This is Phil.

He’s our gay Archbishop neighbor who happens to appear at our window once-in-a-while, as shown in the pic..

I KNOW, huh? He scares the cat.

I’m not a judgmental person. This is because  I’m pretty messed up myself in more than a lot of ways, and I’ve had people poke fun at me, so I don’t poke fun at Phil.

Much.

I DID put him on BlogTV – the above shot is a still from the live video feed. He walked up while I was testing out my BlogTV account by doing a live broadcast with about 2-3 people in the chat room looking at me. I turned the web cam to the window and got up to about 50 people, most of whom delighted in making all kinds of disparaging remarks about poor Phil, who didn’t know he was on. I don’t know if that’s legal and it may be  ethically questionable, but it sure was fun.

You can see the videos here.

Phil has got me to thinking about social mores recently, and what’s acceptable as opposed to what’s not, and if not, WHY not, and all that kind of heavy stuff. Oh, he didn’t bring the subject up – he just mostly talks about gay issues, politics and gay issues in politics. I got to thinking about it because most people can’t stand him, so I started asking myself, “Okay, what is it about this guy that makes him so creepy?”

I mean, he doesn’t walk around naked – only mostly naked, as pictured – and he doesn’t give any inclination toward anything that would make you want to hide your children when he comes around, yet I’d bet most of you would.

But a lot of people in the chat room started making all kinds of obscene remarks about Phil because he looks and talks funny. I kicked a lot of them out, as did my pal Katharine, who I gave OP privileges for that purpose.

Why do people get that way? Is it the anonymity of the Internet? Do I even have to ask that? Because, you know, if someone were invited into my apartment and I gave them a beer and they carried on like that, all foul-mouthed, obscene and critical of my neighbors, I’d kick their ass out. Even if they were being critical of Archbishop Phil, which is really easy to do.

Granted, I’d much rather have someone like Taylor Swift come to my window and sing pretty songs to me on her guitar. That would be cool.

But even then it’s possible I’d get irritated with Taylor Swift if she came to the window frequently and was always like, “Hey Rhodester, I’m writing a new song and I want to play it for you!” when I’m in the middle of something, which is what Phil does only instead of playing songs he asks me if I think any of the Osmonds are secretly gay and he recites stats that support his belief that over 80% of sailors on our modern Navy ships are gay and stuff like that.

By the way, I wondered what it would look like if Taylor Swift came to my window all of the time, since I was talking about it, and I came up with this..

I bet I’d get a whole lot more than 50 people in the chat room.

But, no matter.. it’s Archbishop Phil who comes to the window and not the lovely Miss Swift, so I’m left to deal with that for what it is. I’ll start by answering some questions you may have about him, which I base on the questions some of the people in the chat room asked the day he was on the live video..

1. Is he REALLY an Archbishop?

YES. Don’t call him “Bishop,” or he will correct you.. every time. He said that he has Bishops “under him” and I said “I’ll bet” which sounded kind of snarky, but I’m not sure he picked up on that.

2. What church is he with?

The Independent Apostolic Church of Something Or Other, which I’ve never been clear on. I said, “I’ll BET it’s independent.” He picked up on that.

3. You have a church like that in Palm Springs?

I don’t know.. probably. But he’s here on a two year “sabbatical” and can normally be found standing at his neighbor’s window in the UK.

4. So he’s openly gay? and an Archbishop?

YES, dagnabbit.. we covered that. Evidently that’s allowed in his church and he says he has women Bishops “under him,” which takes away from my snarky remark in #1 (since he’s not into women) and also shows that his church is just a tad more than liberal.

5. Why would an Archbishop, gay or not, walk around mostly naked?

We’re in Palm Springs and there’s a pool behind Phil that you can’t see because of my lousy web cam. It’s like a thousand degrees here during the summer, and he enjoys a refreshing  dip like anyone else. Also, he sometimes wears a black tunic and sometimes a red tunic, both with a clerical collar, but not in the pool, which would just be weird.

6. He lets you call him “Phil?”

No, he requested that I call him “Your Grace” but I think he reconsidered when I shot coffee out of my nose.

7. Does he like the music you play?

No, he calls it “The Devil’s Music” (I was playing an alt-rock playlist one day when he walked up, and that’s what he said.) I asked him how it is that he can have young men over to give them blow jobs but he finds my music to be morally reprehensible. Yes, I really did ask him that. I keep saying things like that to him, yet he keeps coming back.

Honestly, I wouldn’t say that kind of thing to Taylor Swift.

If you have any more questions you may leave them in the comments below, but just keep in mind that I’m not a Phil expert because I don’t live with him or anything like that, and I don’t even know which apartment he’s in – although I think it’s the one on the left.

THE FAR LEFT.

It probably goes without saying that Archbishop Phil is an unusual guy, but in a way I’m glad he comes up to my window because I agree wholeheartedly with Nietzsche, who said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Yesterday morning, Phil came up to our window while we were still in bed sleeping, and with the blinds closed to within about 4 inches of the window sill, he shouted into our nice, quiet apartment, “Hey did you guys catch last night’s Jon Stewart?”

He then proceeded to tell us about it, even though we hadn’t answered him.

]]> http://rhodester.net/neighbors/feed 8 http://rhodester.net/dems-good-eatin http://rhodester.net/dems-good-eatin#comments Wed, 12 May 2010 07:06:00 +0000 David Rhodes http://rhodester.net/dems-good-eatin

photo by by clarkk on Flickr

Tommy the homeless guy got kicked out of Starbucks.

He was never actually in Starbucks to begin with, he was on the huge patio outside, but I guess his salty language got to be too much for some people.  They complained to the management and the management ousted him faster than a trash can tumbling down the street in a gale force wind.

I’d only spoken with him once before — it was while waiting for a bus downtown and, having decided to bide the time on that particular patio on a busy Saturday afternoon, I found nowhere else to sit but at the table next to his.

