While many things have changed, one thing remains since 2007: I no longer drive. In 2004, my life was on an upswing. As a reward, I was able to negotiate a minimal monthly payment to get the new car of my dreams: a Mazda RX-8. It was a stunning automobile. It drove as if on rails; a demon on the road and both a visual and performance marvel. Sure it didn’t jump off the line in less than six seconds, but I never cared about that. I could still outrun other similar cars because this sucker had one important factor that most others lack: stamina. There was no greater feeling than taking curves at more than 40 miles per hour after downshifting into second gear. Yes, second gear; possible because the redline was set at nine thousand. This car screamed drive me. Boy did I. For years I enjoyed the simplicity of design for the greatest track car ever built and I miss it still. You have to understand, it was more than just a sleek sports car. It was a true expression of my ambitions, personality, and inner self, all rolled into a sexy package that made everyone I encountered envious. From day one of having that car, people would constantly comment on it. Those who knew of the Wenkel Rotary engine would provide great conversation while others simply marveled at its beauty. One of the best traits of the car was that in a sea of automobiles both rich and poor, the RX-8 was still uniquely me. It had a character and finicky nature that didn’t appeal to the masses, and those who did subscribe would dumb it down with a paddle-shifting automatic with 20 less horsepower because they thought it to be cute. Make no mistake, this was a driver’s car. A track car that effortlessly won 24 Hours of Le Mans. It felt perfect to sit behind the wheel, with the pinnacle of Japanese ergonomic design allowing everything within reach. This all before I had an iPhone and Bluetooth to integrate to it. Wow, I can only imagine how much better the ride has become 7 model years later.

That said, it really struck me when I just read that because of poor sales, Mazda has ceased production and will call 2011 it’s final model year. I’m not surprised, like I just mentioned, the lack of sales attributed to just how special driving this car was for me. What struck me was the possibility that even though I have no plan to return to a land where a car is necessary, I may never drive or most certainly own an RX-8, ever again. This makes me a little uneasy. I know it’s a pipe dream but my love for that car and how it made me feel driving it every single day still led me to believe that sometime in the future, if I needed to, I would have that again. I actually think about it on a regular basis. What if I had the money to just buy one and baby the shit out of it forever? Sadly, as I scour the Internet searching for one last 2011 to call my own, I’m left with very few possibilities; a large percentage are automatics, not to mention the lack of $35,000 in my bank account. This time around it would definitely have to be a purchase. Don’t give me that impractical crap either. Those that know anything may remember that the 8 had suicide doors and a rather roomy backseat and trunk. It was killer for road trips; my jaunt to Chicago three years ago and various trips to Cedar Point are perfect examples. So if I end up moving somewhere where a car is needed and I also have kids, no one will ever be able to talk me out of getting this car again. It’s that important to me. Christ, why can’t I just win the lottery already? That’s a rant for another day…

I was recently blessed with Steve Jobs’ last imprint of our generation and I noticed something immediate that I thought people needed to know.

As an avid iPhone user for the past three years there has been one thing that bothered me about the device. Initially, when the 3G came out, I was quite pleased. However, when technology progressed to 4G, WiMax, HSDPA+, and LTE, the iPhone was left out in the cold. Even with two iterations that followed each year, the 3GS and then the 4, the technology for a wireless connection peaked at 3G. It never really bothered me because being limited to AT&T as the sole provider of the device simply became acceptable. Then Verizon came around boasting its 4G LTE network. Here’s the catch: the iPhone doesn’t work on Verizon’s 4G network. Not even this latest model. I suppose that shouldn’t matter because for the last 17 months or so, some 30-40% of iPhone 4 owners think that the “4″ stands for 4G. I could do what I always do and simply say: idiots. However, I’ll just accept the fact that a person is smart, people are stupid. That’s why Apple has been so successful. More on this in a little bit.

As for people rejecting the iPhone because it’s not 4G, there’s something you should know.

A speed test result comparing Verizon’s 4G LTE and Sprint’s 4G WiMax networks was taken recently. The clear victor is Verizon with some pretty damn good speeds using the HTC Thunderbolt up against Sprint’s exclusive HTC EVO; the highest downstream was nearly 8 megabits per second. Both phones are two of the iPhone’s biggest competitors and because of Android loyalists, they often get a lot of accolades because of their features. There are many reasons why I consider any iPhone to be superior to every other phone; iOS is the main reason but the iPhone 4S just gave me a huge advantage.

Here are the results of my speed test running on AT&T’s “antiquated” 3G network:

Notice anything?

That’s right. The folks at Apple have made the phone so efficient with a new dual antenna system, that even running on a 3G network results in comparatively better speeds–Hell, it’s almost “4G”. AT&T’s 3G network; the bane of almost everyone I’ve ever heard who has an iPhone complain about. As for the entire iPhone experience? There’s a laundry list of why iOS is better than Android and why the features of the iPhone 4 were kept and improved upon as opposed to changed “for the better.” Let’s start with the chief complaint. People were upset at the lack of an iPhone 5, mostly because the Internet hype suggested that we’d see the next iPhone have a larger (possibly 4″) screen and a paper thin design. This likely started because of the iPad’s transition for the second model. After using the iPhone 4 for over a year after using the 3G for even longer, one thing is absolutely clear. The design of the phone is absolutely perfect. Stunning is the word that comes to mind. It’s smooth, has the right weight, and a 3.5″ screen is exactly the correct size for one handed use so that your thumb can reach every point on the screen. Why would a larger screen be more beneficial. Let’s not forget that the screen itself is gorgeous; it is hands down the best looking screen on any device ever created. The pixel density is much larger than even screens that are almost an inch larger diagonally. So many pixels in fact, that it’s impossible for the human eye to even see them. That’s a crystal clear screen. The thickness of the phone is also substantial because not only does it add credence to the sleek design, but also has a form factor that feels good when you’re holding it. It’s the same type of ergonomic design (especially with consideration to the thumb reach) that the Japanese concentrate on when building a car, and it’s wonderful.

Next up is the camera. I’ve already seen pics and video (shot professionally of course) from this thing and everyone is saying its the best camera ever put into a mobile phone. I don’t think there’s an argument here.

As for the software, is there really anything that can be said against Apple on this one? Sure, they delay the release of basic features that Android has had for months at a time. Sure it’s frustrating, but guess what happens when you finally get the finished product? It’s easy to revel in Apple’s reliable execution of even the simplest things. Android had notifications first, Apple’s implementation is better. Android had Twitter integration first, Apple’s is sleeker and more concise. Android is sloppy; many features that exist are difficult to find and operations that seem easy take many steps to execute. Apple? No contest. iOS’ interface is so simple, two year olds can understand it before they can form complete sentences. Oh, and once a two year old has interacted with iOS, it’s intuitive interface is expected to be universal to the child; he/she will try to use the same multitouch gestures on a magazine and get frustrated at the lack of response.

Well, there’s more gushing over the iPhone where that came from. I’ll finish with this; a great friend of mine got an iPhone about three months ago after being a staunch “I’ll never get rid of my” crack-berry. She couldn’t shut up about how much she loved the iPhone in the first weekend of using it. My sister finally got a 4S because of its availability from Sprint; just a wee three years post-envy of my acquisition. Her first FaceTime call was a lot of fun. My mother is next, then my girlfriend (admittedly, converting that one is going to be tricky, again, Sprint may help), then…the world.

Sent from my iPhone using Siri

That said, it really kind of upsets me when people, specifically childish morons on Internet boards, can’t respect the product and want it “their way”. If it were “their way” it wouldn’t be Star Wars at all. Let’s be clear first: This is not a complaint. This is a descriptive review of the latest release to grace my Blu Ray player but also a response to the unbelievably scathing remarks that the Internet is aflame with once again because George Lucas decided to alter the original films even more from the Star Wars Saga, with my unbridled enthusiastic take on the whole experience. That’s right, it’s a Saga. For me, it is impossible to look at the films of the “original” trilogy without including a reference to the impressive work done on the more recent prequel trilogy of films. Let’s be honest, if most people had approached watching these three new films as I had (knowing damn well that my age at the time came with some level of analytics and critical thinking as well as the facile ability to be pessimistic), and remembered what it meant to watch the first three as a child, these complaints would (hopefully) largely not exist at all. Fortunately, one of my oldest friends; someone with whom I shared many sleepless and/or drunken nights discussing rhapsodically the effect all six films had on us, still agrees with this point of view. Also, the most important person in my life watching these with me is as enthusiastic about the films now preserved in High Definition as I am. To quote a certain goldenrod professor: “Thank the maker!”

Fair warning: This is one of those rants where I ask myself questions and immediately answer them for an emphasizing effect.

The Star Wars Saga is now available on Blu Ray, showcased in a simple, yet elaborate book-like packaging that immediately gives a sense of wonder knowing that what’s inside is something special. 9 discs: The films themselves, plus about triple the length of them in bonus features separated into three categories (Prequels, Originals, Documentaries) and organized by “Location” (e.g. “Hoth” then “Dagobah” instead of a simple chapter type listing). The added bonus of the features on these discs is not just the ability to simply play through them all as an option, but to resume where you left off if stopped. Amazing, given the immensity of the extras alone. Included here area few documentaries dating back as far as ’77 that are very entertaining, the more recent Star Wars Tech look at the validity of physics and technology used in the films compared to our world (very cool) and a 90 minute compilation of various spoofs and cultural references throughout film and television over the years. Notably, the Robot Chicken Parodies, Tom Tom and SpikeTV Commercials, and several references from SNL including Kevin Spacey’s ridiculously hilarious impression of Christopher Walken’s “Han Solo Screen Test” and Bill Murray’s Lounge Singer rendition of the title theme. Outstanding. At first I lamented the omission of two amazing documentaries: Empire of Dreams and The Beginning. I realized though, that purchasing them again was unnecessary given that a 1080p presentation wouldn’t have an added effect. Still, it would’ve been cool if the packaging had some extra room to slip those DVDs in. Keep in mind that all of these extras from the Lucasfilm Archives are exactly that: different archival interviews and footage not previously released. So don’t throw out your special feature discs from the DVDs just yet.

As for the film themselves, holy shit. Yes, I know that the scans of these films were done in 2004 for the DVD release at the then state of the art 2K resolution and that they are not the highest quality possible these days (most film scans for an HD restoration go as high as 8K), but when I watch these in this “minimal” high definition, the result is still breathtaking. Yes, there are still problems, artifacts, goofs, and garbage mattes, but seriously, these films have been through a lot in the last 30 years. Thanks to the attention put into the mastering process by Lucasfilm amd Lowery Digital, most of those problems are now fixed. Gone are muted lightsaber glow and colors; the original films’ sabers now have the luminosity and consistency of the prequels save for two exceptions. When Luke uses his Father’s blade for the remote training it still doesn’t look quite as good. Better than before, but not yet perfect. Also, in the Death Star lightsaber duel, there is still that shot of Obi-Wan holding the saber straight out and its clearly the prop. Oddly, amongst things that I think should be fixed, one glaring error still stands out inexplicably. When Obi-Wan slices that guy’s arm off in the Cantina, the shot of it on the ground is still covered in blood. Don’t lightsabers cauterize? At least most of the other problems are now a thing of the past. Unless of course, you insist on watching the theatrical versions, then I guess you must enjoy the flaws. The matte boxes around the TIE fighters and Star Destroyers are now gone and thank god. As impressed as I was seven years ago with the visual quality of the films on DVD, that mastering process actually made those problems even more clear and very irritating. I couldn’t help but think: if Lucas is so apt to add new CGI effects, why wouldn’t he polish up the old ones so that they don’t look like models over a painted background with fuzzy shadowboxes around them? I finally got the answer. There really is no comparison to any previous version as far as sound and picture quality. That said, one of the chief complaints about this release is that once again, Lucas chose not to include the original theatrical versions of the films. Did I miss something here? I seem to remember that after the uproar in 2004, Lucas caved and offered the originals on DVD just to shut everybody up. It didn’t work; most people saw it as a real “fuck you” to the fans because not only were the originals not cleaned up at all for that release, but they were given a non-anamorphic transfer and left with only one 2.0 surround track. For any film enthusiast, this is a clear oversight, for Lucas, it’s the minimal showcase of these original films and I believe I know what he’s thinking. I grew up watching Star Wars. My first memory of it was seeing Return of the Jedi when I was wee. Read: way too young to remember what that experience was like. Instead, I remember countless repeated viewings of the three films on crappy, non boxed-set, non THX-Certified, Pan and Scan VHS tapes that would often disintegrate from so many passings through the machine head. I remember being plagued by the 4:3 aspect ratio when I was a kid when Luke declares “there’s sandpeople all right, I can see one of them now.” I would always frustratingly say “WHERE?!?” I was part of the generation of fans that had only experienced it on the small screen. Hell, that was a focus for advertising the 1997 Special Edition re-release. Fortunately, once I got that chance it was responsible for my insistence that all films I owned from that point be Widescreen, soon after came DVD then 16:9 Televisions and it became a non-issue. That 1997 re-release was magical. It not only gave me the chance to view the films in their “upgraded” theatrical splendor, but also reinvigorated my passion for them and excitement for the next installments. Gasoline on an already roaring fire. I still remember getting those VHS cassettes and hearing my father comment on how visually stunning the restoration was. It was impressive then, it’s reached critical mass now. The restoration and high definition mastering of these films is amazing. Are the changes and additions necessary? Some of them absolutely are, others aren’t. But seriously, if you think that Lucas is the first filmmaker to go back and alter his work to match his creative vision you’ve got to have your head examined. Why do some people think it detracts from the viewing experience? I’m with George on this one because, with a couple of exceptions, the changes enhance the saga entirely. I have watched the original theatrical versions of the films on DVD. I don’t need to again. It doesn’t evoke a sense of wonder in me that is any more significant than the updated versions. In fact, because their effects are so dated when compared to the prequels, try watching all six together and to me, that would detract from the experience. Since the very first alteration of Star Wars in 1981 with the opening crawl reading Episode IV: A New Hope, Lucas has modified these films to conform to his ultimate vision. Will he ever be finished? Of course not. Captain Nemo has to get his whale. Is this something you should be concerned with? Absolutely not. Wether you like the prequels or not, you simply have to acknowledge their existence by the fact that there is a backstory and it revolves around the Fall (and eventual Redemption) of Anakin Skywalker. The original trilogy’s focus was Vader; all of the other characters and events revolve around Vader. The prequels not only enrich the storyline with the tragedy of Anakin’s transformation, they are pretty fucking cool. Since they were made with state of the art CGI and filmmaking methods it’s only natural for Lucas to want to have all six of his films to not only have a similar look and feel, but that when now watching them in order, there is a seamless transition between trilogies. The Blu Ray finally accomplishes this. The prequels were shot with the latest in CGI technology enabling them to be spectacles of worlds and environments people can only dream of. Coruscant alone is the best example of this. The special effects are elaborate, detailed, and everywhere, adding to the depth and complexity of this imaginary galaxy for one reason, to make it more of a reality. The difference here is that it’s digital effects added to sets, models, and matte paintings. It’s still the same style, just evolved. The most satisfying shot is aboard the Tantavie IV at the end of Revenge of the Sith. Obi-Wan and Yoda join Bail Organa (Jimmy Smitts) in that familiar hallway to figure out what to do about the slaughter of the Jedi. The shot is gorgeous, with clean and bright lighting that especially evokes a feeling of newness and stability. Switch to the first scene in A New Hope and it looks not only like the same set, but the dated, and now weathered coloring of the ship can finally be explained with one answer from the storyline itself: it’s 18 years later. It’s not perfect, nothing is. However, it did make both me and my girlfriend gasp at the quality and interrupt the dialogue with commentary between ourselves at just how damn impressive these 30 year old films actually look. Watching all six in chronological order is a joy. The 1997 versions gave us new creatures at Mos Eisley, and a scene with Jabba that aside from one overdubbed line in the previous scene, is cleverly done given it was originally shot with an actor playing Jabba and it establishes Boba Fett as a presence in the film. Even if for a second; entirely advantageous given his involvement in Attack of the Clones. They gave us a Cloud City that had windows and really looks like “a city in the clouds.” Han shoots first? Let’s clarify this. Han shoots. There was no other shot. There is still quite a fanboy war over this one. Since the 2004 restoration, both Han and Greedo shoot simultaneously. Personally, I think Lucas didn’t want little kids walking away with their first impression of one of the film’s protagonists being that of a cold blooded murderer. Just my opinion. Fortunately, the dialogue in the scene was restored. I found it much more irritating that Han would mouth the words “I’ll bet you have.” 2004 also gave us not only the image of Ian McDiarmid as the Emperor in The Empire Strikes Back, but also additional dialogue between him and Vader that I think is quite fitting. Why does everyone get upset because they removed the woman who was the emperor in that original shot and obviously dubbed by Clive Revell? I really don’t get it. Changes like that are valid and in my eyes make the whole thing better.

