Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, June 18, 2004 Hate New York City
Really? Why? It's cold and it's damp
But at least it's not hot and steamy and dry and on fire half the year.
And all the people dressed like monkeys
If by monkey you mean dressed in suits and business appropriate attire, then what's wrong with that? You prefer Daisy Duke cut-offs and belly shirts? Let's leave Chicago to the Eskimos
Okay, call me an Eskimo.
That town's a little bit too rugged
For you and me you bad girl
Rugged? Maybe. But only the strong survive. It builds character.
Rollin' down the Imperial Highway
Rollin'? Really? More like crawlin' in traffic.
With a big nasty redhead at my side
What? No peroxide blondie?
Santa Ana winds blowin' hot from the north.
And spreading fires.
And we was born to ride
Good you were born to ride because you'll be spending a lot of time in that car. Roll down the window put down the top
Breathe in the smog, the smoke and exhaust from the thousands of other vehicles on the road with you.
Crank up the Beach Boys baby
Okay, fine, Pet Sounds is one of the best recordings. Ever. But. One great album does not a music "scene" make. Don't let the music stop
We're gonna ride it till we just can't ride it no more
Which is a good attitude because in California traffic you'll be spending a lot of time behind the wheel.
From the South Bay to the Valley From the West Side to the East Side
Everybody's very happy
'Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day
I love L.A. (We love it)
(I hate it)
I love L.A. (We love it)
(I hate it)
Look at that mountain
It's right there, through the haze. Look at those trees
They're charred from the blaze.
Look at that bum over there, man
The homeless are so inspiring. He was a child actor.
He's down on his knees
Praying to find a place he can afford to live or his next big break.
Look at these women
There ain't nothin' like 'em nowhere
Because most of their body parts contain no human DNA.
Century Boulevard (We love it)
(I hate it) Victory Boulevard (We love it)
(I hate it) Santa Monica Boulevard (We love it)
Sixth Street (We love it, we love it)
I love L.A.
I love L.A.
(We love it)
(good for you)
LA LA LA LA LA
What amazes me most about Los Angeles is that there are people who really do love it. People you think would otherwise know better. Semi-sane, semi-reasonable, semi-intelligent people. People not affiliated with the entertainment biz. People who have regular jobs earning regular money live in near squalor and spend hours on their daily commutes just because they love LA.
"But anywhere else in the country you'd be able to afford a really nice house and would have to commute, at most, an hour..." I counter to their insistence that LA is the only place to live. They get defensive. I shut up.
I do not intend to start a debate (or arguments) about whether or not LA or New York or Chicago or London or wherever is the best place to live. I'm just saying, Los Angelesians, in fact most Californians are very defensive about their home city/state. Randy Newman even wrote that song. But why so defensive? If it's so great, shouldn't it be obvious to everyone who visits? Community pride is a great thing, and it's good the people who live there love it. They'd be miserable anywhere else, and they'd make the rest of us miserable with their whining about how nothing is as good as it is in California.
Those of us who prefer not to live in a cesspool of human indignity will stay away or visit only when absolutely necessary and get out as soon as possible.
However.
There are things to love about LA.
Primary among them: Food.
Or more to the point: Food obsession.
Vegetarian, a naughty, taboo word back in Chicago, the land of stockyards, chop houses, deep dish pizza and those hot dogs, is de rigueur here in LA. Vegan, a term few people know how to properly pronounce let alone define in other parts of the US, is not only understood but embraced in LA. That is if statements like: "I was vegan for a year a few years ago, but then I switched to Atkins. It's hard to not eat meat on Atkins, and I lost so much weight on Atkins, and it's so much easier than vegan, so, you know, I, like, can't be a vegan and do Atkins so now I do Atkins." qualifies as understanding. (People out here "do" things - everything. They "do" Atkins or South Beach, they "do" meetings, and yes, they "do" lunch except I've yet to see any actual food consumed while doing lunch.)
Anorexia is not only an accepted norm, but an admirable goal.
Complete buffoons, moronic, gray matter challenged people who are unable to complete a whole thought on any other topic can describe, in Hawking-esque detail, food theory, metabolic rate, the molecular decomposition of any food item and what it does once digested, and of course, their food intake history.
Part of me (sadly, I admit, an huge part of me) says, "I'm home."
