I was very hungry. I opened the refrigerator and considered my options versus the picture in my head of the sandwich I wanted: alfalfa sprouts, thick-cut honey-glazed ham, mustard, mayo, tomatoes, a nice crusty bread. It was possible to make a delightful sandwich, I had fresh tomatoes and spinach and horseradish and three different kinds of turkey and several cheeses. I could even fry some bacon up, if I wanted to. I didn't mind downgrading my sandwich expectations. I started thinking about how many packages and jars I would have to open, though. The bacon bag would have to be cut open, and then some new receptacle would need fashioning. What of the forks and knives used to spread the banana peppers, mayo and horseradish? A sandwich needed me to take about 6 things out of the fridge, open all of them, use all of them, and then deal with the aftermath (putting all of those things back).
The thought was daunting. I closed the refrigerator and returned to my room. I thought about turning the light on, but then considered the energy needed to lift my arm and get out of my computer chair. I decided to stay in the dark. I settled for the light seeping out of my computer monitor. I thought about the homework I needed to do. I thought about how I knew I couldn't do it, and how I knew that wasn't true. I thought about how disgusted my family would be. I condemned myself more than they ever could and thought about the massive waste of space I was. I spent ten minutes considering opening Facebook, Gmail, D2L - my windows to the world. I knew each of them waited to remind me of my mistakes and failures and general patheticness. I opted out of the endeavor and watched Youtube videos.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Whats a good metaphor for a metaphor?
Life is symbolic. There are probably scientific arguments to back that up. As humans we relate with our environment by assigning significance to things that don't deserve it. My ex girlfriend bought me the comforter I use every night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. To me, every time I touch it, I think of her. I think about both of us underneath it, and how it feels like I'm under-utilizing it by myself. But it is just a comforter. It is pieces of fabric sewn together by foreigners abused and exploited by corporate America. In the case of my comforter, Martha Stewart (I have no idea what methods the Martha Stewart line of bedding uses for production, but take what I said and apply it to someone more deserving if I'm wrong). I imagine those laborers would look at the comforter and find a sense of anger. If we did not identify material and unalive things with feelings, then humans would be very different creatures.
As a writer, I'm overwhelmed with the connections I make consciously and the meaning of the connections I make subconsciously. With my head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I lean forward in this plastic lawn chair. I survey my vision. I see the red clay tiles, droppings from the trees, bits of refuse, and a twig caught in another twig, undulating in the wind. My attention is sharpened and I analyze the nature of that twig. More, I analyze my perception of the twig. Its motion draws my attention, and I start to think about the elements of my life that make up me and how routinely I forget them because I am focusing on what is moving. Then I think, it's just a fucking twig. I'm looking at it because the human eye is drawn to motion, as I learned in one of my photography classes. The twig is not my natural inclination to hyper-analyze whatever I'm thinking about. Its just a fucking twig. But, it is no longer a twig because it is in my brain, and now it is something else: a metaphor, a simile, a symbol.
Is that the extent of an individual's interaction with their environment? Are humans so selfish that the most mundane exchange between twig and wind is transformed into a meaningful personal moment? By claiming the twig as my own, I disrespect its reality. The twig thinks more of itself than to consider it as valuable fodder for my brain cannon's misfirings. (I think that was the dumbest sentence I've ever written).
Why do we do that? I hope I'm not alone in perceiving the world as a freight train of undeserved metaphors drawn from car after car of a logical void. I know that twig has no bearing on how I approach the world, or what I think of it. So why do I do it? Why does that twig have significance? I think the logical explanation is that a person's brain is constantly trying to solve the puzzle of perception. Humans have to make sense of their world or drop into insanity. Perhaps the way the rocks lie on top of each other is a product of gravity, but in my perception, it is a symbol of lives overlapping hard and unbudging until a greater force shifts them violently. I know why the rocks lie there. I guess I am trying to explain my own mental stack of granite, a confusing and mystic phenomenon to me, with what I know and understand. The world I see behaves in a way that makes sense. The wind blows, so that twig wavers. The rocks are heavy and the wind isn't strong enough to move them. I crave that same scientific and rational explanation for my own thoughts. I think for now I will have to settle for metaphor.
As a writer, I'm overwhelmed with the connections I make consciously and the meaning of the connections I make subconsciously. With my head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I lean forward in this plastic lawn chair. I survey my vision. I see the red clay tiles, droppings from the trees, bits of refuse, and a twig caught in another twig, undulating in the wind. My attention is sharpened and I analyze the nature of that twig. More, I analyze my perception of the twig. Its motion draws my attention, and I start to think about the elements of my life that make up me and how routinely I forget them because I am focusing on what is moving. Then I think, it's just a fucking twig. I'm looking at it because the human eye is drawn to motion, as I learned in one of my photography classes. The twig is not my natural inclination to hyper-analyze whatever I'm thinking about. Its just a fucking twig. But, it is no longer a twig because it is in my brain, and now it is something else: a metaphor, a simile, a symbol.
Is that the extent of an individual's interaction with their environment? Are humans so selfish that the most mundane exchange between twig and wind is transformed into a meaningful personal moment? By claiming the twig as my own, I disrespect its reality. The twig thinks more of itself than to consider it as valuable fodder for my brain cannon's misfirings. (I think that was the dumbest sentence I've ever written).
Why do we do that? I hope I'm not alone in perceiving the world as a freight train of undeserved metaphors drawn from car after car of a logical void. I know that twig has no bearing on how I approach the world, or what I think of it. So why do I do it? Why does that twig have significance? I think the logical explanation is that a person's brain is constantly trying to solve the puzzle of perception. Humans have to make sense of their world or drop into insanity. Perhaps the way the rocks lie on top of each other is a product of gravity, but in my perception, it is a symbol of lives overlapping hard and unbudging until a greater force shifts them violently. I know why the rocks lie there. I guess I am trying to explain my own mental stack of granite, a confusing and mystic phenomenon to me, with what I know and understand. The world I see behaves in a way that makes sense. The wind blows, so that twig wavers. The rocks are heavy and the wind isn't strong enough to move them. I crave that same scientific and rational explanation for my own thoughts. I think for now I will have to settle for metaphor.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Paper on my Desk
I have three pieces of paper on my desk. Well, I have many more than that, but these three are particularly valuable. Actually, their combined value is $739. On my desk, they remind me of my destitution. Bank of America wants a lot of money from me. I haven't heard from them in a long time. A letter from some credit agency would not surprise me. They closed my account because I tried to cash a check from my mom. Some security mechanism at her bank denied the transaction. A credit monitoring agency identified me as someone dealing with fraudulent checks. The check was not fraudulent. It was from my mother. After closing my account, Bank of America tacked on every processing charge they could find. My fifty two dollar negative balance blossomed into three hundred dollars-ish of debt. I don't have the exact number, because I am tired of dealing with them. Every time I get in touch with them, the number grows.
Money is insignificant to me. Partly because I'm above such material matters, but also partly because most of my money is not mine. Parents fund my housing. The government funds my education. I fund my indiscretions. I do not have a savings account or stake in the stock market. The concept of making money is confusing to me. I have a job and get paid something around minimum wage. However, real money, the money that buys a house or starts a company, capital, is a fairy tale to me. Adults seem to swim in this world where money is more than a cheeseburger at McDonald's. To adults, money comes in blocks that translate to quality of living. My parents discuss mortgages, and I hear other adults on TV talking about IRAs and CDs. CNN does not give me financial advice on double cheese burgers. I do not think my three pieces of paper are real money. I could buy 739 cheeseburgers at McDonald's, before taxes. That is as far as my economic consideration goes. Adults don't know jack about money. My dad's house could buy almost half a million cheeseburgers, and I struggle for less than 1,000. Where is the justice?