As for the new additions and changes in this release, what’s the problem? The Ewoks blink now. Pause. Watch the documentary from 1983 on the “creatures” created for Return of the Jedi. They could always blink. Vader says “Noooooo” when throwing the Emperor down the shaft. Did you watch it yet? He not only says “Noooooo” as he lifts the Emperor off the ground, but right before that there is a resounding “NO” that seems to envelope the sound field and resonates through every channel and is actually pretty cool. Yoda is now all digital in The Phantom Menace. The puppet in that movie wasn’t the same puppet as in The Empire Strikes Back. It looked like shit. You know it. I know it. I seem to remember shrieking like a little girl when Yoda’s lightsaber first ignited and he spun around like a top slashing away at that stunt guy swinging at air with Christopher Lee’s face superimposed on his head. I know it’s fake. Does it look fake? Nope. Does it look even better on Blu Ray? Absolutely. Is it still one of my all time favorite moments in any of the six films? You bet your ass it is. Digital Yoda: A. Fucking. +. After watching that I still love the puppet Yoda in Empire but would I be upset if Lucas decided to put the digital version in? Doubtful, only because now when you watch them in sequence, Yoda looks strange because he’s not digital. I read that they had tests done and couldn’t make it work with the live sets of Dagobah. Probably in the next revision…

That brings up another point I have read countless times. “What about the artists other than Lucas whose hard work is invalidated because he cuts it from the film or changes it to digital?” This argument is completely baseless. How many countless scenes, actors, models, effects, and ideas have been left on the cutting room floor in the entire history of motion pictures? Way too many to even quantify. Weren’t these people all paid for their work, even if their entire contribution isn’t seen on one single frame? Shit, if that’s your argument, then shouldn’t the voice of Darth Vader be David Prowse? After all, he’s the one in the suit speaking to the actors as they filmed it all. So, that’s ok? But say, doing the reverse for Frank Oz by removing his physical puppetry of Yoda with animation and keeping only his voice is wrong? Sure. I know one thing that Lucas has never changed are the original credits.

Bottom line is that there may be reasons that people think that Lucas is crazy for “ruining their childhood” by changing these things. Am I one of them? No. Will these new discs get the paint worn off from the centrifugal force of being spun around endlessly in my Blu Ray player? You betcha.

Blogging about all of this simultaneous shit was a nice release for me. It wasn’t for the purpose of letting people know what was going on (in fact if you revisit any of them, you’ll see a certain vagueness), rather for me to just kind of ask the universe “what the fuck?” Looking back it’s easy to see how that little bit helped but that now I don’t take the time to continue when my life has everything aligned positively. Man, I must be such a negative person. I’m working on that, I swear.

Oh, it was Facebook’s character limit on status updates that prompted this rant. Before I forget:

God Moving Over the Face of the Waters – Moby
Renegades of Funk – Rage Against the Machine
War Ensemble – Slayer
Nocturne in E Minor, Opus 72 #1 – Chopin
I Don’t Mind the Pain – Danzig
Feels Just Like it Should – Jamiroquai
We Will Rise – Arch Enemy
The Becoming – Nine Inch Nails
Forty Six & 2 – Tool
Horrorscope – Overkill
Push It – Static-X
Shine – Collective Soul
Holiday – Weezer
Holier Than Thou – Metallica
Urgent – Foreigner

On one hand, I absolutely do; want to share this crazy time in my life with anyone who’ll read it. On the other hand, it’s just over that line of privacy that people can misinterpret even if they get the straight truth directly from me.

I wrote the former two paragraphs five months ago. You’d think that after a small amount of time passes, things would improve. They haven’t. Not even slightly. I’m writing again simply because I noticed that I haven’t written anything for a long time (and I am rejoicing in that FCC indecency ruling–Here’s hoping it won’t be overturned). That bothers me; this outlet of creative freedom has been at times a deeply satisfying measure. The times where it’s not are when my parents point out that prospective employers are scanning Facebook and other social networks and weeding out those that they find objectionable. My only argument is that if someone reads this and becomes offended or put-off by my unrelenting [adjective] [adjective] [noun], it’s no [Megadeth reference]. I do, wait, I guess given the lack if recent entries would have to change this tense to past. I did this for my own sake. It’s probably the most selfish thing next to suicide, writing, as it’s only made public to elicit a reaction from someone else. Nobody cares about this shit, in that, it’s not life-or-world-changing. When I write something, it’s there for all to read, and to offer opinion, criticism, or disdain. Hell, something, even if it’s of the most negative type of backlash against my opinions, is always better than nothing. If people are reading it, fantastic. That’s the point. Though, it doesn’t always seem so because of the lack of comments…

Have you figured out what my point is? Writers, though it’s probably too early to classify myself as one, are attention whores. I am most certainly an attention whore, anyone who would say otherwise hasn’t met me. Is this a bad thing? Of course not. What is the one thing that people crave in life? Attention. That’s what capitalism is all about baby. “Hey look at me and all of my toys!” Got a counterpoint? Great, I love arguing. Don’t? Great, I love being right.

There is reason for restraint and privacy. There are ways that people behave when they are amongst others in public and private situations that differ entirely. I have what I consider to be an advantage when it comes to both of these situations; I am always the same person. I have a tendency, for which I am now addressing psychologically, to behave a certain way towards people whether they be strangers, collegues, or intimates. The point is that I don’t hide behind some facade of what I think I should be in some form and flip a switch when I get home. I’ve seen this kind of behavior, it doesn’t agree with people in the long term. There are also other things that I could divulge about relationship matters that I’ve had but some will argue sides and no true resolutions will be made. Not to mention, it’s not as if my hit count here has exceeded double digits. Shit, I was shocked when one day I logged over 25 different readers. I could, as anyone would, hope that more and more people will actually be reading my words; not an obsession, just validation.

Gratuity: The Undiscovered Country

Shutup if you’re going to comment with iorny; I still have the right to discuss the subject and everyone I worked with at least TOLD me what I did was what THEY WOULD HAVE DONE. Yes, that’s a Star Trek VI reference, but anyone will tell you that the even numbered films are the best (before nex-gen which ALL kicked ass) so I feel that it’s worthy. And the reboot, WOW, I just hope they don’t fuck up the sequels.

For anyone who has ever worked/dined/bitched at any establishment that serves at the least some ketchup packets, you may be familiar with the most controversial, ill-defined, and confusing standard known as gratuity. This topic is controversial by nature; both sides never agree on what is normal, what should be normal, or what is mutually acceptable between the two groups in question. I have only decided to encroach upon all that is holy simply because, ah hell, I want to discuss this.

The two groups in question of course are waitstaff and customers. The customer’s always right. The server is always wrong. Adopt that motto, and you’ll just begin to understand what it’s like to make a living as a server. Of course, anyone with some good sense will tell you that (when it comes to educated, career professionals who know what they’re doing) this argument is completely illogical. The customer needs guidance from the server in order to maximize the potential experience they will have that evening. If the server cannot provide this maximization of elated bliss, in the long run, the guest is dissatisfied, in many cases with more than just one thing, and the server’s income suffers. In order for this to happen, realistically, the customer is always wrong, and the server is the one who is in control of the situation.

Many servers will agree that because of several reasons, 20% on every check is acceptable. Now, before I go on, personally, I have a different outlook on things simply because I’m a realist. I’m so much a realist that I’ve even been accused of being a fatalist in several situations. My outlook is this: there is simply nothing that can be done to change the predisposition of customers’ tendencies when it comes to gratuity. The best way to approach this subject is to just accept what is given without having any expectations, and certainly keeping a positive outlook by not making generalizations and discriminations against certain groups of people or past trends. In the end, in my experience, everything balances out. My income over the past two years, while extremely variable, has only shifted drastically on one occaision. One weekend you can earn $60 on a Saturday night, then $240 on Sunday. Another weekend it’ll be $300 on Saturday, and $50 on Sunday. There is no way to predict who will come in, spend what money, and be gracious based on the level of service. So, with this outlook, one can better prepare themselves for the hell they will experience on a daily basis. Once again, I will point out how much ass I kick, as opposed to the many co-workers who continually bitch about sections not getting filled, mis-matched headcounts, and a consistent 10-15% from all of their guests. If 10-15% is consistent for you after bitching about getting 9 covers instead of 13, shutup and consider a different line of work, because you’re not cut out for this.

As for the customers…

First of all, most customers have no idea what the reality of being a server in this country entails. Save for the lucky few in states like Minnesota, we earn a pittance of $2.65 an hour. Let me repeat that: $2.65 an HOUR. Of course, with a good volume of customers, the final figure can easily shoot past $25.00 an hour. This is all because we are at the mercy of the customers and without proper service, that figure drops significantly. In addition to receiving tips as the majority of our income, we are required to pay out that money to various co-workers for assisting, including bussers, food-runners, and bartenders. So, immediately, whatever we make in total for one evening is shorted a minimum of 20% (in total for all three groups), and I do say minimum because like us, if their performance is deserving of more, they’ll receive more. In fact, it’s a common trend that the more money grossed at the end of a shift, the more money is alloted for tip outs to other staffers. Regardless, the customer may also not be aware of this fact.

In addition to the confusion behind where our income originates, there are other socio-economic factors that either increase or decrease gratuity. The most common factor is predisposition. A lot of people are still living in a world where 15% is acceptable. Forget of course that server wages in 15 years have only increased by about $.53 hourly, while cost of living has increased a minimum of 20%. Interesting. So, when a guest drops $15 on $100, we wind up with $12. On average, total net tips over a year’s time amount to anywhere from 12-15% but never much higher.

I have regular guests every week that laud my service and are consistently happy with everything that I do (to the point that not only do they take my suggestions, but each and every week I essentially order everything for them, from Appetizers to Wine.) and consistently, every week, I receive 13-15%, after discount (Sunday is our “Frequent Winer” 25% off day). Am I disconcerted? Sure. Is there anything that I can do to change this? No. Will I continue to answer my own questions immediately after asking them? Always.

Again, this isn’t a complaint. This is reality. Sometimes, even the strangest, most demanding asshole will drop $60 on $140. Keep an open mind and you can wink at Saddam and the Devil when you approach the Gates of Hell.

