Yup. I am at it again. Thought that i totally exhausted my list, but with a new restaurant comes fresh, hideously bad behavior. why is eating and drinking so complicated? If you missed volumes one through four, feel free to dig through my (ha) extensive archives. they are good for a laugh. unless they are about you. in that case...um...
41. get out of my way. seriously. you see me, now move. no? then i push. no again? well, the screw on my wine key draws blood. i know from experience. accidents happen. uniform shirts made out of spikes are kind of a server's daydream.
42. get out of the places you are not suppose to be. employees only, get it? no hidden door, no secret hallways, no magic carpet rides up to the patio. this is not mario brothers.
43. you know the owner? you are with the owner? you are the owner? good for you. now can i please get back to my job serving all of the tables who are lining the pockets of your good friend/companion/you? and yeah, i get it. you are a big deal. in japan. here we just talk shit about you behind your back.
44. stop holding my tables hostage. i get it. your friends are on the way. stuck in traffic, lost, overdosing on heroin. whatever. they. are.not. here. so why the fuck are you taking up that table for ten and nursing a water? i will let you stay if you have ten cocktails and three appetizers...
45. happy hour is in twenty minutes. you want to be the cheap fuck who sits there sipping water until the clock strikes whatever o'clock? well, prepare to wait even longer because when the time does come for you to save a buck a drink, you are the last on my list. and you will be all night long.
46. tip on the total bill. your friend puts in twenty bucks cash and you put the difference on your card? tip on the bill, not the seven dollars you are paying for. you have a buy one get one discount? we still did the work of buy one get none. tip on the total bill. fuck, i wish i did not have to spell this shit out.
47. do not fight gratuity. you may be the coolest table ever, and man do we want to take our chances with you. you loved us. we loved you. we are practically facebook friends!!! but we cannot argue with policy. see, we have to grat parties over blah blah blah and we have to do it consistently. because there may not be a party as cool as you who see it and squawk. we need to know that we can tell them it is policy. if we are awesome, tip more. if we suck, talk to the manager. nothing is written in stone.
48. please do not be dumb enough to put a tiny child on a bar stool. or to put a booster chair on a slippery, cushy booth. i know, happy hour is usually in the bar, and it is far more enjoyable to face a whole night with baby jane while shit faced for a few dollars less, or to sit you widening ass on squishy upholstery while you manhandle your chicken alfredo, but please, think of the children. i have seen not one but several kids get seriously hurt face planting onto the table after rocking their booster forward in a booth. and i will not even tell you what happened when a two year old fell off a bar stool at a restaurant where i worked. okay i will tell you. she almost died.
49. you do not want to know all about me. you do not need to quiz me on things like my marital status, education level, previous employment. you are not interviewing me. you are not a literary agent or a potential boyfriend. ( because if i found one of those where i work, i would probably drop dead on the spot. not good for anyone.) all i am saying is, picture a day at your work. now tell me when those kinds of inquiries are appropriate.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
ten minutes, black door, ten minutes, red door.
slumped over in a tide of mass descruction,
epic failure, mass confusion.
a night on the brink of stabbing that which sustains me straight through the heart.
can't beat them. join them. beat them. kill them.
no one drinks anymore, we all drunk down here.
the man from the past fades away.
i stare at the recent with one i cocked.
i have seen him inside his clothes, outside of my body.
but i do not care. to remember is to reflect.
i close all of the red doors.
flames curling up to lick and meet my parted lips.
epic failure, mass confusion.
a night on the brink of stabbing that which sustains me straight through the heart.
can't beat them. join them. beat them. kill them.
no one drinks anymore, we all drunk down here.
the man from the past fades away.
i stare at the recent with one i cocked.
i have seen him inside his clothes, outside of my body.
but i do not care. to remember is to reflect.
i close all of the red doors.
flames curling up to lick and meet my parted lips.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
caught a cold
i was so awake on valentines day. my bones ached as if they had been soaked through with rain water, but i pulled on my new tights. boots. a short skirt. my uniform, as it were, inside of work. outside or work. funny how such a tantalizing ensemble can start to feel plain. i nod along to the prostitutes in sweat pants. they just got tired of fitting in.