Money is insignificant to me. Partly because I'm above such material matters, but also partly because most of my money is not mine. Parents fund my housing. The government funds my education. I fund my indiscretions. I do not have a savings account or stake in the stock market. The concept of making money is confusing to me. I have a job and get paid something around minimum wage. However, real money, the money that buys a house or starts a company, capital, is a fairy tale to me. Adults seem to swim in this world where money is more than a cheeseburger at McDonald's. To adults, money comes in blocks that translate to quality of living. My parents discuss mortgages, and I hear other adults on TV talking about IRAs and CDs. CNN does not give me financial advice on double cheese burgers. I do not think my three pieces of paper are real money. I could buy 739 cheeseburgers at McDonald's, before taxes. That is as far as my economic consideration goes. Adults don't know jack about money. My dad's house could buy almost half a million cheeseburgers, and I struggle for less than 1,000. Where is the justice?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Let's Do Something Cool
John Smith was asleep in his bed. He dreamed of confusing and mundane things, like his father yelling at the
cows because they produced corn meal instead of milk. He didn't notice his mother rummaging through his chests. A single candle lit the room and her face. John's room was a tent made out of burlap and salvaged bits of tarp.His floor was the dry, red sand that carpeted the world to the horizon. His mom laid a piece of cloth on the sand and put moccasins, three water skins, a bowie knife and twenty foot of good hemp rope in the center of the cloth. She grabbed each corner, folded them on top of the pile and tied it tight. She slowed down for the first time since entering the room and stared at her son. The candle light turned his dark skin a mellow orange. She loved his large, proud nose and baby-fat cheeks. The rest of him held no ounce of fat. Life in The Barrens didn't allow for the excesses that build pudge on top of hips. The Barrens built its people with the bare necessities: bone, sinew, muscle, tangly hair. She leaned in close and smelled the Earth on him, the dirt and sand worked its way into his body like blood. She leaned in closer and put her lips on his cheek, beneath his eye. She let the kiss linger, not a quick peck. Her lips rested until he stirred. He opened his eyes and he wasn't scared to find someone so close to him. He was young enough to still trust unquestioningly, and he knew no fear in his life. He knew boredom, and hunger. Above all else, he knew familial love. He knew the burning rage and anger at whatever assaulted those he loved. So when he opened his eyes he was glad before he was confused to see his mother.
cows because they produced corn meal instead of milk. He didn't notice his mother rummaging through his chests. A single candle lit the room and her face. John's room was a tent made out of burlap and salvaged bits of tarp.His floor was the dry, red sand that carpeted the world to the horizon. His mom laid a piece of cloth on the sand and put moccasins, three water skins, a bowie knife and twenty foot of good hemp rope in the center of the cloth. She grabbed each corner, folded them on top of the pile and tied it tight. She slowed down for the first time since entering the room and stared at her son. The candle light turned his dark skin a mellow orange. She loved his large, proud nose and baby-fat cheeks. The rest of him held no ounce of fat. Life in The Barrens didn't allow for the excesses that build pudge on top of hips. The Barrens built its people with the bare necessities: bone, sinew, muscle, tangly hair. She leaned in close and smelled the Earth on him, the dirt and sand worked its way into his body like blood. She leaned in closer and put her lips on his cheek, beneath his eye. She let the kiss linger, not a quick peck. Her lips rested until he stirred. He opened his eyes and he wasn't scared to find someone so close to him. He was young enough to still trust unquestioningly, and he knew no fear in his life. He knew boredom, and hunger. Above all else, he knew familial love. He knew the burning rage and anger at whatever assaulted those he loved. So when he opened his eyes he was glad before he was confused to see his mother.
"John, get up," his mom said. John saw his mother was not alright, that something weighed on her. He asked her what the matter was, she told him again to wake up. He hesitated before he pushed back his only blanket and sat up. It wasn't uncomfortable for him to be naked in front of his mother. He hadn't started the awkward process of adolescent sexuality. She handed him his leggings and told him to put them on. He did.
"Where is father?" John asked.
"He doesn't have time to say goodbye to you. You are leaving, and you have to leave now." John, sleep groggy, cocked his head like a dog. Before he could vocalize any questions, she continued. "You need to leave John. It's not safe for you here and I need you to leave. I'm sorry. I wrote you a letter. Read it when you're three days south and get to the Orion Canyon. I'll walk you as far as the spring and we can talk. Get up now. Walk quietly, don't say a word. Follow, yeah?" John nodded and felt confused tears hiding behind his eyes. He stood up and curled his body onto his toes in a feline stretch. His mother noticed how he was closer to adulthood than her mental image of him was. His body was as tall as it would ever be, and he was starting to shed the comical proportions of boys his age.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Cavalier
I don't especially like reading. Usually, I hate it. Even when presented with a good and enjoyable or stimulating read from an author I respect, I don't like the process of reading. Constantly I find myself checking page numbers or the clock. The process is archaic. Who has time to analyze ink spots molded into letters and then consider the significance of blocks of those ink spots suggesting a word or concept, let alone millions of those ink blot puzzles combined for one over all concept, message, or idea? Me referring to them as ink blots reveals how truly archaic the whole process is. Usually, they aren't ink blots anymore. Words are printed on the chemical conundrum that is my monitor. I have no idea how this works. Instantly a key stroke turns to a black "X" on this virtual notepad. I think there are a lot of 1s, 0s, and electrical circuits involved. Coal miners in Kentucky harvest the fuel to power the plant that fills my laptop with the sustenance needed to turn my finger hitting a button into an "X" on my screen. Corn farmers in Nebraska harvest tons of their crop to create un-corn-like things like double cheese burgers for a dollar at McDonald's which fuel me to hit that button in the first place. It seems like a lot of time and energy is put into me making that "X". I don't want to even consider how much energy sustains the internet and your access to these "X"s.
That has absolutely nothing to do with why I don't like reading. Reading takes too much of my time. I am happy for the farmers and miners and technicians that support the system of internet discourse. I love that people directly support my ability to produce and articulate my stupid ideas. However, if asked, I probably wouldn't have more than five minutes to spare for theirs. I don't like reading because I am a supreme egotist. Competition of ideas is the impetus for reading/writing/communicating, in my opinion. Reading what other people write is self defeating if I expect to ever be the king influencer, a prolific Stephen King best seller. Aside from professional ambitions, I am extremely busy swimming through my super profound and genius brain. I give myself the ideas and notions that keep the cogs of this world spinning, and decoding other people's pathetic attempts at influence simply wastes my time. I'm kind of the best writer ever, so why would I ever want to read the work of my peers and their lesser attempts at mimicking my mastery?
That has absolutely nothing to do with why I don't like reading. Reading takes too much of my time. I am happy for the farmers and miners and technicians that support the system of internet discourse. I love that people directly support my ability to produce and articulate my stupid ideas. However, if asked, I probably wouldn't have more than five minutes to spare for theirs. I don't like reading because I am a supreme egotist. Competition of ideas is the impetus for reading/writing/communicating, in my opinion. Reading what other people write is self defeating if I expect to ever be the king influencer, a prolific Stephen King best seller. Aside from professional ambitions, I am extremely busy swimming through my super profound and genius brain. I give myself the ideas and notions that keep the cogs of this world spinning, and decoding other people's pathetic attempts at influence simply wastes my time. I'm kind of the best writer ever, so why would I ever want to read the work of my peers and their lesser attempts at mimicking my mastery?
Cunt Fag
Gency is lounging in the last section of sun accessible in our yard. Soon, the Earth will move so far around the Sun that Gency will not be able to bask. The sliver of light inches onto her paw. Her back is up against chain linked fence. She can't go past that fence. Because that is what I want. The Sun paints her body in patches of glow and shadow. Hard light separates her body into sections warm and cold. Her bed is made out of rocks and dirts. Lives are not supposed to live here. Her tail twitches, her head jumps, and then she goes back to sleep. She never opposes her confinement. She lives in this enclosure, like me. Probably, if she really want to, she could hop the fence, or dig underneath it. She knows she needs this, though. My dog can't control the walls marking her sphere of influence like she can't keep the sun from setting. Again she lifts her head. The sun shines off her eye and hits mine, here in the shadow, at the table, at my laptop. Like a jerk friend shining light off his watch into your eye, Gency uses her world to assault mine.
She doesn't understand the world like I do. I know it is unfair for the sun to confine her to that last sliver of yard illuminated. I know it is unfair for me to decide where she is safe, and where she is allowed to go. She doesn't believe in fair. She doesn't begrudge injustice. She understands the world better than I do. A stranger walking through the alleyway alarms her. She rises, jumps, and patrols. The stranger leaves and smiles at her and the hair on her back bristles. She lives in the moment. She clings to the sliver of sunlight until territorialism demands reaction. Back and forth she runs along the fence, darting into and out of the golden celestial sparkles. I think she is protecting me. To her, the fence I chose to limit her understanding of the world protects me from the strangers walking through the alleyway. She doesn't care or consider that the fence protects and boundarizes her.
The shadow of the horizon covers Gency. She retires to her rock and dirt bed. Life is still there for her, and she doesn't even say goodbye to the bright.
She doesn't understand the world like I do. I know it is unfair for the sun to confine her to that last sliver of yard illuminated. I know it is unfair for me to decide where she is safe, and where she is allowed to go. She doesn't believe in fair. She doesn't begrudge injustice. She understands the world better than I do. A stranger walking through the alleyway alarms her. She rises, jumps, and patrols. The stranger leaves and smiles at her and the hair on her back bristles. She lives in the moment. She clings to the sliver of sunlight until territorialism demands reaction. Back and forth she runs along the fence, darting into and out of the golden celestial sparkles. I think she is protecting me. To her, the fence I chose to limit her understanding of the world protects me from the strangers walking through the alleyway. She doesn't care or consider that the fence protects and boundarizes her.