*Update for 2007-2009: Lets use some recent math, shall we? $15 on $100 with a 41% tip-out and the second tax bracket nets $6.50. That’s right, $6.50. Damn I’m glad I don’t have to deal with those numbers anymore.

Yes, this is an addendum to the, say it with me now, pre-previous misadventures post, and for good reason. Call it a point/counterpoint.

I CANNOT READ PEOPLE

In the pre-previous part five of this snarky series, I posted this:

“Do you have any Wild Salmon?”

Quite odd that I would reference “More” in the previous post, given that the following is the complete opposite of the original intent.

Wild Salmon Lady and her wayward husband came in last Saturday. This time, however, they were accompanied by 5 guests and were not seated in my section. If I remember correctly, shouts of glee could be heard from a distance. They sit down, though not entirely, and proceed to have their evening out. Wild Salmon is well behaved, although we noticed immediately that her husband, was not. As my coworker is taking the table’s order, he proceeds to just get up, walk over to the Garmo and asks the Chef, for a winelist. Pretty unorthodox; douche-like. He then flags down a server (not his) and asks a wine question. Her surprise and abundance of what we call, say, common sense, precluded her from giving a straight answer.

He then finds me, after walking aimlessly while reading, and proceeds to tell me his issue. I respond, graciously, because I’m not a cocksucker, and even if I find things in people I don’t like particularly, I’m still polite and helpful. Especially, I’ll add, when it comes to answering wine questions. I’m the prick at work that everyone hates because I have all the answers. In and of itself, this is a complete contradiction; why must people get pissed off at me for having answers to their questions?

As I mentioned in the first part of this post, this guy’s an idiot. Not genuinely stupid by any means; certainly a successful, educated man. Just one of those people who doesn’t understand just what it is that they’re looking for. The man is convinced, most likely because of Paul Giamatti, that he loves, and therefore will only drink, Pinot Noir. My Sommelier and I dread having to pick wine for this man, because 99 out of 100 Pinots that this guy tastes, he doesn’t like. Why? It’s because the guy likes big, meaty, California/New World blends and probably got to taste some single vineyard Russian River Pinot one time that was horribly over-extracted, and unlike the other 9000 in the area…Paul Hobbs anyone?

This is all fine and good; everyone is entitled to their opinions and interests. The problem here is that this guy likes rich extracted Pinots that are literally $100+ at cost, and is convinced that he can only spend $40 and get the same results. Not gonna happen. Needless to say, it’s frustrating; tempting to shake some damn sense into this guy.

Fortunately, on this particular evening, his guest with whom he’d be sharing a bottle, doesn’t like Pinots. Jackpot. This is where I get to shine.

“Michael (Yes he knows me by name), my friend and I would like a nice bottle, at a reasonable price, but he doesn’t want to drink a Pinot.”

“Well, I have something perfect…a Bordeaux Style Blend out of Washington State, very subtle, soft, and even Pinot-Like, with some good age.”

He takes my suggestion (They often do, hey, I sell the shit I like the best, the most), and I serve it and he’s VERY happy. Thank god. You have any idea how difficult it is to make this man happy on the first try?

I return to my duties and they have a nice meal. As he’s leaving, I happened to walk by and he stops to thank me. In this short conversation, he asks about my move. Shocked that he’d even heard about it (FROM WHOM I’M STILL CURIOUS), I proceeded to tell him my plans. He remarks that he had just purchased a home in New York and suggested that we connect when I finally move in the Fall. He thanks me again for the brilliant wine suggestion and gives me a firm handshake. That was a pleasant experience. Despite the aggravation this man and his wife have caused myself and my co-workers with their particular requests, it was nice to be able to do the fundamentals of my job and enjoy it at the same time.

That’s also when I looked into my hand and saw the hundred dollar bill. The moral of this story is further explained in Part VI. Never make assumptions or have expectations, because when you least expect it, people appreciate you more than you deserve.

This archived post is definitely filed under the rants section for a reason. Near the end there it gets a little raw, but justifiably so. Easily one of my favorites; from the time when I worked as a Server in a Seafood joint.

Anyway, bear with me…

5/31/2007

Stupid Questions

“Do you have Iced Tea?”

Seriously??? Who doesn’t have ICED TEA? I’ve seen Iced Tea in the bathroom at Harpo’s some clever New York Reference. Idiots.

“What are all of these numbers?”

Um. Yeah. Prices. I know I’ve mentioned this one before, but seriously, it happens twice a week simply because our prices are dollar amounts only and never posted in a traditional currency format. ($0.00)

“That’s Decaf Right?”

Lady, didn’t you ORDER FUCKING DECAF? I’m sorry that the strain of my meager, working-class job, continually makes it impossible for me to tell the difference between the color black and orange.

“Do you have a pen?”

Okay, I get this one because in my apron, I visibly carry a minimum of 8-10 pens; they’re entirely necessary. Even my co-workers will ask for a pen with scrupulous jackassery. Many guests are complete idiots; showing off their ability to emulate Charles Nelson Reilly with the greatest of ease. Mostly, this is done to impress their respective, empty-minded cohorts; they think they’re funny. They’re not. Look around you, fuckstick. YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE IN THE RESTAURANT AND YOU’RE NOT GEORGE CARLIN.

“Is the Tasmanian Salmon REALLY from Tasmania?”

“Do you have any Wild Salmon?”

This one’s a two parter, because these questions often arrive one after the other. First off, use some fucking common sense. Why on earth would we claim that a particular type of seafood is from a certain location when it isn’t? In this era of pussy lawsuits, you can bet your ass that when we say something is authentic, it is.

The term wild salmon is emphasized in the above question simply to try to evoke the actual tone of voice that is used when uttered. Think of the way the British or WASPs are made fun of on Family Guy. There’s this bitch; comes in with her idiot husband every week. She orders the same thing every week. Yet, for some reason she forgets that we know her (and greet her) by name and continually makes our lives a living hell by asking the same exact stupid quetions every single time she comes in, as if she’s never eaten the food before. Yes we have wild fucking salmon. We have it year round. We have it 99% of the time when you come in (If it’s King Salmon, it’ll go quickly, and don’t get me started on that shit) and order it. Oh, and she butchers it by ordering it well done every time. These idiots don’t understand how to eat. Seriously. More on this in another post.

“Is the Whitefish fresh?”

Lady, I don’t know where you went to elementary school, but that word in BIG BLACK BOLD LETTERS ON THE TOP OF THE MENU RIGHT BEFORE THE WORD “CATCH”…you guessed it…it’s “FRESH.” Believe it or not, with the exception of things that are impossible to ship worldwide without spoilage, EVERYTHING is fresh. You don’t care anyway. You’re ordering whitefish. Instead of showing some fucking originality for a change, why don’t you just go dunk your head into the Rouge Hudson. Guess what? Yeah, there’s Whitefish out there too, and it’s mighty fresh. More on this in another post.

There are hundreds more. I’m just too lazy to think about them right now.

It seems that there is now, since the advent of the American version of Pop Idol way back in ’02, an entire culture of Americans who have found a way to exploit their chances at their ever so elusive fifteen minutes. I have chosen not to watch Idol since McPheever lost out to Hickory Smoked Piece of White Trash back in, when was that, 2005? SIDEBAR: What the FUCK did that woman do to that gorgeous mane of hair she used to sport? I used to respect her.

Anyway, when I was recently put in the position of watching the show for the pre-Hollywood-producers’-exploitation-of-idiocy round it came to me. These idiots are doing it on purpose.

Originally, though it still may hold a large percentage of the “hopefuls’” desire and willingness to embarass their no-talent having asses on the show, I blamed the parents. I myself have naturally been subject to a parent who at times has unknowingly conveyed to every human being in my life that I’m nothing less than royalty and everything that I attempt to do that involves a performance of sorts is so exceptional that the earth moved. I wish we all knew what a load of shit it is. Unfortunately, there are far too many idiots out there who don’t have a fucking clue. The main problem here is that in most cases, these idiots actually believe that they have some measure of talent, and have been encouraged to pursue their dreams. Such a pity.

For a reference point (and obvious commentary on the subject), there’s a certain episode of Curb where as an Anniversary Gift to Ted and Mary, Jeff and Suzie have their Daughter Sammy sing her favorite song. Not only does Larry think this is bullshit because he actually gave them a $300 gift certificate to a new restaurant–nope, don’t want to ruin it. The episode is in the most recent, and now legendary, Seventh Season and is entitled “The Hot Towel” — Guest starring Christian Slater of all people. God damn, that one was funny.

The point is that it seemed as if it were the parents giving these kids false hope in thinking that they could actually be the next American Idol. Which in and of itself is completely false to begin with. Now, it would seem, in watching the show, that the sole entertainment value lies in seeing people try to get the most visceral reaction from Simon Cowell, then pick a fight with him becuase for the most part “he has no clue what he is talking about.” and “You don’t know [expletive deleted] Simon! I’m talented! [expletive deleted] you Simon!”

Yeah, I have half a billion dollars, also from doing nothing.

I think these idiots are doing this just so they can say that they’ve been on the show and thus try to impress anyone within an earshot. I can’t even speculate how exacerbated and angry I’ll become if I continue to think about this.

I have to stop watching inspirational movies. Sure they’re marketed to people as lighthearted stories of ambition and success; dramas of human life at it’s best and worst, surely with the worst stuck right in the middle as always. They don’t inspire me. They depress me.

The other day, while having a casual and quite normal conversation about watching movies and television in general, it was brought to my attention that I don’t think like most people. I watch things in a linear fashion and completely shut down my mind to the outside world. In doing so, I absolutely do not ponder what is happening on screen; the story will play out as intended and I refrain from trying to solve the puzzles as it moves along. Apparently, this is a surprising trait to some, as it is common to constantly work out the mysteries presented by the medium. My only explanation is that it is simply how my mind interprets things. In fact, I shut down so intensely that any disturbance is especially irritating. That said, the intensity in which I watch movies and television tends to elicit very powerful emotions, and at times, they can be too powerful. I have since learned that this is because when you’re diagnosed with ADD (Not that ADHD crap they invented in the Nineties, I’m talkin’ the real shit here), it doesn’t just “go away.”

Here’s the part when I provide examples that I am not even slightly embarrased to admit happened. The first I can remember is when Matthew Perry guest starred on Growing Pains as Carol’s boyfriend; he was killed in a car accident. I was very young, and it hit me pretty hard. The next is an episode of Friends that of course also starred Matthew Perry though the focus wasn’t on him. The One With the Prom Video, for some reason in the last scene when Rachael ceremonially kisses Ross after watching the video, I can’t help but let go a shower of tears. Perhaps it’s because I feel I’ve never done something that would garner that kind of reaction from a woman. Regardless, it gets me every single time I watch it to this day. Then of course there’s Titanic. James Cameron’s Spielbergian sensationalism aside, you can’t tell me that you don’t weep at the end after he dies. (I’ll probably have something to write about Avatar in the near future, so don’t hold your breath, my posting schedule is a little behind) Speaking of Spielberg, Saving Private Ryan (in my opinion the greatest war film ever made), kills me when he turns to his wife at the end and asks if he’s measured up as a man. That kind of honor and sacrifice is something I know I could never do, even if the opportunity presented itself. There are countless other times when I’ve broken down, relating my personal heartache with what I see on screen. Changeling was horrific, and upon first seeing it I had quite the panicked reaction. I have no children, but it made me think that what if upon finally having a child, if even possible at all, it were taken away from me. It was crippling for some reason.

Issues like these transpire in my life more and more, obviously related to my situation, anxiety levels, and my aforementioned television watching schedule. Someone once quipped “It’s only a movie” to me once when I was in a hysterical state and it was hard to describe exactly why, for me, it’s never just movie or a show.

The point of spilling this–pile of what would be embarrasing to others but I just don’t give a shit–is that as involved in this as I become, it is harder for me to hold on to the real world. In other words, I have a lot of dreams. Too many. They distract me. They plague me. They dissapoint me when there is no materialization. I find myself focusing on the life I’d like to lead personally while simultaneously glorifing the lives of some on screen.

No one ever mentions how hard it is. Take any show or movie as an example and it’s no wonder why everything ends up costing hundreds of millions of dollars. Supposed succuessful people live in plush, modern homes, with everything they could possibly need at hand as long as it has nothing to do with story. If the story dictates it however, then people are given what is described sometimes even to a degree of extreme that I fail to see existing in real life. Of course I know it’s television, but even “reality” TV is scripted and absolutely nothing is based on what would happen in real life.

The truth is that I simply imagine myself to already be successful. Sure, it’s a trait that could have been my downfall, along with my inherrent arrogance. However, knowing what I have to do now, and exactly how I’m going to do it, I’m going to produce something that people in the private sector don’t expect. Quick, what movie?

Looking back on November and the events that followed, writing this was somehow prophetic.

The only thing I’ve ever loved about Halloween happened about three years ago but WordPress wants to charge me $20 to show you. What kind of shit is this? I have to pay $20 just to put some fucking code into my blog? Gay.

I suppose after all of the stressful things that I have been going through, culminating in a humiliating climax last night, it does me no more harm to express my dislike for this meaningless day. Though, last night used to mean quite a bit, being a Detroit native. Anyone who understands this, raise your hands, chuckle at the screen, or even do the Doogie/House stare into space pause because you’ve just figured it all out. Now laugh at yourself for doing stupid shit while alone in front of your computer and go burn down an abandoned building.

Happy Post-Devil’s Night.

