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Heliotropes! Isotopes!

Bob the Cat won my previous contest.  Its discouraging.  I don't even know how I feel about people using four legged proxies.  "Oooh!  My dog has a Myspace page!"  How far can this extend?  Could you create a Myspace page for your herpes?  "Ken's Herpes has 2293 friends"  I do know this.  Cats don't last forever.  If your cat runs away or god forbid dies you have a really difficult metaphysical quagmire on your hands.  I was friends with Milo on Myspace, people will say, I didn't know him in RL (real life for your "realies" out there) I only knew him on Myspace.  Why deny me a pet simply because you lost him in the real world... and consider this...every email message you've ever sent, every thing you've ever looked at, everything you ever done on the internet is logged away, salted away, seeable to all of posterity forever. 
In the future, you will be judged by the porn you enjoyed.  And the future will judge me k-i-n-d-l-y.
What would you like to know about me?   I mean, honestly.  People are so quick to give out what they perceive as the worst parts of themselves on line.  To hand over their darkest selves.  Or what they think are their darkest selves.  A man with a yamulkah tried to con me tonight.  "I was beaten and the police just gave me this police report!  They broke my nose!  I'm from London!  I know no one in New York!  Help me!"
I looked him dead in the eye.  "I don't believe you."  He flipped out.  He was screaming at me for two blocks as I walked away from him.  "I guess I broke my own nose!  This is some country you have here!" 
I felt very proud of myself.  I love giving strangers money if they have a decent sob story.  This guy's failed to pass muster.  I love this story even better if he was mugged.  Because now he understands New York.  We're consumers here.  We expect people to produce!  He was neither charming nor believable.  And a Jewish man, wearing a kipa, in the middle of fucking MURRAY HILL telling me he knew no one... ugh.  He's gotta try that shtick elsewhere.

Unconscionable neglect best describes my behavior of late.

This morning I roused myself at 1 in the afternoon. I ate a piece of pepper and mushroom pizza procured and proffered me by my delightful of semi-somnambulant significant symbiot.  I washed myself an hour later after watching Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe (such a show!  He's sort of wry and sexy and informative- the man should be an Anchor for a network- who's with me?) Then I went to work.  My pre-work waking hours consisted of two.  Same as my post work waking hours. 
For dinner I had a two serving bag of salt and vinegar chips and a two serving bottle of cherry coke.
For dessert I ate a cardboard box and chased it with a champagne flute of cigarette butts. 
This is serious people. 
Now, I am a man who makes no secret of his Budweiser muse.  I drink a large beer every night.  22 oz.  40 oz.  I'm talking about a beer that were you to drain a like amount of your blood into said vessel, you would surely pass out and probably die.  This is meant to inspire me.  That said in the entire month since my most recent entry, it has inspired me to lie on my back and watch espn until I decide to go to sleep whereupon without fail I put on my headphones and listen to the bbc worldservice (91.5 fm WNYE in Queens) until I fall asleep. 
But I know that you all follow me like Heliotropes follow the sun.  You must.  You simply must.  I read all of your blogs.  I never comment unless I'm really compelled but I read anyway.  I read blogs of perfect strangers looking for one thing- that one nervous shiver that lets me feel like  a) I've felt that too, so that' s probably good b) I'm not at all unique and that's likely sad.
But beer has of late failed me.  I'm trying to write.  I have finished the first act of a good play.  It concerns a young man who has failed out of law school and his torrid affair with a major league baseball players wife.  It would be based on a true story but she would never have had me, and I lacked the nerve.  Also I have reached a level of dizzying, dazzling physical and metaphysical content with my Deanna.  Incidentally, if you google me (and I have- and I do- because I spend my day staring at a computer and therefore I monitor whether or not someone might have mentioned my name somewhere- however with the proliferation of foreign language film sites it's not as much fun anymore- but please mention me by name if you have a blog so I can enjoy that giddy little thrill that comes of seeing one more internet url bearing my name... please please por favor) you can actually find a website belonging to a girl named Kimberly Zito where I am listed as a hottie.  I left her a note on her blog asking her to post more about me and she removed the page in question so I had to show a cached page but the point is clear.  The internet has declared me a hottie.  I don't know who the girl is.  But she seems very nice and she made my day.
So, I'm sucking it up tonight and blogging!  Yeah!  My hope was that by having two beers I might be able to come up with something cogent to take you away from work for a little while.  I think of Rama and his algorhythms.  I think of Tazneem and her Belgiumness.  I think of Molly who my mother now informs me is working for Mtv.  Miles.  Who probably has too much good sense to read the innermost thoughts of his friends.  I think of the Johnathan Swift poem "Celia"...
I believe, but based on no real evidence, that there are subways that exist only for famous people.  Subways below our subways that allow travel from cool places to cool places at Jetsons like speed.  How could anything that cool not exist- an exclusive system of locomotive caves from LaGuardia to Nobu.  From Moma to the Met.  All of Manhattan is like the Mines of Moria.  Oh, and there will be a Balrog.  Just wait.  (If this is confusing wikipedia, Balrog.)
Two beers.  One still in the fridge.  More tomorrow.  Gonna take my girl out for a drink at 1:20 in the morning.