we head to the venue where the band has a show. i make half hearted conversation with my companion, neglecting to tell her that it does not matter one two penny damn to me that she plans to leave early. i have a date on the dumbest date night ever created by god and santa claus to get rid of all of that left over chocolate. i think that easter needs a plant so we can kill something green during every holiday.
we are just in time to see some clever over weight hipster screaming into a sausage or something about whiskey. no one has ever done that before. i think maybe he works for the phillips administration, because when i go to the bar, i do order a rail whiskey. i brandish my goods at the stage, hoping to show him what a good salesperson he is. this is the final thought of the evening not sidetracked by some other monkey without a gun.
my date shows just in time for my attention span to fail me. i do what i always do and offer his services as a chauffeur to all of my friends who are not even coming with us to wherever we decide to go. he is a fan of the neighborhood and i am a glutton to punish so so we end up in that bar, my own little swept corner of hell.
i shuffle up to the bar, suddenly shy. i study the floor while my date orders me a drink. he knows the light hearted version of the truth. the side which keeps me dirt and dust free, though i am the wanker who has kept the tension brewing for the past six months. when i am uncomfortable, stick pencils on everyone's chairs. a true artist wants everyone to feel their pain. the lead poisoning is just a bonus.
we sit there most of the night,shouting over the shitty band. or dj. or whatever sans romanica they have keeping people from feeling cheated out of getting laid. he moves to my side of the booth and i want the night to drain away. i daydream about bad tv and orange slices while he prattles on about something that i know i should not know about him yet. i have a sickening sense of what the fuck and that fucking bartender isn't helping his pal here in the booth one bit.
i get tired of giving the wrong impression so we move on to a different bar. i am drunk and have given up cool and given way to being charming. i never flirt unless i am trying to go home. instead of getting into a cab, though, i go home with him.
when i wake up the next day, i am warm, dressed and alone, save for the earring i lost during my thrashing. my darling date opted for the couch, though i would have been able to sleep standing up.
he is chivalry personified, dropping me right at my door. i know we will not see each other again, not in this way, at the end of an evening, as there was no light no spark. i will probably chase that feeling forever. the one you get after leaning up against someone, just talking, all night long.
a few hours later i woke up coughing and jelly-headed. i might not have caught the love bug on valentines day, but i did catch a cold.
we head to the venue where the band has a show. i make half hearted conversation with my companion, neglecting to tell her that it does not matter one two penny damn to me that she plans to leave early. i have a date on the dumbest date night ever created by god and santa claus to get rid of all of that left over chocolate. i think that easter needs a plant so we can kill something green during every holiday.
we are just in time to see some clever over weight hipster screaming into a sausage or something about whiskey. no one has ever done that before. i think maybe he works for the phillips administration, because when i go to the bar, i do order a rail whiskey. i brandish my goods at the stage, hoping to show him what a good salesperson he is. this is the final thought of the evening not sidetracked by some other monkey without a gun.
my date shows just in time for my attention span to fail me. i do what i always do and offer his services as a chauffeur to all of my friends who are not even coming with us to wherever we decide to go. he is a fan of the neighborhood and i am a glutton to punish so so we end up in that bar, my own little swept corner of hell.
i shuffle up to the bar, suddenly shy. i study the floor while my date orders me a drink. he knows the light hearted version of the truth. the side which keeps me dirt and dust free, though i am the wanker who has kept the tension brewing for the past six months. when i am uncomfortable, stick pencils on everyone's chairs. a true artist wants everyone to feel their pain. the lead poisoning is just a bonus.
we sit there most of the night,shouting over the shitty band. or dj. or whatever sans romanica they have keeping people from feeling cheated out of getting laid. he moves to my side of the booth and i want the night to drain away. i daydream about bad tv and orange slices while he prattles on about something that i know i should not know about him yet. i have a sickening sense of what the fuck and that fucking bartender isn't helping his pal here in the booth one bit.
