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on Tickle Model
on Tickle Model
on Tickle Model
on Tickle Model
on Tickle Model
@loripalminteriTweets by @loripalminteri
Make Dobby Make The Bed
Growing up, we never really stayed in hotels. On the trips we took to Disney World (which we drove to), we stayed in a condo outside of Disney— as is, it was a trip my folks could barely afford. It really wouldn’t be until I became a comedian that I would frequent hotels. Initially, hotel living is extremely exciting for a kid chasing a dream who didn’t come from much. And then eventually, like most things, the shininess of hotel living wears off, especially since it’s rare at my level of success I’m put up in really nice hotels.
Both of my parents are neat to the point of mental illness. While I’m not quite at their level, I’m not too far behind. On the road, I always keep my room clean, as I would keep my own home. The one thing I don’t do, that my mom does do, is make my bed when I’m staying in hotels. Yes, my mother is one of those psychos who “makes the bed for the maid.” That’s some sick shit. Actually, if it were up to my parents the maid would never go in and they would do all the cleaning themselves. Fucking psychopaths, my parents. I don’t go that far. I don’t make my own bed in a hotel room. In fact, I often don’t even make my bed at home. Because I usually work from home so I’m frequently in and out of my bed since my bed takes up like half my apartment anyway.
But I digress.
Most recently, I did a gig in the middle of no where Pennsylvania. The sticks. A lot of farmland. Simple and decent folk, unlike us city heathens, who’s thirst is never satisfied.
Because of some sort of tri-state sports tournament and a Kenny Chesney concert, all the hotels in the area were filled up. The bookers informed myself and fellow comedian, Nick Griffin, that they were unable to get us a hotel, but instead we’d be staying at an AirBnB which also happened to be the owners house, who would be there, but we’d have our own bathrooms and such.
Needless to say, Nick and I were not thrilled about this news, initially. This was unusual and also frustrating, because work in stand up comedy is becoming generally more scarce and less money. It’s hard times out there for performing artists, and it doesn’t appear to be getting easier or better for anyone.
Nick and I have both worked for these bookers in the past— a family with a more than one location. Actually, they are some of my favorite bookers I work for. They truly love comedy. You’d be shocked how many club owners, bookers and managers don’t really like comedy at all. But these are good people who really have always done their best to do right by me and any of my friends I know who have worked for them.
“It’ll be an adventure,” I said to Nick, “we’ll make the best of it like we always do.” Nick ignored me and/or rolled his eyes at me, per usual. Nick and I have an unusual relationship that no one really understands, including myself. Nick is a vampire. I am his familiar. It deeply annoys him how much I admire him. Which brings me a little joy because I’m a sick person.
It was a long drive. Four hours. Luckily, I have really sweet car. Not so luckily for Nick, I’m not the greatest conversationalist, second worst only to him, an even truer introvert than myself, so it’s a mostly quiet ride.
When we arrived, it was a big house in a nice neighborhood. Country like. Or at least country like for us. The owners/bookers, who I’ll call Mr & Mrs B, were extremely hospitable. They gave us the run down for the gigs, showed us our rooms (I was upstairs, Nick was in some sort of basement studio) and offered us food and everything. The room was clean and cozy and they have a warmth to them, so I was less annoyed about the situation upon arrival. It’s almost European, this type of set up. I told myself.
Nick and I both retired to our rooms for a little before the first show on Friday. Once in my room, I opened the closet doors, because of course you do. That’s what you do when you’re staying in a room, is you open the closet and make sure no one or nothing is in there.
Well, much to my surprise, there was a some… thing. In the closet, there was a towel covering some… thing. I could only see it’s small and hideous feet. Slowly, I reached out, pulled the towel off.
It was Dobby. Like from Harry Potter. A life sized and alarmingly detailed Dobby. What the actual fuck. And why? I immediately take a picture and send it to Nick. “There’s a Dobby in my closet. What is the meaning of this. What’s in YOUR room?” It was so real looking, it looked like it could have been a prop from the actual movie. This is not a cheap piece of movie memorabilia.
The show comes, and it’s a fun crowd. Nick and I both have good sets. When we return to the house, we chat with Mr & Mrs B for a while. They pour me some wine (I welcome it). Nick doesn’t drink. Nick goes down to his room first. But I’m finishing some wine with Mrs. B and talking about books. I’m tempted to ask about Dobby, but since I’m getting buzzed and I also ate a weed gummy, I was more interested in spending time with Dobby, so I wanted to keep it a secret that I knew about him. They did say, “make yourself at home. What’s ours is yours.” Big mistake, Mr & Mrs B.
When I go to my room, I’m a little giddy. I start making some videos for my Instastory because this is just too good not to be shared. I had to be as quiet as possible, containing my laughter to minimum, but I was hysterically laughing. Just really entertaining myself.
Dobby Voice: “Lori Palminteri is in great danger.”
[Me taunting Dobby on Instagram… “do you want my sock Dobby? Do you want it? You want a sock?”]
Dobby’s feet were attached to the platform. He was surrounded by plastic, but I carefully figured out a way to “free” Dobby” (after teasing him with my sock). A photoshoot commenced, including pictures of Dobby and I smoking dubbies together. I spent the next hour giggling and sending pictures to friends and family members. Most of them sending crying laughing emojis and also begging me to get fuck out of the house. THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.
I did eventually sleep (surprisingly). Not without having a night terror about some sort of giant dog with a bat face chasing me. I woke up with a yelp, screaming for my mom (yes, I still get night terrors like a child at 33 and yes, like a child, I yell for my mom). I wondered if anyone heard me scream. It took a moment to remember where I was. Oh yes. I’m in Pennsylvania. In this house. Dobby is in the closet. My heart was racing, and I told Nick the next day he is lucky he was not staying on the same floor as me otherwise I would have ran into his room in fear in the middle of the night, which would have really annoyed him. I threatened to sneak into his room at night and put Dobby at the foot of his bed, which I would have done if I thought Nick would have been sleeping, but Griffin is a notorious insomniac.
The following day, I was tempted to bring up the origins of Dobby to Mr & Mrs B, but I also didn’t want to confess that I had taken him out of his casing the night before. If I didn’t like them so much, I would have been extremely tempted to steal Dobby (I was only slightly tempted).
Overall, it was a fun weekend, good crowds and memorable monsters in the closet. When we left, I debated if I should make the bed I slept in. Since it wasn’t a hotel, it was someone’s house, that felt like the right thing to do. But conversely, they were going to have to strip the bed anyway and clean the sheets so it was kind of silly to make the bed. I knew my Mom would. Actually, my Mom would probably strip the bed herself. What a psycho.
Then again, they did have a house elf. So they could just make Dobby do it. Make Dobby make the bed.
God, I miss that elf.