Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Welcome to.....ALL MY ADVENTURES

I'm trying out a couple of my journal entries from tours past and present. Let me know your thoughts.



4:30am
RIIIIING!!!
“Hhhhello?”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Um, do you have any black guys in your party?”
“uh…yes.”
“Well one of them is in the hall way….asleep….and naked.”
[insert opener]

How does one resolve these situations? By leaping up with a video camera of course to get it all on film, something to laugh about on the bus later. Something to roast marshmallows to and drink Heineken Darks in the middle of Europe to. I don’t know. Something funny. The elevator opens on floor 3 and that’s when the smell hits me. Suddenly, this doesn’t seem so funny any more. There is a security guard standing just outside of the suite area…staring down, gripping his Billy club. BILLY CLUB? This Midwest mutha fu…..I pick up my speed and focus on what the security guard is focusing on….a grown man, fetal position, drooling into a puddle of vomit and….oh dear God no…is that? FECES? Jesus Mother of Mary.
“I am so sorry sir. Is housekeeping around?”
“They’re not going to clean THAT.”
“Well if I could procure a bucket and some Pine-sol I could help…but you’re going to have to help me a out a bit here…really. Stop ogling and MOVE.” Fucking rent-a-cops.
My sound man drags him into the room. I run bath water. He chooses to leap into his bed with vomit and feces, his own, on his feet. He’s moaning loudly. I’m pouring water onto the floor trying my hardest not to throw up and/or jump off of the Sheraton balcony because I have a Masters Degree and I’m cleaning up a 30 year olds shit.

I call down to the front desk.
“Hello, I need a bucket. Someone is sick.”
“Yes, ve aer all sick.” Smart ass Indian.
“Yeah, well do you want it in the hallway all night or do you want to help me find something to clean it with.”
“It ees 5 oclock een zee morning….housekeeping duz not show up until seex oclock.”
“Fine then I’ll go back to bed.”
“WAIT! I vill bring to you bucket.” Fuck.

SO to keep under raps that our lead “rapper” has mistaken the common hallway for his suite bathroom, I must endure the wrath of shit duty. I’m too nice to wake anyone, particularly since I don’t want anyone, not even group members, to know. His new name would be “Shitty Wonder” or “Sponge Bob Shit Pants” or “Shit E. Ricardo”…then he’d be mad, he’d start firing people, I wouldn’t be able to pay my mortgage….etc. Shit happens, right?

Shit clean, back to the lobby to drop off the bucket. The first car of the morning for the first group is standing by. The New Yorkers are ready to go. One hour later will be the Arizonans and then the Angelinos. I don’t think Shit Boy (see, I’m even starting) will be up by then. I see the others off, thank them for a great tour and see you in 2 weeks! I stagger, red-eyed and nose fried back into bed and wait.

I tell my assistant of the evenings “goings on”. She calls his room. Of course he has missed his flight, but we knew that. We were just going to wait until Frankenshit arose and would put him on the next flight back to LA.
He doesn’t answer.
My assistant goes to the room to bang on the door.
Still no answer.
“Tina!! What are we gonna do? What if he’s dead?” She’s getting nervous.
“We’d sell 3 million records?”
Okay, bad joke. I calm her down and tell her to wait for him to come out of his drunken slumber, but be ready -- he’s going to want to get the hell out of there fast. I had him scheduled on the next 3 flights, the airport is 20 minutes away.
We wait another 45 minutes. Check out is in about 30 minutes. We have to wake him. Shit, now I have to call front desk. I wonder how fast the news spread through the staff? The best thing to do would be to get him out of here, through the service entrance.
“Security please. Yeah, I’m gonna need for someone to let me into suite 1708. We believe someone is passed out in there and isn’t hearing the alarm. He won’t be out by check out if we don’t get him out. Can you help us please, Sir?”
“1708?”
Here come the jokes.
“Yes. 1708.”
Pause. “We’ll be right there.”
We’ll? What were they sending? A fucking Shit Calvary?

My assistant stands by and Security opens the door. He’s awake.
“I thought you were the maids again. They keep knocking on my door.”
“No Dude, that was me. It’s almost noon.”
“I missed my flight?!”
“Yes, you were passed out and you’re fucked up. Look at yourself.”
“I ate in the bed?”
“Ate in the bed?”
“Yeah, that’s jelly in the bed.”
“No Dude, that’s SHIT in the bed. YOUR shit.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. And it was a big deal and the whole fucking hotel knows. Get your shit and let’s get out of here.”
“Somebody must have put something in my drink.”

That or the whole bottle of Patron Silver you drank after the show. The 4 other drinks you had at the after party, or the cold fries. Yes, that or a Mickey. Let’s say, “mickey”.

“Midwest-towners thought to have slipped Mickey into rap stars drink while at reggae night at local undisclosed bar.”

That’s about as likely as George Clooney calling me to really take me away and not invite me to invite them to play at his 45th birthday party. Pro Hoes (our term for athlete groupies) have it so much better.

And what should I say to him? Anything? Since I am his mother, sister, best friend, representative of all baby’s mommas and such?

I see him off and promise never to bring me or my kind to that hotel EVER again.

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