I thought, “Well this guy is kind of wacky, but maybe it’ll be interesting,” so I sat down in anticipation that he’d strike up a conversation, which he did after I’d waited approximately 2.4 seconds.

“Nice fuckin’ DAY, eh?” said he.

I’ll warn you now, he got booted because of his frequent use of the F word, and when I quote someone, I quote them — I don’t hold back. It’s not my practice to write that way, but if they said it, they said it. I don’t water down anything but my Starbucks house brew because it’s so damn BITTER.

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome,” I said. “I’m glad it’s finally cooled down.” (This happened in Palm Springs, where it’s 78 degrees on Christmas day).

“You evah eat gaytuh?”

photo by The Suss-man (Mike) on Flickr

It took me a second to recover from the abrupt conversational left turn and to figure out that “gaytuh” was “gator.” He went on to explain that he was from “Floriduh, where the gaytuhs is good eatin.”

I said, “No, I don’t think I’ve ever had gator.. unless I thought it was chicken or something and someone was playing a joke on me.”

That was a joke in itself and I admit it was lame, but I quickly found out that Tommy the homeless guy had left his sense of humor behind a dumpster somewhere, so it didn’t really matter. He didn’t laugh at anything I said during the entire conversation, which was like hanging out with my high school gym coach all over again, except Tommy didn’t smell like Old Spice.

I missed my old gym teacher.

“Oh man, if you eatin gaytuh you KNOW it! That’s some good eatin theyuh. Dey’s hard ta kill too, but if ya git um unawayus (unawares) yu kin sink dat knife in and slit em from da throat all da way down to da nuts and all dat gut spills out and dey is dead fastuh dan you can count tuh ten.”

I thought it funny that you never hear tough guys talk about bunny rabbits that way. “Dems good eatin if’n you can sneak up behind one and kill it dead.” It’s always crocs, gaytuhs or beahs.

I wanted to ask him if gators really had nuts and I was really curious how you sneak up behind one and catch it unawares, but I didn’t get a chance to ask him about that because a pretty girl walked out of the store right then.

He abruptly shut up and watched her intently as she crossed the street, latte in hand, and ducked into the art gallery on the opposite corner. This inspired another vivid description from him, but it had nothing to do with reptiles – it was a loud, brash and awfully uninhibited rant about what he’d like to do to that young lady should he ever catch her in a back alley.

photo by Stuck In Customs on Flickr

I was growing increasingly thankful that Mrs. Rhodester wasn’t with me, not that she’d be shocked or anything, but for her own safety and mine.  If he tried to harm her I’d have to try and stop him — I say try, because Tommy weighs over 300 pounds and stands about 6’4”. He’s a huge, smelly maniac with women and reptile issues.

He bragged about this “bodacious fucking hutch” he’d built over by the medical center about three miles “down yonder,” and how much he missed being able to crawl into it and just get away from civilization because he’d made it virtually invisible, being behind the dumpster the way it was.

His impromptu homestead came to a quick end one day when some staffers from the medical center tried to toss medical waste into the dumpster but missed, so it all landed on him instead. He said he stormed into the lobby and threatened to grab the little woman behind the desk and “string her up by her boobies,” which is the point where security came along and informed him that police were on the way.

He seemed to actually be surprised by this. A huge, smelly homeless guy covered in medical waste bursts into the lobby and threatens to string up the receptionist behind the counter, and he’s surprised when they call the cops on him.

I didn’t say he was bright.

Of course, this is the same guy who was describing his dumpster estate as if it were a mansion in Monte Carlo.

As I approached the Starbucks patio yesterday, he was standing on the public sidewalk just outside of the waist-high railing, gazing sadly at the plastic chair he’d formerly occupied day after day.

“How ‘bout dem gaytuhs, huh? Dem’s good eatin!” I said, as I came up behind him.

He turned and looked at me with the same expression he must have worn on his face when the cops destroyed his beloved dumpster hutch months earlier.

“Dey went and kicked me outta heah man, now wheah I’m gonna go, huh?”

He looked like he was going to cry. I was tempted to invite him to stay with us, but then I pictured what Mrs. Rhodester would look like wrapped up in plastic bags and stuffed in a freezer, and changed my mind.

“Sorry to hear that, Tommy. You can’t just hang out at that Coffee Bean patio across the street?”

“Naw man, dat bitch ovuh dere don’t like me none. Said I called her a bitch to her face one day.”

“Did you?”

“Hell ya,man.. she didn’t let me use da bathroom ta wash up in, dat bitch. But now dat I called her dat she don’t let me in dere at all and I can’t even go neah da place. Woman is stuck up if ya ask me.”

I hadn’t asked him that.

I offered to get him something from the Starbucks, because I’m just friendly like that and I don’t judge anyone and I really don’t want him to sit on me, but he declined and said he was “jist gonna move on, maybe to anuthuh town where da bitches ain’t so stuck up and shit.”

I wished him well. Then I went in and ordered an iced passion tea, which I took back out to the patio and enjoyed along with a nice, peaceful solitude.

A very quiet and peaceful solitude, free of gators.

It was lovely.

Those lovable scamps, Rhodester & Coffeesister

Rhodester and coffeesister, a wacky couple temporarily based in Palm Springs California, have announced that they are tossing caution to the wind by heading north to San Francisco shortly and “starting a new life.”

Rhodester, also known as “Dave,” hopes to find a job there after having spent the last year unsuccessfully soliciting local employers for a position.

As a victim of a horrible recession that has racked the country, he has grown weary of submitting copies of his resumè only to have them sent back marked up by red felt-tip pens.

“It’s awful,” he stated, during a Skype interview with himself. “It’s like I don’t exist. If it has to be that way, I’d rather not exist in San Francisco, where there are more things to do while not existing. It’s boring here.”

Coffeesister, also known as “Dorian,”  nodded adamantly in agreement. “We don’t have a car,” she added. “What public bus system stops running at nine at night and only goes up and down in a straight line? The stupid bus system here in Palm Springs, that’s what! Where are the subway trains? Where are the cable cars? Where are the buses that criss-cross the city at all hours? In San Francisco, that’s where!”

