We were picking up our car up from the valet at the Hotel La Jolla when I noticed that our dog’s name, Lenny, was not written among the “Very Important Pets” on the small bone shaped blackboard by the entrance. I pointed this out to the valet who agreed it was a grave oversight.

“Oh no!” He said

“I’m afraid so. And it’s making him very sad” I pointed to my dog who was clearly inconsolable but trying to keep up a brave façade as he sniffed a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop.

“I’ll take care of it right away, sir”

“Oh good. Thank you. That’ll make him very happy” I pointed to my dog who was clearly overjoyed by this new development but playing it cool as he sniffed a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop.

“No problem, sir. Anything for Lenny” We had a little chuckle at the absurd little improv we had just performed about hotel guests and their absurd requests. Complaining about the dog’s name on the blackboard? How droll! What could possibly be of less consequence? Ridiculous! Ha!

Anyhow, it’s a good thing Lenny’s name was on the board when we got back or that little pissant valet would have been out on his ass.

BTW- when was the constitutional amendment passed that all things dog related had to be “bone shaped”? And why specifically the shape of a human femur? Was it popular for owners once upon a time to give their dogs human femurs to gnaw on? Was that like, a thing, back in the day? You’d go to Sam the Butcher for a pot roast and a pound of hamburger meat and he’d throw in one of those human femurs he was saving in the back as a special treat for Tiger? What kind of sick fuck was Sam the Butcher anyhow that he had this stockpile of femurs just sitting in the back of his shop. Was this to be Alice’s grisly fate? She would wake up one morning and be nothing but hamburger meat, a couple of femurs, a blue uniform and a smile? I mean, I guess it’s true that you just can’t get quality service like that from the butcher counter at Vons- I mean, good luck just finding someone to ask if they have any brisket let alone getting a femur thrown in for your dog- but still- the humanity. Oh the humanity. Crap. Now I’m hungry- I should call room service for burgers- ooh- or may brisket- can I ask for brisket? Of course I can! The best part of staying at a great hotel is asking for unreasonable shit and having a really good chance of getting it. (BAD TASTE NOTE: I wrote this before Ann B. Davis died so I’m not an insensitive prick who makes fun of dead people, I’m an insensitive prick who’s too lazy to rewrite the part in which I make fun of a dead person. Big difference. My thoughts and prayers go out to her family.)

Cause that’s the thing about fancy hotels- it’s not about renting a room, it’s renting a higher social class. It’s Aristocracy by the Hour. Well, ok- not by the hour- by the night. By the hour suggests that it’s one of those roadside hooker-killing hotels with flower print comforters that look ever so innocent by daylight but shimmer under a black light like a planetarium’s ceiling where the Big Dipper is made out of mucus and cum and there’s enough blood to justify a CSI spin off in every room of the inn (I wonder what cheese ball they would get for CSI America’s Best Value Inn Room 101– maybe Billy Baldwin or- oh I don’t know- Ted Danson or somebody. Wait- what? He is? Replacing Laurence Fishburne? Are you shitting me? That’s like, oh I don’t know, putting  Christian Slater in a quirky crime drama! What what? Mind Games? What the fuck is a Mind Games? How the hell is anybody supposed to satirize a world this dumb??? I’m as clueless and lost as…oh I don’t know- Kevin Bacon, FBI Agent. And, yes- I know that’s a real show, too- DON’T SAY ANYTHING TO ME ABOUT THE FOLLOWING. I’ve finally quit that incomprehensible crap fest cold turkey and I’m not about to fall off the shlock wagon again. Phew. That’s better. I wonder what that scamp James Purefoy is up to. Sigh.)

The point here is that the mark of a great hotel isn’t the plushness of the robes or the softness of the bed but the willingness of the staff to accommodate the infantile caprice of their idiotic guests and to do it as though they truly appreciate being asked. Like- they’re all “ooooh, thank you sir. I’m so very glad you gave my life meaning by calling to order a dog bed and the after getting the dog bed, calling to order a fluffier dog bed. Thank you ever so much for giving this humble servant some small crumb of purpose to his otherwise barren existence. Is there anything else that I can do for you so that I may retire tonight with a cold bowl of gruel, content with my place in the universe?” And I’m  all like “Get me a fruit cup, motherfucker- but hold the melon and pineapple. Daddy’s getting his blueberry on.” And they’d better goddamn well be grateful to get it. Seriously, if I don’t feel like Lord Grantham when I get room service- I’m not tipping.

