At the Fairmont

In the lobby of the Fairmont, I go to sit down and a woman of a certain age looks up and informs me she would like a glass of Chardonnay. As I sit down, I inform her that we have an excellent champagne on ice and she she really consider it.

When she realizes I am not the waiter, but the guest, she is disappointed. Apparently, I was born to serve.

As race isn't the real issue in America, it's a chance to look at the problem with class. To the manor born, everyone is a waiter. Obviously, she had no idea whom she was dealing with, for I am no ordinary guest, but a member of the Fairmont President's Club. This entitles me to free internet access. I am also able to state, upon check in, that I am a great American President. Could I have a room that isn't smack dab next to the elevator?

Why of course, sir, a man of your stature deserves no less.

Some of my co-workers are out here, but they stay up too late for the Presidential Dog Face Boy. When they're going out, I'm falling down tired. Of course, when I rise to lift and ride, they are face down, covered in drool, stinking of stale booze.

Greatness our producer has introduced me to IMing and you may IM me at mellowjohnnie

All of the other names I wanted were taken.

Had dinner with college roomie last night. He showed me some pictures from his real estate tour. You get very little for your money out here. Houses that are falling down. Lots that are so steep you'd have to be a mountain goat to cling to them. Never thought I'd say such thing, but hooray for Boston real estate.

Best to all from the City of Angels.