Declaring War

I'm a very disciplined and frugal person. I'm not cheap...I'm frugal. It's how I saved up the money I've saved for rent and survival and when it comes to this, I don't play around. I so splurge once in a while though. Yesterday was the first of my splurges.

On my way to work, I went to Starbucks and bought myself an Venti Vanilla Latte (Which costs $4.25). Pure steamed milk and foam goodness, flavored with just a hint of vanilla, not too hot...but just warm enough to take the chill from the cooler fall winds that were lightly blowing across the city. It was well worth the 15 minute wait in line, standing behind the rich kids who just couldn't decide what they wanted. It was even worth the temptation of smelling the fresh danishes that were brought in while I was about to order (and no...I didn't get one. I wasn't spending more than $5.00).

I cheerfully walked the final two blocks to the restaurant I now fondly call "hell" in good spirits, ready for a day of sitting waiting for any customer who might walk in the door. I entered the building and placed my bag and coat on a chair, before resting my coveted coffee cup on the bar.

In this restaurant, each night when we close, we place all the chairs on the tables so that the cleaning crew can sweep and mop the floor. Each morning, the servers must reset all the tables after putting the chairs back down. Since this must all be done in an hour, we work hard to get done quickly. Upon finishing our opening sidework, I went back to the bar to grab my coffee. Except that my coffee was gone.

I asked the bartender about it, and he said he threw it out. I asked him why and his reply was, "that will teach you to not put things on my bar." Did he say "I'm sorry"? No. This poor straight mother fucker has no clue.

Don't mess with a bitchy queen

Now I should premise this by saying that this guy has never bartended before in his life, and it shows. Earlier last week, I had an order for a Cosmopolitan, and he didn't know how to make it. I saved his ass by teaching him. No more. My first order of the night was for a Perfect Manhattan, up with dirty ice on the side. When he asked for an explanation, I told him to figure it out. This was minor on my side though...as I wanted blood. I wanted to see him hanging by his balls from the lighting fixtures. I wanted to see him in PAIN!!!

I got my chance later that evening, when the kitchen gave us our shift meal. Our so called bartender left the bar to prepare himself a plate, which he left on the back dining room table, while he went to wait on a customer. The moment he left, I picked up his plate and gave it to the dishwasher for cleanup. By the time the bartender was able to come back for his food, the plate had already been scraped and his food was in the trash.

The bartender asked if I knew what happened to his plate. I looked at with disgust and hatred and said, "I threw it out. That will teach you to not put things on the tables...Bitch".

Straight boy - 1, Patrick - 3 snaps!

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I love Italians. The culture, the food, and the people are inspiring. I love Italians so much, that I studied the language when I was in college. However, there is one thing I am very uncomfortable with. The "Macho" behavior of the stereotypical Italian men. You know the attitude..."you scratch my back...I'll scratch yours..."

The restaurant I work at is mostly staffed with these type of Italian men, as are most of the customers. Armani suits, slicked back hair, and tinted sunglasses. I swear I can hear the "Godfather" music when I am working. Today I waited on someone rumored to be a mafia man. I'm only hoping that I won't find a horse head in my bed anytime soon.

This does make it a bit difficult when working at the restaurant. For the first time in my life, I seem to be living a semi-closeted existance, and I'm not sure how it happened, or how I feel about it. My manager knows I'm gay, but it just isn't discussed. I can hear about how some coworker can't wait to "bang" that chick, but my sexual desires are not to be discussed. (Not that I would discuss them anyway. My sex life isn't really a work conversation...it's a blogging one.)

It's not that I need to take a stand against anything, but just that at times I really find it uncomfortable. I know...it's sexual harrassment. It's also a job. It makes me wonder if this is how the closeted military men and women feel, having the Don't Ask Don't Tell policies.

Tales From The Restaurant

Yesterday was my first day on the floor as a waiter. Now I know that I am waiting on tables, but this is what I would call "lazy" waiting. I don't bring out the food, I don't fill the water glasses or bring out the bread. I don't even make the espresso. All I do is take the order, bring out the drinks, and suck up. And as some of you know...I can suck with the best of them. So how did it go?

The lunch Shift was incredibly uneventful, mainly because I didn't have a table. This restaurant only opened its doors this week and they don't have a lunch crowd yet. Three waiters for 2 tables just is too much. Luckily, we are pooling tips, so I earned a whole two dollars!