So- yeah- staying somewhere nice is totally my preferred means of recreation when I have a couple of days off. Can you blame me? My whole fucking life is air conditioning and anti-bacterial soap and actresses – and that’s just the “A’s” – there are 25 more letters of totally irritating crap  to put up with (well, 24 so far- but it’s only a matter of time before Helen Hunt shows up with her pet Zebra or we get Zooey Deschannel in the building. Can you imagine? This place was built in 1947 for Christ’s sake- there’s no way it’s been retrofitted for her level of twee. One strong ukulele blast and the whole fucking thing comes tumbling down and THEN WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH THAT FUCKING ZEBRA??? HUH??? RIDDLE ME THAT, ZOOEY??? I know you’re all excited about doing 500 Days of Summer: The Musical here but we’re just one manic pixie dream girl away from total collapse- both as a building and a civilization so STAY THE FUCK OUT. Phew. That feels better. Thank you.

Anyhoodles- my point here is that a week ago I had the pleasure of spending a lovely and relaxing weekend at the Hotel LaJolla with my wife. And I’ve had plenty of time to reflect over the past couple of days about just how lovely and relaxing it was as I’ve been on lockdown at the theatre with over 200 screaming, screeching, sweating, singing, sulking, sobbing, sax playing, sculpture making, short film shooting, sex crazed, sarcasm spewing, sanity busting , sprawling students as we’ve been hosting the annual fundraiser showcase shindig hoo-hah for our friendly neighborhood arts magnet high school (you know it’s bad if I resort to alteration. Shudder.)

And it would be hard to overstate just how shocking it is to go from one experience to the next. I mean, one minute, I’m in a plush leopard skin robe, looking out over the beach, resplendent in my swarthiness like a Middle Eastern dictator or Ron Jeremy’s manager (it’s actually the same guy- he must get up very early in the morning. It’s all forced labor camps, shopping for peacocks and screaming about the contract rider for 22 Hump Street) and the next minute I’m trapped in my office and I can’t leave because right outside the door is a moist-eyed, gnat sized folk singer.

He’s got blue hair and he flips it out of his eyes every 24 seconds like he’s on a shot clock as if to say “I’m so annoyed that my super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair keeps falling in my eyes all the time. It’s such a drag having super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair like this. Do you see how I keep having to flip my super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair out of my eyes all the time. Do you? Do you? Please? So lame.” He’s calling all the female dance students over one at a time- and I’m he’s like “Hey Kelsi, come here. Come here. You know how, like, I usually write sad songs. Cause, you know. I’m sad. Well, last Wednesday I had this really good day and I wrote my first happy song every. You wanna hear it?” And I’m in my office silently pleading Kelsi with all my might to please say no, please say no, please say no because I’ve already heard Blue Hair’s Happy Song like 10,000 times and if I have to hear it one more goddamn time,  I’m going to bust out of my office and take Blue Hair’s bullshit little traveling guitar and shove it where the sun don’t shine- which, on the bright side, will pretty much guarantee that this little Eliot Smith wannabe won’t be writing another happy song anytime soon. Actually I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to be Eliot Smith because he was like 5 years old tops when Eliot Smith stabbed himself in the chest, which is a thought so depressing it makes me want to do the same. I really have no idea who the hell kids want to be these days, except I’m pretty fucking sure it’s not me because every time they see me lurching by in my sweat encrusted Celtics cap carrying a wrench with a look of determination in my eyes like I’m about to club a chicken (oooh- Chicken Club!) they look at me with pity and terror like I’m Oedipus gushing blood from my eyes or the one legged Vietnam veteran janitor Karl who doesn’t react so well to loud noises and Asian exchange students. Also, I just spoke at a panel discussion about careers in theatre to a bunch of these kids and every question they asked was like “do you have any regrets?” and “what’s the worst mistake you ever made?” and, I could be wrong about this, but I’m pretty fucking sure are not the questions they ask when Eli Broad or Harry Stiles show up for Career Day. Hey- Harry Stiles! That’s someone the young people like- although I’m pretty sure not Blue Hair, because his music sounds nothing like One Direction- and I know exactly what his music sounds like because, of course, Kelsi says she wants to hear the song- just like Kelcey and Kelsey and Kcelssey did before her and I’ve got to hear him play it for the 10,001st motherfucking time. Oh…and as a bonus- after he plays his Happy Song- he gets all deep with her and starts digging into his catalog of Sad Songs which are utterly indistinguishable from each other and UTTERLY INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM THE HAPPY SONG except he lets his hair stay in front of his eyes a little more while he’s playing the Sad Songs cause, you know, he’s sad. And he won’t stop. He never stops. He’s like the love child of Art Garfunkel and the Terminator and he absolutely will not stop singing ever until I am DEAD. Or his mom picks him up. That, too.

