And if you’ve been a victim of lost luggage on a number of occasions, a great way to never have your bag mislaid is to travel with a firearm. I’m being completely serious. Take a starter pistol, stick it in the luggage you’re checking in, and then make sure you tell them at the counter. You’re doing nothing wrong. You need a starter pistol for your job as an international pussy inspector. And you’ve been completely honest and up-front with them. But, knowing they have a firearm in the hold, that bag will be treated like the crown fucking jewels. The airline cannot lose a bag with a gun in it. That would cause international-level pandemonium. Your suitcase will be tagged and carried, by a human, to the hold and then taken off the plane very carefully and handed to you at the baggage carousel by a nervous employee.
This is just the tip of the iceberg. There are hundreds of little hacks and shortcuts you can employ. You just need to have the chutzpah and the time to put in the effort. And once you’re there, and once you know exactly what you can get away with, you can start to have a little fun. Now that I’m a fully established JewJetter, I’ve had untold adventures on aircraft. I don’t bother walking all the way down the aisle to fuck anymore. What’s the point? I’m in first class; I just happily hump right there in my seat. I’m not obnoxious about it. I don’t flaunt it. I just mildly fuck. I’m as discreet as I can be in that situation, and most of the time no one cares and the crew won’t intervene. If they do, I stop. Or come, depending on the time frame.
I once nearly brought about an emergency landing over Mongolia, en route to Seoul, when I plugged a hair straightener into my seat and took out the power for the whole cabin. Have you ever been on the plane when all the lights have gone out? Not that “It’s nighttime so we’re going to dim the overheads for the duration” sort of out, but an audible clunk and electrical fizzle and sudden pitch darkness. People do not accept that situation with calm, good grace. They panic. Especially when they are Korean (as these testy people were). They realize they are in a fragile metal tube flying through the air at high speed. And once the power comes back on, they all hate the schmuck looking guilty and holding the hot tongs. It’s all right for them! They’re Asian! They don’t have to deal with the horrors of a Jew-fro after a lengthy flight.
This is all just JewJetting 101. You’ve just completed day one of a course that could possibly last for the rest of your life. The airlines keep evolving their systems and changing their approach. But I’m inside their heads. I know more about their industry than they do. I know every acronym and every line of lingo. I know what all that shit on your ticket means, what all that crap on the side of the plane stands for, what every mystery announcement made over the intercom translates to. As a passenger, I’ve mastered and surpassed them all.
There is only one unanswered question when it comes to me and my infinite knowledge of all things flying: Why the fuck don’t these numbnuts hire me as a consultant?
CHAPTER 6
COMPLIMENTARY:
MY OTHER FAVORITE
C WORD
OK, let’s start off this chapter by reading an e-mail together. Won’t that be fun?
Mitchell,
I haven’t seen you since our first day, but I wanted to reach out and thank you for making such a great impact on our stay. Despite the horrible weather, we’ve had a truly great experience, which has exceeded my expectations as a loyal Platinum member: your staff is second to none.
Unfortunately the hot-water outage came at a pretty poor time for us, as I was prepping for my Saturday meeting and my partner was showering after the gym. I understand these things rarely happen, and I certainly appreciate the chocolates that were delivered.
We are leaving for the airport tomorrow morning at nine. I’d like to know if you’d be willing to arrange your house car for a final send-off back to frigid New York as a gesture of goodwill. I am aware you have just one car on the property that’s in high demand but was hoping you’d be able to honor this request in light of the cold shower we had to endure.
Best regards,
Justin Lee
Pretty straightforward, right?
Wrong. This e-mail contains subtext, innuendo, and veiled threats that may not be immediately apparent to the average or slightly slow reader but will be screaming alarm bells to anyone in the hospitality business. Now we are going to dissect this e-mail and unearth what it’s really saying.