Emergency

I've started to take breaks at work.  After I finish the night audit, I head over to the break room and put my feet up for an hour while my bellman mans the desk.  It seemed to me ethically acceptable once I realized that the day shifters all get an hour break during their shift during which time they eat lunch.  Now I'll acknowledge that I don't have anything all that hectic to take a break from but all the same, it's an opportunity to break up the overnight shift into before and after the break periods.

I usually turn down the lights and listen to the BBC worldservice and sort of daydream a little.

This morning around three my daydream was interrupted.

I haven't slept more than four hours consecutively since Thursday.  Not a huge deal, but working the night shift is a tricky business where it concerns all things circadian and now that I've got rehearsals in the evenings and auditions in the daytimes there is simply no place to put the lengthy blocks of sleep that knit up the ravaged sleeve of my badly toasted brain. 

So I'm not functioning well.  I'm emotional.  Mydol stuff.  I use about a quart of eye drops a day and I can still hear my eyeballs creaking when I look to the right and to the left.  I'm not complaining.  My job is so cozy that I cling to it, despite its long term effects on my body.  But I am telling you all this so you might excuse me if I drifted off, ever so briefly during my break to be awoken, by my bellman- Ariel- who I call Bobby who turned on the light and said.

"There's a naked man."

"-mmm. What?"

"There's a woman in the lobby she says there's a naked man on the elevator."

I rush out to the lobby to find a woman, middle aged, dressed in black.  She's been out, barhopping I expect.  She's staying at the hotel for the U.S. Open.  They all are.  They book suites for sixteen days for obscenely low prices and we have some tennis' greatest second rate stars sleeping directly above me.  I try to get to the bottom of the story. 

"What happened?"

"I was on the elevator and the door opened up on the fourth floor and this naked man walked on.  He was surprised to see me and said Pardon like he was French.  I got off the elevator and walked down the stairs to tell you.  It was disturbing."
I apologized profusely on behalf of the hotel for her experience with the naked Frenchman and assured her that Ariel/Bobby would be happy to walk her to her fourteenth floor suite (which is really on the thirteenth floor, which is only one floor up from where Tennessee Williams choked to death on the cap of an Aphrin Nasal Spray bottle in the early 80's.) 

She said she'd be able to point him out and I considered the possibility of getting her a line up of naked Frenchmen to pick from.  She said she's going to talk to the general manager in the morning so I'm probably in trouble. 

I sent my bellman up to look for potentially naked Frenchmen in the hallways and stairwells.  He found nothing except an expensive Chinese bowl being used to block open a door toward the service stairs on the third floor.  We considered that perhaps this might be the clue that would unlock the Mystery of the Naked Frenchman.

"Maybe he was sleep-walking?"

"He wouldn't have said 'Pardon'."

Why would someone get on an elevator naked on the fourth floor at three fifteen in the morning?   

Ariel/Bobby looked inward.

"I don't know. This hotel is creepy."

If you have an idea as to why the Frenchman rode the elevator naked please leave a comment here.  I promise to apprise you of any new developments.