Anyhoodles- KIDS. What’s the matter with kids today? Actually nothing. Or, you know- nothing that hasn’t been wrong with them all along. The problem is me- I’ve structured my life pretty nicely to avoid excessive contact with the next generation of humanity and find myself woefully ill prepared to deal with them when I’m required to. And, in case you find yourself in the same position- here are a few helpful things I’ve learned:

1. Kids today are exactly like we were except with way stupider names.  They still play guitar to get girls! They still dye their hair stupid colors to get girls! They still play D&D- despite the fact that it prevents them from getting girls! See- they’re just like us except they’re named Tennessee and Kelsey and nobody mocks them for it, as they should. Look, I get it. You like Tennessee. That’s cool. Maybe you like Jack Daniels, or Dollywood or slavery. Whatever- it is- there’s no reason to name your kid Tennessee unless you’re raising him to be an old time blues signer or pool shark. Same is true for all place names- Brooklyn, Reno, LaCienega- whatever- none of these are names that a human being should have.  That’s why it’s great to grow up in Upstate New York- there’s absolutely no place you could ever be possibly proud enough of to name your kid after – I mean, seriously-  Schenectady Schwartz, Coxackie Cohen, East Greenbush Washington- NEVER GONNA HAPPEN. And that’s just one of the great reasons it’s great to grow up in Upstate New York (the other one is Freihofers. Oooh Freihofers. I wonder if I could order some cookies from Room Service. Probably not because I left the hotel almost two weeks ago but SHUT UP I’M LIVING THE DREAM.)
   And it’s not just place names that are the problem. Can we please just pick a gender for Dylan and stick to it. It’s exhausting. And do we really want to live in a world where teachers have to distinguish between all the different Kelsey’s in the class by using first initials? “Kelsey- pay attention!” / “I was paying attention” /”Not you Kelsey P, Kelsi R – stop talking to Dylan and Kelci T, turn around and listen. And that goes for you too, East Greenbush – don’t think I don’t see you over there flirting with Boy Dylan. ” East Greenbush, btw is a boy- but that’s no big deal anymore- which brings me to my next point.
2. Kids today are wayyyyyy ahead of us at their age or even now. When I was in high school, I wasn’t only involved with theatre, I was also President of Students for Peace and Survival (I know! Theatre AND leftist politics. No wonder I was voted “Most Likely to Default”.) Anyhow, one of the things I did at SPS was to organize the very first “Gay Awareness Week” at my Deeply Republican high school (aahh- dear old GOPHS- our mascot was an Eagle shitting on Gorbachev). Now, when we first brought this idea up to the principal, Dr. Right Wing Fascist Pig Dog Homophobe Asshole (I know, I know. I should have made up a fake name) he told us that, if we had a Gay Awareness Week, we would have to have a Straight Awareness Week, too. Now, I tried to politely and calmly explain to him that we already had a Straight Awareness Week and it was called EVERY SINGLE WEEK EVER SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME, but he failed to understand this point. It wasn’t til our facility advisor referred his position as “Neanderthal” that the principal relented- I think because he was afraid he might have to spell that and he couldn’t even spell “potatoe”.
   I thought of this a couple of years ago during one of these student shows when the theatre department, as their senior project did an original project about a student learning to accept and take pride in his own gay identity- and understanding that there is a wide continuum of sexual and gender identities- all deserving of equality and respect. They performed this in front of their fellow students, faculty, parents , school administrators and donors- and the audience l loved it. I was thrilled and delighted- not only by how much progress had taken place since I was in high school, but by imagining just how much Dr. Right Wing Fascist Pig Dog Homophobe Asshole would have hated every fucking second of it. What a Neanderthal.
   And it’s not just tolerance and equality- you should see these kids recycle. Oh My God! (or OMG as my mom tells me the kids say). Plastic, glass, paper- not a scrap of recyclable material made its way to the waste stream. It’s like a poem written with refuse. They recycle with passion, with gusto- like their very lives depend on it…..which they do. Cause we ruined their planet. Uhm. Yeah. Sorry about that. Heh heh. Awk-ward.
3. Teenagers don’t inhabit a space- they infest it. Look, I know I was just saying how amazing and progressive and wonderful all these kids were- and that’s certainly true, but when you’ve got 200 of them crammed in the building, they’re like fucking cockroaches with blue hair and zits and guitars in their butts. For one thing, they have an absolutely uncanny ability to be in absolutely the wrong place at the wrong time and they are utterly incapable of sitting in chairs. Grown ups may be a bunch of planet destroying intolerant bigots- but if you give them a dressing room –THEY STAY IN THEIR DRESSING ROOM. They don’t lie sprawling across the hallway, body parts linked together in a sinewy throbbing mass of hair and face and legs and crotch until they are utterly indistinguishable from each other as human beings and merge Voltron-like into one enormous multi-headed hydra that won’t get THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR WAY when you just need to walk down the hall angrily with a wrench. MOVE ALREADY! That chicken’s not gonna club itself (Can somebody please get me a Chicken Club already. Anybody? Anybody? Hello?). And, sure I get it- I know- being a teenager is the single most exhausting condition known to humanity- what with all the going to school and not working for a living and texting and having shit bought for you all the time- phew- I’m plum tuckered out just thinking about it- so yeah, I understand- it’s medically necessary for them to remain in a practically horizontal position for as much of the day as possible, like adolescence is a trip to Jupiter and they’re in a medically induced coma. Plus- we all know that they have to remain in physical contact with each other at all times or they explode. I’m not exaggerating here- physical contact is the Dilithium Crystal that keeps the matter of Self Importance and anti-matter of Self-Loathing that fuel their little brains from coming in contact and blowing shit up. Don’t look at me- I cannae change the laws of physics, Captain. And- the worst part- THE WORST PART is that I know that every single Goddamn thing that I’m saying about could absolutely have been applied to me as a teenager so that means that even though I’ve avoided having kids, I haven’t avoided the Universal Gypsy Curse that some day I’ll have kids who do EXACTLY to me what I did to my elders- SO HA HA HA VERY FUCKING FUNNY UNIVERSE I GET IT- but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when I throw open the door to the rehearsal room where we’re holding all the kids and it’s all sprawled out bodies on the ground, heads in laps, limbs akimbo in all sorts of bizarre and unholy positions like a Young Adult Hieronymus Bosch painting or the Teen Nick’s new historical drama iCaligula. And they get into every little nook and cranny. Hell, I’m not even sure we got them all out of the building. Every time I turn on a light, I’m terrified I’m going to see that Blue Hair scrambling for the corner leaving little angst droppings behind, impressing the other rats with the Happy Song.
4. And then there’s the smell. OH MY GOD THE SMELL. 200 teenagers in suits and dresses gushing out anxious flop sweat  from every pore of their overheated carcasses. It’s like half locker room- half prom. Walking through the building, I felt like Dennis Quaid flying into Martin Short’s sodden armpit. If this is what Teen Spirit smells like, it’s no wonder Cobain offed himself.