“Mitchell . . .” OK, so who are we talking to here? Mitchell is the operations director of a property that is truly one of the wonders of the hotel world. Unparalleled views of the city, luxury oozing out of every orifice, and a level of service I have never encountered anywhere. Orgasmic at every juncture. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to squeeze a few more drops of goodness out of them, like they were my own nads after a long weekend in Miami.
So Mitchell is almost at the top of the tree. Slightly above him is the general manager, who was also cc’d on this e-mail. You always need to know who can get things done at your accommodation of choice and the management structure at the organization. You don’t hit up the head guy immediately. Aim a little lower by trying to select someone that can be exploited, but make sure the top guy is aware of your complaint. That’ll make his underling feel like they have to act, just in case their boss is a close personal friend. I use “Mitchell” rather than “sir” or “Mr.” to maintain a level of friendly interaction. Start off too formal, they are going to think you are really pissed off and it might make them instantly defensive.
“I haven’t seen you since our first day, but I wanted to reach out and thank you for making such a great impact on our stay.” Instantly, compliment sandwich. He will recognize this as a positive missive. Plus I threw in the fact that we had met when I arrived. Even if he doesn’t remember me, it highlights my status. And getting what you want is all about status and the reinforcement of status. If you’re identified as a schlub, you’re getting nothing. This guy wouldn’t meet every guest oozing through the front doors, but I was someone he was expected to meet. Someone notable. And I make sure he knows that I appreciated his importance and the positive effect it had on my life. Suddenly he’s feeling all warm and gooey inside.
“Despite the horrible weather, we’ve had a truly great experience, which has exceeded my expectations as a loyal Platinum member: your staff is second to none.” The vital words in this sentence? “Platinum member.” OK, I’m a high roller. I’m spending seventy-five-plus nights in his brand’s beds, and I want him to know it. If I’m some no-name from Arkansas he never expects to encounter again, I’ll probably get brushed off. But I’m someone who attends and spends regularly at partner properties around the world. Again, it’s a reiteration of my status. And as far as he’s concerned, I’m happy hot shit as of this point in the letter. All was superpeachy with my stay. The inherent warm fuzziness continues. However . . .
“Unfortunately the hot-water outage came at a pretty poor time for us, as I was prepping for my Saturday meeting and my partner was showering after the gym.” Now comes the hook. I’ve buttered him up, and now it’s time to take him down. There certainly was a hot-water outage at the hotel during my stay. However, it didn’t affect me in the slightest. I either slept or boned through it. But I’d heard someone mention it the next morning at breakfast and knew I could sway this vital nugget of information to my benefit. Of course there was no Saturday meeting, except between my schlong and my female companion. And she indeed became sweaty after that particular workout but had been nowhere near the gym. But this guy doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, I had to try and land some huge account while looking like shit and thinking about my shvitzy bitch of a partner back in my room. And it was all his fault.
Notice the use of the word “partner.” I could have said “wife” or “girlfriend,” but “partner” is a beautiful term to jam in there. It’s got a tremendous ambiguity about it. What could “partner” mean? I was hoping to install a vision of pissed-off, rich, bitchy gay guys in this ma
nager’s mind, who, after black chicks, are the last demographic you want to annoy. If they feel undervalued, they will let you know about it at a high and painful register with a lot of needless hand movements. Not what you want in your face. So I always go with “partner.” It’s all about the details. Moving on . . .
“I understand these things rarely happen, and I certainly appreciate the chocolates that were delivered.” Again, I’m not attributing blame to anyone. There’s no shouting or chiding. More compliments to cram into the sandwich. I had my opening compliment, my complaint, then the second compliment to sweeten the deal. Plus I wanted to acknowledge what they had done for me already. Yes, they’d sent some luxury bonbons to my room after making sure the front desk knew about the whole water situation and my inconvenience (laying a bit of groundwork there at the same time), but I didn’t want him coming back to me saying, “I hope you enjoyed the chocolates,” and fobbing me off with that. No way. That would never be enough. Chocolates? Fucking chocolates after suffering the personal indignity of a cold shower? Ridiculous. So I get that out in the open. You gave me this. It was practically an insult. I want more. OK, time to drop the boom.
