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“Lay off the firewater, Tonto”

Barry Sullivan

Random Festivus Rant

There are no “stories” anymore, everyone has a goddamn “narrative.”  Read More…

“Believe It Or Not” – The Hyatt Stories

The following is a story I wrote the company newsletter while working as a Bellman at the Hyatt at Fisherman’s Wharf newsletter back in the 1990s. The premise for the article was to gather stories from various folks in the hotel and leave it to the reader to determine if the tales were true or…tall.  Here is my entry…as it was printed in one giant block of text:

Well a few months ago, I was working an ordinary night shift: Val was smiling behind the front desk, Wilson Pineros was standing at attention in the Valet Department and I was overseeing the Front Office activities as self-appointed M.O.D. (Kimberly allowed me to call myself that if I didn’t get in the way.) Suddenly a car with three suspicious-looking characters in it screeched up to the front entrance. The passenger side door opened and out came a leather clad woman with long hair and a spandex clad man with longer hair. Was “Poison” playing a show at the Coliseum? I wondered. The driver’s door flew open and out cam the biggest, hairiest man I had ever seen. Big Foot, perhaps? The missing link? No it was the guest from hell. He kicked in the front door and sauntered (as much as one can saunter in combat steel-toed boots) to the Front Desk. He demanded a room in a broken, drunken dialect as his counterparts unloaded the car. Val’s smile soon disappeared but she was accommodating. They decided to self-park the car and they got no argument from Wilson or myself. No sooner than they went to their rooms did Kevin McCarthy come down to report to Kimberly the havoc the guests were wreaking in the halls. At Mr Solomon’s request, Kimberly called the room to get some sort of security deposit as was the normal procedure. The guest became outraged and said they were leaving immediately. I ran out to valet to tell Wilson to bring up the car, but I saw terror in his eyes. He told me there was a pit bull in the back seat of their car and that there was no way he was going to bring it up out of the garage. I slapped him twice across the face to snap him out of it – I was unsuccessful. We decided that since they brought the car down that they could bring it up. We were pleased with our decision. The hulking, hairy giant emerged from the front doors in a rage. “Where is my ****ing car!” I explained to him our brilliant deduction and he genuinely seemed to understand. His eyes returned to their natural color and he took a deep, calming breath. He leaned over and said to me in a beautiful, soothing voice, “Bring my car up…you @#(!) or I’ll …(censored)!” Needless to say I bolted down to the garage ready to carry the car up on my back if I had to. Now, we had to outwit the fanged beast in the back seat. Since Wilson was the valet, he had to do the driving. He was not amused. I had to distract the dog. The dog was not amused. I pounded on the back window, thusly whipping the dog into a feeding frenzy. Wilson, with cat-like reflexes, jumped into the drivers seat and started the car. I taunted the dog in and effort to keep Wilson alive if not but for a little while. Wilson drove off (obviously not following the speed limit of the garage) and I chased the car still taunting the dog. I don’t know what was whiter: The dogs fangs, my eyes or Wilson’s knuckles. Wilson pulled up to the front door and bolted out of the car as if it were going to explode. The giant man and his rocker sidekicks jumped into the car and sped off. The dog stared at me through the back window, vowing that he would return some day to get me. Wilson and I, with a sigh of relief, walked together back to Housekeeping to change our pants. Wilson is now living comfortably in Miami, Florida…with not a pit bull in sight! 



Summer Reading

Summer reading for hight school. Ususally 1-3 books of 250ish page lenght. Summer these is no reading but plenty of time. Summerr deadline it becuase a math exercise   50 pages a day for next 30 days. etc.

“The Day I Saved Hyatt” – The Hyatt Stories

The following is a story I wrote the company newsletter while working as a Bellman at the Hyatt at Fisherman’s Wharf newsletter back in the 1990s. The premise for the article was to gather stories from various folks in the hotel and leave it to the reader to determine if the tales were true or…tall.  Here is my entry:

Now, I know what you are thinking: “Look how long this article is. I won’t have time for my third helping of fried pork products if I read this!” If you stop here you will be missing out on one of the greatest adventures to ever take place between these finely crafted walls. What other articles can offer danger, terrorism, intrigue and mayhem with a cast that includes a US Senator, 100 angry demonstrators, hundreds of the social elite…and a doorman and bellman? Get comfortable, put down your eating utensils and read the true story about what it really means to be a Hyatt employee.