So based on everything you’re saying- which weekend do you think I enjoyed more? The lovely weekend in a beautiful hotel overlooking the sparkling coast of the Pacific or the nightmare episode of Glee in Smell-O-Vision that was my last weekend at work? Well, if you guessed the beautiful weekend in the hotel- you’re right. HOLY SHIT ARE YOU RIGHT. I mean, seriously dude- if this was an election- it wouldn’t be Obama vs Romney, or even Reagan vs Mondale, it would be Bashar al Assad vs Getting Dragged from Your Home and Shot. Still- if I have to spend a weekend at work- spending it with a gangly mob of smart, talented, dedicated and (and this is my least favorite word here) inspiring (icky, yucky, gross, gag, spit, get it off me GET IT OFF ME) young people- the kind of young people who actually make me think there might be more the future than just environmental calamity, random violence and championships for the Miami Heat- well…you know. It doesn’t suck.

And that being said, it would be so fuckin’ sweet to order up some Room Service right now. Maybe I can get the dog to get me a fruit cup? Nah. Ever since he got his name on the board, he’s been all uppity. Look at him all haughty and arrogant acting all aloof as he sniffs a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop. He’s just as bad as that fucking zebra. I swear, she’s the worst black and white diva since Mariah Carey. When can I go back to the Hotel La Jolla already? Just look at that view. Sigh. I guess I’ll make my own fucking Chicken Club.

Written by: Eric Sims on June 12, 2014.