Rhodester chuckled at her tendency to ask a question and then answer it herself before anyone else could.

When asked what job experience he could bring to a position should he be offered one, Rhodester looked thoughtful and whimsical before answering with an assured tone that both comforted and affirmed..

“I’ve done so much. SO much! I don’t know where to begin.”

We told him to take all the time he needed and think it over.

“Well, there’s my most recent position as hotel security.. I was only thrown into the pool once and I almost never threw any guests out hotel windows while breaking up wild room parties. I learned how to do the front desk stuff, park cars in valet and take bags to rooms on bell carts.

Before that I was a Barista in a Starbucks so I know how to make all kinds of awesome coffee drinks and I’ve also driven a taxi, but I don’t want to do that in San Francisco because I want to be robbed only once in a while and not every night.”

We urged Rhodester not to digress.

“Okay then, well.. I’ve worked in radio too. It’s been a long time though. I actually spun vinyl records and made like a DJ. I did a lot of audio production in those days on stuff called ‘tape,’ where we’d splice it with things called ‘razor blades.’ We did this in caves and then we’d go slay a mastodon for lunch.”

We asked Rhodester if he had any useful experience that applies to today’s job market.

“Um, I used to be a mime at SeaWorld. I made people laugh unless they were too cool to laugh at a mime, but I always knew they were laughing on the inside. My favorite bit was to scare the piss out of teenage girls by pretending to be a statue, then lunging at them when they got real close to try and figure out if I was real.”

We decided to focus our attention on coffeesister. “Why do you want to move to San Francisco?” we asked, as if it were any of our business. “Why not Portland or Eugene or San Diego?” (For the record, she snorted coffee out her nose when we said Eugene.)

“My family is closer to San Francisco than they are to Palm Springs. Nobody is close to Palm Springs.. just aliens and I’m tired of having to pull out those annoying implants after going for a walk in the desert at night.”

We decided to take a chance and turn our attention back to Rhodester again. “We understand you’re leaving in a few days, with a cargo van full of your stuff. Do you have a place to stay in the city yet?”

“What fun would THAT be?” he asked with a whimsical smirk. “We’re going to just wing-it. You know.. go up there and see what happens. A year from now we may be taking Champagne baths in one of the claw-footed antique tubs in one of the numerous bathrooms of our Nob Hill mansion, or we may be peeing in a dark corner of a parking garage in the Mission district as we hustle change from terrified passers-by next to an adult emporium. We don’t know what the future holds, but we’re kind of hoping for something along the lines of the claw-footed tub.”

Coffeesister interjected, “I feel compelled to point out that something in-between would be totally okay with us. Like, not necessarily a mansion on Nob Hill but a room anywhere in the city, with a regular tub without any feet at all, as long as it holds warm water. He doesn’t even like Champagne that much.. he was just kidding. We both like beer though, but don’t need to take a bath in it.”

We asked Rhodester if he’d be open to a job or place to stay, should anyone in San Francisco happen to read this all the way through.

“Sure!” he said, while standing up to comb doughnut crumbs from his chest hair. “I’m not really expecting anything, so it’d be quite a surprise if someone were to EMAIL ME or comment below, offering a job or a room to rent for a while.”

He returned the comb to his pocket after giving it a lingering sniff, then continued..

“Suggestions would be welcome too, like where we can get really nice claw-footed tubs or which alleys in the Mission district are best for peeing in, depending on how things go.”

Startracker Florian Boyd

I know this guy here in Palm Springs named Florian, who’s somewhat of an amateur astronomy buff. He’s the guy you want to go to when you have questions about planets, stars and other things floating around in the night sky.

There’s also a mountain west of Palm Springs called Mt. San Jacinto, and near the top of it is this bright light that emanates from the Palm Springs Aerial Tram Station.

You can see it every night, and you can see the tiny little light of the tram car going up and down the side of the mountain early in the evening after it’s gotten dark and before they shut the tram down.

Now, this will give you an idea of how terrible I am at astronomy and how good Florian is. We moved here a couple of years ago, and I noticed this other bright light hanging in the sky over the tram station, but it was too high up to be on a tower or something, and it would move, slowly creeping along until it would go down behind the mountain.

I thought at first it was a UFO because I’d heard about them being all over the place out here in the desert, but this light was always in the same place every night at around the same time and it’d go off in the same direction, taking the same amount of time to descend. So obviously, it wasn’t a UFO.. it was some kind of weather balloon they had tethered to a really long line and they’d reel it in slowly every night to get the barometric pressure changes.

I was pretty sure that’s what it was, but I thought I’d ask Florian about it anyway.

“Oh, that? That’s the planet Venus.”

Man, he’s good.

So Florian became my go-to guy for all things astronomical, which meant that it was all that much more important I be out in the parking lot last Sunday night as the space shuttle Endeavor approached.

“It’ll be coming from the north,” he said. “It’ll be bright too, and moving fast.”

I took coffeesister with me and, as we stood out in the parking lot looking toward the north, it appeared right on schedule. It streaked across the sky, too slow to be a meteor and too fast to be an airplane, disappearing before it reached the horizon because the sun stopped reflecting off of it as it entered the earth’s shadow.

It was coupled with the international space station, although we couldn’t really tell since they were both so far away.

We saw them pass over the following night too, but the real show was on Tuesday evening.

They come around a whole bunch of times – about fifteen times a day, actually. But we’re in this little window every 24 hours here in the southern California desert where it’s dark enough to see them while at the same time, the sun is still reflecting on them because they haven’t entered the earth’s shadow yet.

Florian said that on Tuesday, the shuttle will be zooming along with the space station close behind it because they would have separated a few hours earlier, and then they’d both be followed by the Russian supply vessel that had been launched a few days ago, which would be lower, dimmer and about five minutes behind.

So out we went at 8:45 pm, and took up station in the vacant lot west of our apartment complex this time, because the whole thing was supposed to be over Mt. San Jacinto, where we usually have Venus but it’s the wrong time of year or something. The tram station light was there, as always, and above it came these two bright orbs, moving over the west, headed toward Mexico.