The shadow of the horizon covers Gency. She retires to her rock and dirt bed. Life is still there for her, and she doesn't even say goodbye to the bright.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
TS-C10-The Decline
The smoking ban is a good marker in time for the decline of my kingdom, but it isn't the real reason Steak & Shake's vibrance faded. The circumstances created by the corporation's move towards health and a tobacco free environment (I wanted to type "Carcinogen free", but I'm sure those burgers and fries and artificial flavors will give you one heck of a cancer) were significant, don't get me wrong. Stovall was absolutely unbearable, yelling at us like he wanted to yell at the barrier between him and his addiction. Some of the regulars stopped coming by, which led to a decline in tips plus a decline in late night entertainment. Although the restaurant benefitted overall, money wise, the third shift take was reduced.
Julie and I lived together at this point. I remember nights, or mornings to most people, with her. After our fingers danced delicately over each other and we played in a mutual trust and love we would talk about our jobs (We were both still servers at this point). We are both very smart people. Not to rub it in or anything, but right now you are reading the work of a bonafide genius talking about his relationship with another bonafide genius, so I hope you appreciate it. But really, I think most outsiders would consider us smart young adults. We had a hard time swallowing our lot in life and the demands of management at a fast food joint.
When you get right down to it, Steak & Shake died because it lived too long. My friends stopped frequenting partly because of the smoking ban, partly because of Stovall's unfortunate disposition, but mostly because they and I were tired of it. The more familiar we got with Steak & Shake, the more disillusioned we grew. The restaurant was made out of plastic, and the uniforms from some clever marketing idea. Steak & Shake was not real. It never was. We grew to fancy the element of community that stemmed from the restaurant. Our community evolved past the confines of the restaurant. In college, most of us lived away from our parents and started branching out in a friendship sense. Travis was dating the stripper he met at Steak & Shake. Mac was wrapped up in his psycho-ex Michelle. Dylan discovered the World of Warcraft. Julie and I were falling into each other and didn't need the black, white and red color scheme of Steak & Shake (not to mention the chrome) to stabilize our lives.
We were growing up, and everyone of us fought it as hard as possible, and we still fight to this day. Trips to Steak & Shake were planned between the crew, usually coinciding with my work schedule, to their credit. But each trip was less populated until it reduced to Mac and Dan, or Jordan and Dylan. When once we proudly occupied half of the smoking section, now the coffee boys lived at a single table, sometimes just a double, not the standard four person booth. The decline of Steak & Shake spelled our futures, even though we didn't realize it.
On a particularly busy night, Mac and Dan patronized. I was rushed with several tables and food orders as complicated as usual, denoted by nonsensical abbreviation (K for Coke. Remember that?). Since they were my friends, I left Mac and Dan to be swallowed by the abyss of non-attention inevitable for at least one table of a server overloaded. Finally the two of them pulled me aside and asked if they could order. In my bow tie and stupid apron I tossed them two glasses and told them to get their own drinks. They didn't complain. They didn't ask for refills. When they left, a $20 bill sat on the table. On the paper place mat advertising our most recent specials, one of them scrawled, "You owe me $19.50." I deserved the snub, I was rude to them. At the same time, though, it was a signal of our evolution. As a group of humans, friends, youths, we invested so much inside of a restaurant that we prescribed a protocol. Broken, that protocol demanded offense. In simple, overhead terms, we were kids in a restaurant. Realistically, philosophically, the restaurant was a home to us. We identified with the menu items as much as the servers, who was good and who was bad. Once our social needs expanded beyond what Steak & Shake offered, we collapsed on the restaurant and, more importantly, on each other. Somehow, the failure of Steak & Shake to satisfy our developing adult personalities was a reflection of the failure of each other. Who would or would not go to Steak & Shake that night was a symbol of a commitment to our group. It was impossible to be a coffee boy and resist the call of the chrome diner. At the same time, each one of us was so much more than our attachment to the restaurant or the coffee boy clique. I was in a slightly different situation since I was employed by Steak & Shake, but I felt the repercussions and reverberations from the crew, nonetheless.
Finally it became too much to bear. Finally, I realized how much I hated the job. My shift was starting in fifteen minutes. Julie and I sat on the dingy, tan carpet of our apartment. I don't remember the conversation, but it centered around doing what you want to do. I called Steak & Shake and Will answered the phone. I told him some line about how a job that won't let you limbo (There was some disciplinarian action after the servers started limboing in the server station under a broom) is a job not worth having. Will transferred me to Stovall, and I faltered in my smart ass resignation. I told him I quit. He said ok. We hung up. I didn't go back to the restaurant for a long time. Still, an afternoon in Steak & Shake doesn't mean much more to me than an afternoon in a Burger King. The flare, the glitz, the society of Steak & Shake died inside of the coffee boys and I during some bowl of free chili. Like our youth, the appeal of the chrome, tri-chromatic diner evaporated in an event immemorable but absolutely significant.
Julie and I lived together at this point. I remember nights, or mornings to most people, with her. After our fingers danced delicately over each other and we played in a mutual trust and love we would talk about our jobs (We were both still servers at this point). We are both very smart people. Not to rub it in or anything, but right now you are reading the work of a bonafide genius talking about his relationship with another bonafide genius, so I hope you appreciate it. But really, I think most outsiders would consider us smart young adults. We had a hard time swallowing our lot in life and the demands of management at a fast food joint.
When you get right down to it, Steak & Shake died because it lived too long. My friends stopped frequenting partly because of the smoking ban, partly because of Stovall's unfortunate disposition, but mostly because they and I were tired of it. The more familiar we got with Steak & Shake, the more disillusioned we grew. The restaurant was made out of plastic, and the uniforms from some clever marketing idea. Steak & Shake was not real. It never was. We grew to fancy the element of community that stemmed from the restaurant. Our community evolved past the confines of the restaurant. In college, most of us lived away from our parents and started branching out in a friendship sense. Travis was dating the stripper he met at Steak & Shake. Mac was wrapped up in his psycho-ex Michelle. Dylan discovered the World of Warcraft. Julie and I were falling into each other and didn't need the black, white and red color scheme of Steak & Shake (not to mention the chrome) to stabilize our lives.
We were growing up, and everyone of us fought it as hard as possible, and we still fight to this day. Trips to Steak & Shake were planned between the crew, usually coinciding with my work schedule, to their credit. But each trip was less populated until it reduced to Mac and Dan, or Jordan and Dylan. When once we proudly occupied half of the smoking section, now the coffee boys lived at a single table, sometimes just a double, not the standard four person booth. The decline of Steak & Shake spelled our futures, even though we didn't realize it.
On a particularly busy night, Mac and Dan patronized. I was rushed with several tables and food orders as complicated as usual, denoted by nonsensical abbreviation (K for Coke. Remember that?). Since they were my friends, I left Mac and Dan to be swallowed by the abyss of non-attention inevitable for at least one table of a server overloaded. Finally the two of them pulled me aside and asked if they could order. In my bow tie and stupid apron I tossed them two glasses and told them to get their own drinks. They didn't complain. They didn't ask for refills. When they left, a $20 bill sat on the table. On the paper place mat advertising our most recent specials, one of them scrawled, "You owe me $19.50." I deserved the snub, I was rude to them. At the same time, though, it was a signal of our evolution. As a group of humans, friends, youths, we invested so much inside of a restaurant that we prescribed a protocol. Broken, that protocol demanded offense. In simple, overhead terms, we were kids in a restaurant. Realistically, philosophically, the restaurant was a home to us. We identified with the menu items as much as the servers, who was good and who was bad. Once our social needs expanded beyond what Steak & Shake offered, we collapsed on the restaurant and, more importantly, on each other. Somehow, the failure of Steak & Shake to satisfy our developing adult personalities was a reflection of the failure of each other. Who would or would not go to Steak & Shake that night was a symbol of a commitment to our group. It was impossible to be a coffee boy and resist the call of the chrome diner. At the same time, each one of us was so much more than our attachment to the restaurant or the coffee boy clique. I was in a slightly different situation since I was employed by Steak & Shake, but I felt the repercussions and reverberations from the crew, nonetheless.
Finally it became too much to bear. Finally, I realized how much I hated the job. My shift was starting in fifteen minutes. Julie and I sat on the dingy, tan carpet of our apartment. I don't remember the conversation, but it centered around doing what you want to do. I called Steak & Shake and Will answered the phone. I told him some line about how a job that won't let you limbo (There was some disciplinarian action after the servers started limboing in the server station under a broom) is a job not worth having. Will transferred me to Stovall, and I faltered in my smart ass resignation. I told him I quit. He said ok. We hung up. I didn't go back to the restaurant for a long time. Still, an afternoon in Steak & Shake doesn't mean much more to me than an afternoon in a Burger King. The flare, the glitz, the society of Steak & Shake died inside of the coffee boys and I during some bowl of free chili. Like our youth, the appeal of the chrome, tri-chromatic diner evaporated in an event immemorable but absolutely significant.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Mandatory Response #1
Sorry this is late, I was out of town...is that a legitimate excuse? I fear not. (also, for anyone reading this not in our class, pathetic = use of pathos)
I don't really know what to make of the reading. It just seems so blatantly obvious. Like, yes, invoking emotions in your readers will make you a more influential rhetor. Ok? Was that ever in question? Believing in those emotions or pathos, or pretending to, makes you more credible. Yeah, duh? I think this is kind of my problem with rhetoric. Employing logos, pathos or ethos makes you a more convincing narrator/author/orator/rhetor. Is this actually a concept someone doesn't understand? Maybe we're supposed to clue into the abundance of rhetoric in the deluge of "objective" media. It seems like a concept that should be taught in Kindergarten. "Anytime anyone wants you to believe something, they are going to use rhetoric to try to make you believe it." Rhetoric can be used to convey a point or argue a position, as well it should be. I guess it probably is worth while, though, to be reminded that those forces are at play all around us and to be aware of ulterior, or true, motives.