Dinner is where the restaurant is getting the business. Part of this is because we have a somewhat celebrity chef. If any of you have seen the show "The Restaurant", our chef is the chef who was fired on television. Therefore, we get a lot of people who come in just to meet him. So I waited on about 22 people last night. This business will grow but it may grow a little too slowly for my tastes.


One a sad note, the most heartbreaking moment of my life happened about 1/2 way through the evening. I had a table of four, three who were waiting for the fourth to arrive. About an hour after they had been waiting, a police officer arrived to tell the one person that his wife (and the missing dinner companion) had died. I've never seen a police officer have to deliver news like that before, and I sincerely hope I never have to see that again. He was devastated and he and his friends left very quickly.


Not a great first night...

A Long Hard One

So I figure I should write about what my last few days have been like.

Last Saturday, after spending 4 days job blitzing, applying for every job I could find, I was back on a train for the Cape to close the house I was living in. Mainly, it would mean packing up my belongings, putting my car in storage, etc.

While on the train, a restaurant owner called me and asked me to come in for an interview on Monday at 11:00 am. I explained that I was on my way back to the Cape, but he countered that he needed me to come in quickly as he was opening soon. I decided my best bet was to come back for the interview.

A friend met me at the train, and I told him I would be going back in a little over 24 hours, and asked if he'd want to go into the city for the day. He hasn't been much, and since it was only an interview, I'd be done in about an hour and then be free for the rest of the day. We could then be on the last train out of the city and back on the Cape Tuesday morning.

In 24 hours, I packed most of my belongings, cleaned the house, cleared the garage, did some last minute shopping for essentials, and bought a suitcase. My alarm clock was set for 3am, as I needed to be out of the house by 3:30 to make the train in Boston.

3am...A...M....as in Ass Mine, Bite it!

Dragging my butt to the train, my friend and I boarded an Amtrack local at $54 a ticket for NYC. Train left on time, but was late on arriving at NY. My interview was at 11:00 and we landed in Penn Station at 10:50. I called and told the owner of the restaurant I would be late. My friend and I boarded the subway and rode over to East Midtown, where the restaurant is located. My friend took my bags and sat at a Borders Cafe while I went for my interview.

My interview was actually a training shift. WTF? Imagine me, not showered since 3am, dressed for an interview, and following another waiter around as my poor friend is stuck with luggage in a bookstore. I called him and he brought my suitcases to the restaurant, leaving him bag free. We didn't see each other until after 3:00.

After my lunch shift, we dropped my bags at my host's place and I took my friend back to the city for lunch/dinner. Sammy's noodle house on 6th ave in the village (just south of 14th) was an excellent and very cheap choice. We lunched and munched and bar hopped for a few hours (hitting the basics...FARB? Where are you?).

I kept my friend out until 2:30 when I had to get him back to Penn Station for his train. (I'll use my return ticket later.) After finally getting the subway home, I arrived in the door an a bright and early 4am. 25 hours later.

My shifts at the restaurant are going to be brutal since we have only been open a week. I'm working every shift but one, which means I'm going to be sick of wearing black pants and white shirts.

Mission Impossible

Last week was dedicated to finding employment. Although the bad chain restaurant offered me a job, I've gotten a different one at a East Midtown Restaurant that opens this week.

Now my next mission. Find an appartment.

Looking for Redemption

For years, I have made fun of a particular restaurant chain and their fanatical employees. Today, I was offered a job as a waiter there. I think I just sold my soul to the devil.

Oh god...is this what my life has become? I don't even own suspenders or buttons.

FACT

Fact: There are 19 million people living and working in NYC. Today, I'm in Manhattan with them and I have one single goal. Get one of them fired and take their job.

It's a man eat man world.

Specials

I found this article in the New Yorker Magazine. What was the best about this article was that all summer I had to present the specials verbally.

May We Tell You Our Specials This Evening?

We have several.

For an appetizer, the chef has prepared a slaughter of baby salmon on toast points of nine grains—blue corn, barley, rye, chaff, stover, found rice, horse-rolled oats, balsa, and fermented teff flown in daily from Ethiopia—and fancy assorted nuts, which may contain up to ten per cent peanuts. The salmon is very fresh; it was hatched just this morning.

The chef is also offering a personal favorite, his hot spiced rocks. These are igneous and sedimentary varietals, half-washed and heated to nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit, then gleefully sprinkled with international peppers.