“We are leaving for the airport tomorrow morning at nine. I’d like to know if you’d be willing to arrange your house car for a final send-off back to frigid New York as a gesture of goodwill.” You don’t beat about the bush. You don’t say things like “anything that you can give me.” That sounds desperate. You have to be specific. This is what went wrong; this is what I want. Obviously it has to be the right balance. If your foot got run over by the housekeeping cart, you don’t just ask for a fruit basket. Likewise, if you were missing a single hand towel, you don’t try to get comped for the whole stay. Use the appropriate amount of recrimination. But you get something.
Also, you need to say “as a gesture of goodwill,” which, in the hospitality business, means “Don’t bill me for this.” If you’ve got a big, swinging dick and stayed in the Diplomat’s Suite, they might think you don’t care about another $300 on your tab. You make it clear that you ain’t paying shit. And you use hospitality parlance so they know you’re not some amateur just trying their luck. You got fucked, you know what you’re doing, and this is what makes it right. The “frigid New York” line takes the edge off a little bit. You’re being playful. This isn’t a threat. You’re not a monster.
“I am aware you have just one car on the property that’s in high demand but was hoping you’d be able to honor this request in light of the cold shower we had to endure.” Again, nice and light. You are not some ape throwing your shit out of the cage at a fat woman in a hat. You don’t downplay the situation, but the mention of a cold shower reiterates your pain and your need for compensation in a way considered classy by all. No anger, no bitterness. You reveal yourself as someone who expects the best and did not get that. You are trying to be understanding and reasonable.
“Best regards, Justin Lee.” Look, I’m about to explain to you how to thoroughly manipulate the luxury-hotel sector. I have to be somewhat anonymous. So I don’t use “Justin Ross Lee,” as it’s too easy to Google. I use a generic e-mail and my pared-down name. There are a lot of Justin Lees in the world (especially in Asia). Only one Justin Ross Lee.
So there you go. A massive amount of information crammed into that brief, perfunctory e-mail. But what can it all mean?
My approach to hotels, indeed any situation where I’m expected to spend my own money, is simple: never leave a shekel on the table. If I have to spend any cash at all (which is not a situation I enjoy; I was bar mitzvahed, after all), I sweat, piss, moan, and cajole to make up the balance elsewhere. I want to check out with exactly the same bank balance as when I checked in. And there are myriad devious ways to do this.
So as you have discovered, loyalty is everything. Just like with air miles, if you aren’t a part of some hotel-chain points system, you are a giant schmuck. You are continually wiping your ass on fifty-dollar bills and flushing them into the sewer. Points equate to cash. Except hotels are happier to part with them than with real money. If you get fucked over or under-served (and you will be, even if you have to conjure up these situations yourself), you can easily get points as compensation. Getting folding money out of them takes more work. Points on your card seem like a cheap way to get you out of their face. And these points can be used for upgrades, free stays, perks, and general pampering. Now, I don’t care if I stay in a suite the size of a football field. I don’t care if there’s a truffle the size of a bowling ball on my pillow. It’s not really about getting stuff. It’s about playing the system and winning. That’s what all of this is about.
But there are different ways to play the system, as I will illustrate. Yes, you get perks if you’re a member of some hotel chain’s loyalty program, but that also means you need to conduct yourself a certain way. If you’re at some no-name establishment that you know you’ll never visit again, you can act in a completely different manner. Like a tremendous asshole, basically.
So first, if you have status at a hotel—as in you are part of their “family” and get their newsletter and carry a dumb plastic card in your pocket—you need to work just a little bit smarter. Most hotel chains with a points program expect you to stay at their lodgings for a certain number of days a year, and if you start acting like a giant douche bag all the time, alarms will activate every time they swipe your credit card. As demonstrated by my e-mail, you need to have a certain level of decorum.
