I went to a ‘conference’ for work the other day. This one wasn’t in L.A. or New Orleans, but it did have an exotic element to it; it was at the Sutton Place Hotel, formerly known as the Hotel Meridien.

The last time I was in there was when I had a summer job there as a ‘houseboy,’ a job procured for me by Rob ‘Mule’ Hughes. I wandered up to where we worked---the mezzanine-level fitness club once called ‘Spa Sante,’ now merely known as ‘Le Spa.’ It brought back the proverbial flood of memories: mopping up the Quebec Premier’s wet footprints...sweeping up Zamfir’s hair in the little salon. The Mule did better than me, helping Jodie Foster find the elevator, and fetching a toilet plunger for Kelly McGillis.

What’s that, you say? The rich shit?

Yes, they do. In fact, I recalled the story Mr. Mule told me about how he once had to scoop a piece of excrement out of a crowded Spa Sante swimming pool.

“No one seemed to care,” explained a perplexed Mule, “they just kept frolicking around in the crap-infested water.”

The spa was a swank place. As I mentioned there was a pool and a hair salon. There was also a weight room, massage room, suntan beds, whirpool and sauna. Mule and I were the ‘housemen.’ The staff also included a gaggle of estheticians, each one as luscious as the next. One of them, a delectable blonde called Teresa, once bared her breasts for the Mule.

I was not so lucky, though the thirtysomething masseuse offered to give me a massage after I complimented her on her tidiness. The offer went right over my head. The obtuseness that is my hallmark was with me even then.

I quit the job in a fit of rage after a disagreement with the den mother, Maryanne. On my first day, I had been warned by the Persian beautician Fawzia that Maryanne was “a totale beeeetch.” Eventually, I came to the same conclusion (though of course I would never use such language to describe a lady).

Sigh.

Anyway, after the conference I headed to Burnaby to do a bit of recording with J.R. He has to be the only guy in the world whose mother buys ‘Guitar One’ magazine. Later on I stopped by my dad’s place. He was switching back and forth between a Canucks game and ‘Law and Order.’ Only a crime drama could pull even with a hockey game in his house.

“Mark Crawford will not have time to savour this win,” said the announcer. “He’ll have to prepare his team for the next game. It will be a big one.”

“Why?” I asked my dad. “Who do they play next.”

“I don’t know....the Badgers or something.”

“The Badgers?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned again. “I don’t know half these teams. Like these guys ...Atlanta Thrashers...I didn’t even know they had a team.”

“Yeah,” I said, “They’ve been around a couple of years. Curt Fraser used to be their coach.”

“Oh yeah,” said my dad. The T.V. picture got a bit fuzzy at that point.

“Sometimes I get a bad picture on this channel,” he explained. He whacked the remote across his knee.

I pondered this. Does hitting the remote help the picture? Or is this a symptom of encroaching old age? Getting up to hit the T.V. is too much of a chore, so taking it out on the remote has to suffice.

My dad might have made a good Spa Sante houseboy. He would have been better able to put the elite in their place.

He once told me of how the King visited Canada when he was a little kid. His father, noting little Angus’ excitement over the impending royal visit, commented dryly that the royals were nothing special: “they have to go to the bathroom just like you do.”

“That did it for me,” said my dad. “All the mystique was gone after that.”

The thing is, it was not the blueblood clientelle who were the stars at Spa Sante, it was our dazzling array of co-workers.

If I could slow down the world, things would not come clear too late.

Time for some housecleaning.

No, I don’t mean literally...ha ha ha...

I mean writing wise.... Here’s something.... A while ago I tried to devise a list of Office Manager Personality Types, based on English monarchs. I gave up; who the hell would relate to it?

Anyway, here’s how far I got:

Richard Lionheart - Often absent manager whose very absense contributes ironically to an unearned reputation for administrative ability.

Prince John - Meddling middle-manager who usurps authority from legitimate but often absent senior manager.

Sheriff of Nottingham - Ambitious but low-level supervisor who increases clout by executing unpopular decrees of a more senior manager.

Richard III - Sociopathic manager who uses any means necessary to climb to the top.

Henry VIII - Manager who disguises his/her flaws by repeatedly firing those around him/her.

Charles I - Manager who stands by convictions in face of a changing organization. Often ends up getting the axe.

Charles II - Lacksadaisical manager who takes just enough action at key times to keep everyone happy.

George III - Manager whose entire reputation and/or career is tarnished by one glaring mistake or wrong move.

Elizabeth I - Wise manager who presides over an organization of creative, prospering staff.

Elizabeth II - Nice manager hampered by disfunctional staff.