For the more adventurous, we have a selection of freshly purchased water crackers spread with unmarked pastes, jellies, and unguents found in the kitchen.

We are also featuring a tasting gavage, in which every appetizer on the menu is wheeled to your table and forced down the gullets of two to four people. The price is twenty-eight dollars per person, plus a nominal service charge. To accompany this course, the chef recommends a bottle of the Pete, which is quite sneaky tonight. It comes in cherry or mixed berry, and is served in brown paper.

Our special soup tonight is Georgian alligator turtle, prepared and presented in its own shell. This soup is served cold and slimy, and, in the traditional manner, with the head and legs attached. We recommend that you not touch the head, as it can snap your finger clean off before you can say, “Hey, this turtle is still alive.”

In addition to our usual salad, our chef offers a faux tuna niçoise, which he is recommending not be eaten by anyone trying to limit his mercury consumption.

We also have an iceberg-lettuce leaf, wetted and centered on the plate.

With your soup and salad, the chef suggests two or three cocktails, and not cosmopolitans or candy-assed Martinis but real men’s drinks. He is recommending an interesting Thai vodka that he managed to get into this country; the “liquor” is chilled into an aspic, spooned into a shot glass, then served between the breasts of Alicia over there.

Before I tell you the entrées, there is one change to the menu: we are out of the pan-fried squirrel brains tonight, as our supplier fell out of a tree this morning.

Our fish tonight is a Blue Happy, which is a euphemism. It is mostly filleted and sunbaked, then disinfected and served with what may or may not be capers. Blowholes can be requested for an additional charge.

The pasta is a single, comically long strand of spaghetti with a surprise at the end. The sauce is of no consequence.

And, finally, tonight we are offering a very special entrée that has been the subject of much debate in the kitchen. It is roast loin of Oliver, a pig that our chef has raised since infancy. Oliver was the runt in a litter of nine, and was, as you can see in this picture, bottle-fed by the chef as a young boy. Oliver grew strong and proud and was soon beating his siblings in their rutting games. Extremely smart, Oliver has thrice saved our chef from fires caused by careless smoking. However, in his latter years Oliver has grown bitter and incontinent, and just yesterday he ate the chef’s brand-new cell phone.

Once we receive our first order this evening, Oliver will be smothered by a pillow filled with virgin goose down. This may take the chef some time. Oliver will then be hacked to pieces and charbroiled on a specially blessed grill. His loin will be laid to rest on a bed of tears, with asparagus and a confit of something. The chef would like to serve Oliver to you personally, and give a short eulogy. He will remain tableside, drinking steadily as you eat in silence. Because of the singular nature of this dish and its extreme emotional cost, it is priced at eighteen thousand dollars.

Would you like to order now, or do you need a few moments?

What's Wrong With Us?

Today's post is inspired by the Jerry Springer. You know the show. The one you secretly watch when nobody is around, but scream moral outcry whenever the show is brought up.

Person comes on, states their love for another person, but one of the two have cheated. Heartbreak ensues and we all watch in sick pity, as the fist fight begins. It's the same mentality when we are sitting in a bar or restaurant and we hear the words "I want to break up" spoken at the next table. Admit it. You would be as quiet as possible just to hear what is said after that.

A few weeks ago, a customer was sitting at a table outside the bar crying because his boyfriend dumped him only a few minutes before. I watched this whole event transpire, and what I found most horrible was that other patrons around stared but nobody would speak to him. Eventually, I just asked the guy if he needed a cab to take him somewhere. Sadly his boyfriend had rented the room. I called around and got him a room for the night.

What the fuck is wrong with humanity that we can take such interest in seeing others in pain? Do we get a sense of superiority when we see others emotionally crushed. What makes us find such an interest in such pain?

And please...don't try and say you don't find it interesting. The majority of drama and comedy is based on the factor that a certain character struggles against certain people or circumstances to get what they want. The greater the struggle, the greater the ratings. We take pleasure in seeing the characters go through a lot of pain.

So my question...Why is that?

In the meantime...I'm shutting off the TV.

What I Did Over My Summer

When I sit down at this computer, I never really know what I am going to write about, except for the few times that something really presses on my head (like Friday's post). Otherwise, this is such a random place for my thoughts. I'm about to approach a real life again (living on the Cape is just not a reality for me) and I find myself wondering what is next. To say it's pressing on my mind is putting it mildly.

