For Valentine’s Day this year I booked a room in the city and some how ended up in Spain at one of Stewie Griffin’s Sexy Parties.

As usual I never know what to expect in the city, but if you are looking for a place to crash with a swim-up bar and a detoxifying sauna, then check out the Grace Hotel in Times Square.  You never hear about places like this when you are a resident, but what do I know.  Since I left,  dumpster swimming in Brooklyn became the latest trend.

After dinner and drinks, Kate and I arrived back at the hotel and were greeted by a tiny man with a clip board.  Expectedly, we were not on the list, thus uninvited to the sexy party, until the bouncer overruled him and said right this way…

Essentially it felt like we escaped the U.S. and had a private party for two.   No one looked our way, we were American and straight.  Nevertheless, we enjoyed two free hours of open bar courtesy of this dude.

In Thailand, a snake refused to leave my $9 dollar hostel room, and that was fine.  I figured this was the norm after the owner said it was harmless, so I told it to stay in the corner, while I slept off a hangover.

This time, on the opposite side of the world, in a standard $150 dollars a night Holiday Inn Express in Philadelphia, my room was invaded again.  This time by a MORON who checked into my room, got comfortable, ironed, and left my room without noticing THAT IT WAS VISIBLY BEING OCCUPIED BY ANOTHER HUMAN BEING!  See for yourself…

(Notice the unmade bed that I just took a nap in!)

Let me note that I had already been staying in this hotel for three days.  I stepped out for a few hours to meet up with my cousin and I came home around 9:00 p.m.  I opened the door and almost knocked over an ironing board that was set up, not by me.  I thought I was in the wrong room, until I noticed all of my stuff, with the addition of someone else’s stuff.   At first I was confused, then thought it was a bit funny, then frightened that someone was going to jump out of the shower and stab me.

Long story short, I called the desk and raised hell.  I had to move my stuff because this stranger was nowhere to be found.  I spoke to the manager the next day and he set me up with a free $400 dollar room in NYC during Christmas.  Well worth the immediate shock.

Later on I found that bed warming was an actual service being offered by Holiday Inns in London.  I like to think of myself as an unexpected recipient of the absolute worst idea in the history of the hotel industry.

This quote is a reminder of my days in New York City.   In no particular order, here is a selection of six typical odd balls you may come in contact with on the streets of NYC on a regular basis.

The Sleeper

It is no secret that The Sleeper is tired.  He does not care where he is going to sleep and what his bed will consist of  church steps, parks, underground tunnels and subway seats, which seem to be the bed of choice.  He does not bother anyone and we don’t bother him. The sleeper’s bed is his fortress, whether it consists of two pieces of cardboard or a stick hut carefully constructed by beavers.  Although he is usually sleeping, I would love to see his face when he discovers my carefully placed leftovers, next to his box. Cheers to you… man who hasn’t moved an inch or said a word in 13 years.

The Crazy Screaming Man in the Middle of the Road

I think this title speaks for itself.  *On a side note, he is my favorite crazy person. He is far enough away from me that he does not ask for money.  If he did ask for money I wouldn’t be able to understand him anyways.  He is deathly skinny and often resembles Jesus.  If you look at him funny or yell back at him he may decide to chase you down, but you probably can out-run him because he will either:

1. Get hit by a car
2. Die from exhaustion after seven strides.

The Entrepreneur

He or she has most likely collected cans at one point in life, but it is time for bigger and better enterprises.  Since selling cans did not make enough profit, they decided to foolishly start selling batteries packaged in saran wrap or unconvincing “pure” bottled water.  I know you are  a wizard who could have easily transported the water from Fiji with the sway of your precious wand, but I am onto you buddy!  I swear I saw you siphoning it from a puddle in Central Park.  Please do us all a favor and go back to collecting cans.   And PLEASE leave the sleeper alone, he does not want a job (I love it when I see two crazy guys trying to combine forces).

Shoeless The Entertainer

The way you jingle your  change cup and sing “I’m a Maniac” in your raspy smoker’s voice- it puts a smile on my face every time.  The crowded subway is your stage and you make it known, whether it’s with a tasteless Michael Jackson joke or a not so magical magic trick. You always seem to grab my attention.  Next time when I give you change, don’t tell me it’s for Viagra, you are only like 33 years old.

The Homeless Guy Who Is Perfectly Fine Being Homeless.

This man can be found shirtless with the best tan ever. He wears a rag for underwear and lives in some picturesque tropical destination, right on the beach.  He is immune to rattle snake venom, box jellyfish stings, e coli, deadly flies and just about anything else.  Sometimes when I picture him on a beautiful beach, while I am home in the New York winters, I get extremely jealous.

The Crazy Guy Flying Signing The Sign

When I was five years old I saw this man in Times Square and his sign read:  “Need money for Beer, Hooker and Drugs…I Ain’t Bullshittin!”  It is no secret that you started a revolution because now I see a different guy with that sign at least three times a week.  If that is still actually you after all these years and you have not died of HIV or liver damage, then boy do I have a frosty Old English with your name on it! Tell the guy with the “Insult me for 2 dollars sign” to copyright his sign, before the clones take over.

Note:  I miss living in New York City

About 20 years ago, my first life-lasting memory occurred.  Everything before age five is quite hazy, but on this day I truly began a life of curiosity, mischief, and out of the ordinary experiences.  It was my sister’s chance to tame the Problem Child.  My parents were leaving her alone with me for the very first time.

This was my shot to take freedom to a whole new level.  As a kid  I loved people. I wanted to be around them every second.  As a teenager, my sister hated people (well not everyone, just her starved for attention brother).  Immediately after my parents left she retired upstairs to her bedroom, popped in her Paula Abdul cassette and drowned me out.  Forget her, I didn’t need Caroline to have a fun time.

