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 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 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.

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Thanks to everyone who purchased “Grievances” over the past month. The comments I’ve received online and in person have been overwhelmingly positive, which is shocking to me. There must be a lot of repressed anger out there…

[Initiate Begging Routine]

Anyway, if you got any enjoyment at all out of this thing, I’d really appreciate a rating/review on Amazon. Even if you bought the book from LuLu, off of street corner or from the free bin at your local festival, you can still leave a review on Amazon as long as you have an account.

https://www.amazon.com/Grievances-Thomas-McKeon-ebook/dp/B01N3QTBG8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479577312&sr=8-1&keywords=Grievances+McKeon#customerReviews

If you received the book as a holiday gift, I sure hope you got something else with it. Ah, but you too can leave a review if you are so inclined.

Thanks
Thomas

Many years ago, after my father emigrated to America, his father brought one of my Dad’s younger brothers to a Seminary (in Ireland) to hopefully be taken in to start his journey into the priesthood.

The priest at the door said, “He’s kind of scrawny, isn’t he?”

My grandfather responded, “Ah sure, I didn’t bring him here for breedin’ purposes.”

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: http://www.grievancesbook.com/

Thanks,
Thomas

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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.

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.

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)

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In case you didn’t know, the Kerry Picnic in the 70s and 80s was the original “Burning Man.”

At the store today, in the “Express” line when the lady ahead of me asked for the price of the Fig Newtons she had on the conveyer belt. The clerk tried to scan it but didn’t work so he asked bag boy to check the shelf. She had a few more non-fig items that he started to ring up but took a while for the hapless bag boy to return with the details. I couldn’t hear the price, but she made a face like she was chewing on a wasp, and she shook her head indicating that she didn’t want it. All that time wasted. What was the price, $750??

The boys had had their bachelor party fun in the exotic and remote location of North Beach and before it got too late, and the thousand beers could take hold, they thought it best to continue the session close to home. Because they were in North Beach where parking is sparse – not because they were responsible people back in the day – they all took cabs down there and needed cabs back. Twenty plus guys staggered down to Columbus, waved down a few, piled in, and pointed the confused cabbies in the direction of the Sunset.

Tim and Terry O’Brien’s cab ride was fairly uneventful, but they did manage to chuck a few verbal barbs at the hapless cabbie before they jumped out. Soon they made it back to Ridley’s, and by the looks of it they were the first group to make it. They went in, grabbed a few beers and chatted up the folks that were there. Within a few minutes, the door flew open and in came Rod Kruke, who was in another cab venturing back from North Beach . Kruke is always well-dressed. He often wore pressed, creased jeans and some type of layered collard shirt combo under a leather jacket.  The guy looked like he walked straight out of a 1950s Flatbush men’s catalog. The only thing more legendary than his wardrobe is his one-upsmanship; That is the ability to take any story or situation one is telling and respond with an even more outrageous story. Kruke scanned the room and marched right to the boys. Tim started to recount their cab ride story when Kruke cut him off with his own, surely better story. The boys’ eyes rolled as the one-upsman leaned in.

“We were giving our cab driver so much shit and he was getting all pissed off. We pulled in front of the bar as we were getting out and paying Sully gave the driver a wet willy [lick finger, insert in ear] and he freaked out. He stepped on the gas and took off, dragging me behind the car for a half a block until I fell off. I think I got run over! I looked up and Sully was dangling off the driver-side door with one arm crooked into the open window for support while the other arm was repeatedly punching through the open window and into the cabbies face, trying to get him to stop the car. The car turned the corner and I lost them!”

The one-upsman strikes again.

The boys looked at each other with that “oh-sure-thats-what-happened” look. When he got no reaction, Kruke shrugged, knowing the boys would never believe him. As he walked away, Tim pointed at Kruke’s back and Terry looked over to see a tire mark stretching from Kruke’s calf and all the way up his back and over his shoulder. Kruke walked up to another group of guys to recount the story to try to get someone to believe him.