Florian had given me the URL to this tracking website earlier in the day, so I’d had it up before going out there. We’d been watching the shuttle’s progress as it moved over Argentina, where Governor Sanford was believed to have parachuted out of it before it continued on under Africa and around the back side. Just before we went out, I grabbed this screen shot..

I like the real-time statistics displayed on this site, especially the “Eccentricity” read-out. I’d install that on my profile but it’d go off the chart. The “Right Ascension of ascending node” is pretty darned helpful, as is the “Argument of perigee.” I hope Perigee wins because he has a good point.

If you know your geography, you can see southern California on this map (actually, if you don’t know your geography you can still see it, but you don’t know where it is – stay in school, kids.) The shuttle isn’t really all that close to us in this screen shot – it’s off the coast of Oregon. Yet we walked out there right after I grabbed this and there they were, the shuttle followed by the space station, zooming along over the California coast in a big hurry.

We cheered. A guy driving by in a pick-up truck gave us a weird look and I pointed to the sky, but he just shook his head and drove on. Does he care NOTHING about current events in space? Geez..

This time they stayed brightly lit until they vanished over the mountain to the south, which had something to do with the earth’s shadow plus the right ascension of the ascending node of 92.3583, which any moron knows is enough to be visible.

Coffeesister attempted a picture with her camera phone but I don’t think those things are designed to get night shots of passing space shuttles, so we’ll have to settle for this shot of the two vehicles together that was taken the night before by local resident (and oddly enough, Palm Springs Aerial Tram Operator) Ray Shobe..

photo by Ray Shobe

This will give you an idea of what I’m describing, except there’s no long tail when you see it live. Ray did a time-exposure to show how the thing clips along in a straight line, going right through palm trees and stuff.

So, maybe we didn’t get our own photo or video of it, but we still have the memory of seeing it and even though they were just two bright lights in the sky zooming along to the south, we knew what they were and that there were people on them and that we’d probably not get to see anything like this again anytime soon.

Unless they’re coming by again tonight.

I’ll have to ask Florian.

I’d forgotten just how much fun it can be when everyone complains about everything in the hotel business, but I was quickly reminded when a stern lady chewed me out while wagging her finger because guests were in the hot tub late at night and she wanted me to clear them out, claiming they were making too much noise.

I did and of course, the hot tub guests complained. One young man said, “I would never, EVER come to your house and kick you out of your hot tub!”

Another lady complained that there were too many flies in Palm Springs this year, and she wanted us to compensate her room because of it. There weren’t any flies in her room unless she’d left the door open, but there were more than usual buzzing around outdoors and some had made their way into the lobby because they got whooshed in by the sliding glass doors, which really can’t be helped. I’ve noticed that there are more flies here where I live, about three miles from the hotel, and I noticed a lot more downtown. I think it’s because the economy is currently mired in shit.

We did not comp her room, but I did assure her there was no charge for the extra flies.

On a whim yesterday, I decided to look at some of the public review forums on travel sites to see if anyone complained about the hotel online. I didn’t find many negative reviews, they were mostly positive – but it’s interesting that someone can stay at the hotel at the same time as someone else, and whereas the first person “had a wonderful time,” the second thinks the place must have been built by the Marquis de Sade while Satan himself supervised and Hitler carried the bricks.

The following reviews drive that point home. This first one is about the hotel where I work – the Hilton. I’ve copy/pasted directly from the site, so this woman’s spelling and grammar problems remain. I guess she was crying so hard her vision was blurry..

This was the worse hotel stay ever! Upon our arrival to the hotel the Valet was fighting with a guest we waited over 15min to get them to acknowledge us. The pool was overcrowded, small, and very old. The people were eating in the pool, throwing trash in there, the girls on the side were ashing there cigarettes into the pool. Upon returning to our room other guests were using our patio, and the bathtub did not fucntion prperly. The room furniture was old and and smelled like wet MOLD!! The staff was rude at the front desk when tried to alert them to these downfalls…the WORSEST HILTON hotel ever! NOt worth staying ever again…for free…and I wouldnt dare spend a DIME here!

Now, this is the kind of disgruntled guest that you can’t really do anything for. I could shoot all the employees, burn the place down and mix the corpses in with the ashes, and then bury the whole mess on the vacant lot and throw salt on it so nothing could ever grow there again, and she’d complain about the smell (the worsest smell EVER!)

I was curious about who she was, so I clicked on her username. It didn’t tell me much, but it did point me to the next review she gave, which was shortly after she reviewed the Hilton. It seems she and her partner switched over to the Andreas Hotel and she gave it a rather glowing report..

Yesterday, coffeesister and I went to downtown Palm Springs after we managed to dodge the Evil-Bank-Lady (YAY!) because they have this thing on Thursdays called a street faire, where they block off about ten blocks of the downtown area and people wander up and down looking at arts and crafts while eating really shitty food prepared in front of them by possibly not so hygienic people who are sweating in the desert heat over open grills at makeshift booths.

But we went into The Coffee Bean, partly because we really like the place, and partly because they have free wireless Internet and we love our Internet so much we just have to be online with you all even when surrounded by hordes of cool people and all those arts, crafts and sweaty food within such close proximity.

Actually, she stayed online for hours, staking out a little Coffee Bean table while I shut down my crappy laptop after a short while because it’s in such bad shape it makes you all seem fat and slow, and I know you don’t want to be like that. So I left it with her as I went outside and wandered around in the crowd. I even ate some tacos from one of those open grills and they made me sick. So yeah.

I returned to The Coffee Bean and ordered up an iced mocha to counteract the tacos, then I grabbed a chair on the outdoor patio to watch the fine young ladies endless parade of humanity shuffle by while coffeesister continued to keep you company in her dank little corner of merry isolation.