The creative piece we read by Scott Russell Sanders is pathetic. Even if he tried to write the piece academically, it would still be pathetic. From a human perspective, there is no way to present the facts (an alcoholic father, neglected and hurt children, a mother in shambles, and an untimely death) without appealing to readers' emotions. Not to undermine his piece, it is quite moving, but "rhetoric" is unavoidable in any piece of substance. Humans read for the rhetoric, the appeals and prods to parts of themselves that aren't on the surface. We want our narrator to have a credible voice through ethos, or we want to be convinced through logos, or we want to get emotionally involved in the case of pathos and Sanders.
Sanders uses rhetoric effectively, and therefore his piece is effective. When he says, "We had no way of understanding Father's drinking except as an act of will, a deliberate folly or cruelty, a moral weakness, a sin.", the reader immediately empathizes with a family struck by illness and pain. Dozens of other slices of Sanders' piece uses rhetoric to make the reader understand the piece on an emotionally relevant level. It is the use of rhetoric that makes Under the Influence a non-academic read.
I don't really know what to make of the reading. It just seems so blatantly obvious. Like, yes, invoking emotions in your readers will make you a more influential rhetor. Ok? Was that ever in question? Believing in those emotions or pathos, or pretending to, makes you more credible. Yeah, duh? I think this is kind of my problem with rhetoric. Employing logos, pathos or ethos makes you a more convincing narrator/author/orator/rhetor. Is this actually a concept someone doesn't understand? Maybe we're supposed to clue into the abundance of rhetoric in the deluge of "objective" media. It seems like a concept that should be taught in Kindergarten. "Anytime anyone wants you to believe something, they are going to use rhetoric to try to make you believe it." Rhetoric can be used to convey a point or argue a position, as well it should be. I guess it probably is worth while, though, to be reminded that those forces are at play all around us and to be aware of ulterior, or true, motives.
The creative piece we read by Scott Russell Sanders is pathetic. Even if he tried to write the piece academically, it would still be pathetic. From a human perspective, there is no way to present the facts (an alcoholic father, neglected and hurt children, a mother in shambles, and an untimely death) without appealing to readers' emotions. Not to undermine his piece, it is quite moving, but "rhetoric" is unavoidable in any piece of substance. Humans read for the rhetoric, the appeals and prods to parts of themselves that aren't on the surface. We want our narrator to have a credible voice through ethos, or we want to be convinced through logos, or we want to get emotionally involved in the case of pathos and Sanders.
Sanders uses rhetoric effectively, and therefore his piece is effective. When he says, "We had no way of understanding Father's drinking except as an act of will, a deliberate folly or cruelty, a moral weakness, a sin.", the reader immediately empathizes with a family struck by illness and pain. Dozens of other slices of Sanders' piece uses rhetoric to make the reader understand the piece on an emotionally relevant level. It is the use of rhetoric that makes Under the Influence a non-academic read.
Better to have loved and lost...
Now a girl is here. I sucked tequila out of her belly button. We talk about our semesters. We do not talk about the tequila. She brings a hookah. She asks me to choose the sheesh. I choose poorly. She is tall and leggy and blond. I do not like her. I want her to like me so I can deny her, so I can tell her why I am better than her.
She cries in my twin bed. It will be ok, I promise. You deserve better than me, I swear. I keep her coming over. I need her more than she needs me, but I do my best to keep her from realizing that. She is the only person who can save me, or so I believe. She is the only person who loves me, myself included. Her love offends me.
Three years ago I sat nervous and shaking in a dimly lit bedroom. She crawled close to me. Trying to make sure I was alright. We started the awkward process. Our clothes came off, our fingers barely let go and we gave trust over to each other.
I was in high school. At four AM we said goodnight. We held our landline phones between head and pillow. Miles apart but seconds away we muttered our sentiments and shared a love immature. We said goodnight and fell asleep with visions of sugary-each-others dancing in our heads.
She cries in my twin bed. It will be ok, I promise. You deserve better than me, I swear. I keep her coming over. I need her more than she needs me, but I do my best to keep her from realizing that. She is the only person who can save me, or so I believe. She is the only person who loves me, myself included. Her love offends me.
I told her I didn't feel that way anymore. I lied to me more than her. I told the other her it would be ok. I lied to her more than me. I lied and I lied and I keep lying. One day, I will tell the truth. I probably won't believe it, though.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The Buttsauce Express
I am in a bedroom. It is not my bedroom. It is a good friend's bedroom. The layout is that of an irregular pentagon. Three walls one would expect, but where the fourth should be, instead three walls arc out from the frame of the building and increase the floorspace. In the farthest part of that nook the head of the bed is situated. Two inflatable guitars, literally air guitars, stand next to the bed and also next to the actual acoustic guitar delicately placed in its holder, rubber tongs pinching the neck. Following the line of instruments of the wall stands a standard four drawer dresser. On the top sits protein supplements, a clutter of papers and a funny steel statue of a drummer made out of modified bits of hardware - screws and washers. Bookshelves, a computer desk and random boxes of belongings are scattered across the rest of the walls, in addition to the three doors: One to a bathroom, one to a closet and one to the living room. The floor is covered with a nondescript tan/gray rug with random stains and bits of debris begging for a vacuuming. The wall hangings are random and indicate an inaccurate love for darts. A large, antique dartboard encased in a wooden cabinet advertising the bar, and I assume the show, Cheers hangs on the wall farthest from the living room door. Above the bathroom an analog clock marks time on a pattern mimicking a dartboard. I have never seen the owner of this room play darts. Certificates of achievement, unframed and simply thumbtacked to the wall, hang randomly. Action figures and Hot Wheels cars, still in the packaging, accompany the certificates of achievement. Two wall hangings are framed: One a history of the family name with the Irish crest. The other, a photo of him and his sister. Beneath that, a photo of his other sister thumbtacked. The centerpiece of his wall hangings is the poster I bought him for a birthday long ago: "Things You Should Know About Chuck Norris" with quips like, "There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live." The bed is comfortable and large. The sheets are tossed up and unmade. In the computer desk a hopeless tangles of wires, books, boxes, and every imaginable bit of refuse occupy the shelves that are offended by the lack of organization they support. Half on a wall, half off, supported by a bookcase a handpainted sign one foot tall and three feet long says, "It's always 5 o'clock in Matagorda" and the caps of beer bottles are nailed to it.
The things in this room make sense to me, but I have to consider what the sojourner through this living space would infer. It is almost entirely nonsensical. He would believe the person sleeping in this unmade bed was a meat head, dart-loving, musical student, nerd. It makes so much sense to me though, because I know the man. BARF THATS 500 WORDS LOST MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT
The things in this room make sense to me, but I have to consider what the sojourner through this living space would infer. It is almost entirely nonsensical. He would believe the person sleeping in this unmade bed was a meat head, dart-loving, musical student, nerd. It makes so much sense to me though, because I know the man. BARF THATS 500 WORDS LOST MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT
Friday, October 16, 2009
42104
I am in the land of my old life. It is beautiful and I remember why I clung so dearly to it. I know this place as my home. It is my home because of the people, because of the way my stomach turns when we drive by the journalism building on campus. I associate road signs, cars, businesses and certain weather with different emotions totally disconnected from the place or thing, but the experiences created with their cooperation. On Chestnut St., my favorite street in Bowling Green because of the beautiful, historical houses and large foliage, we drove past my old apartment building. I looked at the third floor balcony, my old balcony, and I remember the view. To the left you can see the beginning of the historical downtown district, marked by a Church of Christ on one side of the road and a large building that must have once housed several services but now only sells musical instruments through one store front. To the right, you see another gigantic church, Baptist on that side, and the beginning of campus, unnoticeable except for the corner of a stone wall marking the north edge of the university. I spent late nights on the porch in the warmth of summer. Regardless of my company the view of Bowling Green is still, to me, the epitome of my city. Straight ahead from the balcony trees covered hospital hill, a USA flag painted water tower pokes through the green.