I recently wrote about the subject of how the media, specifically lacking in the form of a sitcom, has ultimately failed to properly represent the excruciating reality that is the labor of waiting tables. If you feel left out, don’t worry, it includes pretty much all retail and foodservice Hells and their associations. Basically, I feel that Television only wins when the shows made in the cookie cutter fashion of the same bullshit categories (Medical, Cop, Lawyer, Rom-Com, Lather, Rinse, Repeat) break the mold and create something truly unique. I should probably rephrase and emphasize that the viewer ultimately wins. The prime indestructible examples fortunately remain to be 24, Lost, House, Heroes, The Office, How I Met Your Mother, 30 Rock, Curb your Enthusiasm, The Big Bang Theory, and the legacies of The Shield, Scrubs, Frasier, Friends, and Seinfeld. You may now distribute my points for stating the obvious.

Even if the networks and writers are unable to emulate what happens when we’re on the clock, they are certainly capable of delivering satisfaction off the clock. This year, amongst the already borderline psychotic amount of man hours wasted used for enterainment purposes, about another 2^1/2 need to be notched onto my excessively large Television watching belt. When September rolls around at least there comes a sigh of relief from discovering that 90% of the new pilots that air suck enough shit to not even justify an initial viewing. Let’s see…

Eastwick: let’s remake a twenty year old movie (and forty year old book), change the central characters into anything that doesn’t resemble Cher, and give it a polished big network production value and hope it strikes a nerve in 20 million people. Yeah, I saw that already, when it was called Charmed and it blew. Oh, and this is the third time a bunch of assholes tried to do this. Why now is it suddenly interesting?

NCIS: Los Angeles, the latest addition into the “hey let’s take a really good show and copy everything from the music down to the fucking episode format but we’ll change the location because we’re so awesome at our job” formula. Not only did they add the “star power” of Cool James and Shitty Robin but they actually scheduled it directly after the original. Wow. Brilliance. The shitty part is that if history is any indicator, it’ll be a hit just like the newest entry in NBC’s lineup, Law & Order: Are We Really Even Trying Anymore Division?.

Next we have Three Rivers, okay, what could be different about a medical show? I know! A Grey’s Anatomy-ER-Chicago Hope-St. Elsewhere hybrid but totally awesomer than all those shows put together! That’ll be great, right? Wait, the pilot sucked? No problem, let’s rewrite it and film it again and get rid of that Julia Ormond, she’s no good. We can push back the air date. Wait, the rewrite sucks too? Ok, we’ll air the second episode in the place of the pilot and no one will be the wiser! Yeah, that sounds like a winner.

Trauma, holy shit it’s Third Watch but with EXPLOSIONS!!!! Quick! Call Michael Bay!!!!

The diatribe inducing point o’ the day is that every year, and the occaisonal mid-season, we find pleasure in adding yet another pill of life supplement in either half or full hour dosage. That’s right, most of us who watch this much Television dream of living the lives of those we are watching. Perhaps that’s why there’s so much criticism of excessive viewing. “Dreamers are not Doers” is a quote that comes to mind. The classic excuse that “TV rots your brains” (Don’t you love it when you get the chance to quote a movie like Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead?) makes my ears bleed every time I hear it. Just like any medium before it, Television has the ability to bestow upon it’s loyalists the latest information about politics, religion, social movements, etcetera…However, Television (and Film) can simultaneously entertain us in ways that simply can’t be matched by any of it’s predecessors. With the latest trends of more linear based non episodic storytelling combined with the cinema-like standard of filming in HD, TV shows in the best cases are like really fuckin long movies with a pee pee break every 45. Shit, I’d love to see them use that “seamless branching” so I can watch all six seasons of Lost without the fuckin credits and recaps; save me a buttload of wasted time. 24 would probably be the best candidate for this idea. Yo, Networks and Studios, pay attention when you’re makin those mega full series Blu Ray sets I’m patiently waiting to spend money I don’t have on.

In this year’s winners circle are a few shows that, with the latest trend of dry and awkward situational humor pioneered by laugh-trackless shows like Curb your Enthusiasm and The Office, have hit the mark inducing that feeling you get every week anticipating watching a new episode regardless if it dissappoints afterward.

Glee
Well the short of it is… It’s raucus, offensive, preposterous, unrealistic, interesting, intelligent, wonderful, and fun. See what I did there? Yeah, that’s right, I pointed out some of it’s flaws suggesting that they actually contribute to the entertainment value. See what I did there? Yeah, that’s right, I stated the obvious insinuating that anyone reading this would be too stupid to see what I did there. Now, when I was in High School, student performances were never this polished and entertaining because even with decent funding, with which we had oodles of thank you [insert patently offensive Jewish reference suggesting confirmation of monetary sterotype], not everyone in the group was exceptionally talented. Not possible. The production value is too high for High School; irony hard at work. They happily pass off studio recordings as teenagers performing anywhere from on stage to the football field and with the exceptionally good coreography, we’re supposed to swallow this piece of bullshit whole? Yes. You should do exactly that. It’s cute and a Hell of a lot of fun. I’ve since been told that there are in fact High School Show Choirs that do in fact perform this well. To be fair, the cast is quite good and even at their age, some possess impressive resumes. However, apparently they were having a sale on stereotypes and Fox bought out the store. The kid in the wheelchair is affectionately referred to as “cripple” or “wheelchair kid” by everyone and is a nerd with a sexy baritone. The incendiary device, who hilariously asked for a “sensible pair of heels” for his third birthday, still thinks that people believe that he’s not a receiver. The semi-hot Asian has a stutter. The black chick is loud, obnoxious, and being fat, appropriately named after the best in German engineering. The jock is the only one who’s “normal” yet has an affinity for Arena Rock and his bedroom exploits unwillingly stop at pregame. Let’s not forget the Jewish Celine clone with a “hey look at me!” complex who admits she’s conceited because she knows she’s better than them all. That’s just the students.* Fire up the Delorean, cause the nostalgia from that last girl alone is worth it. Oh, and there’s jailbait too. Then there’s the music. It’s more than great. I mentioned the production value and it works, even if it is completely unbelievable. It’s pseudo-musical which I absolutely loathe but for some reason, it just works. Plus, the background music, a cappella, is beyond genius. The best part is that the witty dialogue, common themes, and smart storylines fit so well it’s one Hell of a gleeful time. Wow is that a shitty line any newspaper/magazine reviewer would use or what?

Community
Watch. This. It’s Joel McHale of The Soup in a role that suits him: sarcastic jackass. Match a witty premise with a racist Chevy Chase and you don’t have a winner. You have sitcom gold my friends. It’s as funny as The Office without having to be ackward even though it plays it beautifully. Watch. This.

Cougartown
I can sum up this show with two words. Bill. Lawrence. The show has merit simply based on it’s creator. With the exception of its now destroyed substance and fate hanging in the balance, Scrubs was pure genius. Since the demise hasn’t been finalized, the inevitability is based on the quality of this project. The effort put into this show clearly says that Bill is keeping his options open. They all really want this one to work. It’s not perfect, and even though she’s the lead, the former Mrs. Bing is trying noticeably too hard, and God love the wife of the creator, but Christa Miller is completely out of place in this one. It is the genius of Bill Lawrence that supervises writing that’s smarter than the entire payroll which makes shit like this work. The hilarious jackass of an ex-husband is only trumped by the kid playing their son, and the premise is a hot topic from 2 years ago that wasn’t fully realized in sitcom-dom. Save for that brilliant “MILF Island” episode of 30 Rock.

Accidentally on Purpose
Jenna Elfman. You know, that cute now-nearing-forty non-initiative Dharma who was once of and Greg fame. She’s a winner, though sitcoms have been no friend to her since oh, about 2001. Overall, the jury’s still out on this because the writing was just B+ enough for it to get past the pilot stage. A few chuckles here and there so it’s on the radar. Plus there’s absolutely nothing wrong with putting Grant Show in anything. The guy was on fuckin Melrose for christ’s sake.

The Good Wife
Yup. It’s another lawyer show masked in the troubled despair of a lawyer wronged by the political scandal of her adulterous lawyer husband being imprisoned and the challenge of re-lawyering amongst a firm of hotshot lawyers post housewifedom while her lawyer husband was lawyering. It’s got Juliana Marguiles, Mr. Big, and that guy from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead in it. Two refrences in one post. I win at life.

*See what I did there?

As for the posts in this thread regarding the warping and quality of these pans I can offer one piece of advice: Read the Directions. Like anything of value, the better you take care of it, the more rewarding it will be. Calphalon has a lifetime warranty for a reason; Calphalon pans last a lifetime. It’s disheartening that the company cannot offer exact replacements of some of their cookware should problems arise. It’s come to the point where I’ve written lengthy complaints and they’ve provided me with nothing but scripted pleasantries and a list of the cookware I’m now finding it more and more impossible to find. To that end, they’ll still keep “improving” their cookware and accompany it with even more unnerving handlebars, and I will continue to scour eBay for my missing pieces. To be fair, it’s certainly possible that the new Unison Nonstick line is better than the Commercial Nonstick, but it’s hideousness precludes me from conducting a test run. All-Clad LTD is definitely prettier, but the aforementioned reasons are enough for me to not even bother.

Why have I decided to share this with you? I don’t know, because I’m stupid?

I really fucking hate it when something such as a soup flavor or a Lean Cuisine entree is named “Chicken Tuscany” or “Tuscany Chicken.” I really can’t even begin to explain. Though, apparently it is so difficult to understand that entire departments of multinational corporations are incapable of seeing why this is an issue. I guess I won’t bother trying.

On an unrelated note, am I the only one that noticed that the specific viral marketing campaign launched by Starbucks last week confirms that their coffee is so shitty that it is incomparable to coffee you carry around in your pocket?

Let me explain why this is a big deal to me. Not only was Tribute amongst the elite of all restaurants in the world, it was a fixture in my own personal wine and fine dining experiences and provided essential learning tools as well. The last time I went to Tribute for my birthday, I spent about 5 hours talking with the GM, Kevin, about how to run a business like theirs, then he offered me a job. At the time, I was reluctant to accept, but if my sights hadn’t been set where they were, I may not have moved to NY and thus be looking for work in the worst economy in the country. That was probably even one of the lesser experiences I had or shared at this jewel of culinary treasures. Shit, the wines I drank at Tribute, ’92 Forman, ’04 Belguardo, ’95 Monasterio, and an ’81 Certan de May, that alone is worth the memory. However, they were all enhanced by the food. What glorious food! Lobster ‘Pot Pie’: A mirepoix topped with the greatest lobster bisque you’ve ever had, fresh chunk tail meat, and a puff pastry crust with a flakiness that I can still taste. A Côte de Bœuf that would impress Jean Georges. A 16 oz Kobe Ribeye with a Cabernet Drizzle, Heirloom Potatoes and Dried Forest Mushrooms: To this day, it is still the greatest steak I’ve ever eaten. A Peanut Butter Soufflé that is so light it’s a culinary mystery as to how it ever rises given the density of peanut buttery deliciousness. Then all of it is put to shame when The Egg arrives. A shelled egg filled with layers of mousse, crème brûlée, caramel, and sea salt. It makes you internally scream with pleasure amidst the fear that it will end so quickly because of it’s size. Singlehandedly, the greatest dessert I have ever had the pleasure of eating, 7 times.

It’s official then. I thought it would be a possibility given my proximity to the restaurant, but now I can say that I will never get to eat another Egg again. I’m going to go wallow for the next few days.

There are films of the 1970′s that belong in the ultimate hall of moviemaking fame. Then there are films of the 1970′s that subscribed to the then cinema veritè of “disaster epics” and the film’s poster alone indicates its support of the cause. The production value, even with the star power and extensive use of abandoned transit systems, is actually pretty low, but there are probably two reasons for this: this shit is dated, and I saw the remake first. I’m glad I did.

If you haven’t had the luxury of seeing this steaming pile of whatchamacallit, by all means read the synopsis of the remake and the jaded ramblings of reviewers who actually recommended that the original is better. There are a lot of positive reviews, but the point of this article is to try and understand just how it’s possible for some people to remain in the positions they’re in.

Dated. It’s been nearly four decades since this film was released. Four. Decades. Think about that for a second. Think about what’s happened in this world since the early seventies. Shit, think about post 9/11 New York City. Presently, this film clearly would need about seventeen rewrites before it would even be presentable enough to pass to a friend who “knows someone in Hollywood.” First of all, the manner in which the “Transit Authority” “handles” the situation. Disorganized is a comforting way to refer to this experience. Every single asshole working the station is a crumudgeon. Evidently, “crumudgeonly” was the only, if any, direction these actors received throughout the entire fucking film. When the terrorists first announce that they’ve highjacked a train, they’re met with ridiculous retorts that can barely be excused as disbelief. Then the Mayor, who’s 22% under in the polls and has the flu, is met with the news and not only doesn’t know what to do, but also wants no part of it at all. Sure. That’s an easy task for the most recognizable person in the entire city. Politics obviously had it’s testicles removed after Nixon but portraying the Mayor of “the second most important publicly held office in the country” as a pussy just doesn’t fly with me, in any movie. Yes. He really says that line. From there it all goes to shit. This was a film puported to be terrifying; succeeding only at how terrifyingly boring it is. Unsuspenseful where suspense should be accompanied by deafening horns that seem to be trying too hard because the musicians were somehow convinced that the score would immortalize everything. I could go on and on about its current insignificance, but I’d rather focus on how it brings up an interesting (probably only to me, of course) point of what I consider to be complete misdirection.