A Maltese without a Mexican

But in spite of so many fine young ladies humanities parading, I couldn’t help but notice that the old lady seated about five feet away from me had a little dog, which was a Maltese or something, and it was all fluffy and white and cute, and about the size of a fluffy white breadbox, but that’s not why I noticed it.

I noticed it because she had it all dressed up. It wasn’t all foo-foo like, with a sweater and stuff like that which would have just been animal cruelty in that heat, but instead she had.. are you ready for this? No kidding, sit down..

She had a tiny little saddle on it.

And seated on the the tiny little saddle was a tiny little Mexican in a sombrero.

But that’s not all. The fluffy white dog was wearing a matching sombrero, and.. I’m not kidding here.. sunglasses. Yeah. They were strapped around the dog’s head, and the little shit made absolutely NO EFFORT to pull off the shades, sombrero, saddle or the tiny Mexican, who I think was made out of stuffed brown socks with dinky black buttons for eyes and a mustache that had been applied with black permanent marker.

I was kind of surprised at the fluffy little dog’s easy-going ‘tude, because I used to have larger, real dogs who didn’t like me putting sunglasses on them so they’d paw them off right away. I can’t imagine what they would have done with a tiny Mexican. They’re in heaven now but that has nothing to do with me dressing them, I swear, because I never got that far. It was just a long time ago and they grew old and died.

Of course, this whole get-up on the very patient and possibly stoned little Maltese doggie was an absolute hit with anyone who walked by, particularly if they had small children with them or if they’d been drinking, and a handful of people just had to stop and get a picture. I would have gotten a picture to post here but I don’t have a camera in my cell-phone, so you’ll just have to rely on the brilliantly executed word-pictures that I paint with such flourish.

The lady kept telling everyone the dog’s name, which I’ve forgotten, so when there was a break in the humanity parade I took the opportunity to quench my curiosity and ask her the name of the little Mexican who was riding the dog. She looked at me like I must be freakin’ CRAZY, because after all.. WHAT KIND OF SANE PERSON WOULD NAME A LITTLE SOCK PUPPET, HUH?

So she just kind of shrugged and condescendingly answered, “I don’t really know, we haven’t named him” (she wanted to add, “you freakin’ TARD,” I just know she did) and, as she stooped down to adjust the dog’s sombrero I said, “Well how about Dave? That’s my name.. we could call it DAVE.”

She didn’t even look up. “Sure, Craig will be fine.. whatever you say.”

With the sombrero adjusted,  saddle pulled tight and leash all leashed up, she gathered up her things along with her precarious puppy and shuffled off to parts unknown without so much as an adios to “Craig, the mumbling maniac with the iced mocha.”

I seriously need to get a camera phone.

photo by patries71 on Flickr

While I was at The Coffee Bean in downtown Palm Springs yesterday morning, the cute counter girl was telling me about her other job at “Bath Junkie.”

“Bath Monkey?” I asked.

“No Dave, Bath JUNKIE.. it’s a shop that sells bath supplies.”

“OH!”.. I was perplexed. “Well, I suppose if it was actually called BATH MONKEY then you’d be selling soap to simians, and you’d probably have a really nice line of APE-ricot scrubs.”

I wonder why she doesn’t talk to me very much.

I go to The Coffee Bean on weekend mornings.  This is because I work the overnight shift at a nearby hotel and, when I get off at eight, I like to unwind with a nice iced medium mocha blended with no whip.  Then I catch a bus to journey the 3 miles home so that I can sit at this stupid computer in a glassy-eyed daze for a few hours before finally collapsing.

This all might change soon.  I’m trying to eat better and get more exercise.  I might ride my bike back AND forth, forgoing the bus altogether and cutting out iced medium mochas with no whip in favor of something with fewer calories.

I might take a different route — one that takes me by a Starbucks — and I might sit in there for a bit each weekend morning and just do some kind of coffee thing with no foo foo extras.

I’m just thinking about it at this point.

I like routine.  I like having the same thing.  I like making the cute counter girl roll her eyes in disbelief at bad puns.

But a Starbucks would have employees who think my puns are bad too.  They’d certainly roll their eyes, and I wouldn’t have to wait at a bus stop for ten minutes.  I’d ride free, like the wind, and soak in the sunshine while burning off those pounds.

This entire post was composed solely to get my “Bath Monkey” joke on here, but then I got kind of lost..

Go about your day now.

Sorry.

Karen and Chris, in that order

I have this friend named Chris who is marrying this girl named Karen.

I don’t know much about Karen yet, having never met her. But Chris is the only minister I know who swears like a drunken sailor, which I think is extremely cool, having once been a drunken sailor myself.

He’s also compassionate, clever, witty and wise, and he doesn’t give a damn about convention and what people think of him, nor does he behave the way they think he should.  He’s just like me and I’d venture to say that that’s why we’ve been friends for nearly 20 years.

Coffeesister knew him first.  This was back when he and his whole kooky family used to travel together as a gospel singing group in an old bus.  Chris played banjo and sang, while sister Sheryl provided rhythm on bass and brother Andrew played piano.

I’m not sure what mom and dad did. Daddy sang bass while mama sang tenor (HA!) I think, but I know sister Lorie was the main female vocalist.  She still does a solo act when not writing gospel murder mysteries.

Yes, you read right – GOSPEL MURDER MYSTERY – it’s a rather niche market.

Chris is from California but currently lives in Scotland, so we don’t see him much.  I don’t know why he lives there except that I’ve been to both Scotland AND his hometown, and if I had to choose between living in a mansion in his hometown or behind a dumpster in Scotland, I’d make sure I had enough cardboard on hand.

He’s from a central California farming community near Fresno where all the good ol’ boys gather every morning at the local McDonald’s for coffee and the whole town smells like pesticide mixed with cow shit.

This is the bible belt of California, chock full of conservative Republican farmers who hire migrant workers to pick their crops at below minimum wage, then they leave the McDonald’s after their morning bullshit sessions and tune into Rush Limbaugh in their Land Rovers and Escalades.

