened but unfinished bottles and boxes of various brands of ale, mineral spirits, wine and battery acid.
  • Eight cans of ozone devastating hair spray.
  • Various bachelorette signs and ribbons.
  • Several inflatable male members.
  • A funnel with a plastic penis attached to the spout. (Feel free to shudder. I did.)
  • Two vibrating duffel bags.
  • Six open plastic bags filled to capacity with handcuffs, a whip, fuzzy blindfolds and everything one would need to film a Vivid Video production of Where The Boys Aren’t #20. (To be clear, I’m entirely uncertain of the numbering of that particular franchise; it’s been some time since I’ve had to avail myself of such self-pleasuring aids.)
  • One clear plastic bag filled with folded panties. (No, I have no context for you; I merely chronicle these events.)

And finally,

  • The largest motorized dildo I’ve ever seen. (Seriously, this thing should have come with a waiver, a gallon of ointment, a Bible with which to pray for the safety of your vagina…  and defibrillator paddles.)
  • And no tip.

After a summer of inactivity it was nice to challenge myself with the task of loading all this junk plus actual luggage onto a cart, but I handled the task like a hospitality trooper. As for not receiving a gratuity, I’m still rockin’ a Zen-like buzz from my time off so I wasn’t even phased. This time.

See you in the lobby, kids…


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What I Did After My Summer Vacation, By The Hook.

After several failed attempts to begin this post I have decided to simply hit the ground running.

Actually “running” isn’t accurate at all; my leg still isn’t Olympic material. The good thing is… it never was. And now, my friends, onto my first virtual report from the “field”, so to speak. The bad news? Every guest I served was decent, kind, somewhat generous… and completely unworthy for one of my usual rants.


Not quite.

I every guest I served was generic. However, let’s take a look at some of the guests/individuals I observed throughout the day, shall we? Here are some of the best snippets of information I absorbed during my return to duty.

“What fresh hell is this?”

(Actually, that one was me, reacting to the hotel’s latest security measure, a key-swipe system that refused to acknowledge me as I slid my card between it’s cold, unfeeling folds. Incidentally, I had a girlfriend like that once.)

“Yeah, I let him do it. But I charged him extra. After all, someone had to pay for my ointment!”

(Yeah, I have to admit, I missed the hookers and their wonderful ways while conversing on cell phones in elevators.)

“I still don’t think its fair for them to charge us for two beds when we’re only going to play ‘nurse and escaped convict’ in one!”

(For the record, she wasn’t a hooker, she merely played one in real life.)

“WHAT! You’re pregnant? How is that possible? Yeah… but… no one gets pregnant from the kind of sex we have!”

(Apparently, he was quite incorrect – and hookers aren’t the only ones who need to lower their voices while engaging in elevated cell phone conversations.)

“I love this city! I love the awesome majesty of nature in water form! I love the wonderfully warm people! I love the casino! I love the view from our room! I even love the drug-addled hooker who grabbed your crotch while hugging you at the casino, honey!”

(As Robert Plant would say, that’s a whole lotta love.)

“Let’s never go back home, sweetie!  The Hell with the kids! The little tyrants can fend for themselves, right? I mean, it’s bad enough they destroyed my vagina, do they have to destroy what’s left of my life too? This was some of the best uninterrupted sex we’ve had in ten years! Why should we spoil everything by going back to that war zone we don’t even own yet?”

(There’s nothing like a mother’s love, is there? His response was even better, especially since he knew I was walking right behind them)

“Well, dear, they’ll track us down eventually. Besides, as far as the interrupted sex goes, I kind of like the thrill of knowing the kids could walk in at any moment! What else do we have going for us at home?”

(I honestly don’t know what to say about this. Neither did she, to be honest. She picked a real winner, right?)

And that’s all I have for now, kids. I realize these mere snippets are frustrating to absorb without context, but I am a mere fly on the wall. And the fly must keep moving lest he be swatted.

See you in the lobby, folks. So be careful what you say, I’m always listening…

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