Yesterday, the staff at the restaurant said goodbye to more of it's employees. In 7 short days, we all disappear to other areas of the globe. Only about 10 of the employees pictured below will be staying on the Cape. The rest are moving to areas all around, all hoping to "make it". What ever they define it as.

But when people ask me what I did this summer, I think this picture was most symbolic to the summer. These are the people I've spent most of my waking hours with, and most importantly...I haven't slept with any of them.

Nigger

If that title doesn't piss people off, I'm not sure what will.

It's just a word. Granted, it's a word that connotates more hate and vile prejudice than I care to even think of, but it's still only a word.

Yesterday, I walked into the bar to start my shift and Oprah was on the television. Both the manager and house boy were watching the show. The show topic was racism and the debate of what is racism.

What got me thinking (which is a dangerous thing these days) is about the word itself and if the word is racist. Not to mention are other words like it just as bad. Should the words Kike, Chink, Gook, Wetback, Dego, Honkey, and the dirtiest of all "F" words...FAGGOT... be eliminated from our vernacular? Do those who identify as one of those particular titles take the power of the word away when they use it? Is the word racist, or just the user of the word?

What was fascinating about the conversation I had with the houseboy and manager was that they both find the use of the word to be generational. Those of my generation find no sting, or only a small problem with it, while their generation (which is only 5 years older) has a serious problem with any use of it.

Example: I am 35 years old. If another homo called me a faggot, it wouldn't bother me. If I didn't know them, it may throw me off a bit, but I wouldn't be offended. If a heterosexual person calling me that word, the fight is on.

In opposition, the houseboy would be upset if anyone uses that word around him.

Is a word racist? Of course not (That being said, I'm still a little apprehensive that I used the "n" word as a title). Words are just descriptors of the thoughts behind them. But can the power of these words be taken away when we who claim ownership of the title use the words ourselves? Look at rap music where racial words like Nigger are used quite generously. Are those rappers propogating racism when they use words like that? Aren't they propogating misogynism by calling women "bitch" and "ho". You don't hear female rappers calling men "dicks" (in my case, you are what you eat).

So it all comes back...Should those words be eliminated all together? And if so, won't some other derogatory word be used in its place? Calling a black man "boy" is just as derogatory. Isn't speaking to someone in a demeaning tone is just as bad as calling them a derogatory name?

What are your thoughts on this?

The Gay Debate

Yesterday, while I was picking up a six pack of beer, I noticed that Time magazine has a cover story about "THE DEBATE OF GAY TEENS!" Spurning my interest, I went to the time website to find letters to the writer regarding the article and the debate. The only debate was that Christianity says it's wrong.

***Blank stare***

That's it? That's the debate? Well big fucking duh! I currently think Christianity is wrong...take that.

Now the whole controversy regarding that teens are coming out at earlier ages, apparently because we older gay people have made it mainstream. Well you know, I was one of those teens back in the 80's who had a harder time coming out. And if it wasn't for the older gay men and women who stood up for their rights, I may not have even known it was possible for me to have a good life. So to all of those queers who threw the rocks and bottles at Stonewall, to the members of the underground movements, and to those who refused to keep their mouths quiet during the police brutality.


Thank you.

To Ralph Reed, Jesse Hellems, Pat Robertson, Anita Bryant, Focus on the Family, Exodus International, and the rest of your clan. I've not been silent for the last 17 years, and no matter who is on the Supreme Court, no matter who is in political office, and regardless of what laws you pass, you can not keep me down.

An Ode to a Bad Day

I'm writing this ode
and not because I'm gay
life currently sucks
and I'm having a bad day!

A forenight ago,
I was given a cheap tip.
Not enough to pay
for my impending NY bus trip. (cheap bastard!)

I had a great contact for a job
in the city I preferred
I emailed him recently for help
but alas...He's been transferred (do you think his replacement needs an assistant?)

Last night I worked the outside bar.
where it gets cold
To the clothing store I went
for a sweater I was sold.
Fifty percent off!
The sign it did say.
In itty bitty print the words "summer merchandise"
Full price I had to pay! ($62 fucking bucks!)

I went to work that evening and sat around
It was so mother fucking slow.
After having only 2 customers and $11 in sales
The manager said..."Just go". (I didn't even make the cost of the sweater.)