A land where food issues are normal, expected and regaled.
I stupidly got involved in a conversation about the weight/appearance of a woman who called in sick and is unable to uphold her assignment on the project we are working on here. The conversation was with a client and two women (Californians) working on the project with us, on as a substitute for the absentee woman.
The client expressed concern for the health and well being of the absentee woman. The two women working with/for her bemoaned the absentee woman's family for putting her in "one of those food camps where they make you eat and do therapy." Yes. Apparently the woman has an eating disorder - which out here is not viewed as a disorder but as a regular way of life. The women insisted to the client and I that there is nothing "wrong" with her, she "totally has her diet in control" and that 600 calories a day is a lot of food if you do it right.
Ah yes, the calorie numbers game. The scale by which women judge their worthiness as a human being. I know this game. I'm a retired champion. 600 calories is the long standing benchmark for anorexics. It's the equivalent to, "I'm not an alcoholic, I only have one or two beers after work."
One of the girls then took a page from my old notebook: " I try to keep mine around 500 so I can have a couple of drinks when I go to parties. (tee hee) And look at me! I'm not anorexic, my butt is huge!" (She was and it wasn't)
It's true. If you live long enough and meet enough people, your words will indeed come back to haunt you. And that's really scary. It wasn't that long ago I used the exact justification, word for word. (minus the tee hee and in a more "been around the block" and sardonic tone) Of course it's in the rule book, everyone who has food issues uses the same lines, it's just that I hadn't heard those exact words come from someone else's mouth until then. What's scary are two things: a) That anyone would think and believe that line of mentally disturbed crap, and b) that, apparently like an alcoholic, I know darned well if I hung around these girls for a few weeks the justification would seem reasonable and I'd be back in the game.
I haven't been confronted with my own past stupidity in such an alarming package. I've been able to see the error in my ways, the stupidity of my issues and the reasons they developed. I've been able to be proud of being healthy and proud of getting out of that trap with relative health and no looking back. But there she was, saying that line and now I am dealing with the duality of the confrontation. I pity her yet know I could conspire with her if I were to spend more time with her.
Well. Except. She also wants to have bypass surgery and breast implants. This is California, after all. No eating or psychological disorder is complete without some sort surgery, especially the cosmetic type.
Oops. Well. Sorry. There it is. I know I haven't blogged about that issue for a long time, because it hasn't been much of an issue until lately. And being out here has catalyzed me to the edge again. I won't kid anyone including myself, I've been walking to that edge for a few months. Dating, depression - all the usual - has put me in that frame of mind again. But being out here has shoved me to the edge. I leave Sunday, and as long as I am able to refrain from jumping over the cliff before then I think Little Miss 500 Calories scared me enough to go back to the straight and narrow of the food pyramid. I had a piece of bread with dinner last night just to defiantly prove to myself I am just fine, not as close to that edge as I fear I might be.
The thing about LA, and another reason why I love LA. The food itself. Since everyone has food issues, restaurants cater to every type of diet in the world. Organic Vegan? No problem. Here's a plate of organically grown (certified) fruit and vegetables. Grapefruit diet? (yes, apparently, there are people still ascribing to this plan of the '80s) Here's a bowl of grapefruit and a glass of pineapple grapefruit juice. Anorexic? Here's a plate of lettuce and one carrot stick. Special request? (Because everyone has a special request because no one follows one specific plan, diet plans are individualized to meet the distinctly individual molecular needs of each person) No problem!
For instance, in many places outside of California, being a vegetarian who does not eat mushrooms and is trying to avoid pasta and nuts is a problem at most restaurants. I don't make a big deal about it, I keep quiet and push aside any offending item which appears on the plate served to me. Out here, however, my obtuse dietary challenges are expected and embraced. Dining with friends, I looked over the menu which had lots of choices. The waiter arrived to take our order. One by one, my friends asked specific questions about several dishes on offer. Things I didn't realize were issues for my friends. Things I didn't know were issues for anyone. Things no waiter should have to know about the food he's serving. And yet my friends' questions were met with congenial and ready answers, and in one case an in depth discussion about the regional differences in fava beans. I'm not kidding.
When it was my turn to order I quickly ordered, "I'd like the mango mango salad, please."
The waiter stood there, poised to answer any questions or concerns I had about the mango mango salad.