First of all, those who didn’t like the remake, hated it. Largely because it was John Travolta and Denzel Washington ‘playing the same characters that they always play under the cookie cutter direction of Tony Scott.’ I emphasize the single quotation in my paraphrase because it’s truth doesn’t have to mean something negative. Why does the average person go to a movie starring Denzel? Do I even have to answer my own stupid question? Why does the average person enjoy a good action movie? Entertainment. Plain and simple. People want to be entertained; I want to be entertained. Unfortunately, it would seem that more and more people actually subscribe to the declarations of every major newspaper reviewer in the country so much so that it dictates the ultimate success of every film that is released. There are even websites that compile the reviews for each film and compose an aggregate percentage to come up with a final “score”, such as Metacritic used above. Don’t you think that it may be a little unjust that a film does not fare well financially as a result of the negative opinion of a literal handful of people who have no previous credentials within the film industry? Oddly, this same principle exists amongst my other love in that a single man in each of the wine and restaurant industries actually has the power to dictate entire trends in not only appreciation, but the execution of the final product. It simply amazes me that on a continual basis, as with all issues of conformity, it would appear that the public, in these cases of moviegoing, wine guzzling, and haute cuisine-ing, is incapable of using their natural ability to exercise free will.

I love watching films. Second to my love for wine, there is nothing I’d rather do than to combine both and watch movies all the time. I own over six or seven hundred and have probably spent a minimum of 10% of my entire life watching them and countless others. Believe me, that is a very conservative figure considering a more accurate estimation would scare Leonard Maltin.

Which brings me to a good point. It would seem that some of the movie reviewers of today have been around long enough to compare movies made forty years ago with those remade today. There is an inherrent paradox in allowing the same people to give this kind of perspective to millions of people who will unwittingly make a decision without thinking it over for themselves. You can’t possibly expect someone who formed their opinion about a film years ago to make a concrete and objective review of the remake. Especially in this case when, if you put both films side by side, it is blisteringly clear that the remake is a better film. Wait, to satisfy everyone who’ll fight back with their arguments about suspense and character development, I’ll say that the remake is a better movie. However, try as hard as they may, they won’t win. There is by far, more character development, suspense, and actual entertainment in the supposed pile-o-shit they all think was the Tony Scott remake. It’s sad that just because Scott preferred to cast Travolta as the villain, that people claimed he ruined the movie. He was exactly what you’d expect as Travolta playing a villain. Why all of a sudden is this a bad thing?

Face Off: over the top action and implausible situations with Travolta as both the honest cop and crazed psychopath. What’s not to like?

Broken Arrow: same over the top action but this time it’s on a Stealth Bomber. What’s not to like?

Pulp Fiction: What’s not to like?

So, people walk into a movie and suddenly think Travolta won’t act the way he always does? How fucking diluted can you be? From there, many of the reviews praised the original for having more character development. Let me set the scene here. In the remake, while the NYPD is scattering to deliver 10 million dollars within the deadline, Travolta takes the opportunity to engage Denzel in some pretty interesting conversation dealing with, wait, what’s this? A side story? That’s right. The new writers saw just how boring the original was and developed this whole new sidebar in how Denzel is involved in a corruption scandal and is under investigation. Travolta, with his highjacked access to the Internet, finds this out and wants to know the truth from Denzel. Wow, where I come from, this is called interesting. You know what the villain does in the original while he’s waiting for the money? He reads a fuckin book. Yeah, I love watching people in a movie read. That’s entertainment. Then as the plot unfolds we learn that Travolta was a former stockbroker who got the shaft and brilliantly used his knowledge of market trends and the public response to the highjacking to manipulate the price of gold, short 10 million worth, and make a fucking fortune as a result. Pretty smart if you ask me. In the original, once the highjackers get the 1 million in cash, they divide it up and keep 250 grand a piece. Wow. I know it’s 1974 and inflation has quite an effect over the years, but the modern version is again, more interesting. Then the ending. Wow, is this one big pile of fucking stupid. In the remake, Travolta is confronted by Denzel after a suspenseful car chase, and on the Manhattan bridge (I think) he actually goads Denzel into shooting him and before he dies, displays his respect for Denzel’s ability to follow through. How, I wonder, was he able to do this? Oh yeah, because of all of the information he learned because the two of them actually engaged eachother in conversation. Imagine what would’ve happened if he’d only read a book! Wait, I can tell you! When Walter Matthau confronts the Robert Shaw in the subway tunnel, Robert Shaw bribes him and when he recieves a negative response, commits suicide by stepping on the third rail. Not only is this unwarranted, but it’s confusing because the little character development we see between the villains and the hostages would never, at least from what I percieved, suggest that any of them, especially Robert Shaw, would ever kill himself if he didn’t get his way. There’s another word for this, oh yeah, stupid. Then, the lone criminal who manages to get away is foiled because Walter Matthau hears him sneeze. We’re then supposed to believe that from there he’s simply caught. What about an alibi? Prints? Anything? It’s fucking preposterous and certainly not quality filmmaking let alone as entertaining as anything produced in recent times. I hate how film reviewers of the present don’t see this and subsequently shit on what is clearly better just because of who’s in it and who made it. Fuck you for suggesting that I wouldn’t be able to discern these differences and insulting me by making it a bad thing to enjoy movies made by Tony Scott. Hello? Top Gun, Beverly Hills Cop II, The Last Boy Scout, True Romance, Crimson Tide, Enemy of the State, Man on Fire…yeah, these movies aren’t entetaining at all. Judgmental pricks. Oh, Spoiler Alert.

The Wine Saga

Fortunately, by using the term Saga, there is an inherent understanding that there is virtually no limit to the number of entries that encompasses its awesomeness. The Godfather Saga: they’d considered a fourth with a younger Sonny portyayed by, god help us, Leo. The Star Wars Saga, shutup you “Holy Trilogy” fucks, it’s a saga, grow up. Mark Hamill, and the other principals are reportedly under contract for another eighteen months. Try to retract the drool and realize that this could mean George Lucas for a moment could cure his Vaginosis and a post Jedi threepeat of epic kickass Timothy Zahn inspired dismantling of the Empire with an aged Luke Skywalker teaching his niece and nephew to kick some rogue Dark Jedi ass all Wire-Fu style. Ah, a man can dream, can’t he? Anyway, sorry for the geeky sidebar. That’s a lie. I’m not sorry.

1995 Poggio Antico Brunello di Montalcino

1991 Riecine La Gioia

Quickly, for those that need to know. Brunello (Sangioveto) is a clone of Sangiovese, the principal grape produced in Tuscany that comprises Chianti Classico and the famed SuperTuscans. It is produced solely in the southernmost Tuscan town of Montalcino and following DOCG regulations and aging requirements, makes either Rosso or it’s big brother Brunello di Montalcino. I’d try to explain what the lovely initials DOCG mean but I really don’t feel like having an aneurysm.

Poggio Antico is arguably one of the top producers in Montalcino. Their series of classic wines plus their ultra newly stylized Brunello Altero and their latest cab-infused creation, Madre have solidified Poggio Antico as not only one of my favorites, but also a fixture within the industry. A difficult feat for those who have crossed over into having enough stock that they could start selling at 7-11, and Poggio Antico is no small operation. Way back in 2001 when I had the pleasure of visiting this lush estate of over 200 hectares, their annual yield was well over 100,000 bottles. The beauty of an estate of this quality however, is that despite such large numbers, careful attention is put into each and every bushel that ends up into the final product. This is a point that was necessarily reiterated to me the other day while enjoying this fine example of quality winemaking. The estate produces 5 wines, four of which follow the traditional DOCG model. Careful selection is no doubt made in each vintage, saving what is percieved to be the best of the bunch, pun intended, to put into sequentially, the Altero, Riserva, Brunello, Rosso, and in whatever order, the Madre. The beauty of this process is not only does the drinker benefit from the education of the difference of each of the wines and the results of their individual styles, but the wines themselves take on a personality of their own due to the craft of personalized winemaking. Frankly, this is an art that is slowly becoming lost in the void of the “90 points or above” swilling morons who love to drink something that costs $500 because it costs $500. The worst part is that as soon as you read this, it’ll be $600. While the commentary for the blazingly awful world of increasing markups is a post of it’s own, I don’t plan on getting lost in my own ranting just yet.

This ’95 Brunello on the other hand, while like any wine is not worth $400, is pretty god damn good. The beauty of Sangiovese is it’s allure as a food wine. There is an essence of coffee, lit tobacco, and dried red fruits on the nose. Those elements, combined with fresh acidity, a subtle use of powerfully new oak (Slovenian, it would seem — and no, there’s no way in Hell I could ever detect where any oak comes from, I read this), and rough stone on the palate, make for one pretty damn complex and satisfying experience. This is what wine is all about. Something lush. Something beautiful. Something that evokes a memory. That memory, one of very few that I am still capable of hanging on to, is of drinking this fantastic wine and two of it’s brothers over a ridiculously long (4+ Hours) period of time talking about wine and how similar Riecine is to Brunello. We were having lunch at the Ristorante di Poggio Antico, situated at the estate, and enjoying every single aspect down to the scenery. Notably, I had a Risotto al Amarone con Salsiccia e Parmaggiano Reggiano. Something this incredible is hard to forget; it was purple for christ’s sake, and delicious. That said, we recently enjoyed this wine side by side with some Riecine and I made an interesting conclusion. Riecine, specifically La Gioia, the SuperTuscan, is not only made in the vein of Brunello, but that it often bests the quality of some of the top producers. My opinion isn’t formed because I have ties to Riecine or that they’re paying me to say it (for the record, that couldn’t be further from the truth). La Gioia is a superior wine because it is a superior wine. Both wines represent the craft if winemaking beautifully. Both wines are not only similar in style, winemaking process, but also the varietals. La Gioia shares the characteristics of the Poggio Antico but adds subtlety, an intensely peculiar cocoa powder aroma, and a better balance of old versus new oak. It is because of these factors that La Gioia actually shows greater aging potential, and is far more enjoyable even now despite how great the Poggio Antico really is. Again, this is what wine is all about. If you every have the opportunity to enjoy something as wonderful as this, by all means, do it. To be concluded…

It would appear that the DEA has imposed very strict regulations over the last several years. One of these requirements is the constant monitoring of prescriptions for controlled substances. I agree that this is entirely necessary. However, the fault of drug addicts fucking over the system has made legitimate claims of needing narcotics less and less believable.

A few months ago I had an episode. After more than 5 hours of writhing in pain, I gave in and walked 2 blocks to the ER. After waiting a good 90 minutes, I was finally allowed in and met with the attending. Here’s a short description of what the attending was like: Asshole. I couldn’t get relief because my Neurologist was out of town so I explained what medications I was taking, which included mid-range narcotics,- and that they weren’t working and I needed something to help in the short term. He immediately stated that he wouldn’t be giving me anything “like that” and there’s pretty much nothing he could do about it. Furious, I calmly explained that I had no other option and that I needed help. He huffed and puffed and practially threw a urine container at me, essentially expecting me to “fail” testing and told me “we’ll see what happens.” Fantastic. So, I waited for another 2 hours and watched this dickhead ignore me at every turn. Finally, I walked up to him and asked if I should just go home, as I lived 2 blocks away and sitting there for nothing was wasting my time. He relented and finally sent me on my way with a downgrade. Thanks a lot.

From there I spoke to my Neurologist and since she wasn’t comfortable managing my medications with increasing narcotic use, she referred me to a pain management specialist. This is where it gets a little strange. I meet with the pain doc and for about a half hour and explain my history finishing up until that point. He asked me a series of questions then made the determination that I needed narcotics to manage my pain on a daily basis. He then tells me that he’s not comfortable giving me narcotics regardless of their need. Really? A pain management specialist recommends but denies narcotic use? What the fuck?

That’s what pisses me off. The ER attending, otherwise known as thunderdouche, I understand for the most part. He probably recieves 20 illegitimate requests for drugs daily. It doesn’t excuse his acting like a penis to the general public, but I still get it. The pain management doc, while not outwardly penis-like, has no excuse. It’s not like I walked in off the street and started to beg for happy pills. I was referred by a specialist, to a specialist. This is what this fucking guy does for a living. At that point, knowing that it was a referral, wouldn’t you let your guard down just a little? The worst part is the subsequent mistreatment. I made another appointment because my Hemotologist feels that the Tylenol content in onenof my prescriptions may be masking a fever, so I need to replace my current pills. This guy has the gall on the phone to require me to bring in my cache for “an exchange.” What fucking business of it his to judge the rate in which I choose to make myself happy?

I’m sitting in his waiting room at the moment and feel like driving the point home. There are other specialists who may not be quite as judgemental. Pot, Kettle, Black, blah blah I get it.

Nevermind. The guy dumped me.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that this happened at all or that this woman is so fucking blasé about it. Not to mention that married people who use condoms during their sexual exploits are never allowed to use the phrase “hungry for your cock.” This–one of the latest entries on my new favorite app TWI–is yet another piece of the puzzle I like to call: Downfall of Society; the third entry of the sieries that dares to ask:

Why Are People So Stupid?*

Anyone that knows me at all knows that I am scared of few things. These fears include needles, not completing my collections of Calphalon and Riedel, Jack Bauer’s death, and any animal that is not delicious. While these are credible fears indeed, nothing is more frightening to me than evidence that we are in fact not the most intelligent lifeforms on the planet.