My friends are the people I love and remember, or the extrapolation of that memory. Banter with them is comfortable and easy, even after we run out of catching up. They remind me of who I am, and what I strive to be. I think happiness in life is difficult to come by, if you consider self-improvement as a factor, if you are not familiar with your roots. I was born in New York State, moved to North Carolina at the age of two, and was relocated to Kentucky eight years later. The transition was not easy. Even for an adaptable youngster like me. I loathed the city for years and imagined a perfect life in my true home of North Carolina or New York. Every summer I would travel with my mother, or visit my dad in North Carolina. Throughout the school year I flew to visit my dad for long weekends or holidays. The constant uprooting and reminder that I was not geographically centered made the concept of a home difficult to grasp.
Home is where the heart is. This is true. In meeting new people, I tell them where I am from for more reasons than perpetuating small talk. I am proud of my home, I am proud of the relationships I fostered, and I am proud of the person I became there because it was part of making me who I am today, for better or worse (there is only one of me, so I might as well look on the bright side). Certain aspects of southern/midwestern/kentuckian culture are as much a part of me as my kneecap or left butt cheek. I hold an extreme fondness for the elderly that are as wrinkled as they are sassy. The isolated redneck, separated from his herd, is my ideal conversation mate. Southern chivalry in regards to women plagues my relationships. Bourbon and tobacco twist around my personality like boa constrictors. My home has personal relevance that many wouldn't associate with Kentucky, however. My inclination to debate is a product of my friends and their strong opinions. Introversion was the price I paid for the close-knit fraternity that is my nest today. Distaste for the close minded and bigoted stems from bonds formed between those that clashed as the counter-culture to a state that bleeds red. These things, and so many more, are the building blocks of my home, and my heart.
My friends are the people I love and remember, or the extrapolation of that memory. Banter with them is comfortable and easy, even after we run out of catching up. They remind me of who I am, and what I strive to be. I think happiness in life is difficult to come by, if you consider self-improvement as a factor, if you are not familiar with your roots. I was born in New York State, moved to North Carolina at the age of two, and was relocated to Kentucky eight years later. The transition was not easy. Even for an adaptable youngster like me. I loathed the city for years and imagined a perfect life in my true home of North Carolina or New York. Every summer I would travel with my mother, or visit my dad in North Carolina. Throughout the school year I flew to visit my dad for long weekends or holidays. The constant uprooting and reminder that I was not geographically centered made the concept of a home difficult to grasp.
Home is where the heart is. This is true. In meeting new people, I tell them where I am from for more reasons than perpetuating small talk. I am proud of my home, I am proud of the relationships I fostered, and I am proud of the person I became there because it was part of making me who I am today, for better or worse (there is only one of me, so I might as well look on the bright side). Certain aspects of southern/midwestern/kentuckian culture are as much a part of me as my kneecap or left butt cheek. I hold an extreme fondness for the elderly that are as wrinkled as they are sassy. The isolated redneck, separated from his herd, is my ideal conversation mate. Southern chivalry in regards to women plagues my relationships. Bourbon and tobacco twist around my personality like boa constrictors. My home has personal relevance that many wouldn't associate with Kentucky, however. My inclination to debate is a product of my friends and their strong opinions. Introversion was the price I paid for the close-knit fraternity that is my nest today. Distaste for the close minded and bigoted stems from bonds formed between those that clashed as the counter-culture to a state that bleeds red. These things, and so many more, are the building blocks of my home, and my heart.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Going Home, Terrified
At 1:20 PM tomorrow, I will arrive in the Nashville, TN airport. Elliot Craig will pick me up and drive me into Bowling Green, KY, the closest thing I have to a geographical home. I remember home in lights bright and dark. My friends surrounded me in symbiotic compromise and forgiveness. We did not begrudge each other our humanitarian failings. To sleep until 3 PM and start drinking at 5 was not behavior questionable. In a certain sense, our approach to community was one of most extreme tolerance. And in that light, we were the most open minded and accepting group of people in Kentucky. To look at the side of the coin less illuminated, one might argue that we took an irresponsible approach and took unaccountability for granted. I think both of these perspectives are correct. We saw the potential repercussions of our laizze faire approach to friendship, but at the same time we were not willing to accept the mantle of responsibility or judgement. Who were we, as individuals, to tell anyone else what to do?
I fear Kentucky because I am trying to be more than Kentucky. And I refer to Kentucky as the identity I developed as a Kentuckian, through its social and cultural influences. In Kentucky I was the oil slick on asphalt that does little but remind drivers to be careful, because negligence runs the risk of sliding sliding sliding into the guard rail. I was the refuse of society, the spot spit out by progress. As an oil slick I was disgusting, but at the same time I was the reminder of reality preventing the clean mesh of tire to asphalt, citizen to society. I was the totem of strength and potential to bolster a community, and at the same time I was the toppled rubble from that monument. This is what we can produce, and this is what we will destroy said my story.
I don't want to be special, or a symbol, to anyone because of my failure. I don't want people to look at me and think about what they could have done differently. I want to be ignored and treated indifferently until I have a reason to be acknowledged, and I fear my sojourn home will yield results opposite. My friends are my friends because they are my family in so many ways. They will be glad to see me regardless of my accomplishments/shortcomings. I can survive as an individual in their embrace, but I want identity beyond that provided by some disconnected social network. My group of friends in Kentucky establishes themselves as people by connecting on an individual philosophy of noninterference and superiority. I love them for that, and I probably influenced that disposition, and that is part of my identity, but I want to evolve beyond that person, and I want to remain a friend to my friends. Is it possible?
Will my friends be willing to discuss my pitfalls or their plans for a brighter future? Can we relate on a level beyond loneliness in a world of social creatures? Like a sovereign nation we isolated ourselves from the influences of our society and families. We were something transcendent and ultimately flawed. We each led beautiful lives full of significance in our sphere of influence, but it was limited to our sphere of friendship and comradery. If we strive only to influence and impact that sphere, then we are on the right track. I believe, however, the world is bigger than that and so is our humane responsibility. Each of us is a good person. Together, though, I fear we boundarize and confine our potential. We can do good for the world, and we want to, but I don't know if we can do it together.
I fear Kentucky because I am trying to be more than Kentucky. And I refer to Kentucky as the identity I developed as a Kentuckian, through its social and cultural influences. In Kentucky I was the oil slick on asphalt that does little but remind drivers to be careful, because negligence runs the risk of sliding sliding sliding into the guard rail. I was the refuse of society, the spot spit out by progress. As an oil slick I was disgusting, but at the same time I was the reminder of reality preventing the clean mesh of tire to asphalt, citizen to society. I was the totem of strength and potential to bolster a community, and at the same time I was the toppled rubble from that monument. This is what we can produce, and this is what we will destroy said my story.
I don't want to be special, or a symbol, to anyone because of my failure. I don't want people to look at me and think about what they could have done differently. I want to be ignored and treated indifferently until I have a reason to be acknowledged, and I fear my sojourn home will yield results opposite. My friends are my friends because they are my family in so many ways. They will be glad to see me regardless of my accomplishments/shortcomings. I can survive as an individual in their embrace, but I want identity beyond that provided by some disconnected social network. My group of friends in Kentucky establishes themselves as people by connecting on an individual philosophy of noninterference and superiority. I love them for that, and I probably influenced that disposition, and that is part of my identity, but I want to evolve beyond that person, and I want to remain a friend to my friends. Is it possible?
Will my friends be willing to discuss my pitfalls or their plans for a brighter future? Can we relate on a level beyond loneliness in a world of social creatures? Like a sovereign nation we isolated ourselves from the influences of our society and families. We were something transcendent and ultimately flawed. We each led beautiful lives full of significance in our sphere of influence, but it was limited to our sphere of friendship and comradery. If we strive only to influence and impact that sphere, then we are on the right track. I believe, however, the world is bigger than that and so is our humane responsibility. Each of us is a good person. Together, though, I fear we boundarize and confine our potential. We can do good for the world, and we want to, but I don't know if we can do it together.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Vibe -TS-C9-
I spent the early part of my nineteenth birthday with my mother in Nashville. We saw a David Sedaris play. I had a feeling something was in the works for an after party, mother not invited, after I got a phone call asking what I was doing at ten o'clock. Surpassing my expectations, when I returned to my apartment, a candlelit black tie party was starting in my honor. Friends are awesome. I put on my Steak & Shake uniform, including bow tie, because it was by far the most dignified set of clothes I owned. Martinis were made out of straight gin and grenadine. I was hugged and congratulated on my chronological accomplishment. People I did not know mingled and chortled throughout the evening. It was a fantastic and four star mockery of adulthood.
After the crowds dissipated and the alcohol expired, the coffee boys hatched a plan. "Plan" might be a bit of an overstatement. We decided to go to Steak & Shake, Dan promising he was ok to drive, a statement no sober person would believe. We stole a sign striking our fancy from the neighbor that said something along the lines of, "Nailing signs to trees kills trees." It amused us so we took it and departed. I don't especially remember the drive there, but I do remember the phone call from Mac who was left behind. I abandoned the party thrown for me, and I should be ashamed was the gist.