i get tired of giving the wrong impression so we move on to a different bar. i am drunk and have given up cool and given way to being charming. i never flirt unless i am trying to go home. instead of getting into a cab, though, i go home with him.
when i wake up the next day, i am warm, dressed and alone, save for the earring i lost during my thrashing. my darling date opted for the couch, though i would have been able to sleep standing up.
he is chivalry personified, dropping me right at my door. i know we will not see each other again, not in this way, at the end of an evening, as there was no light no spark. i will probably chase that feeling forever. the one you get after leaning up against someone, just talking, all night long.
a few hours later i woke up coughing and jelly-headed. i might not have caught the love bug on valentines day, but i did catch a cold.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
there was a little girl (and the circle of life)
who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. when she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.
it was not enough for me to taste the acid, i had to bathe in it and then hold hands with those around me, blisters creeping up all over their bodies as well. miraculously, i am the drunk that walks away from the car accident i caused while every one goes up in flames. there aren't any witnesses who will talk, so i will get off.
the circle has nothing to do with this. no birth death mumbo jumbo. people like me are too selfish to consider the possibilities. we walk down a hundred dark alleys, speed down a thousand highways free from polyester restraints and remain intact while the innocent suffer freak accounts of spontaneous combustion and nuclear meltdown. we cannot possibly ruin our own good time sex-worker curves by procreating, either.
idiots believe it all to be for the best. we may not die instantly, but we will not live to see ourselves old and unlovely. meanwhile, we will pass our time fucking and fighting, painting a fraught portrait of wasted youthish tendencies and making up words like youthish. our legacy will be in all of the people who burn for us, shaking their fists while secretly longing for our embraces and kisses to be on the other side of perfunctory. It never happens as we have the ability to fuck with people and not believe that karma is a real monster under the bed just waiting to take a bite of an errant ankle.
there is indeed a little girl with a curl. she has a sweetness akin to apples, but she feels just like the razor blade those sick fucks put inside all that time ago.
it was not enough for me to taste the acid, i had to bathe in it and then hold hands with those around me, blisters creeping up all over their bodies as well. miraculously, i am the drunk that walks away from the car accident i caused while every one goes up in flames. there aren't any witnesses who will talk, so i will get off.
the circle has nothing to do with this. no birth death mumbo jumbo. people like me are too selfish to consider the possibilities. we walk down a hundred dark alleys, speed down a thousand highways free from polyester restraints and remain intact while the innocent suffer freak accounts of spontaneous combustion and nuclear meltdown. we cannot possibly ruin our own good time sex-worker curves by procreating, either.
idiots believe it all to be for the best. we may not die instantly, but we will not live to see ourselves old and unlovely. meanwhile, we will pass our time fucking and fighting, painting a fraught portrait of wasted youthish tendencies and making up words like youthish. our legacy will be in all of the people who burn for us, shaking their fists while secretly longing for our embraces and kisses to be on the other side of perfunctory. It never happens as we have the ability to fuck with people and not believe that karma is a real monster under the bed just waiting to take a bite of an errant ankle.
there is indeed a little girl with a curl. she has a sweetness akin to apples, but she feels just like the razor blade those sick fucks put inside all that time ago.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
tip 2: do not blame your server if your food comes out shitty.
i waited on a couple of fat fucks. they ordered, in typical fat fuck fashion, a pitcher of miller lite (one of 3), two coca colas with cherry juice in them, cheese sticks, buffalo wings and french fries with ranch sauce to start, and a large double crust carnivore with some extra cheddar cheese on top. as fast as i could, i put their order in because i did not want them to start eating the imitation parmesan or the table or whatever. i was gone for roughly 37 seconds before the guy was shaking his empty diabetes-maker at me, rudely signalling his NEED for a refill. i obliged. and soon after, their appetizers were out as well.
i am not sure how either of them were able to detect temperature at that point, what with their jaws being unhinged to allow for more food to be crammed down their throats and everything, but she did.
Hey! hey waitress, hey! these cheese things are Cold! They are stone cold! we can't eat these Cold!
i am so sorry, ma'am. sometimes they pull them from the (gelatinous, oil filled fryer) oven too soon, and they do not get cooked all the way through. i will have them make a new batch which will be out in about two minutes.