"That's it, just the salad." I said.
He rather tritely said, "Okay." turned on a heel and was gone.
Apparently I offended him by not asking a litany of questions about the ingredients in the mango mango salad or asking for alterations and substitutions to said salad.
My friends, who apparently have developed some very odd dietary habits and the semi-rude and very tedious habit of belaboring the food ordering process, then began suggesting ways in which my mango mango salad could have been improved by deleting and substituting other items. Keep in mind these are people who rejoiced when Taco Bell extended their late night drive through window hours to 3 AM. People who took me aside as concerned friends and staged a food intervention when I was teetering on the brink of insanity and disaster. One of these people was known far and wide for his ability to consume record numbers of Wings of Fire at the Friday night complimentary buffet at a less than reputable establishment. But now they've apparently gone Hollywood. They talk the talk and walk the walk. Don't get me wrong, in their cases, some nutritional reform was long overdue. But, erm, well, it's just sort of one extreme to another and makes for a difficult adjustment when you knew them when they were living life at the other extreme.
Maybe it's something in the air. Something which blows in on the Santa Ana winds. It makes normal, intelligent people with concerns and original thoughts beyond their diet become all consumed in what they are putting into their bodies.
Until it comes to alcohol. Which is a free for all fest of calories and nutritional blindness. Of course because everyone is either anorexic, on the post gastro bypass plan or aspiring to one of those, it only takes a drink and a half for most people to become completely intoxicated. Still, the people who loudly espouse the merits of pure and organic foods think nothing of downing martini after martini. Oh sure, vodka or gin is distilled and should be fairly pure and organic (I'm trying to help them justify it) but ask your liver whether it cares about the purity or origin of the alcohol. Of course no one out here gets that logic or sees the hypocrisy of their booze consumption. Or, like my 500 calorie friend, they use their strict diet as a means to an alcohol end.
Yeah. I love LA.
But no, really, there are things I like about LA. Like the fact that everyone knows someone who can help whatever is troubling you.
The sunburn I acquired in Florida has turned rather nasty, in spite of my best efforts with aloe, moisturizer and exfoliation. Several women have offered me, unsolicited mind you, advice and referral to various spas, clinics and dermatologists. Yes. Everyone is so helpful and friendly in California! After the third unsolicited offer I decided to book an appointment in the hotel spa. I explained the issue with my skin to the nice, discreet and indefinably accented woman who took down my details and arranged for a two hour session. I'll say only this: A team of trained dermal professionals worked on me and did things to me I didn't know could be done without advanced medical degrees or outside the confines of a burn unit in hospital. That was two days ago and my skin is still tingling in a very odd and slightly painful yet arousing way. I'm kind of worried about what is going to happen when I need to shave my legs. Then again, the possibility exists that won't be an issue. Between the burn and the "treatments" I may not have functioning follicles anyway.
I love LA.
I wore a pair of strappy little sandals to a function. (Yes! Heels! Woo hoo!) I had given myself a pedicure and thought my feet looked, you know, okay. Ish. They weren't embarrassing. They didn't shame the strappy little sandals. And yet a woman whom I have never met told me she could get me into her "place" where they do not accept any clients except those referred by existing clients. (another phenomenon out here: The "We Don't Accept Anyone Without a Reference" rule followed by spas, hair salons, restaurants and nearly any other establishment you can mention. I fully expected to be turned away from Target the other day because no one had given me a reference or booked ahead for me.) In the spirit of observing and reporting, I took her up on her offer, wondering just what sort of pedicure one gets at a "place" where they only accept clients referred by an existing client. I hate to admit that I am actually kind of excited about it. Not because it's at one of those places, but because it will be my first real pedicure since The Incident. My foot, ankle and toes have been too sensitive to even consider anyone other than me touching them. (Apart from my doctor or Kimmie or Beelzebub, and even then with all the emotional and physical fortitude I could muster)