Stupidity used to be a pet peeve of mine. Like nails on a chalkboard, anyone who showcased their complete inability to be part of reality got under my skin worse than the Botox that’s soon to cure my uncontrollable hyperhydrohsis. Recently, this pet peeve has been upgraded to Defcon 1; full on pee-your-pants-horror-movie-scaredy-cat land. Like Carlin, my pet peeves become major psychotic fucking hatreds. The amount of instances of pure stupidity that I get to witness on a daily basis is just appaling. Most examples strongly adhere to a basic principle first taught to me by my Criminal Justice Professer at UDM:

A person is smart, people are stupid.

He would utter this line of wisdom in retaliation of a lecture comment where someone would claim that the general public can figure things out for themselves. If the general public could figure out things for themselves, perhaps we wouldn’t have stupid shit like traffic jams, sports riots, hippies, TRL, professional wrestling, salmon colored cars, organic groceries, astrology, reality television, men in sandals, and recycling.

It’ll start when waiting for the 6 train. The train finally pulls up and the hordes of sheep cram themselves to a literal point of immobilization in the cars at the center of the train. In this situation, there are two simple options that even someone like myself who is always in a hurry as a result of dawdling, can adhere to. Go to either end of the train. Seriously. The distance that you’d cover walking above ground can be done by simply walking to the front or back of the train. While the rest of the city is trying to push eachother into sardine land you can casually walk onto a virtually empty car and laugh at the idiocy. Your other option at peak hours is to wait for the next fucking train. That’s right kids. Believe it or not, the MTA actually provides multiple trains, and at rush hour, they can run as close together as 30 seconds! I always chuckle silently when I’m reassured of not being an idiot after watching 200 people delay the train a good 4 minutes because they just have to get on it right away. Then an empty train pulls up right after it.

The other day I was picking up a prescription and while standing in line, I was treated to another fine example of complete idiocy. This one I like to call: Comprehension Fail. The Pharmacist was apologizing to a woman because the doctor filled out her prescription incorrectly. Given that this particular item is a controlled substance, fulfilling it requires complete details and cannot be ordered or altered over the phone. I knew this, the Pharmacist knew this, and you’d think that after being told 9 times, this stupid fucking lady would know it as well. Of course not. She proceeded to argue her ignorance for a solid 12 minutes as the Pharmacist calmly explained the guidelines over and over again:

Lady: “Here, I have my Doctor’s number and you can call!”
Pharmacist: “Ma’am, this is a controlled substance, I can’t fill this because it is written incorrectly. I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to get another script from your doctor.”
Lady: “But can’t you just give me enough for today?”
Pharmacist: “Ma’am, I cannot dispense a controlled substance without a valid prescription. I’m sorry.”

9 times she repeated this. Nine. Times.

Unlike me, not everyone has hands-on experience with happy pills that the DEA labeled “controlled” back in the Seventies. But after being told that it’s illegal even once, don’t you think you’d shutup and stop arguing?

Speaking of legality, I recently discovered that Nuclear Weapons are pretty bad. Apparently, in addition to the imminent holocaust upon detonation, the total destruction of everything within a 30 mile radius and subsequent winter featuring chemically enhanced precipitation would make anyone worry. Fortunately, a few guys on the city council of the town of Chico, California found out about these little toys and decided quickly to pass an ordinance banning their use. The penalty for detonating a nuclear weapon in town: $500. I don’t really need to emphasize the prevalence of idiocy within the legal system across the globe.

(860): I read the police report. You asked the cop if you could use his in-car computer to update your facebook. No way your getting out of a DUI.

It is “You’re”, the contraction of the words “you” and “are”,” goddammit. Why is this one of the hardest concepts of the English language for people to grasp? I’m not a literary sage by any means but really, is this the best that we can do? Oh, and don’t even think about blaming this shit on the character shortcuts of texting. n ur mind< ) ~o======8 *#%$!+¥'• 0MFG D00D /\Ü571N 15 T3H l_l83Я 1337 epic literary pwnage.

Obviously, the Internet is the worst example of improper grammar; spelling may as well be reviewed by retarded [insert patently offensive retard example if referring to people, otherwise continue]. There are levels of acceptability, but anything that is published by someone who gets paid to write has NO excuse whatsoever. I can't even count the times I've found simple grammatical errors in the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, or some other publication that I claim to read in order to seem more important than I really am. Notice I conveniently forgot to mention USA Today: Paper for Dummies.

It gets worse all the time. Everyday I'll find at least one example that coincides with my theory that there just aren't as many educated people out there as there should be. Accept/Except, There/Their/They're, the Your debacle, these are all different concepts! There are two pronunciations of Patronize because they have two different meanings. I met someone in their twenties who couldn’t pronounce Authorization. Irregardless?!?!?!!!! Why can’t these idiots figure this shit out? I was a terrible high school student with, at the time, a complete disrespect for education in general and I consider this to be second nature. Proper punctuation and sentence structure is a requirement in my book, otherwise I can’t fucking read anything. Confused? Then you’re a moron. Otherwise, congratulations on being normal.

(214): I’m out of condoms
(972): Use saranawrap
(214): Tried that already

*I’ve taken the liberty of capitalizing certain words to illustrate my point. Hell, I recently learned that I was using Subconscious incorrectly all the time If you feel the need to jump up my ass about nitpicking punctuation and grammar effectively calling me a hypocrite, well…suck it. Entertainment provided by FML sister application TWI. As of writing, only available from Enormego on the App Store.

This Special Edition of my necessary series on the shit I put up with every week is in honor of September 3rd. Today officially marks the second anniversary of the most important decision of my life and it’s seemingly all going to Hell. Other than my complete lack of accomplishing anything, it’s really nobody’s fault. I moved to NY with the same hopes and dreams that any idiot who moves to NY has. In my case I’m actually not shooting for the stars. Though I seem to have chosen the most impenetrable line of work next to those CIA guys that recruited Jason Bourne. In the process, I’ve had to, as all starving actors do, supplement my dreams by selling my soul to Beelzebub. This is what the public generally refers to as “Waiting Tables.”

To this day, I’m still amazed that besides a shitty stoner movie that had potential because of Ryan Reynolds, there really hasn’t been much media representation dedicated to the retail sector. Countless times I can remember wishing that I had a dictaphone turned on while working. That I could transcribe the inane hilarity, classic happenings, and the just plain shocking into a sitcom that would make everybody and anybody laugh until they bled. I’m surprised nobody has done it yet. There are 5,000 cop/lawyer/doctor shows that just aren’t interesting anymore unless they have a hook. Jack Bauer’s badass, Greg House is a cheery ball of warmth, and Jack Shepard is well, he’s a pussy, but a likeable one. These shows have an edge because they broke the mold. Why isn’t there a sitcom about waiting tables? You know it’d have to be on Showtime or HBO; the shit that goes on behind the scenes of a restaurant would embarrass Quagmire. It’s a shame really, because if people knew what they put us through while shopping, dining, and imbibing, 20% just might not be enough anymore. I’ve always held the belief that there is a good side to almost everyone and that if properly educated, people can show greater respect to those who slave over them. If it were up to me, Federal Law would require non-exempt citizens to work a minimum of 2 years in either retail or foodservice. Then maybe they’ll realize that I’m only gonna get $11 from the $20 on $200. Though, I’d have to set aside another $3-4 to cover my annual myocardial infarction in April. $7. That’s what I would take home if someone thinks my services were deserving of 10%. Seven Dollars from Twenty.

Maybe 1 in 100 instances deserve 10%. Yeah, I believe that I’m good at what I do. You can see why I am also a firm believer in the law’s designation that all tips are my property once they’ve changed hands.

So for the last 2 years, I’ve been watching my life waste away while my dreams are inadvertantly put on hold. When I arrived in September of 2007, everything was planned perfectly down to the finest detail. Though, the execution worked for the first 6 months, I didn’t anticipate a 60% drop in my income. More specifically, I went from grossing over $1200 weekly to grossing no more than $5-600. Then, to add insult to injury, I lost my job abruptly and still, 3 months later, haven’t recovered. I have a job, but due to its limitations, I am only making about $350 a week. I’m 29 years old and can no longer support myself.

You can see why I’m optimistic.

To kick things off, I’ve selected yet another archive post from my my my Myspace days that describes one of the great wine epiphanies in my life. For the uninitiated, a wine epiphany consists of one or both of the following significant occurances: A perfect marriage of food and wine. Not just a good pairing, but an ethereal mix where after taking a bite of the dish, drinking the wine is nothing short of a liquified version of the same flavors. An old friend of mine would refer to this as “Sex”. He was right. The other epiphany is when the wine itself is an incredible experience all its own. Not drinking it would make your life seem incomplete.

This epiphany my friends, consisted of more than just both of these occurances. I’ve cleaned this up a little since it’s original publication date, which was over two years ago now…wow, aren’t I the optimist. “Publication Date”, rofl.

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Food and Wine that is Pure Brilliance

Those of you that know me personally have no doubt come across a point where I’ll be talking about or indulging in my love for wine. Acrmoniously stating that I’m not a wine snob, I just drink what I like. Sure…sure.

Call me what you will, the stuff kicks some major ass. Yesterday was no expection.

I went to dinner with a friend who owns a wine shop and in a “fuck it” moment of clarity, he brought a bottle of something incredibly special that I won’t even reveal until the setup is complete. Let’s just say the fucker was decanted right away and we didn’t start drinking it until 3 hours later. And no, “Decanting” does not mean “what? like open it?”; thank you incredibly naiive Olive Garden Server. For the record, that’s not a slam at the Olive Garden, I really like the place a lot, but when I’d like to indulge in the one bottle of wine (a ’96 Bertani Amarone) on the list that just knocks the others on their asses, I think I’d like it to be properly served…

So at dinner, at a new high-end steakhouse, we indulged in combinations of food and wine that would stupify mathemeticians. Lemme set the scene.

Start with a Kir Royale, the perfect palate cleansing, refreshing apertif. When made correctly (with Cassis and a Twist you Chambord-Using-Idiot-Whores-Sorry-Sluj) it will just prepare you in the best way for what’s to come. That is of course, if what’s to come is selected carefully; with regard to the whole experience as opposed to satisfying cravings.

For appetizers, we shared some Chili-Spiced Grilled Prawns and a Sharkooderee — Glickstiened LOL Charcutiere. The prawns were moist and plump, the meats were quite rich, particularly the duck (droool), and all were matched well with a bottle of Catena Alta Cabernet Sauvignon. Nicolas Catena is one of, if not the (I have another favorite) best producers in all of Argentina. Brilliant, extracted yet balanced wine that sets up nicely what’s to come.

A good amount of time passes. For those who don’t understand, when dining, the entire evening is devoted to the meal. Talking with your companions, eating slowly as to savor the experience, not going from trough to trough in 26 minutes flat is what Dining is all about. Dining is not about sustenance. Once you embrace this, a five hour meal is one of the most brilliant things in life that can be experienced. In fact, because of food, wine, and company, some of my best experiences in life ever have been while dining.

Now, we moved on. Finished the Catena Alta and brought out my contribution. Tenuta dell’Ornellaia Le Serre Nuove 2004. Ornellaia is arguably, amongst Sassacaia and Antinori, one of the best producers in all of Tuscany. Le Serre Nuove is no exception to the sheer quality of these wines. The reason being, that Le Serre Nuove, as opposed to the flagship wine, Ornellaia, is actually not a second wine. It’s essentially the leftovers of what they don’t put into the flagship. Awesome. This is new-world style Tuscan wine at it’s best. A great mix of Cab and Merlot that is so lush, fragrant, and beautiful, it practically extinguishes the damn candle it holds up to the heavy hitters from France and California, and it’s literally a third the price of its big brother. The best part is that it’s still undisputedly Italian.

While indulging in another fantastic wine, we ordered our entrees. My companions opted for the Veal Chop; the best (now) in town. Incredibly moist, a good charred medium-rare, and a perfect match to the house Bearnaise. I opted, given that I was aware of the coup de grace to come later, for the 16 oz Bone-In Filet Mignon. Everyone knows that Filet Mignon is the tenderest of meats. Everyone also knows that ANY steak on the bone is better than not given how the fat from the bone provides more flavor to be cooked into the meat itself. (Edit: In my post PH mindset I will clarify that this selection is based on the fact that these steaks were not dry aged. The beauty though is that it proved to be a very wise decision.)

Put those two together, and you have some of the best steak you’ll ever eat still aren’t eating a 65 Day Ribeye, but it’s worth it. For the preparation, I’m partial to Black and Blue for filets. This isn’t that fucking bleu cheese crap that people’ve been doing lately which in my mind would completely ruin the subtlety of flavor in a fine piece of meat. No, this is what natives refer to as “Pittsburgh” style. If there’s one thing, aside from Liberty, that Pennsylvania ever gave us, it was the perfect way to eat a steak. Char the living shit out of the outside at 1600 degrees until it’s blacker than Barry White Larry, yet just enough to leave it raw in the center.

For sides: Parmesan-Peppercorn Buttered Whipped Potatoes, and Grilled Asparagus Marinated in Olive Oil and Garlic. Simple. Indulgent. Brilliant. The choices that were made, in congress with the final wine to be drank, would prove to be some of the best choices I’ve ever made at a restaurant. As of late, only bested by a past experience at Tribute. (And a future experience at Felidia)

Our food arrives and we move on to the monster. 1998 Gaja Barbaresco, Langhe. For those that do not know what Gaja is, Angelo Gaja, is the self-proclaimed best producer in all of Italy. Sure, there are wines that I have had the opportunity to enjoy that I think could’ve been better. This however, was an entirely different animal. There’s a reason why Angelo is so fuckin’ cocky, and why this particular wine is $400 at cost.