Fine.
I sort of expect, being the rational person that i am, for them to continue eating the rest of the food mountain blocking their view of one another, but they don't. they instead mutinously push their plates away and commence staring at me, as if i should be personally "baking" their fried cheese logs, or at least begging for forgiveness.
maybe you can see where this is going. i couldn't.
the cheese sticks came out in two minutes, as promised. but in the meantime, everything else got cold, apparently.
We wanted to be able to eat everything together and now it's all cold except for the sticks. we need new wings and fries, too. (at this time i am gazing at the half eaten wings and nearly completely eaten fries and all that fucking ranch drizzled on the table).
Fine.
I had the foresight to take the cheese sticks back. into the fryer they went for a second time. please stay hot. please stay hot.
so, out all three new appetizers come. the pizza is now done, as well. without the fucking cheddar. damn it all to hell. so, i push the remake button. this button is fiction, so instead i beg the kitchen to start over again, knowing that if we just throw the cheddar on top, the evil obese sweating all over the vinyl booth will know and send it back.
i still think that i may be fine. they have to get through the second round of apps, after all. For a minute, I am right. more cherry coke and another pitcher and they actually seem to not be hexing my first born any longer.
one minute.
two minutes.
five minutes.
Um, where's are pizza? It's been awhile. we are hungry,you know.
Oh, it will be out in just a minute. Wanted to keep it warm while you had your appetizers.
Well, it better be. we want it now. and more beer.
So, i fly through the kitchen. it is going to be another few minutes. I stare longingly at the first pizza, now being devoured by coworkers. I do not tend to eat a pound of flesh per slice, but i am starving and would gladly chew on a mad cow patty at the moment. no time, though, i have three other tables who have been politely neglected in favor of the carnies at 106.
so i tend to everyone else. more tables flood in. we are genuinely busy now. i get to add a blister, full bladder, and an errant bra strap to my growling stomach as i whirl dirvishly through the dining room. the couple sits and fumes, their table covered in buffalo sauce, ketchup, and ranch. funnily enough, though, the napkins remain untouched. i cannot go back there without that fucking pizza.
Finally, finally, it is ready and it is right. I bring it out, whisking away the chicken bone graveyard and kindergarten finger sauce paintings, and make a hasty retreat. After two minutes, the usual amount of time i give people to taste test their food, i check back and half the pie is gone. still, i politely enquire.
this doesn't taste good. It's too salty.
okay. what would you like me to do?
is there a way to make it less salty?
not really. it is all meat and extra cheese.
we want it remade. maybe without the cheddar.
okay. but i will have to charge you for both pizzas.
what the fuck? why? we didn't like it.
yeah, but it was made exactly how you ordered it. there is nothing wrong with it.
fuck that. no. we're done. give us the check.
okay.
and a box.
of course.
what happens next is no mystery. they paid in cash, attempting to short me five bucks. i called them on it as they were leaving and was given exact change. i just laughed.
what i learned from this experience, is that i should have known all along that they would be dicks and should not have neglected my other tables in favor of them.
what everyone else should learn: if something sucks about your meal, tell us, we want to help and we want you to come back. if you order something you do not ordinarily like and you don't turn out to like it, be cool. we will generally not charge you for the (your) mistake and will bring you whatever you want instead. be an ass, and you will pay for it. also, if your server seems slow or flustered, look around. you will probably be able to spot the idiots who are running them into the weeds.
i am not sure how either of them were able to detect temperature at that point, what with their jaws being unhinged to allow for more food to be crammed down their throats and everything, but she did.
Hey! hey waitress, hey! these cheese things are Cold! They are stone cold! we can't eat these Cold!
i am so sorry, ma'am. sometimes they pull them from the (gelatinous, oil filled fryer) oven too soon, and they do not get cooked all the way through. i will have them make a new batch which will be out in about two minutes.
Fine.