The other thing which is kind of cool about LA are the cars. Sure there are loads of really expensive exotic cars, lots of them. And they're cool and it's cool to see them. But what I really love are the old ones. It is the eternal Summer of Love out here, after all, and the proliferation of 1972 VW vans will attest to that. I saw a Vega yesterday. I added it to my growing list of cars I thought I'd never see again anywhere. So far I have seen:
Loads of Chevy El Caminos (very popular out here)
5 (yes, count them, five) Chevy Citations (they have to be the only 5 left in existence)
2 AMC pacers
1 Ford Maverick
1 AMC Eagle (that blew my mind, I'd forgotten about this gem of fine automotive genius)
1 Ford Pinto (I know, it takes guts, a lot of guts, to drive this. A young boy was driving it, I think (hope) he was out on a fraternity dare)
1 Chevy Vega
I have not seen but am on the lookout for:
Le Car
Opel (any Opel, any Opel at all. I thought I caught a glimpse of a GT, but it turned out to be the Ford Maverick)
AMC Gremlin
Renault Fuego
Another reason I could love LA: Boobs. Women pay a lot of money to have what I was given by DNA. I usually rein them in, hide them as much as possible, minimize them and certainly do not flaunt them unless some flat chested soppy tart needs a lesson in humility. (I do try to reserve that for air hostesses and sales associates at Saks and Harvey Nichols, though.) But out here everyone's got 'em. They pay good money for them and naturally they want to show them off. So I've let the girls out to play a few times. Hey. When in Rome. One of my colleagues was visibly shaken (impressed?) when he saw me turn up at a dinner function in a low cut top and the girls out and proud with nothing but a regular bra keeping them aloft and preventing them from falling out of said low cut top. Hey. When in Rome. I can hardly wait to return to work and hear what gossip is circulating about that. Maybe it will finally end the talk about the state of my ass in a pair of jeans.
Right. So. There you have it. Reasons to love LA after all: Eating disorders, strange and nonstop conversations about food, alcohol, unsolicited advice and referrals for spa treatments, old cars and boobs.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004 Reality Wednesday America's Funniest Hotel Moments
Take one road weary business traveler, put them in a posh hotel suite, make them work 14 hour days, have the hotel manager send them a gift basket of spa products and watch the madcap hilarity ensue!
Scene opens with a woman arriving at a busy metropolitan airport. She is standing at the baggage carousel. Her suitcase makes its way on the belt to her. It has stickers proclaiming "cleared" and "X-Ray" and "Security" from three different airports around the country. One of the wheels is broken, the pull-up handle is pulled up half-way and broken into two telescoping rods instead of a smooth gliding handle unit.
The traveler, in a business suit and Polo poseur sneakers, appears to be very tired and sunburned. She looks at the bedraggled suitcase, shrugs, sighs, looks at the camera with a look which says, "figures. Just swutting figures."
She manages to get the suitcase off the roundy-round belt, and moves to exit the baggage area dragging the mangled suitcase by one of the telescoping poles and one wheel. We cut to her boarding a rental car bus, still dragging the suitcase by one pole and one wheel. Cut to the rental car parking lot where she is attempting to load the bewrecked suitcase into a zippy little sport scar. We see her pull up to a swank hotel looking embarrassed, trying to smooth her hair and regain some personal composure as she hands the valet the keys and he attempts to unload the broken and now shabby suitcase.
"Sorry. Airlines. Hmph." she offers as an explanation and hands him an insanely high tip.
When next we see the traveler she is entering a luxury suite more akin to a pied-à-terre than hotel room. She pretends her suitcase, being handled by the bellman, is perfectly fine, properly functioning and entirely suitable for a guest staying in a posh suite at a swank metropolitan hotel. The bellman makes attempts to also pretend there is nothing wrong with the suitcase and drags it into the bedroom as if it has two functioning wheels. He returns, offers a tour of the suite, pointing out the amenities and features. The traveler stands in the middle of the sitting room attempting to tip the bellman and send him on his way. He continues to make his way around the suite, pointing out hotel services all the while.
We can tell by the tired and frustrated look on her face she just wants the guy gone.
She is finally able to dismiss the bellman with a tip (again far too much - she's still hoping this will compensate for the state of her suitcase and serve as hush money with the rest of the staff. She knows how people talk, word spreads, and for some unknown reason she's worried about her reputation as a representative of her clients and her company. The last thing she wants or needs are rumors about her shabby luggage and weary arrival composition.)