Mac was upset that we didn't invite him. He wished he was there for me throwing myself down flights of stairs and the sign theft. Of course Mac didn't express those feelings, I don't know if he recognized them, but ultimately he was mad he wasn't included. Steak & Shake and the hours spent there were nothing special except for the air of community surrounding them. For a bunch of weirdos and high school failures, the diner was the place we went to feel special. We smoked our cigarettes and made our jokes safely inside the bubble protecting us from the powers and peoples that told us how much we were screwing our lives.
After the crowds dissipated and the alcohol expired, the coffee boys hatched a plan. "Plan" might be a bit of an overstatement. We decided to go to Steak & Shake, Dan promising he was ok to drive, a statement no sober person would believe. We stole a sign striking our fancy from the neighbor that said something along the lines of, "Nailing signs to trees kills trees." It amused us so we took it and departed. I don't especially remember the drive there, but I do remember the phone call from Mac who was left behind. I abandoned the party thrown for me, and I should be ashamed was the gist.
Mac was upset that we didn't invite him. He wished he was there for me throwing myself down flights of stairs and the sign theft. Of course Mac didn't express those feelings, I don't know if he recognized them, but ultimately he was mad he wasn't included. Steak & Shake and the hours spent there were nothing special except for the air of community surrounding them. For a bunch of weirdos and high school failures, the diner was the place we went to feel special. We smoked our cigarettes and made our jokes safely inside the bubble protecting us from the powers and peoples that told us how much we were screwing our lives.
Something hung in the air with the smoke at Steak & Shake. Maybe it was the youthful rebellion and stupidity manifest in every mohawk or nervous teenager buying his date a Berry Berry Cobbler. Perhaps the joy of Steak & Shake came from its late night nature. "This is where we gather when you tell us to sleep," could easily have been its motto after 10 pm. The nurturing environment was open to anyone at all hours, so it might be its suicide-hotline nature that made everyone inside feel warm and fuzzy. I don't know for sure where it stemmed from, but inside of Steak & Shake there was a vibe as thick as the milkshakes.
Similarly, the night of my birthday, the restaurant was as packed as the vibe. Every table was occupied and a line extended outside the door. My memory is an out of body experience. I can see myself sitting on a chair inside the restaurant, near the door. Julie approached me and wished a happy birthday. I think there was a hug. My head lolled and my eyes probably understood the dining room with motion-blurred disregard, but all I can recall is the crisp vision of a restaurant in high business struggling to survive. Julie and the other servers scurried and worried to satisfy the demands of their tables. This was one of those nights where as integral as the coffee boys were to the Steak & Shake experience, we couldn't be recognized as the dignitaries we were.
The night continued to bustle, and as we waited, still from an out of body perspective, waitresses came by to bid us welcome and complain about the high volume business the restaurant was receiving. Several joked and asked if I wanted to get on the clock. Stovall made it by to wish a happy birthday with some insult. Here we were more than the average chili-seeking drunk. Steak & Shake was the family we wished for but did not need. At Steak & Shake no one pestered us about homework or drunken indiscretions. I can only speak for myself, but I can hypothesize for everyone. The third shift crowd, outside of the rushes, were crowds of regulars that reeked of a disapproving home life. Bondage pants and boasts of sexual prowess told their real stories in subtext.
Steak & Shake was a rehab center for those told they were wrong.
Steak & Shake was a rehab center for those told they were wrong.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
This Weekend Sucked
She was on the couch, not passed out, but barely awake. She moaned and hid her head in a pillow. He was tucked into the other side of the couch, pinned by her legs. He massaged her feet. I don't think that was what was hurting. I ignored the situation. She was a sick eighteen year old discovering alcohol, and the story was as old as college.
I sat on my floor with a different her across from me. Also on the floor, a chessboard sat between us. My dog knocked the pieces over. I said I won.
Through my window we, the drinkless chessers, listened to the debauchers. Drunk and temporarily happy they laughed at nothing and screamed at more. A plan founded on exploitation and painted with good intentions drifted into my room. "I'll take her home with me." I sought out the plansmith. I objected: No, she will stay here. Angry, he objected in turn and argued for her abduction. Sober versus drunk, he lost and sulked outside. I took his place on the couch. Her eyes were shut and her lips mumbled sentiments only she understood. One sentiment was heard, though.
"Please, don't let them take me anymore." I won't, I promised.
I lifted her weight and sat next to her so my body supported hers. Water in a red solo cup was delivered. Later, when her eyes opened, she looked at the cup and said, "Fuck you, cup." On the verge of tears she fought the water. Drunk versus sober she lost. It came up quicker than it went down. I lost control of her head and her face collapsed into the trash can I held with my knees. I made fun of her because I knew she wouldn't care or remember, but also to entertain myself and ignore Lord Creep's plan.
Lord Creep came back into the living room. He apologized for being rude to me. He explained he thought I was a good guy and I like to do the right thing. "That's cool," he finished. His attitude paralleled approval of a religion different from one's own. "You don't like rape? Oh, that's cool," he might as well have said. His voice was loud and the girl on my shoulder moaned in protest. My chess partner asked him to quiet down and he made a face and flipped her off while she wasn't looking.
The drunks assembled in the living room while I held the girl. They left for another party and left their prey, a tainted carcass, to be discarded.
I sat on my floor with a different her across from me. Also on the floor, a chessboard sat between us. My dog knocked the pieces over. I said I won.
Through my window we, the drinkless chessers, listened to the debauchers. Drunk and temporarily happy they laughed at nothing and screamed at more. A plan founded on exploitation and painted with good intentions drifted into my room. "I'll take her home with me." I sought out the plansmith. I objected: No, she will stay here. Angry, he objected in turn and argued for her abduction. Sober versus drunk, he lost and sulked outside. I took his place on the couch. Her eyes were shut and her lips mumbled sentiments only she understood. One sentiment was heard, though.
"Please, don't let them take me anymore." I won't, I promised.
I lifted her weight and sat next to her so my body supported hers. Water in a red solo cup was delivered. Later, when her eyes opened, she looked at the cup and said, "Fuck you, cup." On the verge of tears she fought the water. Drunk versus sober she lost. It came up quicker than it went down. I lost control of her head and her face collapsed into the trash can I held with my knees. I made fun of her because I knew she wouldn't care or remember, but also to entertain myself and ignore Lord Creep's plan.
Lord Creep came back into the living room. He apologized for being rude to me. He explained he thought I was a good guy and I like to do the right thing. "That's cool," he finished. His attitude paralleled approval of a religion different from one's own. "You don't like rape? Oh, that's cool," he might as well have said. His voice was loud and the girl on my shoulder moaned in protest. My chess partner asked him to quiet down and he made a face and flipped her off while she wasn't looking.
The drunks assembled in the living room while I held the girl. They left for another party and left their prey, a tainted carcass, to be discarded.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I Wonder if I'll get Credit for This?
To defend this entry, let me say that I think it is pretty pertinent to class as far as rhetoric goes. Also, I spent a couple of hours on it, so I think it's legit. It's long, I apologize, but to sum it up, Dave and I have drastically different political opinions, the main difference being that he is crazy and I'm wicked smart and on top of shit.
From Facebook:
Dave Linsalata Read my latest entry. http://davelinsalata.com/the-ingredients
From Facebook:
Dave Linsalata Obama given the peace prize cause he is black. What has he really done to deserve it? If Obama had intregrity and believed in peace, he would put an end to all of the wars and U.S. occupations
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
From a civil rights perspective that makes a lot of sense. Somehow I imagine him being black wasn't the only criteria for the selection. You got a link or something?
Dave Linsalata
What has he actually accomplished? According to the story, The Nobel Committee had him voted in by Feb 11TH, shortly after he was inaugurated. They picked him based on the color of his skin, which is exactly contrary to the ideals of Dr. Martin Luther King - who was a true peace prize winner.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
He's a symbol of our country. As a country we overcame a long history of racism that still exists today by voting him into office with a landslide. He's taking a rather selfless and somewhat self-defeating approach to bipartisanship, trying to overhaul health care and making the best of 2 wars left with him in shambles. He's doing pretty good for the country he was put in charge of.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
And somehow I think MLK would be down with the O'
Dave Linsalata
He could have pulled our troops out and ended these wars when he first got into office, he didn't.
He could have ended the patriot act, he didn't.
He could have helped reduce the debt/deficit, he didn't. He increased it 10 fold.
He called afghanistan a war of "necessity." Obama has made afghanistan his war. We still have to get out of Iraq.
Many whites voted for him based on race, and that defeats the purpose of overcoming racism. They voted for him out of a sense of white guilt, with a complete disregard for his policy or his views.
Obama has perpetuated wars and added more debt for our generation to deal with - he has compounded the problems that Bush started - he has done nothing to end middle-east resentment toward us. I am no fan of Bush, but Obama is all talk, no action, no integrity, just another politician in an empty suit.
He could have ended the patriot act, he didn't.
He could have helped reduce the debt/deficit, he didn't. He increased it 10 fold.
