Monday, May 21, 2007
Leftovers and Pocket Change..
The random stuff I'm thinking about today... Flip-flops and trucker caps have no place in restaurants where the busboys wear ties, and the napkins are linen... I love Jason Whitlock. Here's an African American columnist who doesn't toe the Jesse/Al line and his peeps in tha community are lining up to slam him for his views on hip-hop. I got your back, J... Yes, we get it; your car stereo is bangin'. But, the whole neighborhood does not wanna hear that shit...Hey, old man at the restuarant; would it fucking kill you to go the restroom and blow your nose?...Barry Bonds is an arrogant prick, and we all know he did steroids before, the the old man keeps swattin', and you KNOW he's gotta be on the straight and narrow now. Hmmm...Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch rocks the shit...I really tried to like Studio 60, but it tried to be too cute and clever, and it the end it just sucked... I need to get off my dead ass and take a walk or go swimming or something. Jesus!...I hope the guy who stole my car last time is now doing time in Pelican Bay, getting his salad tossed by an HIV positive Nazi gang leader affectionately known to the other prisoners as 'The Poison Skinhammer'...
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Either I'm Getting Old, Or Civility Has Jumped In Front Of The Bus
Chances are, if you're taking in air right now, you've either A) worked in the service industry, B) know someone who has, or C) have been served through the service industry. If you meet none of these, you are either A) Joe DiMaggio in the last fifteen years of his life when the only time the stingy bastard left the house was to wash his car by pouring soap on it and driving it in the rain, or B) the fat fuck who was the gluttony victim in Se7en who apparently lived on cases of canned spaghetti and microwave burritos, and never left the house.
I've worked in some form of the service industry for more years than I care to admit, and in the last few years, I've seen samples of incivility and outright rudeness that would cause Emily Post to shamble out her grave Shaun Of The Dead style, just to stick a goddamed fork in her eye hole. To wit:
Well, She's Here To Serve Me
This stunner was uttered by the former Mrs. Rex. We had been dating a couple of months and were in the grocery store checkout line. The checker gave her a big, friendly greeting, and the future Mrs. Rex did not reply. About a minute later, TFMR asked for a pen. We left without TFMR returning the checker's 'have a great day!'
Once outside, I basically said something like What the eff is your problem? Would it have hurt you to be nice to her?
When TFMR informed me that this was a service person, not a friend of hers, I let her in on some of the truths of life she obviously had not picked up, being a 26 year old preschool teacher who had never worked in service.
This probably is that girl's whole gig. 8 hours a day at that fucking register, and probably 90% of customers treat her the way you did. A smile and a 'I'm great, how're YOU?' might have made her day. Treat anyone in that position like that again, and we're done.
The former Mrs. Rex will now chat a waiter's head off about how she like's their haircut, and usually tips 30%, even if the steak is too rare.
What's With Your Eye?
I'm only calm enough to talk about this now, but it only happened a few days ago, and I swear to Jesus and sweet Baby Jesus, I had a brief flash about picking up this customer's steak knife at the table and going all young-Vito-Corleone-on-Don-Ciccio-back-in-the-hometown on this guy's ass.
When I was a little kid, I had no peripheral vision in one of my eyes. Medicine in the early '70's being what it was, they fixed the vision problem, but the surgery left the muscle under my eye a little droopy, and the eye doesn't move quite in sync with the other. We're not talking Marty Feldman ("Damn your eyes!" "Too late!") here, but be a little kid who looks a little different, and see if you aren't a teensy-weensy bit sensitive at the ripe old age of 40.
So, I've got these two customers at my table, and right off I can tell these two are gonna be a challenge. They're both on phones with loud, obnoxious ringtones, they're dressed for a truck pull and are oblivious to the fact that there are other people around them. I take a deep breath and approach the table.
"Hey, how are you folks? My name is.."
"What's with your eye?"
Had my manager just pulled out his fatted man-steak and started working one out in the middle of the kitchen, I could not have been more taken aback.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your eye.. it looks kind of fucked up."
At this point, I can hear Carmine Coppola's strings coming up in the background, and the smell of olive trees in the air.
"Oh.. some minor surgery as a child..."
"You should get that shit fixed, man."
Now, should you think I'm embellishing this for the reader's entertainment, I'll admit; that's some pretty tasty dialogue. Make the guy an Al Qeida foot soldier while yer at it, baby!
Nope. This guy makes Amy's bitch customer in Waiting seem like a Mormon missionary. I felt like Clubber Lang in the second fight in Rocky III. Expect Balboa to come straight ahead swinging, and he's out there doing Sugar Ray Robinson. Totally thrown off my game. I excused myself and had another server take the table. When it came to my manager's attention, he wanted to throw them out. I said it was cool, but it really wasn't.