I climbed in my car,
sad and sincerely broke
took a deep breath and began to choke.
Fruit flies have infested my car to my dismay
from a spilled pitcher of Cosmopolitans I transported
to the company picnic for our amusement and play. (It's been three weeks!)

I log on this morning and what do I see?
An email from AOL,
demanding their fee.
My old bank account from Ohio has finally went bust.
Zero dollars and zero cents, it's bitten the dust.
I'll need to send a check to pay the damn bill.
I hate spending money right now, it makes me feel ill. (I was hoping I could make it last)

I'm currently very stressed,
On my mind so much to think.
The world is against me,
I going to have a drink. (make it a double!)

What Would Jesus Do?

Ok...I have a feeling that Jesus wouldn't even answer me if I asked this question, but then again, does he ever answer a homo like me?

Last night, I waited on tables rather than bartend. I do this on Monday nights so that another server who has taken a second job will have a night off for herself. The money is less and the work is a bit harder, but it's only for the last few weeks. It's always about providing good service, and while waiting on tables, I have no problem servicing you.

Jokes aside, I waited on an employee and his friend last night. Total bill for an appetizer, 3 drinks, two desserts, and one shared entree was $60 after the employee discount of 50%. Yes...Dinner ain't cheap at this restaurant. I set the bill on the table, and while taking an order at another table, could see my fellow coworker getting up to leave, while leaving the "check presenter" on the table.

I finished taking my order, walked over to the now abandoned table, and collected the empty glasses. I opened the check presenter and checked to make sure the bill was covered. Inside was two $20 bills and two $100 bills totaling $240. That means he was leaving me a 300% tip of $180. Clearly he had to be stoned out of his mind.

I chased him down the street and asked him if he was insane and that he tipped way too much.
"Why? What did I give you?"
"You left $240 on a $60 check."
"Oh my God...I thought I left you four $20's"

So we walked back to the restaurant where I had a manager break change for him, and thus he would be able to pay me a more proper amount. All the while my coworker apologized that he's been so tired lately and needs to get glasses.

*******

A fairly upscale restaurant in NYC has recently taken a new policy and will be automatically charging an 18% service charge on all checks. The service charge will be split among all staff (including kitchen staff).

The New York Times did an editorial on this idea, and what it really does. Tipping is likened to gambling. We as servers and bartenders are working you constantly, ensuring your entertainment, keeping you single customers company, cracking jokes, or any other multitude of making your dinner a pleasant one. In return, we service staff are pulling that "slot machine arm" in hopes of a good tip. It's the payoff, and it doesn't always work out, but most of the time it does. If you leave me a crappy tip, my first question is "what did I do wrong?"

Take away the gamble for a good tip, and service will plummet. Why do I need to smile and flirt with you? I'm already guaranteed that 18%? Fuck you. Sit down and shut up. Your meal will be out when it's good and ready, and don't even think of asking for dessert because I am not making that shit.

Currently, that restaurant has had a nearly 90% service staff turnover.

*******

When my coworker was able to get change to break that $100 bill, he turned and paid me again. This time he gave me three $20's and a $5, totaling $65. His bill was $60. So even though he intended to give me $80 originally, he (not being able to see) gave me $65 and a whopping $5 tip.

So what would Jesus do? Tell the coworker that he made a mistake again and left me less than 10% or just suck it up and never tell another person when they ridiculously over tip again?

BOO!

I know I'm not the only one who does this, but I'll probably be the only one who admits this publicly. I talk to myself. Full conversations, where I even answer myself. Never when people are around (I don't want anyone to think I'm crazy!). I have found though, that statements I keep repeating over time are what I'm really thinking, and what is most pressing on my mind. I know...big Duh!

So this last month, I've caught myself saying "I'm so scared," way too many times. This was what made me think today about the nature of fear. I'm not sure if I'm alone in this, but I don't fear "the stranger" who is about to attack me. What can he or she do? Inflict pain or death...big deal. Afraid of someone who is going to rob me? To get any of my money, they would have to pry it from my cold dead hands, as I'm not going down without a fight. So what am I afraid of?

"Sometimes the greatest fear is the fear of taking the necessary actions"

My greatest fears all seem to involve failing and rejection (ironic for a comedian that spends a large portion of his time getting rejected). So my fear paralyzes me into not taking action at all, which is the worst. Seriously, I say to myself, take the chance, what's the worst they can do? Say no. But that "no" answer is why I won't try.

So what are you afraid of?