Once she is rid of the bellman, she kicks off her Polo poseur sneakers and drops onto the couch. She pushes aside a basket of fruit and bottle of wine, but reads the note attached, ("We're delighted you have chosen our hotel for your client's event. We are pleased and honored to have you as our guest. Please let me know if there is anything you require during your stay and I will personally see that your needs are accommodated." Signed The General Manager of a Very Swank Hotel.) She smirks and guffaws as she pushes aside the fruit and wine. "Hey, General Manager! I require seven virile men (and one additional very sardonic man) ready and willing to service me. NOW!" She giggles at the thought of the General Manager of the Very Swank Hotel arranging seven virile men to service her. (Wavy cut to a soft focus fantasy sequence where The Traveler is being followed by seven virile men representing each of her fantasy themes. The eighth, Chris Briggs, is on hand to provide an audience for her sarcastic remarks. He will also be providing other services later in the fantasy. The Young Bucks are her entourage during all of her business meetings and functions, and performing fantasy acts upon her in her down time. Scratch of record and cut back to harsh reality.)
She pulls out a notebook of papers and spreads them across the coffee table.
She is: Working.
She calls her office.
Several times.
She has two cell phones, both of which ring every 20 minutes.
She attempts to use her laptop. The hotel has T1 connectivity, but the laptop her idiot tech guy back in the office gave her to use on this leg of her multi-city trek is not functioning properly.
Hours pass.
She occasionally eats a grape or a few bites of apple.
We see the sun fall from afternoon to sunset and then disappear.
She is interrupted by the turn down service person who disappears into the bedroom for what seems like a really long time, then reappears and hurries out, apologizing for interrupting The Traveler.
A clock ticks away the hours and strikes 9 PM.
She looks up at the clock, then at her watch in disbelief. She looks more tired, more haggard and more sunburned. (how can that be? She's been inside working all afternoon!)
She gathers her papers, closes her books and shuts down her ill functioning laptop.
She reads the note from the general manager again. She takes the bottle of wine to the kitchen/bar area. She finds a waiter's corkscrew waiting for her, placed conspicuously on the counter.
She inserts the screw. Things are going fine.
Until she attempts to use the leverage part of the corkscrew. The bottle is odd in that it has no lip a the top, nothing to lodge the winch to pry the cork out of the bottle. So she does it the old fashioned way, attempting to "just pull" the cork out of the bottle. Things are going well at first, the cork slides almost halfway without crumbling. And then it refuses to budge. She does the ladylike maneuver of putting the bottle between her thighs and pulling with all her might on the corkscrew. Her newly reformed biceps and triceps ripple. Yet nothing in the neck of the bottle moves.
"Oh General Manager! I require someone, a young studly buck, to open this bottle of wine you left me!" she yells out loud as she continues to pull on the corkscrew with the bottle of wine between her thighs.
"Oh swutting eh. Forget it." she says out loud, again to no one, and then heads into the bedroom.
She is taken aback by the bacchanalian decor of the bedroom.
"Holy den of iniquity. What the swut do they think I'm going to be doing here?! What the swut do other people do in here?!" wavy cut to another fantasy sequence involving the seven virile (and one sardonically delicious) men. (THIS SCENE IS NOT YET RATED, PARENTAL SUPERVISION REQUIRED. INSERT WHATEVER UNRATED FANTASY YOU HAVE HERE.) Scratch of record and back to reality.
Candles, plural, are lit and softly illuminate the bedroom. A bottle of champagne is cooling in an ice bucket pedestal. Chocolate covered strawberries are suggestively arranged on a plate. Strewn across her turned down bed are petals of some sort. Not roses, she thinks. But what? There is a note perched on her pillow. "Please enjoy these edible petals of handmade apricot infused confection to aid in a pleasant night of slumber."
"Oh brother. They already have my business and my client's business, why are they still trying to impress me? This is just way too far over the top. Apricot confection? What I really want is a Starlight mint." she says out loud. She notices a chamber illuminated by soft light.
Smooth jazz can be heard faintly from the chamber. She approaches, cautiously.
Behold: Girl Valhalla.
The mother of all bathrooms. The sort of retreat every woman in the world wants and dreams of one day occupying.
Separate shower room, separate double sink makeup area, separate toilet area and then, oh God then, the sunken tub to rival all sunken tubs. With a view. Two windows looking out on the Hollywood hills.
And here is where the fun begins! (no, sadly, not with a wavy fantasy sequence come true)
Waiting on the counter in the sink area is a basket of spa products. Really, really nice spa products. Name a body part or issue and there is a product to treat it.
"Yippeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!" the Business Traveler exclaims as if she's six-years-old and it's Christmas morning.
She goes back into the bedroom to her bewrecked suitcase, opens it and unpacks, hanging items and putting them in drawers. She finally gets to what are apparently her pajamas. We see her duck back into the bathroom. She reappears moments later in tiki themed capri length pajama bottoms and a darling little cropped t shirt with lotus blossoms strategically printed on the front. And bunny slippers. (No, no goddam Red Wings jersey.) We hear the running of water, a tub being filled.
With renewed determination, she heads back to the kitchen/bar and again attempts to open the bottle of wine.
She tries another desperate method, pushing the cork into the bottle. (hey. she said desperate. what would you do?) It won't budge. She again uses the time honored method of using her thighs as a vice grip for the bottle of wine. She pushes instead of pulls this time. The home viewing audience all know where this is going and how this will end. She's tired, very tired, and desperate for a glass of wine, and it's after 10:00 at night. There is no choice but for this to end in disaster.
And moments later it does. She pushes the bottle with a vigorous shove (where are those seven virile (and one sardonic) men when you need them?) and she is knocked off balance (without her Polo poseur sneakers she's still not as sturdy on her left foot as she wishes she were), the bottle becomes a projectile, hurtling backwards through her thighs and across the kitchen/bar. It lands in a shattering cabernet spray on the marble floor.
She stands there looking in (shockingly) disbelief at the mess she's just made.
She then begins to rummage through the few cupboards for anything useful in cleaning up this sort of mess. She finds nothing. She goes to the bathroom and reaches for towels. Really nice, thick, Egyptian, WHITE towels. Snowy white. Virginal white. She pads back to the kitchen/bar. Yep. Still very cabernet red. Splattered like the Helter Skelter murder scene on the floor and walls. (This is not the time to point out white merlot would not have posed this risk) She pads to the other bathroom where the bath is foaming seductively. She pauses, obviously thinking she could just take her bath and leave the mess in the kitchen/bar. But she's not that kind of girl and it would nag at her.
She looks at all the towels. The really nice, thick, Egyptian, white towels.
She looks at the telephone, ominously poised next to the bed. (Zoom in tight shot of bedside telephone.)
She picks up the telephone and dials the housekeeping extension.
"Housekeeping, Hello Ms. Business Traveler, what can we do for you this evening?"
"I, erm, I was trying to open a bottle of wine..."
"Yes..."
"And I, erm, well, the bottle didn't have a lip and the cork wouldn't budge..."
"Yes, I see..."
"And, well, I sort of dropped it and it's really red and the towels are all so nice and, erm, white."
The doorbell rings within five minutes. Still clad in her tiki motifed (and strategic lotus blossomed) pajamas, she answers. Poised ready for action with mops, sponges, towels, cleaning bucket and every industrial cleaning product available, are two young buckish men.
"Good evening Ms. Business Traveler, we're here take care of the kitchen."
"Oh yes, of course (acting surprised) right through here (as if it's her home and these guys have never been there and don't know where the kitchen is) so sorry about this, there's no lip on the bottle...and the cork...really, I would have taken care of it but the towels are so nice. And white."
"No! This is our job! Don't worry, it happens all the time!" one of the young housekeeping bucks comforts her as they set about cleaning up the shattered bottle of wine as if it were a nuclear spill.
Within minutes the mess is cleaned and the kitchen/bar looks as pristine as if nothing untoward happened.
She tips the two housekeeping bucks (again, more than necessary, in hopes of hushing them from speaking of this to anyone) and they disappear.
She heads back to her bath. She opens the bottle of champagne (with no difficulty, thank you very much), pours herself a tall glass, tries one of the edible apricot confection petals, (hmmm. Not bad.) and heads into the tub area of the bathroom. A gentle steam rises off the bath. Bubbles froth at the edge of the tub.
The doorbell rings.
"What the...?"
She pads to the door of the suite.
"Yes?" she asks through the door.
"Room service. Delivery." is the response.
"I think you've got the wrong room, I didn't order room service." she replies.
"No, ma'am, this is a delivery."
Big dramatic, "oh all right just get on with it" look just before she opens the door.
A room service hunk brings in a replacement bottle of wine, one of those really nifty rabbit corkscrews, a fresh basket of fruit and a cheese assortment.