Remember, you are always staying at the hotel on business. Even if you conga-line into reception wearing a Hawaiian shirt and one of those hats that hold a couple of beer cans, you are still there on business. Two reasons. For one, you get treated better if they think your firm is picking up the tab. They want their money. If things get shitty on a repeated basis, then that company is likely to take their business and millions of dollars elsewhere, and the hotel doesn’t want that. Second, there are codes out there, floating across the Internet, that can be used for employees of certain companies. Pepsi, IBM, Raytheon—they all have discount codes for their employees at certain hotels, and I just happen to work for them all. And it costs me about six cents.
How is this possible? You get a bunch of business cards printed. They cost practically nothing and have unfeasible power. I’m currently the social media director at PepsiCo Inc., while also the senior resources coordinator at IBM, and not forgetting the chief information officer at Raytheon. All thanks to Vistaprint. What do those job titles mean? Who gives a shit? They never ask anyway. But if they did, you give them a card. They aren’t interested. There’s bound to be some screaming kid or brain-dead yokel behind you at the reception line who’s just stuck his dick in the outlet or something. The front desk wants you out of their life as quickly as possible. They aren’t going to call Bethesda and get your credentials checked out. You can wipe hundreds of dollars off the cost of your room by doing this, and you still get your loyalty points at the end of it on top of all that. Just for a business card and a little white lie. But, obviously, that is not enough.
Now that you have the reduced cost of your room (thanks to your company discount code), you can start to work on making up the difference. Remember, you need to be done when you walk out of that place, having spent absolutely nothing. Say you’ve got the price of your room down to $200 a night. You have to ensure, against all odds, that you get $200 of service out of that hotel on a daily basis. My ride to the airport, courtesy of the property? What would that be worth? A hundred dollars? Maybe more? That gets added to the total.
Shoe shines, luxury toiletries, meals, drinks in the executive club lounge. Anything they are offering for free you grab and you hang on to in order to restore the financial balance. It all slowly erodes the cost of your room. And once you’ve taken advantage of the legitimate stuff, you start to look for problems. And there are always problems. Hotels are built on problems. Look hard enough, and you’ll find something wrong with your room or the elevator or
the hallway. Something dirty, something broken, some weird noise, some strange smell. Call down to reception. If they don’t answer? Great! Use that against them as well. It’s almost impossible for them to confirm that someone didn’t answer your call. Their fucking phones are ringing constantly. So once they answer, you release an exasperated “finally” and tell them it’s the fourth time you’ve tried to reach them.
Does your room come with a complimentary breakfast? Then you eat the fuck out of that thing. Order any bespoke item they offer. And if they don’t offer it, insist that they offer it. Tell them you have some dietary restriction that means you have to have lobster four times a day. Do you think they’d argue with that? And then try and get lots of wine out of them. Hotels just love to give out wine. Just remember how much that costs, and knock it off your grand total. At some of the more high-end establishments I’ve stayed at, I’ve had $150 to $200 breakfasts every single day! I’ve camped out in the breakfast restaurant until midafternoon! Deviled eggs with caviar, truffle omelettes, smoked salmon, champagne—if they have it lying around, make sure it gets in your mouth.
And once in your room, call down for sodas or snacks or chocolate. Examine the room guide and the room-service menu carefully. Do they give you free Fiji water? Get extra free Fiji water. Coffee machine in the room? Stock up on java to take home with you. Luxury bathroom products? Ensure you get a fresh set of everything every day. Don’t leave that Bulgari shower gel in the tub like a schmuck; place it in your luggage and get another one the next day. And if you don’t, let them know and see if the management will comp you a drink for all the pain you have suffered. And if they give you a free-drink token, make sure your “partner” is given one as well. Get your valet parking comped by inventing some bullshit vehicular discretion (never park your own car, and never pay for the privilege). And make sure you inform them of all this on site. They are more likely to respond to problems as they are occurring than when you’re just a distant memory who’s left hard-to-remove stains on their sheets.
Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole Page 10