Why in holy hell would you ask that kind of question, to a total stranger yet, and then follow it up with insensitive comments that make what Don Imus said sound like a glowing eulogy at a state funeral? Jesus Tap Dancing Christ! Suffice to say, I'm now wearing a pair of eyeglasses with plain glass lenses, lest some clueless clod feel the need to blurt out his ignorant, uncivil tripe again.
If You Can't Afford To Tip Right, Eat At Home
I was working with a waitress who was pulling a double. She got this table that was a ton of work. A few kids, constant refills of whatever could be refilled, coupons, substitutions, you name it. So, at the end, she sees them put cash in the bill folder and leave. When she gets to the table, the bill is paid to the cent in the folder, and there is a handful of varied and scattered change.. strewn all over the table.
Well, she was a little frazzled at this point, so I scooped up the change. On top of that a handful of change is really insulting, it came to about 8 percent. Double turds!
Now, tipping is not a right. Yes, most waiters, bartenders and delivery drivers live on their tips. And I can tell you, I bust ass for customers and really appreciate my tips.
I don't know if these people were just unthoughtful, stupid, ignorant or just too busy with themselves to have a little consideration for someone who must've made 15 trips to their table. Either way, the next time? A little advice: If you're going to tip, average service 'merits' 10 percent, great service 15-20. In folding money, if you don't mind. If you can't tip at a bar, go to the liquor store. If you can't tip at a restaurant, eat at home.
There was a movie about a year ago in which all the Mexicans in SoCal disappeared, so no lawns were mowed, no lettuce picked, etc. The news was all over it. What would happen if all the Mexicans disappeared? Insert waiters, delivery drivers, gas station attendants, paperboys, busboys, or cashiers where it says 'Mexicans', and think about that next time you wanna ask a complete stranger about his eye.
I've worked in some form of the service industry for more years than I care to admit, and in the last few years, I've seen samples of incivility and outright rudeness that would cause Emily Post to shamble out her grave Shaun Of The Dead style, just to stick a goddamed fork in her eye hole. To wit:
Well, She's Here To Serve Me
This stunner was uttered by the former Mrs. Rex. We had been dating a couple of months and were in the grocery store checkout line. The checker gave her a big, friendly greeting, and the future Mrs. Rex did not reply. About a minute later, TFMR asked for a pen. We left without TFMR returning the checker's 'have a great day!'
Once outside, I basically said something like What the eff is your problem? Would it have hurt you to be nice to her?
When TFMR informed me that this was a service person, not a friend of hers, I let her in on some of the truths of life she obviously had not picked up, being a 26 year old preschool teacher who had never worked in service.
This probably is that girl's whole gig. 8 hours a day at that fucking register, and probably 90% of customers treat her the way you did. A smile and a 'I'm great, how're YOU?' might have made her day. Treat anyone in that position like that again, and we're done.
The former Mrs. Rex will now chat a waiter's head off about how she like's their haircut, and usually tips 30%, even if the steak is too rare.
What's With Your Eye?
I'm only calm enough to talk about this now, but it only happened a few days ago, and I swear to Jesus and sweet Baby Jesus, I had a brief flash about picking up this customer's steak knife at the table and going all young-Vito-Corleone-on-Don-Ciccio-back-in-the-hometown on this guy's ass.
When I was a little kid, I had no peripheral vision in one of my eyes. Medicine in the early '70's being what it was, they fixed the vision problem, but the surgery left the muscle under my eye a little droopy, and the eye doesn't move quite in sync with the other. We're not talking Marty Feldman ("Damn your eyes!" "Too late!") here, but be a little kid who looks a little different, and see if you aren't a teensy-weensy bit sensitive at the ripe old age of 40.
So, I've got these two customers at my table, and right off I can tell these two are gonna be a challenge. They're both on phones with loud, obnoxious ringtones, they're dressed for a truck pull and are oblivious to the fact that there are other people around them. I take a deep breath and approach the table.
"Hey, how are you folks? My name is.."
"What's with your eye?"
Had my manager just pulled out his fatted man-steak and started working one out in the middle of the kitchen, I could not have been more taken aback.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your eye.. it looks kind of fucked up."
At this point, I can hear Carmine Coppola's strings coming up in the background, and the smell of olive trees in the air.
"Oh.. some minor surgery as a child..."
"You should get that shit fixed, man."
Now, should you think I'm embellishing this for the reader's entertainment, I'll admit; that's some pretty tasty dialogue. Make the guy an Al Qeida foot soldier while yer at it, baby!