He called afghanistan a war of "necessity." Obama has made afghanistan his war. We still have to get out of Iraq.
Many whites voted for him based on race, and that defeats the purpose of overcoming racism. They voted for him out of a sense of white guilt, with a complete disregard for his policy or his views.
Obama has perpetuated wars and added more debt for our generation to deal with - he has compounded the problems that Bush started - he has done nothing to end middle-east resentment toward us. I am no fan of Bush, but Obama is all talk, no action, no integrity, just another politician in an empty suit.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
"Many whites voted for him based on race, and that defeats the purpose of overcoming racism. They voted for him out of a sense of white guilt, with a complete disregard for his policy or his views." Can you back that up with any sort of credible study? He won the election in a 300something to 100something margin, that was because of white guilt?
As far as the wars go, what are we supposed to do? Pull out 100% and leave a power vacuum to be filled with whoever has the most guns? He's making more headway in Afghanistan than we did in the past 8 years. Have you seen the lists of Taliban leaders captured/killed? And, like, what do you think we should do about the debt? Cut all social spending? Cut military funding? Education? As a society we funded our deficit. As a society we have to climb out of it and that's going to take some spending. It's not like theres an on/off switch for debt.
As far as the award goes, from CNN:
"I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments. But rather as an affirmation of American leadership. ... I will accept this award as a call to action." -Obama
"Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future," the committee said.
Are a bunch of super smart Norwegians political stooges for USA agendas? Somehow I doubt that. Shit, he hasn't done everything right, but to say his only accomplishment is having a black father isn't fair.
As far as the wars go, what are we supposed to do? Pull out 100% and leave a power vacuum to be filled with whoever has the most guns? He's making more headway in Afghanistan than we did in the past 8 years. Have you seen the lists of Taliban leaders captured/killed? And, like, what do you think we should do about the debt? Cut all social spending? Cut military funding? Education? As a society we funded our deficit. As a society we have to climb out of it and that's going to take some spending. It's not like theres an on/off switch for debt.
As far as the award goes, from CNN:
"I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments. But rather as an affirmation of American leadership. ... I will accept this award as a call to action." -Obama
"Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future," the committee said.
Are a bunch of super smart Norwegians political stooges for USA agendas? Somehow I doubt that. Shit, he hasn't done everything right, but to say his only accomplishment is having a black father isn't fair.
Dave Linsalata
"As a society we have to climb out of it and that's going to take some spending."
No, it'll take saving, not spending. It'll require we cut social programs. It's time for people to quit being dependent on the government, Sam. Our country was built on individual responsibility, not government dependence.
The same people who say we can not leave Iraq and Afghan immediately, are the same people who said the wars would be a cakewalk - so I do not believe the fearmongering. If we leave, we increase our respect, because as we continue to fight - we draw more resentment from the region. We cause more hatred from muslims. Innocent people continue to be killed - I don't see how any human rights activists can support this war.
It's time to leave now, it's time to get out. The more they delay, the more difficult it will be to get out - that is my point. But Obama will perpetuate the wars and spending - which got us into trouble in the 1st place.
No, it'll take saving, not spending. It'll require we cut social programs. It's time for people to quit being dependent on the government, Sam. Our country was built on individual responsibility, not government dependence.
The same people who say we can not leave Iraq and Afghan immediately, are the same people who said the wars would be a cakewalk - so I do not believe the fearmongering. If we leave, we increase our respect, because as we continue to fight - we draw more resentment from the region. We cause more hatred from muslims. Innocent people continue to be killed - I don't see how any human rights activists can support this war.
It's time to leave now, it's time to get out. The more they delay, the more difficult it will be to get out - that is my point. But Obama will perpetuate the wars and spending - which got us into trouble in the 1st place.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
So...you're plan is to quit the wars and cut government spending? You think that everyone hurt by the economic depression, or by disease, is a mooch? The reason we have a government is because a society left to its own devices will collapse. The strong will exploit the weak and blame them. We're only as strong as the weakest of us. What's so bad about asking for help? Like maybe we should stop government spending on road maintenance, or schools, or the fire department, or our military, or our police force, or our medicare, or our social security, or our defense of the right to happiness. A sustainable economy isn't formed by dropping pennies in a piggy bank. You build a healthy, educated population and down the road it pays off.
Dave Linsalata
I am saying that we are perpetuating our problems Sam - continuing to print money and inflate the currency is going to hurt poor people in the long run even more. We are borrowing trillions from China to finance our debt, we are printing money, which has led to the devaluation of our dollar - which means prices on all goods and services will continue to go up . Monetary policies must be fixed (the federal reserve must be audited) but Obama has given these central banks more power and more authority.
I never said everyone who has been hurt by this recession is a mooch. You are just putting words in my mouth.
You have no evidence that a society collapses without a government. I am not promoting elimination of government, but the federal govt. is supposed to be very limited. It isn't their duty to coddle with other nations, form alliances, bully other nations, etc. We need to worry about our own nation and we must remove the troops to save money and lives.
Private enterprise has done way more then government can ever do. Roads and Bridges can and are usually built by PRIVATE COMPANIES. You seem to think that it is the government's responsibility to hold society together, instead of the hard working ethic of the individual. Our country is based on SELF-GOVERNMENT and independence and liberty. The constitution clearly states that no federal money should be used for the arts or for education. The department of education is an unconstitutional department, like many other things.
There is poor people in all nations. There is poverty in all nations and you can't stop that. But our country used to be the most well informed, well read, most healthy, until we started to ask the government to bail us out.
I never said everyone who has been hurt by this recession is a mooch. You are just putting words in my mouth.
You have no evidence that a society collapses without a government. I am not promoting elimination of government, but the federal govt. is supposed to be very limited. It isn't their duty to coddle with other nations, form alliances, bully other nations, etc. We need to worry about our own nation and we must remove the troops to save money and lives.
Private enterprise has done way more then government can ever do. Roads and Bridges can and are usually built by PRIVATE COMPANIES. You seem to think that it is the government's responsibility to hold society together, instead of the hard working ethic of the individual. Our country is based on SELF-GOVERNMENT and independence and liberty. The constitution clearly states that no federal money should be used for the arts or for education. The department of education is an unconstitutional department, like many other things.
There is poor people in all nations. There is poverty in all nations and you can't stop that. But our country used to be the most well informed, well read, most healthy, until we started to ask the government to bail us out.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
Um...in international terms, it is our government's responsibility to deal with other countries. Our we supposed to fly to China individually to discuss commerce? Should I have gone to Afghanistan and punched Bin Laden in the face?
And I do have evidence that a country collapses without government because there is no international presence founded on anarchy.
And you're right, you didn't call anyone a mooch, but who do you think needs to stop depending on government then? And why? And what is the alternative?
And private companies execute public works through government funding. If we wanted a road...the people who benefitted from it would have to finance it without government intervention. So it would be self taxing. So what's the difference?
Yeah, there are poor people and there always will be as long as money exists. That doesn't give the rich an excuse to exploit them, though. The president of Bank of America just got fired and ended up getting over 100 million dollars in severance and compensation. He benefitted from a system run by the rich to keep the rich rich. I think that needs to change, and it changes by funding the poor with money and faith (faith in humanity, not religious faith)
And I do have evidence that a country collapses without government because there is no international presence founded on anarchy.
And you're right, you didn't call anyone a mooch, but who do you think needs to stop depending on government then? And why? And what is the alternative?
And private companies execute public works through government funding. If we wanted a road...the people who benefitted from it would have to finance it without government intervention. So it would be self taxing. So what's the difference?
Yeah, there are poor people and there always will be as long as money exists. That doesn't give the rich an excuse to exploit them, though. The president of Bank of America just got fired and ended up getting over 100 million dollars in severance and compensation. He benefitted from a system run by the rich to keep the rich rich. I think that needs to change, and it changes by funding the poor with money and faith (faith in humanity, not religious faith)
Dave Linsalata
It isn't our responsibility to deal with any countries Sam. The founders were clearly against forming alliances. Jefferson once said.. "Commerce with all nations, have alliances with none." Forming Alliances is actually a bad idea contrary to conventional wisdom. When you form alliances, you put your country in harm's way. Other nations can see that as antagonistic. Our country has become very antagonistic toward other nations, like Iran, telling them what they can and can't have.
Some private companies do execute through public funding, sure, but many do not, they do so because private companies and business build America - it's called initiative and responsibility. You can't just tax everything and throw money at every problem and expect that things will be taken care of.
You think the poor should be given handouts? Do you think hard working people should have their money stolen, and given to poor people? You are basically promoting wealth redistribution.
Much of the problems you are discussing have to deal with monetary policy and the weakening of the dollar. In the 60's and 70's, the dollar could buy even the lowest classes a lot more then it can buy them now. People were much better off overall 30 years ago then they are now. The dollar has lost 96% of it's value since 1913. While there is a lot of corruption in big business, you are only examining one part of the problem.