Some years ago, Chris went and learned himself Spanish so that he could preach to Mexicans and people in South America, but having lived in Scotland for a while now, he’s developed a lilting Scottish accent.

I’m told that when he preaches in Spanish he does so with that Scottish accent in place.  I bet it’s confusing to Mexicans, especially when the staff serves haggis tacos at the potluck afterward.

Being from a Christian Gospel singing family, Chris grew up in a very conservative, restrictive environment.  For example, he and his siblings weren’t allowed to see movies in theaters when they were kids.

I think dad was concerned that audience members from their concerts would see them standing in line to buy tickets to the movie and would think them sinners.  Never mind that the audience members would be in line too, that’s just the world Chris came from.  It explains why he’s not so concerned with appearances these days and matters of the heart matter more to him.

So it turns out he’s gone and got himself a girl.  That’s where Karen comes in.  He’s actually going to marry her, so that’s why he’s lugging her all the way to the states to meet people like us.

They’ll be arriving here in Palm Springs today and hanging out with us until Tuesday or Wednesday.  I feel kind of sorry for Karen – not because she’s marrying Chris, or that she has to hang out with me – but because she’s from Scotland, where it’s gray and dreary all the time and she’ll be here for a few days, where it’s bright and sunny and about a thousand degrees. We’ll have to constantly throw ice on her lest she melt or spontaneously combust.

It’s not like Chris has never had a girl before. He’s had more than a few, but they get all clingy and needy.  I was kind of surprised to learn that there are actually Christian stalkers, who are generally women who stalk pastor types.  They get pretty crazy.

I think what he finds attractive about Karen, besides her striking good looks, is that she doesn’t text him 300 times a day and bombard him with emails.  She actually gives him space but she draws the line at cheap hookers, thus striking a fine balance.

She’s the perfect woman.

We’re going to drink beer and tell bad jokes and stay up until five in the morning, just sighing and laughing a bit at things that happened years ago.  Chris tells me that Karen will be right there with us, laughing and telling the worst jokes of all.  I like her already.

By the way, I’ve never heard him preach.  We’re both fine with that.  Go figure.

Chris and Karen, now happily married

UPDATE – Chris and Karen have been happily married for a while now, and are currently based in Rosarito Mexico, where they have lost their accents.

photo by kevin labianco on flickr

As we plow head-on into the Labor Day Weekend here in the United States, I am reminded that I’ve been intending to do a post on hotel tipping because many of you Americans will be staying in hotels this weekend and there are some things you should probably know.

My apologies right up front to any of you hooligans who are all tanked up on beer and thought that by “hotel tipping” I meant “tipping over hotels” like the “cow tipping” they do over there in Wisconsin.

No, I’m against that sort of thing because I work at a hotel and it’s within my job description to try and prevent it (even though it’s rather easy once you know how).  So I’m afraid that in THIS post you’ll just have to read about “hotel tipping” as in “giving hotel staff money in exchange for good service.”

This is for all of you in every country, and not just Americans because we’re plowing head-on into Labor Day Weekend. You might be in a country where you’re traveling on business or you’re celebrating the day of the feast of the angry disgruntled saints or something, but hotel tipping is the same everywhere.

Well, except that it’s with different money, and you should probably never tip bread or vegetables, unless you’re staying at the Calcutta Grand Hyatt.  That’d be my first tip, if my first tip weren’t already this..

1.  Tip valets, bellmen, concierges, housekeepers, room service, bartenders, pool attendants and waiters.  Don’t tip security or managers unless his name is Rhodester.

I happen to work at a hotel that has all of that.  I work as security/manager on duty and, even though I don’t generally valet cars, take bags to rooms, do housekeeping, attend to the pool, serve food or give directions, I do all of that when the people who do that stuff go home.

This is Palm Springs, not Las Vegas — it’s basically a small town where they roll up the streets at 11:00pm.  Literally.  There are crews who go out with these huge machines and noisily ROLL THE STREETS UP every night.  It makes quite a commotion and you can’t drive anywhere after they’re done, because there are no streets.  You could walk but there’s nowhere to walk to because everything is closed up.

Here at the hotel I park cars and deliver bags and do a little housekeeping and all of that other stuff after hours.  So I know a little about tipping.

Which leads me to tip #2..

2. Don’t be an asshole.

Please, I mean.. we really don’t care.  We don’t care if you’re the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation or if you drive a Bentley, a Rolls or a Mercedes. We don’t care if you own five houses and a Learjet.

If you’re an asshole, that’s all you are.

And please stop telling us “I’ll have YOUR JOB!”  You’re just providing us with comic fodder, so that we may laugh at you and your bumbling antics later when we’re having a smoke out back.  If you don’t even know our boss’ first name then you won’t have our job, and even if you do, do you really think he’s going to go through the trouble of firing us and hiring someone new and training them because you got your panties in a snit?

Just stop saying that.  We didn’t do anything wrong, so stop bullying service staff because your day hasn’t gone the way you want it to. Days like that happen to everyone, including us the moment you checked-in.

Granted, tip #2 doesn’t have much to do with tipping, but since assholes don’t tip I thought it worth mentioning.  This is not to be confused with “you’re an asshole because you don’t tip” which isn’t necessarily true.  “Assholes don’t tip” is a singular statement that’s not interchangeable with the first statement.

So don’t worry about being thought an asshole if you don’t or can’t tip. Just be nice and you’ll be thought of as “cheap but nice” and “asshole” won’t enter into the equation.

3. Tip a couple of bucks per car, or maybe five or even twenty, and five bucks per bag, or maybe just a couple if you’re strapped.

You see, there’s no set formula.  Some people drop a twenty or a fifty on the valet if they want their car right up front, and some people just wear an appropriately thin halter top if they’re the kind of people who happen to be girls and they’re appropriately built and they’ve figured out there are almost never any girl valets.

A lady asked me the other day if she should tip when she drops her car off or picks it up.

