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| The Glamorous Life |
Oh, this writing prompt is too good to pass on. I could do a SERIES on Hotel stories, trust me. I’ll throw this little gem out there for you and the rest of the minions over at Studio 30+. Read it and weep (laughing) peons!
The freaks come out on Halloween, and so do the merry pranksters.
I traveled the country in a van full of musicians and tour members hauling a small trailer full of band gear, t-shirts and duffel bags of partially washed clothes. We were a band, and we rocked North America nightly together for over 4 years.
We finished a particularly raucous Halloween show. We have said our parting words, and “Thank You Good Night!”, has been yelled as we walk out the backstage door. With the band loaded(literally) and the gear in the trailer, we head back to one of our regular hotels. We’ve been to this city numerous times, and we’ve always found this hotel to be a little nicer than some of our regular stops. It’s a lovely Victorian building with only a few rooms and 4 post beds. Wonderful menu in the dining room, too. We treated ourselves to this hotel every tour.
The guitar player informs me that he’s expecting a “special friend”. A Special Friend is someone a band member actually is looking forward to seeing again. Typically he knows both her first AND last name, and probably has her phone number. She’s driving 6 hours to meet us, and to ‘travel’ with us for the next couple of dates over the weekend. It just so happens that I’m acquainted with the girl in question. She’s from my hometown, and I actually introduced the two. For the record, if a girl travels with us, it’s the responsibility of the particular band member to foot the bill, and share HIS personal space, without inconveniencing the others on board. You may imagine hearing, “Stop it you’re touching me stop touching me you’re on my seat stop touching me.” You would be right. We are childish, sophomoric boys gone wild. Fart jokes hourly. Fireworks were lit off INSIDE the van once. Okay, more than once.
This little hotel is charmingly behind the times. Real brass keys with the little plastic key fobs. Folded down linens upon your arrival. The desk clerk knew all of our names as we would depart for sound check, and as we returned later to change into our shiny show shirts.
I called the front desk, posing as the guitar player. I informed the front desk that I, the guitar player, was switching rooms with my sound engineer, (really me) so he could be next door to the singer, because they were working on new material together. The kind desk clerk made a note of the room change, altered the ledger to reflect who was in which room, and would change the wake up calls accordingly. I just successfully made it SEEM that the guitar player was residing in MY room, and I in his! The switch is on.
Now, like I said before, we had a pretty rocking good time at the big show. Halloween, vodka, beer, cute girls adoring each of us, and dudes telling the band how much they totally were blown away. We staggered in around 1AM and flopped in our respective rooms.
About 4AM, my room phone rings. It’s Lily. Remember, it’s the guitar player’s room, right? She asks for him, and I tell her that I don’t know what room he’s in, as he switched with someone and it’s really really late. She’s exhausted from her drive, and ready to collapse. I tell her to come upstairs, take half the bed, and just crash, and we’ll find your guitar slinging hero in the morning. I had no intention of taking advantage of the situation. Lily agrees that I should let her in, and she’s asleep in ten minutes. All curled up under the covers like a little spikey-haired rock kitten.
Some hours later, my phone rings. It’s 930AM, and there’s a groggy guitar player on the phone. He asks if I had heard from Lily, because she was supposed to hook up with him last night, and she never called. He didn’t even sound worried, he sounded bummed because he didn’t get a happy ending. I said, “Lily? Oh yeah, she’s right here. Wanna talk to her?” He gulped and yelled, “WHAAAATT!!?!?!” “Yeah, she’s right here, slept here last night, said she couldn’t find your room.” (I’m howling with laughter inside right now, I just totally hosed this guy! Fist pumping my supreme practical joke skills) “You can’t be serious...” “Yeah, she’s right here. I’ll send her down. Hey... Happy Halloween, dude.” He pauses, realizing he had just been owned. “Fuck you, man.”