Barbaresco is simply one of the best made wines in all of Italy. Rivaled in my mind only by it’s neighboring big brother Barolo, and the little engine that could, Brunello. Both Barbaresco and Barolo are made from the Nebbiolo grape though Barbaresco tends to be less evocative, while still showing the potential of the grape. It is one of the most tannic and acidic grapes on the planet that shows characteristics of dried dark berries, chocolate, coffee, and smoke.

Gaja Barbaresco, is Barbaresco on Crack. Call effin’ Tyrone Biggums. The wine was HUGE; for a Barbaresco, this shit was like 20 year old Barolo. Holy Shit. Holy. Shit. Being a ’98, a good nine years would soften up any other Barbaresco I’ve had but not this bitch. This bitch isn’t even close to being ready to rock out with its cock out. It’ll age another 20-30 years easily. The wine exploded instantly; a shower of smoke, chocolate, cherries, raspberries, blackberries, iron, coffee, nutmeg. All I could say was ZOMGZDROOOOLZCAKEZ.

This was just sampling the wine before eating. The best part was the first bite of the steak, with an appropriate amount of peppercorn demi, then onto the wine. This wine was made for charred steaks. Jesus Christ. Made for this. In congress, this was seriously one of the best combinations in the history of food and wine. Jesus Christ. The fat in the steak (incredible Prime marbling); the char on the outside; the spice of the peppercorn. Every bite followed by drenching my palate with liquid sex was like someone was pouring Belgian Chocolate down my throat. Heaven. Some wines are sex. Some wines are money. This wine was a fuckin’ prostitute. Savoring this went on for a good 90 minutes. You ever take 90 minutes to eat a steak? No? Then you’ve never eaten a steak.

There has only been, to this day, one other instance few instances better than this. A bottle of 1981 Certan de May (Called my most critics, the wine of the vintage in all of France), and a 16 ounce Kobe Ribeye with a Cabernet Demi. Orgasm. Rinse. Repeat. A bottle of 1982 Bruno Giacosa Barbaresco with a Porcini Risotto. A bottle of 1976 Lopez de Heredia Viña Boscoñia with Fried Chicken. A bottle of 1967 Antoniolo Gattinara with anything.

There you have it. Reviews of many more wines are sure to come. Some will be descriptive, some will not. All will be recommended. Including reviews of the above mentioned wines, that is, if I can remember what they fuckin tasted like.

These are the five. Those five things that sit atop everyone’s list of best of the best. In this case, my first forary into restaurant reviews from the dining Mecca that is New York City, I’ve chosen the most accessible cuisine and the best providers of such in Manhattan.

A friend of mine swears that in this experience, a tiny place over at 23rd and 9th has the greatest Chinese food ever, and this guy grew up over there. I’m sure after a thorough examination, it too will be a part of this list. For now, the following consists of the best places to grab some quick eats, which is good because you’re just gonna be hungry again in 45 minutes.

Honorable Mention: Wu Liang Ye

I discovered Wu Liang Ye after finding out that Circuit City on 86th street was closing and having a blowout. I managed to pick up a few Blu Ray discs at the ridiculous price of $12 each, for new releases. There, I had a magnificent lunch with Floppy which consisted of Filet Mignon in a Black Pepper sauce, Jumbo Prawns with Orange Glaze and Walnuts, and Soft Shells in a Black Bean Sauce. Too much food as always, which fortunately we were able to wash down with some oddly cheap Tsing Tao.

5. Empire Szechuan Village

My home away from home while I was eating at home. This was my go-to Mongolian Beef place when I lived in Tribeca. Unfortunately, the UES is slightly out of the delivery range. In addition to ridiculously succulent Mongol beefalicious, something called Five Flavor Chicken caught my eye. This is essentially dusted in a special seasoned flour thenfroed and glazed with something that can easily be confused with angel tears, it’s that fuckin delicious. Credit must be bestowed upon the only place to best this Mongolian Beef: P.F. Chang’s. Say what you will, but I dare you to find something better.

4. S. Dynasty

No doubt the initial stands for “Shanghai”, though there were times that I swore it stood for “Stupid Good”. If you’re having lunch, watch out. The portions will put you in the hospital if you finish everything; worth it, I’m sure. Try the Beef with Hot Pepper and Peanuts, then for Dinner, the Sesame Crispy Beef. Dear God it’s little strips of sesame heaven.

3. Joe’s Shanghai

The immensely popular Joe’s makes it to number 2 in this list for two reasons. First of all, they have the most ridiculously awesome soup dumplings ever created. For those who are unfamiliar, soup dumplings are nothing short of spectacular and loaded with so much flavor, it’s miraculous. Which leads to the next entry in this list…

2. Shanghai Pavillion

One of the chefs from Joe’s Shanghai graduated and moved his skill to the Upper East Side. Fortunately, the location is literally around the corner. All the staples are here but in rare form; careful attention is paid to every aspect of this establishment’s execution and preparation of its cuisine. From the full bar of unexpected top shelf liquors, to the not-so-polished wine list with a few surprises, the ceramic chopsticks draped over white tablecloths, and the attentive service that ensures your glass is never half empty. This place has it all. Oh, and the food, is to be praised as some of the best Szechuan you will ever eat. One more added joy, I swear to god they can deliver anything to my door in less than 104 seconds. While some will find that a disgusting product of cookie cutter processed ingredients, I find it to be a godsend.

1. Shanghai Mong

This 24-Hour utopia is oddly situated in the middle of Koreantown and is a regular “We need food to fill our alchohol soaked stomachs or else we’ll pass out” kind of place. Fortunately, even if most visits are in desperation, the food is simply remarkable. If it weren’t for Shanghai Mong, none of us would know what true satisfaction would be like. They prepare crispy shrimp with a garlic sauce that is so good, Larry and I have actually traded splinters fighting over it. The fried preparations are breaded in a seasoned flour, so General Whatever-This-Fuckin-Place-Calls-It is like southern fried chicken, oh, and the fried spicy pork is unbelieveable too. And order of steamed dumplings yields about twenty pockets of tastiness and the fried counterparts are triple the size and even tastier.

If you want to partake in the glory of any of these establishments Google them. My laziness stars…I’m hungry…

5/24/2007

In the first part of this ongoing series, I mentioned middle-aged power-tripping douches with their 25% of their age dates. The following is an example of an occurence in life where I am simply, still to this day, left agast at how human beings can behave in such a manner.

My previous posts have only delved slightly into the psyche of these bitches. This is no slight. This is full on mutha effed up in this bitch. Now, I will set the scene.

It’s a typical Saturday evening; busy. Very busy. However, not busy to the point where I couldn’t handle my usual Saturday bar shift. I have seven tables, full, simultaneiously, and am able to manage them all as if they were one. Mind you, this is how most patrons in any restaurant expect to be treated; as if they’re the only people in the entire fucking restaurant. Guess what, unless it’s 1:50AM, I’m betting you’re not.

So, it’s 9:15, things are hardly winding down, when a 6-top walks in. 4 middle-aged guys, and 2 far-younger dates. Not that much younger; wouldn’t have fucked these skanks with your penis. They sit down, already irritable. Fortunately, I could sense, this time, their hastiness and resolved to fulfill their needs as quickly as possible. Five order cocktails while the sixth orders a half-bottle of cab. We were out of the cab, in which I graciously suggested one of my favorites as an alternate. He was quite pleased. Things were well.

All while the initial setup of their evening is commencing, these people are loud. I mean, loud. Offensive doesn’t begin to describe their behavior. They order. Their appetizer course consisted of four half dozen oysters and an Oysters Rockefellar. This is the part where I reiterate that we have the best seafood in town, hence, our oysters are shucked and cleaned fresh, per order. Anyone who understands this knows that it is quite a time consuming process, especially when there are 30 of them.

Logic would also suggest that since a “baked” Rockefellar is in fact “baked”, it will take longer to prepare than simple, raw oysters. These douches displayed less logic than I’ve seen amongst retarted amphibians.

Naturally, the appetizers take a minimum of 20 minutes. During which time, these douches and douchettes are getting irritable. I check on them, when Lord of the Douches: The Fellowship of All That is Douche starts to get pissy with me. I explain to him that the oysters are fresh…etc. For the record, there was no lag between the order and the receipt of said order. The unfortunate part was that they were at a clear viewing angle of the four orders of raw oysters and watched them sit on the counter as the fifth order was baking.

Finally, the order is ready, and I proceed to take it out.

SIDEBAR: Our method of serving raw oysters is on the half shell over crushed ice. Any idiot can see where this is going.

In my haste to expedite this order as soon as possible to facilitate the douchiest of bags’ good time, I failed to check one important element of serving oysters at my establishment: heat.

I proceeded to serve the first order, to none other than Lord Douche’s Nasty Fuck-For-90-Seconds-Toy-Because-He’s-Incontinent. Before I even set the plate in front of her, about an ounce, maybe two, of ice cold water spills on her lap, fake chest, and a bit on him as well. I couldn’t believe what happened next.

She immediately bursts out of her chair, thankfully not out of the seven threads of fabric she probably referred to as a “dress”; gross — gasping as if I’d just aborted her third ill-gotten pregnancy. The guy shoots out of his chair nearly simultaneously and looks me right in the eye and shouts (for all of my other customers to hear):

“You FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

He immediately states his intention to leave and marches his now-soaked whorebag directly to the host stand where my manager is standing. As he is telling my manager and sommeiler that they’re “never coming back unless he’s fired!”, I am still standing at the table, hovering over the remaining four guests, completely bewildered, mouth agape. With my sincerest humility, I turned to the remaining guests and apologized profusely. The gentleman whom I had suggested the wine to earlier looked at me like a peon and said “Well, it wasn’t good.”

Thanks for the etiquette lesson. How about I give you a lesson on who you should be friends with you tool.

The remaining four joined Mr. “I’m better than you because I’m wearing a sportcoat” and Ms. “Oh fuck it, I’m just a skank” and the party left. At 9:40 on a Saturday. My boss and I reflected later on just where in the hell it was that they went after that?

I later found out Douchemaster’s anger was because he thought I spilled the water on Paris Hilton intentionally. That’s right, I don’t want your money. To this day I am utterly stunned at the behavior of people who are so-called “my senior.” Not to mention “educated.” Evidently these fuckers never attended finishing school.

Guess what? Neither did I.

Finally, someone gives you a glimmer of hope. They take you in, and guide you through where you need to be. Suddenly, things are simple again. You have someone to follow, to take care of your needs, to take care of you.

If this isn’t a metaphor for parenting, then I must really suck at conjecture. Epic literary fail.

I’m sitting in the examination room. My mind is still reeling because of the bandage on my arm from drawing blood. I still hate that. I hate the look, the feeling, everything about drawing blood and needles in general. The mere thought of a foreign object being inserted into my body, especially one that causes pain and occaisional disorientation, scares the crap out of me. When I was 6 or 7, it took four orderlies and my Mother 45 minutes to hold me down as I writhed and screamed myself into oblivion, just for a simple needle prick. Things have changed since then though, on the inside, it feels the same.

As I sit here, countless things are rushing through my brain. I’m waiting for the doctor to come back and essentially tell me that the entire reason for my being here was to cover all the bases and that I need not return. Let’s hope that’s the case, because this anticipation is fucking driving me insane.

Ever since the KFC on 2nd Ave closed (Why, God? Why?) my fix has been hindered by lack of availability. Believe it or not, there are areas of New York City that are secluded, no doubt intentionally, from the merriment provided by excessive amounts of saturated fats. I happen to live in a 10 square block black hole, that instead of McNugget and Italian Chicken Sandwich heaven, consists of an alarming amount of Chase branches, Gristedes grocers, and independent clothing stores that are going down faster than Lindsay Lohan at a Skyy promotion. The solution? A short subway ride to 86th street, where all of my needs for sustenance only face the problem of deciding just how quick it’ll go from one end out the other. UNO’s happens to be the worst culprit. Though, two large Chicago Classics for under $25 is so worth the subsequent debilitation.

Enter my amazement while plodding through midtown yesterday, saving a shitload of cash at Express while waiting desperately for a prescription consult from the pain doc. SIDEBAR: At the moment, I am no longer in pain. Thank fucking God. The last few days were hellish. Anyway, I was taken aback to the point of annoying other pedestrians when I spotted those big flowing letters…

That’s right kiddies. 45th and Lex.

Since I was running my errands I had to postpone satisfaction to a degree of anticipation that could’ve easily been confused with my hyperhydrohsis, when in fact I was salivating from every pore in my body. Good Mexican food is hard to come by and the Mighty Mexican will attest that Baja Fresh is no such provider of said food, devoid of flavor and authenticity. Now this is where I draw a little line. Yes, I wasn’t raised by a Mexican father who would cook with intensely authentic drive, but I have spent time in Detroit’s ghetto fabulous Mexicantown and been south of the border on several occaisons in my youth. For my two cents, this is the shit, no pun intended, and to me is the most authentic Mexican, save for the woman in my bed… even with all it’s franchised glory. So, I indulged. More than I have in a long time…I savored that taco platter. Steak and chicken, black beans, salsa roja, and warmed crisp tortilla chips, it was a lunchtime serenity I haven’t had since dining at the Ristorante di Poggio Antico in Montalcino, a subject for another post.

Say what you will, you know you’re hungry for this shit now…and for the record, the aformentioned lunch with a medium seltzer (I’m a New Yorker now) comparatively totals around 900 calories and 13 grams of saturated fat, and would pair gracefully with Veramonte Primus for a grand total of about $24. Booyah.

