I Drink for a Reason by David Cross Read Free Book Online

filled with the warm, comforting sense
     of being cared for by a nurturing Dominican grandma? The wholly satisfied feeling of being luxuriously pampered by an unseen
     but benign corporate nanny? I find it odd that this practice exists. The idea that after a long, tiring day in a strange town
     or even stranger culture, that I’ve come “home” to a place where a strange lady of decidedly lesser economic class and status
     is dispatched to my room to move my sheets around and leave a tidbit of chocolate like some lazy, under-achieving elf.
    Similar to this is the men’s room (or ladies’ room) attendant. Unlike valet parking—which, while not completely necessary,
     actually serves a useful (while arguably gratuitous) function—the men’s room attendant is useless, save for people with advanced
     arthritis or unbendable elbows. The feeling of easy, cheap elitism is inescapable. There’s a nagging sense of, “Hey, you might
     be having a bad day but at least you’re not stuck listening to and smelling the greasy, vodka-soaked explosive shit splatters
     of people enjoying yet another night out.” It’d be one thing if the attendant was a twenty-five-year-old frat guy named Joey
     standing around in a mesh Giants jersey, but it’s always a black guy or Mexican, and about eighty percent of the time he’s
     about sixty and moves with sadness.
    There are numerous examples of what seem to be wholly unnecessary and ultimately laughably ineffective attempts at luxury
     foisted upon the unwilling in this way. When I travel first class on planes, I don’t like being addressed by my first name.
     I don’t like being addressed at all really, but I suppose there needs to be some way to get my attention to find out whether
     it’s going to be the balsamic vinegar or creamy peppercorn dressing. I don’t like being approached, and I watch as the stewardess
     squats down in front of me, puts her hand on my knee, and, as she displays the DVD selection, asks me, “David, will you be
     joining us at the movies today?” This really happened, by the way. But I’m getting off point. This is about excess.
    I have a friend who is a bit Jappy. And by that I mean that she is a Jew who is whiney and deeply concerned with her own comfort
     at all times. What did you think I meant? That she is cute and shy with horizontal eyelids, looks great in a private school
     uniform, and is a bit subservient? No. Anyway, the other day this friend told me (this is all true, by the way) about how
     she has been getting massages once a week at her house. She pays a licensed massaging man to come over with the full massage
     kit (table, scented oil, candle, and ironically ineffective “atmospheric” CD featuring the sound of cicadas, running water,
     and plinkety New Age electronic harp and soft techno whistles and farts) wherein he plies his trade. She’s mentioned this
     a couple of times and I’ve never really commented on it past a “That’s nice,” or “That sounds great, maybe I should do that.”
     That is, until, after mentioning it again, she added the following stunner: “I usually get a four-hour session.” Huh? Four
     hours!!??!? Who the fuck gets a four-hour massage? People with severe physical disabilities maybe, and even they’re probably
     thinking, “Okay, enough’s enough” around hour two and a half. Four-hour massages are exactly why people hate Hollywood. Come
     on! That’s got to be one of the more indulgent things I’ve ever heard of. Have you ever received a
one
-hour massage? As nice and relaxing as it is, by the last ten minutes or so, you get so antsy for it to end so that you can
     check your messages or at least just get out of the “virtual, New Age woods” you’re lost in. Of all the examples of indulgence
     that the idle rich might indulge in, this would have to be right up there at the top of the makes-very-little-if-no-sense-list
     to hardworking people whose idea of a holiday is waking up, walking