I find too often in the wrestling business, you just wrestle, get to the hotel, make your money. Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself to enjoy my life and not just rush through.
Once, at a seminar, I heard a Westernized lama say that a meditator's state of mind should be like that of a hotel doorman. A doorman lets the guests in, but he doesn't follow them up to their rooms. He lets them out, but he doesn't walk into the street with them to their next appointment. He greets them all, then lets them go on about their business. Meditation is, in its initial stages, simply accustoming oneself to letting thoughts come and go without grasping at their sleeves or putting up a velvet rope to keep them out.
We've got a portfolio of companies that range all the way from hotels to television stations and cable TV companies, oil and gas, consumer products, and industrial products. If there's anything that I want to know more about, I have the opportunity. It's right in our portfolio. I can spend time at the factory or with the manangement and learn as much as I want. You can't get bored doing that.
The good terrorists are the guys who bomb and kill Indians. The bad terrorists are the ones who attack Pakistani interests, whether in Afghanistan or Pakistan. In other words, you blow up the Taj Mahal Hotel, you are a good guy. You blow up the Marriott in Islamabad, you are a bad guy.
This is crazier and louder than I was prepared for. With every week, the fervour and anticipation seem to grow. People know my name and ambush me in public and try to figure out what hotel I'm staying at and ask me to bite them and want to touch my hair.
I'm living on coffee, cigarettes and hospitality food. My bags and things are all over this hotel room in Dallas, but the scene could easily be in London, Paris, New York of LA. My eyes are burning, my knees hurt and I hate to say it, but a certain and vital part of my nether region is beginning to smell like peanut butter. Welcome to life on tour.
The fun of working on the road means stealing from hotels. I've been doing it for so long, I have a set of towels from the Ark.
Keith Moon, God rest his soul, once drove his car through the glass doors of a hotel, driving all the way up to the reception desk, got out and asked for the key to his room.
Decorating in relation to hotels is really nothing more than planned showmanship or the art of attracting attention in a delightful way and thus creating an increased consumer acceptance. It gives the guest the feeling of anticipation, excitement, expectancy, delight, and pride in the management of his favorit hotel.
It has been said that if the opening phrase of a classical minuet can be fitted to the words "Are you the O'Reilly who owns this hotel?" then it was written by Haydn; if it can't then it wasn't.
Wildness and silence disappeared from the countryside, sweetness fell from the air, not because anyone wished them to vanish or fall but because throughways had to floor the meadows with cement to carry the automobiles which advancing technology produced. Tropical beaches turned into high-priced slums where thousand-room hotels elbowed each other for glimpses of once-famous surf not because those who loved the beaches wanted them there but because enormous jets could bring a million tourists every year - and therefore did.
When I wrote the song, I had the sea near Bombay in mind. We stayed at a hotel by the sea, and the fishermen come up at five in the morning and they were all chanting. And we went on the beach and we got chased by a mad dog-big as a donkey. ... I think that songwriting changed when groups started spending more time in the studio. ... I've written so many songs about Englishmen, I have to go elsewhere. ... Our repertoire consisted of rhythm and blues, sort of country rhythm and blues, Sonny Terry things.
All of a sudden there's a song - there in your hotel room playing your guitar - and you write it, and two or three years later it will come true. It keeps you on your toes.
My wife and I went to a hotel where we got a waterbed. My wife called it the Dead Sea.
The skylines lit up at dead of night, the air-conditioning systems cooling empty hotels in the desert and artificial light in the middle of the day all have something both demented and admirable about them. The mindless luxury of a rich civilization, and yet of a civilization perhaps as scared to see the lights go out as was the hunter in his primitive night.
There's none as deaf as those who won't listen. I get letters. If they are moronic, they go in the wastepaper basket, but if they are reasonable points, I try to explain. I am planning for the long-term future. I am planning for the long-term future. People say build a team not a hotel, but that argument is irrelevant. It's like fish or meat
A hotel mini bar allows you to see what a can of Pepsi will cost in twenty years.
I dealt with men who had tempers, and who could get violent-Lord knows how I had to defend myself against Howard Hughes and Frank Sinatra, and from Artie Shaw's verbal abuse. But George [C. Scott] was a different category of animal when he got drunk. He'd break into my hotel room, which he did in Italy, London and at the Beverly Hills Hotel, attack me to where I was frightened for my life, and scream, 'Why won't you marry me?' Well, I would never marry a man who couldn't control his liquor. Me, I'm a happy drunk. I laugh, I dance. I certainly don't break bottles and threaten to kill.
My first jam was at Hotel Diplomat opening for Hollywood.
When I was a rapper, the groupies didn't have to try too hard with me. Just show up at the hotel.
There's a constant chatter in our house, whether it's giggling or screaming or crying or banging. I love it. I love it. I love it. I hate it when they're gone. I hate it. Maybe it's nice to be in a hotel room for a day - 'Oh, nice, I can finally read a paper.' But then, by the next day, I miss that cacophony, all that life.
I realize that the memories I cherish most are not the first night successes, but of simple, everyday things: walking through our garden in the country after rain; sitting outside a cafe in Provence, drinking the vin de pays; staying at a little hotel in an English market town with Larry, in the early days after our marriage, when he was serving in the Fleet Air Arm, and I was touring Scotland, so that we had to make long treks to spend weekends together.
Eyeing the traffic circulating the lobby hung with bad art. Big invasive stuff unloaded on Stanley Bard in exchange for rent. The hotel is an energetic, desperate haven for scores of gifted hustling children from every rung of the ladder. Guitar bums and stoned-out beauties in Victorian dresses. Junkie poets, playwrights, broke-down filmmakers, and French actors. Everybody passing through here is somebody, if not in the outside world.
One night I was in bed-and remember that I'm on the second floor of a hotel-when I spotted this crab coming toward me across the floor, watching me with his beady little crab eyes. I think he wanted to get in bed with me.
I walk through the hotel and I walk down the street, and people look at me like I'm [expletive] insane, like I'm Hitler. One day the light will shine through and one day people will understand everything I ever did.
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