It was a somewhat typical Sunday evening at Ridley’s Bar in the mid-90’s: Plenty of rough guys and some equally rough girls writhing to the somewhat-muffled sounds emanating  from a DJ booth perched precariously in the upper corner of the bar. I had been to the bar hundreds of times and have to say I never noticed the DJ booth until the night I saw records being flung from it that night at high velocities. The guest DJ that night (they actually never had a house DJ, so they were all guests) was none other than Joe Mc-fuckin-something-or-other: a sizable man with hands the size of extra large Pasquale’s Pizzas and a belly likely full of the same. The booth floorboards bowed as they courageously occupied the space-time between this hulking creature and a frustrated earth’s gravity.

Just as the song tailed off, and on some kind of cosmic cue, the front door to the bar flew open and the silhouette of Stucco Mike appeared in the doorframe. He was holding something over his shoulder and by the time I recognized them as bagpipes, the pipes bellowed to life and he processed into the bar. The people froze in amazement as this man, who we all knew for years but never as a musician, started marching in place and playing the bagpipes…and very, very well.  Stucco with as serious and sober a face as I’ve ever seen on him,  only played for a  few moments when he turned to exit the bar revealing a large boom box strapped to his back, blurting out the droning tones we assumed were coming from yer man’s pipes. The bar erupted with laughter as Stucco walked back out into the night, as quickly and mysteriously as he arrived. The next song started up and people went back to attempted dancing. A moment in time.

Andy was the first of us to get married, and he was thankfully doing it on the other side of the country, forcing his Sunset pals to go on a air-n-road trip. The wedding was in upper-state New York but we decided to take the opportunity to hang out in New York City before making the trek northward.

Nick Barrett had some friends from college living in Manhattan and, being the cheap screws we were, we took them up on their obligatory invite to stay with them. As you would expect with five early-20s guys from the neighborhood, we didn’t spend a lot of time  (none) sightseeing but rather sat our asses at McSorley’s bar for about eight hours each day just drinking and bullshitting. McSorleys was and old bar with older patrons. We saw two old dudes square off in a knife fight and then sit back down with each other and continue drinking. The bar had saw dust all over the floors and the beers were served in these mini beer mugs. Either that or the bartender had huge hands. Pictures on the walls showed American legends like Babe Ruth in the very same bar, which still seems surreal for West Coast kids that viewed them as more folklore than actual people.

Now, it may have been jet lag and the booze combined but time flew while we were there. Nick and I got in a heated debate about hard alcohol; While neither of us drank anything but beer at the time, he contended that nobody in the world likes the taste of hard alcohol, they just like the effect of it. I dared to disagree and theorize that someone, just someone in the world probably likes the taste.(I should note that these days Nick and I validate my contention on a nightly basis). At the time, it was so outrageous a thought that Nick accused me of also thinking the moon was made of cheese, which brought levity to the pseudo argument.

The bartender walked up the now sawdust-free path from the bar to our table with the next round of beers, about six mugs in each hand, like a surly St Pauly Girl. I posed the scenario to him and he was placing the mugs in front of us.

“My friend here thinks there is nobody in the world that likes the taste of hard alcohol.”

With an cock of his head and a narrowing of his eyes, and in my fading memory I picture him as Charles Napier, he growled.

“Well, I’d spend a lot of his money proving him wrong.”  Punctuated with a wink and a snap of the head.

Since we couldn’t improve on that line, that was the end of our argument.

That night was more of a blur than the day at the bar. I’m pretty sure someone in our group hooked up with a tranny in Times Square, but that’s a different story. Anyway, we all fell into the apartment and passed out in various corners. At around 4am, I woke up to take a piss. When I walked down the hall, I could hear not just running water but gushing water. I walked into the bathroom and there was a not-at-all-conscious Michael Tate in the shower tub leaning against the tile wall with a stream of shower water bursting off of his shirted shoulder. The water in the tub was just about to crest when I turned the nozzle off and encouraged Tate to dry off and go back to bed.