"Oh. Thank you. Not necessary, but thank you." The Business Traveler gushes.
"Mr. General Manager insisted." room service hunk says, shortly, almost curtly.
Oh swut. That news spread quickly.
Cut to a scene at a posh home. A couple is in bed, sleeping. A man in monogrammed pajamas and an eye mask is gently slumbering. A red hotline telephone next to the bed rings. The man peels off his eye mask, reaches for his glasses and answers the hotline.
Scene switches to split screen, one of the man in bed and the other of a frantic back service area of a hotel.
"Yes!"
"General Manager of a Very Swank Hotel, sorry to bother you, but we have an emergency! Business Traveler had difficulty opening her bottle of cabernet! She broke the bottle! We cleaned up the mess, but she doesn't have a bottle of wine! How should we proceed?" the room service manager asks.
"I told you guys not to use those stupid waiter's corkscrews, no one likes those. Give her a replacement bottle, STAT! And more fruit! And for heaven's sake, give her the rabbit! And have SuperHunk deliver it!"
"Yes sir!"
General Manager hangs up the hotline, but remains seated on the edge of the bed.
His wife sits up, leans over and rubs his shoulders sympathetically.
"Trouble at the hotel?"
"Broken bottle of cabernet. DAMN those waiter's corkscrews."
"I'm sure it will be okay. I'm sure Business Traveler won't mind. You had them send more fruit. Everyone likes fruit."
"Yes, yes, but will it be enough? Really? (pauses) I should have sent cheese, too!" he picks up the hotline, "And send her a cheese assortment, too!"
Meanwhile, back in the suite, the business traveler has a few bites of cheese, a few grapes, two walnut halves and heads back into the bathroom.
She slips off her tiki motifed (and strategically placed lotus blossom) pajamas and slips into the tub.
The view out the windows is beautiful.
It is now we get a glimpse of The Business Traveler's real self.
Serene. Pleasant. Happy. Relaxed. Maybe even a little sexy (what with the candlelight and all). The road weary business traveler is unwinding.
She is also getting really drunk on the glass of champagne because she hasn't had anything to eat all day except an apple, a few berries, a few bites of cheese, a few grapes and two walnut halves.
The home viewing audience knows something bad is going to happen.
Something very bad.
Someone breaking in, cutting her open, harvesting her organs and leaving her for dead?
No.
Worse.
She switches on the Jacuzzi.
The Business Traveler is seen with heightened looks of relaxation and pleasantness (brief wavy cut to a fantasy sequence involving seven virile (and one certain sardonic Chris Briggs) men and a Jacuzzi, champagne and edible apricot petal confections.
She may, perhaps, even, possibly, but we're not saying for certain because she knows better, fall asleep. If she were to do this it would only be for a brief moment. A very brief moment.
But a brief moment is all it takes for a Jacuzzi to turn sinister. For the tables of relaxation to turn ugly and tense.
The business traveler is now completely covered in bubbles. They are frothing and foaming and churning at a staggering rate of reproduction.
A cutaway view shows the tub room filled with bubbles.
The Business Traveler awakes from her relaxed (and slightly drunken) state to realize she is engulfed in white foam. She gropes for the floor/edge of the sunken tubs. The foam rises as stands in the sunken tub, and even at her 5'11" height, she is shorter than the mountainous peaks of the bubbles. She cannot find the floor to get out of the sunken tub. She continues to grope through the foam to find either the floor or the Jacuzzi switch. She finds the floor. She disappears into the foam. Minutes later we see her crawling on hands and knees out of the foam from the tub room. We hear the Jacuzzi motor churning. The bubbles are growing and swelling, threatening to swell beyond the tub room. (think: The Blob) Completely covered in white bubbles, the Business Traveler pauses for a moment to fashion the bubbles clinging to her into an outfit on her otherwise naked body. (Smooth jazz is still playing at low volume, candles are still the only illumination.)
The business traveler sobers up enough to realize she
Must.
Turn.
Off.
The.
Jacuzzi.
She re-enters the tub area and immediately disappears into the wall of bubbles.
Minutes later the churning motor of the Jacuzzi stops.
Minutes after that the business traveler reappears from the foam.
There is no shower in the tub room.