It all started on a day much like today back in September of ’91. A U.S. Senator, Senator Solarz from New York, was here giving a speech and the hotel was buzzing with anticipation. While the Senator and his supporters strolled though the hotel lobby, a group of demonstrators began to swarm around the front driveport. They were people of Indian decent who were protesting the Senator’s involvement with the government of India. They seemed to be a peaceful group, but with their determination and growing numbers, they seemed a bit intimidating. The Senator, his followers, and even the Hyatt employees could not ignore the rhythmic chanting from the driveport that fine day.

I, of course, was at the Bell Desk, standing at the utmost of attention, surveying the situation. Our then Director of Security stood in the opposite corner of the lobby and looked on. I watched as his beady, trained eyes scanned the premises for suspicious characters, the butt of a concealed gun, or perhaps the flash from a drawn dagger. Something was going to happen, I thought, of he would be very disappointed. His eyes eventually focused on me and with that, he marched with great intensity toward me. Before I could get a wisecrack in, he leaned over, pulled me close and whispered, “I think one of those protestor guys planted a bomb in the men’s room!” Have you ever laughed so suddenly that a little globule of saliva finds its way off your tongue and into the air? “I’m serious” he said as he took a step back and wiped the embarrassing projectile from his face. “One of those demonstrators went into the men’s room and when he came out, the crowd dispersed. He probably planted a bomb!”

When I asked him the color of the sky in his world, he ignored me and proceeded to order me – Bellman Extrordanaire – to go into the men’s room and check for BOMBS! With this request I instantly went back in my memory banks to my first interview with Human Resources. In my mind I browsed over the Bellman job description and didn’t see anything about disabling terrorist bombs or remember signing the “possibility of accidental dismemberment” waiver form. I decline the Security Director’s order with the greatest of all comebacks: “No, You!”

“I can’t, I have to secure this area…” he said.

“Secure this area?? I can get shot just as easily as you!” I whined.

He stood and stared at me with a serious, almost somber expression as I thought “This guy is as sharp as a balloon!” For a reason I still don’t quite understand, I agreed and took off across the crowded lobby towards the men’s room. With every step I drew closer to Bellman martyrdom.

I entered the restroom as I never had before…with no great sense of urgency. I scanned the restroom for anything resembling a bomb and at the same time wondered how flammable my sporty Bell coat and slacks really were. At that moment, the door opened slowly and Steve Rebottaro, the once and future Doorman, stuck his reluctant noggin through the opening. The panicked look on his face was comical. Soon the rest of his body followed and we both set out to save the lives of the guests, the employees, the Senator, and perhaps the entire hotel industry as we knew it. We decided we should split up: Steve would check the wash areas while I opted for the restroom stalls. After moments of intense silence  and surveillance, I began to realize that there was no bomb, but Steve had not had that epiphany yet. So, it was time to mess with Steve. Just as he was carefully rummaging though a waste basket, I opened the stall door and, with the strength of 1000 bellman, slammed the stall door shut. Now, I’m not saying Steve was scared, but have you ever seen the cartoon where the bulldog sneaks up on a cat and the cat jumps up in fright and gets his claws stuck in the ceiling? Let’s just say Steve is still pulling sheetrock from his finger and toenails. After freeing Steve from his plaster shackles and popping his bugging eyes back into his head, I led him towards the door. Would we get a hero’s welcome when we came out? Would Mr. Soto present us with the “Keys to The Hyatt” for our service? Would Steve ever come out of shock? I opened the door and headed out into the lobby, shading my eyes from the camera flashes of the paparazzi that were sure to be greeting us. Alas, the lobby was empty. NOBODY! In fact I thought I saw tumbleweed blow past the concierge desk. The heroes had returned – unnoticed.