It was time to explore the family room and have a house party for one.  I dragged out my cheap plastic record player from the closet and got my pile of scratched records (I was old school).  Once the needle hit the record, it was on.  I danced. I danced on the couch. I danced on the table, I danced up a storm. Who was going to stop me?  I danced so hard, I danced myself right into an old antique pot. A pot big enough to fit a bony five year old kid with corduroys and a bad haircut. Yup, that’s me stuck in the pot.  You might be asking, who are those people?  I’ll get to that.

Caroline….no answer…Carolineeee!  “WHAT ROBERT ?!” I’m stuck in a pot.

Finally she decided to come downstairs.  Sure enough I was stuck in a pot and I was not budging.  As a kid I was more deranged than the boy who cried wolf.  She figured it must have been another one of my pranks…I could not be trusted.

By now she had no choice but to call 911 and let them know that her little brother was stuck in a pot.  Ten minutes later the street is blocked off, the ambulance, police,  fire department and every neighbor within ear shot of a siren is outside of my house.

A circle has started to form around me in my family room.  Is this kid really stuck in a pot?

• First attempt:  Let’s just pull him out of the pot.  FAILED
• Second attempt: Let’s grease him up and pull him out.  FAILED
• Last attempt:  Let’s use scare tactics.  SCORE

With that said, a burly firefighter comes over and adds his two cents, “If he’s not gonna budge we’re just gonna chop him out with THIS AX!  Don’t worry, you will only have a smashed knee. Forget about playing sports ever again.”

Now, the tears have a arrived and fear trembled through my body.  With unfamiliar eyes watching me and super kid strength in order, I maneuvered myself out of the pot using every bit of grease that was slathered on my bony body.   I was free.

The EMTs loaded me onto the stretcher, down the hill of my front lawn and past the curious eyes of my neighborhood.   It was my first taste of embarrassment and prerequisite to a curious and mischevious life.

For three months I was by myself, but never alone.  I made friends with strangers, eavesdropped, broke the language barrier, and plugged myself into reality, instead of a magical 30 gigabyte rectangle (Which I still do love dearly).  When I wasn’t making nice with the locals, I was creating the soundtrack to my journey.

The music selection in foreign countries is far too comedic to regret leaving your tunes behind.  Open your ears.  How could I forget hearing “My Heart Will Go On” on two separate boat rides.  Or repeatedly hearing “My Humps” and “Milkshake” in both Thailand and Indonesia.  Why those two songs?  Also, why do so many live musicians in Thailand finish the night with “Zombie” by the Cranberries?  Could it be a tribute to the Zombie lady boys I come across in Bangkok lurking in the night, thirsty for tourist flesh?

Speaking of zombies, remember in Charlie Brown’s Christmas Pageant when no one wanted to rehearse the play, so Schroeder hit the keys and every kid danced like a freak on acid.  My friends, this is what it looks like when 50 intoxicated tourists from different countries share one dance floor.

I admit blazing the dance floor to many house hits, but sometimes I found it way more amusing watching people dance, while I drank a Sangsom and Red Bull.  Aside from outdated American music  I learned not a day goes by in Asia without a little Karaoke

I was one of three westerners on a six hour bus ride from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, Cambodia.  Step into my shoes for a second and imagine watching and listening to Asian pop for six hours straight.

If you yearn for this experience, follow these steps:

• Lock yourself in humid, decrepit, bug filled bus for six hours
• Listen to this song on repeat
• Have an old man smile at you, while feeling your arms and knees

For me, each song was hard to differentiate from the next because they have similar beats and guitar rifts.  The locals love it.  On the bus, people just followed along and occasionally let out an over exaggerated burst of laughter.  I’m just thankful there was no group participation.

Beaches were very touristy and laid back, so the listening menu always included Bob Marley, Jack Johnson, Hotel California, and many times Simon and Garfunkel (which surprised me).  Also, Celine Dion could never be forgotten.

As an American, I applaud my country for exporting all music overseas.  Three of us guys, five girls, and two surfboards packed into a cab like the Coolio video, “Fantastic Voyage.” However, this ride had a different tune. After 15 minutes of silence, the Balinese cabbie popped in his favorite cassette, 2 Live Crew:  Sports Weekend, As Nasty as They Want to be, Pt. 2.  Hits like “Me So Horny” and “Hoochie Mama” really paint the perfect picture of American life for foreigners. If only the cabbie could understand the lyrics, he’d understand our uncomfortable, irresistible bursts of laughter.  I’m so proud.

Leaving my music behind was a proud accomplishment of mine, which I could do again, but wouldn’t.   At times I wanted to share music with new friends, fall asleep to a mix, or become invisible on a 14 hour plane or bus ride. Next time I’m on a bus of crazed Karaeoke-ites, it’d be nice to plug into my iPod, even if I had to listen to “My Heart Will Go On.”

This will be the first of many written outbursts to occupy my time and yours.  Since I graduated from high school in 2002, I truly have lived a helter-skelter lifestyle.  In-between classes, work, flights, and adventures I have documented tidbits of my chaotic lifestyle in journals, post-its, blank pages in books, receipts, you name it…  Overall I’m a pretty organized person, except when it comes to my writing style.  Outside of school and work I rarely write full sentences, just scribbles and lists.

Today, I vow to change all that.  My brain is full and I need to make room for new memories, before I forget the old ones.  I’m going to have fun writing true stories and rants on this site, so thank you for coming along for the ride.  (At times, please dismiss my unnecessary capitalization, spelling errors, and poor grammar). Anything I miss will hopefully get scooped up by my beautiful, and brilliant proofreading girlfriend.

Mahalo,

Rob