Pig Out?

Man, I gotta quit wearin' the Pig Shirt. I just can't get the respect I need when I have it on. I go into the Sofitel hotel, one of the chichiest digs in town, and the receptionist just looks at me, blank-faced. I can tell she's trying not to stare at the pig on my chest. But I gotta get in here and wander around the lobby and see the bars and get up into the rooms. They aren't gonna let some chump with a flying pig on his shirt up there.

I gotta tell 'em what I'm doing, or else there's no seeing the rooms. So I tell 'em I'm writing a travel guide and this and that and she still looks at me. She's got better things to do. So she finally get's some suited up kid, after asking for my card, to show me around the hotel.

Well, once you get past the reception, everything opens up. The bellhops or whatever you call those people that see you to your room or whatever, they're great. They don't give a rat's ass what you're up to. And they'll give you the truth. That's when you start poppin' the questions, askin' to see other rooms and shit.

We're wandering around the hotel and we're up on the upper mezanine looking down over the lobby, the big pillars, and this guy in a suit runs up the stairs and asks me to please come down to the lobby to meet the PR guy. I guess the business card got passed around. So the PR guy turns out to be this young man who's traveled all over Asia and Europe and is thrilled to shoot the shit with me. Now we're talking. Into the Jockey Club, out with the espresso and cookies, and I've got more information comin' at me than I ever wanted. Oh, there's a private cocktail party tonight? Really? Yeah, but come however you want, he says, come in that. Come in this! The Pig Shirt? I can go to the Sofitel private cocktail party in the pig shirt!

Goddamn I love this shirt. I ain't ever givin' it up.