I’ll tell you what I told her.. tip what you want, and tip when getting the car or picking it up, or not.  You’re in control, and it all depends on how attached you are to your vehicle and how much you’d like to get it back safe and sound.  See that flock of pigeons nesting on the hood of that Porsche?  HOW much did the owner tip?  Really?  Hmmm..

And yeah, those sprinklers are going to activate next to that Bentley in a few minutes. I’ll move it for him because, you know, he’s “quite generous.”

4. Yes lady, at a full service hotel such as ours, you tip the valet and THEN the bellman separately.

Stay at a Motel 6 and sluff your own bags up to your room if you don’t want to deal with this.  I’m talking to the lady I overheard in the lobby who turned to her friend and asked, “I just tipped the valet, so do I really have to tip this bellman too?”

No lady, the two bucks you gave the valet covers the bellman, the housekeeper, your room service waiter and the barkeep for when you’re down in the lounge later slamming cosmopolitans and bitching about the snooty service you get here because you DON’T FUCKING TIP EVERYONE.

5. This will be my final tip on tipping (you’re welcome) and then you can go to the beach.

Tipping is subjective, not objective.

This means that you don’t have to tip if you feel that the service given didn’t warrant it, like if the bellman passed gas in the elevator on the way up while groping your wife, or if the valet smeared chocolate on your dashboard after burning a hole in your leather seat with his stogie.

You should only tip if we provide a pleasant and helpful experience for you and leave your wife alone, but none of this “I’m a little short on cash at the moment, so I’ll leave you something at the front desk later” nonsense, because we won’t believe you.

You actually follow through on that less than five percent of the time, so just hit an ATM before you get to the hotel and break a damn twenty when you’re checking in so you can take care of everyone then and there.

Okay?  Thanks.

Alright, this concludes my helpful advice on tipping so that you’ll be all set for the Labor Day Weekend.

I hope I was of service to you, and that you enjoyed this experience, and yes, as a matter of fact I DO have a PayPal account, thank you very much!

Word Pictures From The Week

The hotel is back to normal, except that it’s “Dinah Shore Weekend” in Palm Springs, which means the place is overrun with crazy drunken lesbians, many of whom bear a close resemblance to an Abrams tank, while a few others are goddesses in flesh - most are right in between somewhere.

So, maybe the word “normal” is stretching it a bit.

RhodesTer encountered a certain number of the goddess-type swimming nude in the hotel pool at three in the  morning, and sent them to their rooms.  Later, a few others were discovered to be running nude in the hallway on the third level.

RhodesTer has decided that night duty during the Palm Springs season isn’t so bad after all and, as he related this sentiment to the night auditor, David, who’s been employed at the hotel for several years, David said, “just wait a few weeks until The White Party hits town.”

The White Party consists of thousands of gay dudes, with nigh a lesbian to be had – many of whom ALSO tend to run up and down the halls nude and go for moonlight swims sans clothing.

RhodesTer is now volunteering for day duty, but it can wait until Monday.

The hotel is also hosting a huge banquet and Palm Springs weekend for the sweet little old ladies of the VFW, most of whom are 70+ years of age.

As they shuffle down the halls with walkers and canes, the semi-nude crazy drunken lesbians zip by them, going in the opposite direction.

As RhodesTer wonders why in the heck the people in the sales office who book these groups don’t bother to check with each other on the DATES first, he keeps an eye out for the late Rod Serling, who’s bound to show up at any minute and stand in front of the camera, saying, “Two opposing worlds, put together in one hotel for the weekend.. nobody can escape and, as the worlds collide, one lone man is sent to oversee the interaction of the two.. THIS is the TWILIGHT ZONE.”

The black guy on the bus was an eclectic sort, wearing gunny sacks fashioned into pants, and beads everywhere – in his hair, all over his clothes and tied to his fingers.  He was skinny, and seemed nice – RhodesTer gave him directions, starting with which stop to disembark at and then which bus to catch to go where he was going.

The black guy at the deli in Ralph’s supermarket a few nights later was skinny, and had beads in his hair, beads in his clothing and beads tied to his fingers.

He didn’t have gunny sack pants, but his pants were made from some kind of strange, eclectic material.  His dreads frolicked over his forehead, just as they’d done when he was on the bus.

RhodesTer asked him if he’d found his destination okay a few days ago.  “What do you mean?” asked the bewildered, skinny, beaded and dreaded, eclectic black dude.

“I mean when I gave you directions on the bus the other day, did you find your way okay?” replied RhodesTer.

“Man, I don’t ride no damn public buses,” the skinny, black, eclectic, beaded and dreaded dude snarled, before paying for his purchase and storming out of the store.

His curiosity peaked, RhodesTer walked to the store window and observed the black, beaded and dreaded, eclectic skinny dude getting into a Maserati and zooming away.

RhodesTer admits that if you’ve seen ONE skinny, dreaded and beaded, eclectic black dude in strange clothing, you’ve seen them ALL.

Speaking of Ralph’s supermarket, that tiny little Italian man who bags groceries there is as sweet as can be.

His name is Guilano, or Guimo, or Guliamo, or something, and heees eeenglish eeess notta sooo gud!  and he wears a pointy ski cap ALL OF THE TIME even though he’s in Palm Springs and skis are illegal here.

Guidiamo stands about five foot nothing, and he zips from one customer to the next, happily bagging their newly acquired belongings with a big old smile, while nodding and saying “Arrivederci!” as they depart.

RhodesTer spoke with him while departing the store, as Guido was sitting out front on a break, soaking in the sunshine.  Nothing of vast importance was said, beyond stilted pleasantries exchanged with a bit of effort on the part of both parties, but RhodesTer felt that his day had been made a bit better just by being around the tiny man for even a few moments.  His enthusiasm is contagious.

RhodesTer immediately went home and defrosted a lasagna.

Speaking of defrosting, the microwave blew up the other night, right in the middle of defrosting coffeesister’s dinner, so she’s been subsisting on cheese and crackers.