Nope. This guy makes Amy's bitch customer in Waiting seem like a Mormon missionary. I felt like Clubber Lang in the second fight in Rocky III. Expect Balboa to come straight ahead swinging, and he's out there doing Sugar Ray Robinson. Totally thrown off my game. I excused myself and had another server take the table. When it came to my manager's attention, he wanted to throw them out. I said it was cool, but it really wasn't.
Why in holy hell would you ask that kind of question, to a total stranger yet, and then follow it up with insensitive comments that make what Don Imus said sound like a glowing eulogy at a state funeral? Jesus Tap Dancing Christ! Suffice to say, I'm now wearing a pair of eyeglasses with plain glass lenses, lest some clueless clod feel the need to blurt out his ignorant, uncivil tripe again.
If You Can't Afford To Tip Right, Eat At Home
I was working with a waitress who was pulling a double. She got this table that was a ton of work. A few kids, constant refills of whatever could be refilled, coupons, substitutions, you name it. So, at the end, she sees them put cash in the bill folder and leave. When she gets to the table, the bill is paid to the cent in the folder, and there is a handful of varied and scattered change.. strewn all over the table.
Well, she was a little frazzled at this point, so I scooped up the change. On top of that a handful of change is really insulting, it came to about 8 percent. Double turds!
Now, tipping is not a right. Yes, most waiters, bartenders and delivery drivers live on their tips. And I can tell you, I bust ass for customers and really appreciate my tips.
I don't know if these people were just unthoughtful, stupid, ignorant or just too busy with themselves to have a little consideration for someone who must've made 15 trips to their table. Either way, the next time? A little advice: If you're going to tip, average service 'merits' 10 percent, great service 15-20. In folding money, if you don't mind. If you can't tip at a bar, go to the liquor store. If you can't tip at a restaurant, eat at home.
There was a movie about a year ago in which all the Mexicans in SoCal disappeared, so no lawns were mowed, no lettuce picked, etc. The news was all over it. What would happen if all the Mexicans disappeared? Insert waiters, delivery drivers, gas station attendants, paperboys, busboys, or cashiers where it says 'Mexicans', and think about that next time you wanna ask a complete stranger about his eye.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Let The Third Time Be A Charm
Hey to the six people who read this! Yes, yes I know you're saying Who the hell is he again? Oh, yeah, that foul mouthed guy who drinks a lot of Tuaca and is gay for Stallone. Well, you'd be right on one count.
I've been having a lot of e chats with my first ex-wife, Michele, and it's been kinda cool. First some background: Back in 1991, I took a solo road trip to Medford, OR (Go Black Tornado) to see my buddy Ron. Meeting me in Medford was his girlfriend, and her roommate. The roommate had thick, dark hair, a great smile and was wearing a ladies fedora and sunglasses. She asked, "You wanna drop off your stuff or come with us to get a beer?"
Needless to say, I had been kicked in the butt by love. I mean, full on, intense, I-can't-leave-in-two-days-I-just met-THIS-GIRL love. Lucky for me, the lady seemed kinda into me, too and six months later, the captain of the Tahoe Queen was leading us through the I do's.
Fifteen months later, I left and in November, 1995, a judge stamped his 'that's that' on some forms, and The Great Love Of My Life was gone. (Insert overwrought Love Story music here.)
Twelve years later, the lady has been though another marriage, as have I. The difference here is SHE'S GONNA DO IT AGAIN! AH HAH HAH HAH HAH! (Can you picture Sam Kinison right here? I sure can!)
Which brings me to my point.
In Bachelor Party (still Hanks' best movie; he can take the Oscars for Forrest Gump and Philadelphia and put them in his ass, for all I care), when Rick tells his boys he's getting married, Rudy extends his hand and says Look, Rick; I'd rather be dead, but if this is what you want.. That's how I feel about marriage. But Michele, boy.. this girl has always wanted that happy-ever-after thing. And, god love her, no one's rooting harder than me. See, I've had some downers, made some mistakes. Both parents died, divorces, organ transpant, they cancelled The White Shadow. We're talking some tragic shit. But no regret in my life has ever come close to not making it work with Michele. She is the greatest person I've ever known. If I believed in God, and the jury is still out on that one, she would be my evidence. He put her here for me. And, brother, I fucked that up as hard as I possibly could. I strapped on Captain Cock's Caveman Clobbercock dildo and screwed it like a 17 year old kid on prom nite.
And she never told me she hated me. Never threatened to call the cops for the late night drunken calls that woke up finacee number two. (In fact, fiancee number two and I were friends. Ah, the incentous world of early 90's Medford radio!) Sent me a plant in the hospital when they told me my kidneys had failed. Just sent me some old photos she thought I'd like to have. (see above) And now, finally, she's gonna get that tacky wedding in Vegas she's always wanted. I'll be rooting like hell for you, baby.
You've got my address if you wanna send an invite.
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