A few hours later, at about 7am,  it was already getting warm in the apartment. I was exhausted but had enough of a hangover to keep me from falling back to sleep. I needed water. I walked into the kitchen and over to the sink when I smelled one of the worst smells I can ever recall. “Where was it coming from?” I pondered as I hopelessly splashed water from the tap into my face in a failed attempt to ease the pain boring its way from the center of my skull outward. The smell seemed worse now. I blotted my eyes with a paper towel and when I opened them, I saw it. Well, I didn’t just see it  – I experienced it. With at least four senses. There, in the sink, was the largest shit I have ever seen in my life. My first thought was how an IBS-suffering Clydesdale got into the apartment and up onto the sink without waking the rest of us up. I then noticed the sink was quite high compared to other sinks, about lower-chest high. So whoever or whatever did this seemed to go out of their way to do it. But why? But who? I had a sudden flashback – the shower!

Since it was Barrett’s buddy’s place, and I wanted to see his reaction, I gently woke him up and quietly shepherded him into the kitchen. His sleepy eyes widened in disbelief- they were now only half closed – and he started to run down the theories about what could have happened. (Curiously he glossed over my Clydesdale scenario). When he ran out of ideas, I let my early morning shower encounter with Tate loose and Barrett flew into a rage. He was whisper-yelling, flailing his arms wildly to accentuate his anger like he was swatting an imaginary swarm of attacking bees. Start the timer…the premature end to our stay in Manhattan is rapidly approaching.

Now I don’t quite remember how Barrett woke Tate up, but Tate, still half asleep not knowing what he was actually being accused of, hopped up and immediately started denying whatever accusations were being volleyed at him.  He staggered around the room and away from Barrett like a loopy boxer just trying to hold out for the bell. When he eventually gained his footing and a bit of his bearings, he took a gamble and lunged out at Barrett with all his remaining energy with a bold assertion, hoping for a lucky knockout punch:

“How could it have been me!?” he got out, barely.

Barrett countered.

“How could it NOT be you!?”

A mortally wounded Tate fell to a proverbial knee. “Well, it was worth a shot,” Tate must have thought. With Tate’s storied history of blacked-out debauchery, he knew that he’d been beat. With his head hung low, he shuffled off into the kitchen to clean up his mess. [In hindsight, I should have yelled “Christ, he’s going back in there to take a piss! Stop him!]

We all started packing in earnest for our inevitable eviction. The roommates awoke and were surprised that we were on our way, but understood why when they caught a whiff of what Tate had just cleaned out of the sink. We all thanked them and sheepishly went on our way.

Tate, the last of us out, stopped at the door and addressed the roommates with nary a hint of emotion:

“Hey, thanks for letting us stay here. And sorry about the shit in the sink.”

He turned and walked out the door and into drunken folklore forever.

A couple of years before the original Good Friday (I have THE BEST Good Friday story, but I’ll tell you that later), the crowd-favorite, Barabbas, was standing trial for the murder of a local man, Lazarus. The trial had been going on for days, and Barabbas’ defense attorney was wrapping things up.

(Transcribed from the original Aramaic)

Defense Attorney:

“Your Honor, Pharisees, Scribes, and good men of the jury. Over the last few days I have laid our a water-tight case to prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that my client, Mr. Barabbas, is completely innocent in the untimely death of Mr. Lazarus. Now, my esteemed colleague on the other side will try to distract you from the truths of the case and try to rush you to false judgement, but I ask that you keep in thoughtful consideration the facts I’ve presented to you.

But, before the defense rests, your Honor, in the murder trial of John J. Lazarus, I’d like to call my last witness: One…JOHN…J…LAZARUS!

[Huge gasps and groans as Lazarus is helped through the crowd and up to the stand]

Prosecutor: “Oh, Jesus H. Christ!” as he scans the crowd for a familiar face.

Judge: “I declare a mistrial. [Gavel raps three times]. Mr. Barabbas, you are free to go.“

[A few cheers from the crowd as a now-annoyed Lazarus is helped down from the stand, grumbling all the way]

Prosecutor: (under his breath) “This is NOT over, Barabbas! Oh, far from it. I’ll make sure you’re crucified one day. And this time, Jesus won’t be there to save you!” [Foreshadowing]

You may have noticed that some singers are forever-nicknamed by some of their most popular songs or lyrics, even when the songs were not directly written about themselves. John Lennon is often referred to as “The Walrus;” Elton John is “Rocket Man;” Madonna the “Material Girl;” Billy Joel is the “Piano Man;” So, you understand my concern about a song that I recorded that is currently climbing the charts titled “Dopey Cunt.”