I sort of expect, being the rational person that i am, for them to continue eating the rest of the food mountain blocking their view of one another, but they don't. they instead mutinously push their plates away and commence staring at me, as if i should be personally "baking" their fried cheese logs, or at least begging for forgiveness.
maybe you can see where this is going. i couldn't.
the cheese sticks came out in two minutes, as promised. but in the meantime, everything else got cold, apparently.
We wanted to be able to eat everything together and now it's all cold except for the sticks. we need new wings and fries, too. (at this time i am gazing at the half eaten wings and nearly completely eaten fries and all that fucking ranch drizzled on the table).
Fine.
I had the foresight to take the cheese sticks back. into the fryer they went for a second time. please stay hot. please stay hot.
so, out all three new appetizers come. the pizza is now done, as well. without the fucking cheddar. damn it all to hell. so, i push the remake button. this button is fiction, so instead i beg the kitchen to start over again, knowing that if we just throw the cheddar on top, the evil obese sweating all over the vinyl booth will know and send it back.
i still think that i may be fine. they have to get through the second round of apps, after all. For a minute, I am right. more cherry coke and another pitcher and they actually seem to not be hexing my first born any longer.
one minute.
two minutes.
five minutes.
Um, where's are pizza? It's been awhile. we are hungry,you know.
Oh, it will be out in just a minute. Wanted to keep it warm while you had your appetizers.
Well, it better be. we want it now. and more beer.
So, i fly through the kitchen. it is going to be another few minutes. I stare longingly at the first pizza, now being devoured by coworkers. I do not tend to eat a pound of flesh per slice, but i am starving and would gladly chew on a mad cow patty at the moment. no time, though, i have three other tables who have been politely neglected in favor of the carnies at 106.
so i tend to everyone else. more tables flood in. we are genuinely busy now. i get to add a blister, full bladder, and an errant bra strap to my growling stomach as i whirl dirvishly through the dining room. the couple sits and fumes, their table covered in buffalo sauce, ketchup, and ranch. funnily enough, though, the napkins remain untouched. i cannot go back there without that fucking pizza.
Finally, finally, it is ready and it is right. I bring it out, whisking away the chicken bone graveyard and kindergarten finger sauce paintings, and make a hasty retreat. After two minutes, the usual amount of time i give people to taste test their food, i check back and half the pie is gone. still, i politely enquire.
this doesn't taste good. It's too salty.
okay. what would you like me to do?
is there a way to make it less salty?
not really. it is all meat and extra cheese.
we want it remade. maybe without the cheddar.
okay. but i will have to charge you for both pizzas.
what the fuck? why? we didn't like it.
yeah, but it was made exactly how you ordered it. there is nothing wrong with it.
fuck that. no. we're done. give us the check.
okay.
and a box.
of course.
what happens next is no mystery. they paid in cash, attempting to short me five bucks. i called them on it as they were leaving and was given exact change. i just laughed.
what i learned from this experience, is that i should have known all along that they would be dicks and should not have neglected my other tables in favor of them.
what everyone else should learn: if something sucks about your meal, tell us, we want to help and we want you to come back. if you order something you do not ordinarily like and you don't turn out to like it, be cool. we will generally not charge you for the (your) mistake and will bring you whatever you want instead. be an ass, and you will pay for it. also, if your server seems slow or flustered, look around. you will probably be able to spot the idiots who are running them into the weeds.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
evil thoughts.
life is too perfect, every once in awhile. i stare down at my own cleavage, breasts pushing out from the lowered neck of white cotton. i wore this dress out once. my head hurts in a hard to place way. like i am on the verge of a chainsaw. the tide ebbs and flows.
it is several hours later and i know what i did. opened up the door to prince charming in wolf's clothing. so now, the little girl has got to go. she is breakfast. i, the wandering hunter will be spared. the prince and i will eat her guts and then fuck in her bed.
i like her red hood. i will keep that for myself. later we will have to find that bitch snow white. she needs reviving so we can sell her virgin ass to those horny little men she has been cock teasing for the past while. were it not for that bullet proof glass case, i dare say we would have some necrophilia to deal with, as well.
i was on my own mission to push a couple of children into an oven and then make sweet love to a fellow cannibal, but i hate using strap ons, and that is way on the other side of town.