Well that day is long past us now. Every year on it’s anniversary, Steve and I meet, much like veterans from any decent war, to offer each other comfort and support. The numbers at the reunion have dwindled as of late – this year Steve was the only one to attend. (Hey, I was busy!) So next time you see a Bellman or a Doorman or even a Valet for that matter, feel secure in knowing that when it gets down to it, the guys on the “front line” will come through in the clutch. Whenever you see Steve, who has since moved on to other battlefields, don’t say anything about what he has done – he is far too proud for that. Just give him a quick wink to let him know you appreciate his gallant efforts on that fine September day.


Spelling Bee

spellingBeeModerator: “The word is: Delineate”

Contestant:  “Del-in-ee-ate? Humm, Del-in-eeh-ate. Can you use that in a sentence please?

Moderator: “Sure. Spell the word: Delineate”

Message from Thomas McKeon

This is a one-time email, I won’t bother you again. 

“Grievances” by Thomas McKeon

Friends, Colleagues and other people unfortunate enough to be in my address book, 

No, this is not step 9 of 12; I can assure you, I’m still drinking quite heavily. This is an email to let you know that I’ve written a book. I know, whoop-de-doo.

It’s a compilation of my “Festivus ‘Airing of Grievances’ Project” rants that I’ve posted online over the past five holiday seasons, with a few new ones thrown in this year. I’ve also added some funny illustrations, courtesy of my brother Colm, because there is no way I could put out a book that has merely words. It is self-published for fear of more rejection, but that does give me full control to promote the book as I see fit (like this pushy email). Yes, that’s a thin rationalization, but I’m an author now and I create my own reality.

  • If you know nothing of my rants or the author, take a chance and buy a book for a few bucks. If it doesn’t make you laugh uncontrollably or help you get your groove back, you can write a scathing review on Amazon. Hey, it’s the only way I’ll learn.
  • If you like or tolerate my rants each year, you’ll really enjoy this book. Buy one for yourself and for friends who love a good rant. ‘Tis the season of giving and airing!
  • If you know someone who is hard to shop for, buy them this unique gift and tell them you read the book and thought “This is totally you!” They’ll be touched that you know them so well. By the time they read it and realize “Hey, it’s not totally me,” the holidays will be over and you’ll be free & clear. Voila!
  • If you hate my rants each year buy a copy of the book so I don’t have to write another one. Buy several copies, if you’ve got the guts, and give them to your enemies and watch them recoil in horror. That’ll show ‘em.

The book comes in print and ebook formats and distribution will be expanding to other retailers shortly.

Start here:


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My Mom said that with her first child she was overwhelmed with joy when he started to walk. When the second child started to walk, after a year of chasing after #1, she would go over and knock #2 down.

Laundry Lament

If we force every teenage boy in the world to wear only collared shirts, they could clear up air pollution in months by drawing particulates out of the air and into their skin and out through the backs of their necks and onto their shirt collars. Rinse and Repeat.

The Pick of Destiny

Palm Springs, Feb 1994 – We were all there for a bachelor party and we had the best day out at the Bob Hope Classic golf tournament. I enlisted my friend John Sheehan to help me to stalk Eddie Van Halen who was playing in the tournament (Foursome: Tom Kite, Gerald Ford, Bob Hope, Eddie Van Halen. As Sheehan would say a dozen times that day: “Who picked those teams?!”).

We came up next to fairway on one hole to wait for the group to come past us and an elderly volunteer told us to step back. I told him we were behind the ropes and he said, “No, you don’t understand, Gerald Ford is having a bad day.” And right on cue, President Ford yanked one into the crowd where me, Sheehan and the elderly volunteer all hit the ground as the ball barely cleared over the top of us.

I didn’t get Eddie’s autograph–he only had a few seconds between holes–but he said “I gotta go, just take this…” and handed me this pick. As he walked away, I could have sworn I heard Eddie mumble “…and fuck you too, Sheehan!”

(Note: Golf foursome pic is from a Wolfgang post in 2020, same event/day I describe in this post)

Read More Delusions Here:

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