RhodesTer eats at the hotel while on shift, because he’s a big shot there and has the run of the kitchen.  The oven in the RhodesTer household makes too much smoke to be useful.. it sets off the smoke alarm EVERY TIME, causing the neighborhood dogs to howl.  RhodesTer was given a new microwave oven by a hotel valet, but it hasn’t been delivered yet.

CHEEEEEESE ANDDDD CRAAAAACKERSSSSSSS

THANK GOD the lesbians are all going home today – they kept RhodesTer running on Saturday night and, as fond as he is of the delightful young ladies, he won’t miss them one itty bitty bit.

He almost had to evict a few of them, which would have been very sad, but they quieted down and behaved themselves by the time the cops showed up, so they got to enjoy breakfast in bed after all.

Lucky lesbians!

Word Pictures From The Week

Coffeesister pours over a POTTERY BARN catalog with a look of puzzlement, as she sits in the Coffee Bean at the local supermarket.

She never knew there were so many different shades of beige which can be applied to furniture, bedding and lamps. She poignantly points out to RhodesTer that most of the pieces offered are the same shade as the foam on her cappuccino, yet no cappuccino makers are offered in the catalog.

The irony!

Meanwhile, RhodesTer puzzles over the goth bag girl they call Sara, and wonders why she’s bagging broccoli instead of modeling for millions.

Her beyond-pretty face should be shared with the minions, and used to peddle products internationally. If we could just do something with that god-awful hair, she’d be pestered by paparazzi.

A brief chat with her reveals the sad truth – the modeling world would eat her alive. Naivety seems to be her virtue, and she’s as deep as a puddle in a desert pond. Delightfully clueless, she is, which is rather endearing yet unfortunate for her. Of course, money and fame don’t mean a thing, except that you’re rich and famous.

The two young gentlemen are waiting for their car, which the valet attendant has scooted off to fetch for them.

RhodesTer is seated on the bench and wonders if either of them are old enough to drive, just as their middle-aged female chaperon shows up. Oh, it’s HER car! She’s the one driving them around!

Their white dress shirts are loose fitting, and their ties are just a bit skinnier than they are. RhodesTer greets them with a smile, and asks how their evening is going. “Fine sir,” replies the nearest and youngest.

He hesitates before taking the plunge.. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” replies RhodesTer, knowing full well what the question will probably be, given the preface.

“Sir, have you ever talked with missionaries like us before?”

RhodesTer ponders the slew of comebacks that bounce around in his brain, dismissing the most inappropriate ones, given that he’s on duty at the hotel and wearing a shirt that indicates such.

He decides to go with the safest.. “Hmm, I’m not sure if they were EXACTLY like you.. maybe a bit taller.. and one of them was possibly Irish.”

The middle-aged female chaperon shoots a dark, darting glance that seems to indicate she finds sarcasm to be inappropriate during the process of proselytizing, while the boys secretly grin.

The other one hands RhodesTer a Mormon tract, which he doesn’t toss into the trashcan next to him until the valet attendant has been tipped and the three are on their way.

Sarcastic, but sensitive.

The weather in Palm Springs gets hotter, as does the still carless RhodesTer as he peddles his bike to and from the hotel. He thinks of friends in other places who are trudging through March snow and braving blustering, biting winds that chill one to the bone.

As they scrape ice from their windshields, RhodesTer considers context as he happily wipes a bit of sweat from his brow and continues on his way.

The happy homeless lady always greets RhodesTer with a smile as he whizzes by, while the gloomy homeless lady ten blocks farther along turns her back on him and society.

They’ve both staked out bus stop benches that look exactly the same, so why is it that the former seems to be a cheery depository of mirth while the other is as dark as the depths of hell?

You can’t tell RhodesTer that human beings don’t have good or bad spirits hanging around them, he won’t believe you.

Palm Springs is in full spring break swing, and so are the noisy girls in the room down on the end.

RhodesTer can hear their party tunes as he approaches – it seems to be an Avril Lavigne song, but he’s not sure. Whatever it is, the girls know it by heart, and shout the lyrics at the top of their lungs as RhodesTer knocks on the door in response to the multiple complaints that have been generated.

His knocks and announcements of “SECURITY!” go unheeded due to the volume level, leaving him with no choice but to open the door with his pass key, whereupon he bears witness to a sight that he hasn’t seen in ever..

A roomful of teen girls dancing and singing in their undies.

It’s a live-action YouTube video, and RhodesTer is glad he took the refresher course in CPR, but wonders how to effectively apply it to himself.

Semi-nudity seems to be the in thing this season – just ask the six year old pantsless autistic boy who was wandering the hallways late at night.

He won’t answer you though, due to the autistic thing, and he didn’t answer RhodesTer either, when asked what room mommy and daddy are sleeping in.

Police were called and time went by, before daddy finally showed up in a panic to claim his clueless little boy, who had no idea how scared mommy and daddy were to awake and find him gone.

Back at the Coffee Bean, the young man they call Glenn asks RhodesTer if the hotel is hiring any valet attendants.

RhodesTer considers Glenn’s girth and lies through his teeth, knowing full well that the plump young fellow would never fit behind the wheel of a Porsche, let alone fetch it quickly enough to please the patrons who are in a hurry.

RhodesTer instead steers him in the direction of “banquet server” and, while giving Glenn his recommendation, he secretly hopes Glenn doesn’t eat his way out of a job – the cakes, cookies and jellyrolls are for guests only.

The construction crews are SO CLOSE to completing the project next door! There’s going to be a new PETCO, and all kinds of other stores within a block, which has coffeesister all excited about shopping for merchandise AND a job, to make money to SPEND on the merchandise.

And so the economic circle spins. As it does, RhodesTer hopes it’s not nearly as noisy as all the construction has been.

RhodesTer and coffeesister still miss TAZZY terribly, and suspect that his fluffy little ghost has finally departed.

His sister, Shadow, is different – in a good way. She played with nothing for a full two weeks and now she suddenly plays with them, which she’s never done before. He left her instructions before leaving her for good.

It’s Sunday, and Easter to boot..
Praise Jesus and pass the cookies, please.