to be continued...
it is several hours later and i know what i did. opened up the door to prince charming in wolf's clothing. so now, the little girl has got to go. she is breakfast. i, the wandering hunter will be spared. the prince and i will eat her guts and then fuck in her bed.
i like her red hood. i will keep that for myself. later we will have to find that bitch snow white. she needs reviving so we can sell her virgin ass to those horny little men she has been cock teasing for the past while. were it not for that bullet proof glass case, i dare say we would have some necrophilia to deal with, as well.
i was on my own mission to push a couple of children into an oven and then make sweet love to a fellow cannibal, but i hate using strap ons, and that is way on the other side of town.
to be continued...
rock the hell on
what is the best way to manage the mass of contradictions you have found yourself ball and chained to? i would say that it is time to cut off your own foot to save the vessel. no one should ever find themselves attached to an aspect. i cannot blame him for trying to take me one corner of my personality at a time. critics covet what they cannot explain. our conversation went around, serpentine, but not shedding any layers. the garden snake turned into a python and all the life was choked out of what started out poisonous and volatile. death to that train of thought saved us for just a moment, though probably not forever. i would rather over consume and have it perish in a vile of venom than have to endure the slow panic of losing all of my breath, having it taken away.
what am i saying? what did i say? what have i said? nothing. the above is trite bullshit. who the fuck writes about snakes anymore? it's all so biblical. i like poison, but not venom. if a python was choking me out, it would be real death, not some poetical word vomit. hate that word, but regurgitation does not work in this context. what really happened was i got pissed off and saw a side of someone i knew was there but hoped i would not be affected by. this pull at my skirt kind of gentle sense of entitlement. an invite into my bedroom and there lies the key to my brain, yes? sure. on that day, but my mind shifts and there you are, holding a wig scented with my perfume.
so i am gone and the end of the night is not so promising that i will be rolling over and going to sleep while beads of perspiration dry into my thick curls, thighs aching, back unable to forget it's arch. i think about being pulled up effortlessly. strong hands at my waist, being guided toward ecstasy, and then having the tables turned. giggling at my ankles in the air, that intense look right into my eyes. i could never ever look away from him for long.
the sun is cool, my curtains fell down sometime in the night. i was hoping to sleep in, but the all of this bright keeps me awake. so i write, on a sharp point,gentle blade all but breaking the skin. for that i am not sorry. when i started, i felt like plunging the damn thing in and walking away. it is frustrating, all of this nudity. these lips, arms, legs, this face. this big empty bed. maybe i just need to be clubbed over the head and dragged into the cave. either way, the bed needs to move from one end of the room to the other and all of the people within shouting distance should be blushing.
what am i saying? what did i say? what have i said? nothing. the above is trite bullshit. who the fuck writes about snakes anymore? it's all so biblical. i like poison, but not venom. if a python was choking me out, it would be real death, not some poetical word vomit. hate that word, but regurgitation does not work in this context. what really happened was i got pissed off and saw a side of someone i knew was there but hoped i would not be affected by. this pull at my skirt kind of gentle sense of entitlement. an invite into my bedroom and there lies the key to my brain, yes? sure. on that day, but my mind shifts and there you are, holding a wig scented with my perfume.
so i am gone and the end of the night is not so promising that i will be rolling over and going to sleep while beads of perspiration dry into my thick curls, thighs aching, back unable to forget it's arch. i think about being pulled up effortlessly. strong hands at my waist, being guided toward ecstasy, and then having the tables turned. giggling at my ankles in the air, that intense look right into my eyes. i could never ever look away from him for long.
the sun is cool, my curtains fell down sometime in the night. i was hoping to sleep in, but the all of this bright keeps me awake. so i write, on a sharp point,gentle blade all but breaking the skin. for that i am not sorry. when i started, i felt like plunging the damn thing in and walking away. it is frustrating, all of this nudity. these lips, arms, legs, this face. this big empty bed. maybe i just need to be clubbed over the head and dragged into the cave. either way, the bed needs to move from one end of the room to the other and all of the people within shouting distance should be blushing.
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