My insomnia prevents me from maintining a normal schedule for more than 31 hours thus causing detrimony to every last thing in my life which currently encompasses a relationship, a work schedule that’s so light not only can I not pay the rent, I can’t afford the tools to look elsewhere, oh and of course, the exacerbation from this wonderfully indeterminate medical condition that I have.

At the onset of 2009 (Jesus, already?), I did, as every red-blooded American does, make a completely superficial promise to change my habits, my mindset, my goals, oh and did I say change?

People don’t change. I know damn well that I haven’t. I’m the same person that has fucked up my personal life for the last 8 years and will continue to fuck it up as I’m most certainly doing now. Admittedly, the recent fuckups are from a metaphysical reaction to my aforementioned indeterminate condition. I lay awake at night, trying to keep myself from thinking about the result of failing painkillers, the goregeous woman lying next to me trying desperately to just sleep, and why I’m completely incapable of discerning any progression in my career since 2004. So I watch endless movies and reruns of sitcoms, play with my iPhone while highly anticipating being able to play Diablo…on my iPhone, and I worry. I worry that these are the only things that will keep my attention, for the rest of my life. Oh yeah, and I’m worried about that too, considering the vagueness of my Neurologist. Her foreign origin and speech impediment does not help as well. I’ll let you know how my Hemotology consultation goes next week. Joy.

So, my schedule for today will consist of everything I should have done yesterday, but was unable to do because once again, after laying awake until 10:00am, I finally crash and then wake up eleven hours later. Lather…Rinse…Repeat

For those who wonder (i.e. the ‘rents, and others who may feel some embarrasment on my behalf) why I’m able to spill things like this in the form of blogs, facebook notes, and text messages? Admittedly, I hate airing things in public, like fighting with a loved one at a bar or discussing with co-workers things that should remain behind closed doors, but for some stupid reason there is an inherrent comfortability in putting it all to words in a place like this. Inspiration, I’m sure, came from the ex who, rather than discussing private things, well…privately, thought nothing of posting every last detail of my shortcomings in the most vilifying way possible to ease her suffering. Something that, sadly, is still done to this day. So, I’ve since adjusted and now it’s just my way. Like online banking.

5/22/2007

So there’s this bitch. A real bitch. Always irritable, only bad with the gratuity when it is refelcted by poor service, but in general, just an unpleasant bitch. In her quirkiness, she insists on eating everything with chopsticks. We only have them given that we have the best and freshest Ahi in town.

Admittedly, I’m a chopstick purist. In any Asian restaurant, I will insist on using chopsticks; simply illustrates the authenticity factor, and it’s fun.

This bitch eats her calamari and caeser salads with chopsticks.

I laughed to the point of hyperventiliation when a coworker handed her a pair of chopsticks for her Crème Brûlée.

She was not amused.

Yes Patrick, I totally used “whilst” in a sentence again.

5/22/2007

Some Random Quotes:

Patron: “I’ll have the number 32.”
Me: “I’m sorry sir, but yeah, those numbers…are the prices.”

Patron (To Raquib, the Bengali Busboy Filling Her Water):
“Oh hello there! Oh wait, I mean Hola!”

After taking an order for four octogenarians, as I am taking another order at a nearby table, the eldest, and slowest man walks right up to me in what must have taken 197 seconds.

Octogenarian (In the Oldest Man-Voice You Could Imagine): “Sonny, I’d like to change my order.”
Me: “Of course sir, what can I get you.”
Octogenarian (Enthusiastically): “I’d like to have the chicken sandwich.”
Me: “No problem sir.” (He walks away…): “Sorry about the interruption, He already ordered the chicken sandwich.”

Ghetto Bitch: “What’s this Cherry Splash in my Lotsa Bisk?”
(This wonderful woman exclaimed this after recieving a cup of Lobster Bisque with a Sherry splash as a garnish. I am also happy to mention the many people who would ask what “bis-kew-ee” was.)

Restaurant Misadventures: An Expose in the Service Industry, Part I

5/22/2007

With the need to facilitate my lifestyle through waiting tables, there are moments that simply defy the laws of reality. Those who know; working in retail establishments, restaurants, and pretty much anything else in the service industry, see that what could easily be a normal occurrence, quickly becomes a dichotomy of a David Lynch flick and an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

In restaurants specifically, customers, henceforth affectionately referred to as “Bitches”, continually make you go out of your way to make sure that they have a wonderful experience. This is of course, because bitches have had a long day; need to unwind, and most importantly, need to excercise what little influence and control they have over the other people in their personal and professional lives by extending thier entitled ability to manipulate directly to us.

The following is a diatribe of a few examples of where this kind of behavior can go south; continue to keep me in suspense and disbelief of just how socially inept many of the general public are when it comes to dining, and more specifically, just not being a total douche.

To preface these anthropoligical observations, let me start with a small background of the establishment in which I perform my duties with the utmost enthusiasm, professionalism, and efficiency. Duties.

I worked for Northern Lakes Seafood Company in Bloomfield Hills, MI. Those who are aware have probably already groaned at the last part of that statement. Yes, Bloomfield Hills. Home to some of the newest money on the planet and those who exploit that with the greatest of urgency and ease. Instant gratification doesn’t begin to explain the need for these bitches (and by bitches, I am in no way excluding power-tripping middle-aged Men with their 25% of their age dates) to take every possible measure to put us in “our place”. Funny that in many cases, as servers in such a lucrative environment, we make a better living than they do dealing with the bullshit.

This establishment, hands down, offers the best seafood in the Detroit Metro Area. If you don’t agree, shutup. Of course, being what us insiders refer to as “fast food fine dining”, there are many who exploit this, despite the quality and the price point, and do not respect the idea of what we offer, especially since bitches are never happy with anything.

Last week, during a busy lunch, I was exposed to one of the strangest comments I have ever been witness to. By no means shocking or offensive; just one of those moments where you have to stop and say “Are you fucking kidding me?” Naturally, working for a corporation (and by “corporation” I mean the single most narcassistic businessman who runs his droves of lackeys into the ground by being overly ambitious and disrespecting the idea of investing in the future in order to be successful. The douche doesn’t even advertise.) when instinct takes over, we are restrained from acting/saying/doing/living anything that would be insulting or detrimental to the Bitches’ experience. Such a shame; this was one of those moments.

A table of three ladies in their late forties, lunching because they need to fill their empty, useless existences with some level of social interaction in order to feel important, sat in my section and as per usual, were given the best service that I can provide. There was no problem at the table whatsoever. However, before their entrees came out, I went to check on the bitches and refill some Iced Tea:

Me: “Ladies, how is everything today?”

Bitch #2: “Oh everything is wonderful; the bread is absolutely delicious. But it’s not sliced all the way through. (She says, handing me the bread basket)

My initial response should have been: “So?”

As well as an appropriate secondary response: “Hey, see that shiny long implement right there on that table? Yeah, that’s called a knife.”

or “Bitch, just fuckin’ rip the bread a little, what’s the fuckin’ problem?”

Of course, I am forced to concede. I go back, however, instead of bringing a new, freshly baked bread basket. I just sliced all the way through the existing, now cold, bread I originally gave the bitches.

Again, not life threatening (that one’s for Part IV) but just a clear example of what I deal with on a daily basis.

There will be many more of these to look forward to.

5/15/2007

Now, as it stands, I have recently realized the benefits of this whole blogging phenomenon as a way for people (and by “people”, I mean the three in my top friends whom I know are really the only ones who appreciate my wit and candor because of their reciprocal views; I know the rest of you could care less) to see just what it means to “vent.” I am taking every opportunity to have a “conversation” with these three people, at times at great length, because, let’s face it, we all hate talking on the fucking phone.

I was just enjoying a piece; a “snarky” review of a favorite Metro Detroit hotspot of mine, when afterwards I really had a craving for a cigarette. Sue me; I’m trying to quit but we all know that you have to WANT to quit before you can ultimately be successful. At this time, I WANTED a cigarette, so I headed out to buy a pack. To my credit, I’ve cut down due to recent events in the past three months that have pushed my cigarette intake level to nothing short of what Denis Leary would call “remarkable.”

So, I head out to the corner pharmacy; SIDEBAR: don’t you love how a PHARMACY is the most immediately convenient place to purchase things that kill you?

Anyway, I head in, think to myself: Okay, I’m a little thirsty and caffeine is the debil, so I’ll grab an A&W, a Reese’s Crispy Crunchy Bar (Eff You, Butterfinger), and my trusty smokey treats and I’ll be on my way. That’s when it happened. As I approach the cooler to pick up my tasty sarsaparilla, a young man, early twenties, approaches the cooler to the left and stands there for more than 30 seconds. I naturally think that he’s simply just trying to make a decision; as it turns out he was trying his damndest to read, but was failing at every attempt.

It is common knowledge that in the city in which I reside, a local ordinance prohibits the sale of alcohol between the hours of 10PM and 7AM everyday; what those hippies in Connecticut like to call a “Blue Law.” Sure, it may seem like some bullshit, but if you have what I now like to refer to as “uncommon sense”, then obtaining alcohol between the hours of 10PM and 2AM is strikingly easy. Especially because the next town over doesn’t have that stupid ordinance and is literally a half-mile away.

As a result of this ordinance, the pharmacy places LARGE placards on the doors of the coolers which are admittedly, a little wordy, but do clearly state the law, and that no alcohol is to be sold at this time. This is when the fun begins.

As I am standing next to this young man, who will forthright be affectionately called “White Trash Leroy”, I proceed to watch and laugh to myself at the result. He stands there, then paces, and then stands again, in what must have been 75 seconds. He carefully looks at the placard, then turns around and starts to head down an aisle to the front of the store. Suddenly, he turns back, ambitious. He approaches the beer cooler with confidence, opens the door and as the placard is raised by the open door then falls to the inside of the cooler, he continues to stand there, stunned. Ambition is a powerful thing, especially when it trumps the inherently stupid.

He doesn’t care; grabs a sixer of what can only be described as “bong water” and heads to the front. Having acquired all of my items, I follow, sporting that know-it-all smile that just makes me proud to be who I am. At the register (I beat him there; evidently stupid and sloth share some symbiotic quality) as my items are being scanned, he walks right up next to me and sets the sixer on the counter. As I turn and give him that look of death, you know the one, the “I’m fucking right, you’re not” look, the cashier, graciously, tells him that she can’t sell him the bong water. White Trash Leroy’s response: “Oh shit, you’re serious???”

Hey, Middle America: These are your future leaders.

I spent $100 on new tuxedo shirts for this.

*Update: The nice guys over at Men’s Warehouse gave me a refund less the cost of alterations. At least I didn’t have to eat the shirts. Starch really upsets my stomach. Not to mention wing tips.

One thing I am proud of, is representing myself to prospective employers, business associates, and voice clients. I’m not speaking of interviewing; an entirely different skillset to master. I’m talking about simple presentation.

I’m currently job hunting, and in my pursuit I’ve once again stumbled upon a fascinating trend. Some people really don’t know how to present themselves to prospective employers. They show up to a job interview, disheveled, unshaven, wearing shorts and sandals, and carrying a messenger bag. Now, messenger bag or not, you sir, are no Jack Bauer. Especially because you’ve immediately shown your possible future boss that you don’t care enough about getting a job simply based on your appearance alone.

I walked into Seasonal, a newer Austrian themed restaurant and “weinbar”, as they are in need of servers and a bartender. I stood at the entrance, patiently waiting for my turn to speak with the manager. There were two people ahead of me: a girl, dressed casually, and the aforementioned sandal toting moron. As I waited, I observed everything. Questions were asked and answered, and both candidates were sent on their way with the usual accolades. Then I stepped up, introduced myself, and sat down for an introductory interview. I should note that I’m currently wearing my power suit with one of my favorite cuffed shirts, no tie. Now, I am going to toot my own horn a little. Within seconds, the manager, Nicole, began to speak to me as if I were hired and asked me about availabilty for training. I of course have the experience and skill to back up my resume, but the initial impression I made on her was enough to move thongs along. 10 mintutes after this interview, I walked down the street to Uncle Jacks’s Steakhouse and repeated the process.

I now have two jobs.

This is a reprise from a blog post I made nearly 2 years ago that is now part of a series on human observation. I’ll happily repost when I have access and not sweating from being 50 feet below the surface. Fortunately, I have some Plastikman to ease the stress. I’m off to Lorenzo’s. There’s nothing like a barber that’s so old school he uses a sraight razor to detail your sideburns and neck.

The truth is that while I am no stranger to blogging (more on that later), I just find myself in need of some release and documentation of my frustrating lifestyle that all revolves around my uncontrollable insomnia. Since starting heavy neurologics, its become even more difficult to manage. This of course, is why I’m writing this at 8:56 in the morning. Anyone who knows me, and cares at all, can deduce that I’ve been up all night, yet again.

Several months ago I started feeling sensations in my legs at nighttime. I initially thought it was Restless Legs Syndrome but eventually ruled it out because my symptoms augmented, and not for the better. I now have tingling sensations in my legs 24/7 that sometimes (as evidenced by a lenghty ER visit on Sunday) can turn into unbearable throbbing pain. The irritation feels like my blood has been carbonated. Its fucking eerie.

My Neruologist has me on Gabapentin (Anti-Convulsant) and Ultram (Painkiller) and its seriously effing me up. I’m able to function normally and when the meds are at their peak, I have no problems. The prerequisite of course is that I need to be on the meds all the time. I’m 29. Even my doctor reiterated that I shouldt be experiencing something like this at such a young age.