Resourcefully, the business traveler takes the champagne ice bucket pedestal and fills it with water and splashes is fire brigade style on the bubbles in hopes of quelling the foam, taming it to a manageable mass, or at least a mass less than now eight feet tall and spreading into the rest of the suite.
She continues in this manner for a long time. We see a time lapse sequence of the foam incrementally decreasing in mass.
Then.
The doorbell rings.
"What the...?" she says out loud as she pads through the suite to the door.
"Yes?" she asks through the door.
"Everything okay in there Ms. Business Traveler?"
"Erm, yes?" she asks/responds.
"Sorry to bother you, we're having some difficulty with the room below you, apparently a leak, and we wanted to be sure everything is okay for you."
"Erm, um, well, yes, just having a bath..."
"Bath? Sorry Ms. Business Traveler, but do you mind if we have a look to be sure everything's okay?"
Fortunately Business Traveler realizes she's wearing nothing but a bubble frock which has slid and moved considerably so that the Business Traveler is more defrocked than frocked.
"Just a minute." she pleads through the door.
"Oh swut, oh swut, oh swut..." as she lunges through the suite to the tub room. She grabs a bathrobe off a hook and douses more ice buckets of water on the room of bubbles. It's worse than she remembered. She douses a few more buckets of water and attempts to push the bubbles into the tub.
This is a feeble attempt. She takes all the pristine really nice towels and begins "mopping" the bubbles. Amazingly, in a few minutes she is able to mop down the foam blob so that it is contained in the sunken tub. She notices bubbles still clinging to the windows, creating a snow scene on the panoramic view.
She contemplates attempting to wipe down the windows but dismisses this notion when the doorbell again rings.
"Be right there!"
She dashes to the door and admits the engineering crew.
"Sorry to bother you, Ms. Business Traveler. There is water leaking in the walls in the room below you. If you were taking a bath perhaps there is a leak."
"Oh no! What a shame! I hope there wasn't too much damage!"
"Nothing serious, but we need to figure out the problem before it gets worse. We'll just take a quick look now, we'll make any repairs tomorrow, if that's okay with you."
"Sure, no problem." The Business Traveler obliges as if she owns the place. She follows the engineers into the bathroom. They immediately spot the foam and apprise the situation. They flip the Jacuzzi switch. It makes a raspy groan.
"Bubble bath in the Jacuzzi, Ms. Business Traveler?" one of the engineers asks.
"Erm, um, well, yes, I just didn't think. I didn't intend to use the Jacuzzi, but then I thought I'd try it for a few minutes, I just wasn't thinking, I completely forgot about the bubble bath I'd used, and well...."
"Happens all the time, don't worry about it, I don't think that caused the problem. (The Business Traveler heaves a visible sigh of relief) But please do not use foaming products with the Jacuzzi jets. (looking at the basket of spa products) or any kind of pellets, salts or oils."
She is then suddenly very aware there is romantic music, candlelight and a champagne bucket in the bathroom. And two engineers. And her in nothing but a bathrobe and bubbles clinging to her hair.
"I'll just leave you to it." she attempts a jocular tone as she grabs her soggy from foam pajamas and hastily retreats to the sitting room.
She nervously fidgets with her ill functioning laptop.
The engineers emerge from the bedroom.
"Okay, Ms. Business Traveler, we're done for this evening. We may have to come back tomorrow. For now we'd appreciate it if you could use the shower room instead of the tub room."
"Sure, no problem!" the Business Traveler enthusiastically (too enthusiastically) agrees.
The engineers leave and the Business Traveler makes her way to the tub room. The engineers apparently cleaned up the remaining bubble mess.
Most traces of the earlier bubble mass have disappeared.
Cut to a studio audience where a host is asking The Business Traveler if she knew bath products can ruin Jacuzzi mechanics. The studio audience laughs on cue.
"I knew that, but I was really tired, I just didn't think. I only intended to use it for a few minutes, I don't normally use public Jacuzzis - but I was tired, it sounded like a good idea at the time..."
The studio audience laughs on cue. The image of The Business Traveler crawling out of the wall of bubbles is frozen on one huge rear projection screen on the studio set. The image of The Business Traveler with a wine bottle between her thighs is frozen on another.
The host tells the audience to vote now for "A Bit of the Bubbly" as this week's Funniest Hotel Moment.