I sent my friend Lily down the hall, about 4 doors. I heard the door slam. I think he started speaking to me about 5 days later. Trick or treat? I’ll take trick.
Bow to the master, little guitar playing man. Bow. To. The. Master.
I traveled the country in a van full of musicians and tour members hauling a small trailer full of band gear, t-shirts and duffel bags of partially washed clothes. We were a band, and we rocked North America nightly together for over 4 years.
We finished a particularly raucous Halloween show. We have said our parting words, and “Thank You Good Night!”, has been yelled as we walk out the backstage door. With the band loaded(literally) and the gear in the trailer, we head back to one of our regular hotels. We’ve been to this city numerous times, and we’ve always found this hotel to be a little nicer than some of our regular stops. It’s a lovely Victorian building with only a few rooms and 4 post beds. Wonderful menu in the dining room, too. We treated ourselves to this hotel every tour.
The guitar player informs me that he’s expecting a “special friend”. A Special Friend is someone a band member actually is looking forward to seeing again. Typically he knows both her first AND last name, and probably has her phone number. She’s driving 6 hours to meet us, and to ‘travel’ with us for the next couple of dates over the weekend. It just so happens that I’m acquainted with the girl in question. She’s from my hometown, and I actually introduced the two. For the record, if a girl travels with us, it’s the responsibility of the particular band member to foot the bill, and share HIS personal space, without inconveniencing the others on board. You may imagine hearing, “Stop it you’re touching me stop touching me you’re on my seat stop touching me.” You would be right. We are childish, sophomoric boys gone wild. Fart jokes hourly. Fireworks were lit off INSIDE the van once. Okay, more than once.
This little hotel is charmingly behind the times. Real brass keys with the little plastic key fobs. Folded down linens upon your arrival. The desk clerk knew all of our names as we would depart for sound check, and as we returned later to change into our shiny show shirts.
I called the front desk, posing as the guitar player. I informed the front desk that I, the guitar player, was switching rooms with my sound engineer, (really me) so he could be next door to the singer, because they were working on new material together. The kind desk clerk made a note of the room change, altered the ledger to reflect who was in which room, and would change the wake up calls accordingly. I just successfully made it SEEM that the guitar player was residing in MY room, and I in his! The switch is on.
Now, like I said before, we had a pretty rocking good time at the big show. Halloween, vodka, beer, cute girls adoring each of us, and dudes telling the band how much they totally were blown away. We staggered in around 1AM and flopped in our respective rooms.
About 4AM, my room phone rings. It’s Lily. Remember, it’s the guitar player’s room, right? She asks for him, and I tell her that I don’t know what room he’s in, as he switched with someone and it’s really really late. She’s exhausted from her drive, and ready to collapse. I tell her to come upstairs, take half the bed, and just crash, and we’ll find your guitar slinging hero in the morning. I had no intention of taking advantage of the situation. Lily agrees that I should let her in, and she’s asleep in ten minutes. All curled up under the covers like a little spikey-haired rock kitten.
Some hours later, my phone rings. It’s 930AM, and there’s a groggy guitar player on the phone. He asks if I had heard from Lily, because she was supposed to hook up with him last night, and she never called. He didn’t even sound worried, he sounded bummed because he didn’t get a happy ending. I said, “Lily? Oh yeah, she’s right here. Wanna talk to her?” He gulped and yelled, “WHAAAATT!!?!?!” “Yeah, she’s right here, slept here last night, said she couldn’t find your room.” (I’m howling with laughter inside right now, I just totally hosed this guy! Fist pumping my supreme practical joke skills) “You can’t be serious...” “Yeah, she’s right here. I’ll send her down. Hey... Happy Halloween, dude.” He pauses, realizing he had just been owned. “Fuck you, man.”
I sent my friend Lily down the hall, about 4 doors. I heard the door slam. I think he started speaking to me about 5 days later. Trick or treat? I’ll take trick.
Bow to the master, little guitar playing man. Bow. To. The. Master.