Some private companies do execute through public funding, sure, but many do not, they do so because private companies and business build America - it's called initiative and responsibility. You can't just tax everything and throw money at every problem and expect that things will be taken care of.
You think the poor should be given handouts? Do you think hard working people should have their money stolen, and given to poor people? You are basically promoting wealth redistribution.
Much of the problems you are discussing have to deal with monetary policy and the weakening of the dollar. In the 60's and 70's, the dollar could buy even the lowest classes a lot more then it can buy them now. People were much better off overall 30 years ago then they are now. The dollar has lost 96% of it's value since 1913. While there is a lot of corruption in big business, you are only examining one part of the problem.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
Ok, that's fair, the problem is bigger than the rich exploiting the weak. But...let me get this straight, your proposed international policy is to stop political and commercial partnerships with other countries? If I'm wrong please tell me what you are actually proposing.
Dave Linsalata
No, I believe in trade and commerce and friendship with countries, but not this idea of "alliances." By alliance, I mean we shouldn't be mingling with other nation's who have different ideals then us. For instance, our constitution says congress must declare war. We can't just simply go to war on behalf of our people because are "alliance," is calling for our help. We are a sovereign nation and must continue to defend it's sovereignty like the founders intended. I believe that our alliances with other nations serve us wrong - they are antagonistic. We have gotten into this business of trying to police the world and call on other nation's to join us in trying to put sanctions on other countries like Iran. I think it's hypocritical. We bomb other countries and innocents die, and then we have the nerve to tell Iran what they must or must not do, otherwise we will sanction them or bomb them? We have become a country that believes in conquest and nation building. We need to mind our own business and return to true American ideas.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
We were always a country that believed in conquest and empire building. It goes by different names in history, but it started with killing and subjugating native populations, and finished with manifest destiny, as far as our land holding goes. We've always had economic stakes in other places of the globe, or at least since we actually had some sway in the world. What's the difference between friendship and an alliance? Just semantics, if you ask me. Also I'm a little troubled by your thinking we shouldn't mingle with nations with ideals different from ours. Competing ideas and beliefs is how things get better. Intellectual evolution. May the best idea win.
Dave Linsalata
Friendship means you are willing to trade with other nations and commerce with them. Alliance means you are willing to put the expense of your nation on the line for the sake of some other countries wishes.
For instance Sam, many of the Brits supported Bush's war at the start because their sense of "alliance," made them feel obligated - but as time went on, they saw that was a mistake.
When I say alliance, I mean intermingling policies. Commerce and trading can occur without discussing foreign policies. We are our own country and we shouldn't be forced into anything unless we decide as a people to do so.
For instance Sam, many of the Brits supported Bush's war at the start because their sense of "alliance," made them feel obligated - but as time went on, they saw that was a mistake.
When I say alliance, I mean intermingling policies. Commerce and trading can occur without discussing foreign policies. We are our own country and we shouldn't be forced into anything unless we decide as a people to do so.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
I'm personally glad for military alliances. Those alliances support commerce and national security, for ourselves and others. I don't think it is giving up sovereignty but rather acknowledging that we aren't the only country in the world. If the dollar was confined to our country's borders, it would collapse a whole lot faster. If we didn't have military and trade alliances, it would be confined to our country.
A TANGENT FROM THIS CONVO
Dave Linsalata Read my latest entry. http://davelinsalata.com/the-ingredients
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
So...your credible study is your theory that because white people feel guilty about slavery they voted for Obama? I don't think white people really feel that guilty. In fact I think they get off on being on top, since we have been since slavery. There are poor white people, but who runs this country? Rich white men. That institution is beingchallenged, and the powers that be don't like it. So are we talking about some racist plot that only exists in Beck and Limbaugh fear mongering, or why Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize?
As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate.
As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate.
Dave Linsalata
"In fact I think they get off on being on top, since we have been since slavery."
Hey Sam, who sold their own people into slavery? Black people handed them over to whites! Do you want to talk about that? And which whites "Get off?" Sure some people enjoy the fame, but some people who own big business actually give jobs to people - it's called capitalism, free enterprise - are you against these evil white men who give hundreds of thousands of jobs? You know, like Bill Gates.
"There are poor white people, but who runs this country? Rich white men."
'As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate."
We were attacked by a group of people, not the country or government of Afghanistan. We have no business being there. But like Iraq, the blood of all of these innocent people is on the hands of Bush and Obama. Innocent civilians are dying in afghan just like Iraq, but somehow this is ok or justified because Obama is ordering it? Come on dude, you are just promoting double speak when you say Bush's wars are wrong, but Obama's are ok. They are both unjustified because neither country attacked us.
Hey Sam, who sold their own people into slavery? Black people handed them over to whites! Do you want to talk about that? And which whites "Get off?" Sure some people enjoy the fame, but some people who own big business actually give jobs to people - it's called capitalism, free enterprise - are you against these evil white men who give hundreds of thousands of jobs? You know, like Bill Gates.
"There are poor white people, but who runs this country? Rich white men."
'As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate."
We were attacked by a group of people, not the country or government of Afghanistan. We have no business being there. But like Iraq, the blood of all of these innocent people is on the hands of Bush and Obama. Innocent civilians are dying in afghan just like Iraq, but somehow this is ok or justified because Obama is ordering it? Come on dude, you are just promoting double speak when you say Bush's wars are wrong, but Obama's are ok. They are both unjustified because neither country attacked us.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
I think Afghanistan makes sense as a war. The war in Afghanistan was going poorly cause no one gave a shit about it until Obama came into office. Iraq doesn't make sense so I won't defend it, but if we leave immediately it will make recovery much harder on the country.
So...black people sold their people into slavery and that makes it ok? Why are we even talking about slavery? My point is exploitation of blacks in America created a social platform that elevated our country to a national power, and leading the way were rich white men. Left behind was a sub-social/economic class of people, and the reverberations from that exist today. Obama's election marked a monumental step forward in our country's racial tolerance.
I'm not saying being rich is bad. Good for Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. The problem is that very many with money and influence use it to further their own ends more than their employees. Look at the coal mines in Kentucky, or the people hurt routinely by their insurance providers. Be rich, great, but be watched very closely, is my point. Obama is watching them, or at least pretending to, and they don't like it. I think that's where most of the opposition stems from.
So...black people sold their people into slavery and that makes it ok? Why are we even talking about slavery? My point is exploitation of blacks in America created a social platform that elevated our country to a national power, and leading the way were rich white men. Left behind was a sub-social/economic class of people, and the reverberations from that exist today. Obama's election marked a monumental step forward in our country's racial tolerance.
I'm not saying being rich is bad. Good for Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. The problem is that very many with money and influence use it to further their own ends more than their employees. Look at the coal mines in Kentucky, or the people hurt routinely by their insurance providers. Be rich, great, but be watched very closely, is my point. Obama is watching them, or at least pretending to, and they don't like it. I think that's where most of the opposition stems from.
Dave Linsalata
The war is going poorly because there is nothing we can DO to STOP THEIR WAY OF LIFE. Sam, they have been fighting for thousands of years - we aren't going to ROOT out terrorism. It is a naive and foolish objective. Iraq was a failure and so is afghanistan. We have no right to invade their country and guess what? Innocent people die as a result of our invasion. It isn't just. Tell me how it is just Sam. Did their people or government ever attack us? No.
Dave Linsalata
The war will continue to cost us lives. You know, it's always other people fighting our wars. Would you go fight this war Sam if you believe it is just? Or should someone else fight it for you? The majority of our country was opposed to Iraq and is opposed to perpetuating this war with Afghan. The government uses our military in a foolish way - making them fight on the other side of the world. They should be home defending the homeland, but instead they are fighting a worthless war and dying for nothing. Afghanistan is not an imminent threat to us, either is Iran, and now our country is trying to bully them around. It just amazes me.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
Well, when we invaded Afghanistan the Taliban was pretty much in charge, and since they were the entity that attacked us, I think it is just retaliation and makes sense from a defense stand point since they don't have any intentions of not hating us any time soon. And...as far as changing their lifestyles, you get its not a cultural war, right? We're not fighting Islam. We're fighting the people that attacked our country, and continue to try to attack us. We aren't attacking the government institutions in Afghanistan or their mosques, we're looking for "terrorists". I support that. And no, I won't fight that war because I think I can help the country just as much through other venues.. We don't have a draft, so everyone fighting signed up voluntarily. If I was drafted, yeah, I would go.
All of that applies to Afghanistan, not Iraq. I wouldn't protest a total withdrawal from Iraq, but I wouldn't advocate it either.
All of that applies to Afghanistan, not Iraq. I wouldn't protest a total withdrawal from Iraq, but I wouldn't advocate it either.
Dave Linsalata
So how do we exactly win the war there? You say it isn't a cultural war, but let me ask you this: Do you think the muslims over there like our invasion? No, they do not. And Bin Laden actually prefers that we are over there on their turf. This war causes more resentment. You can say all you want that the taliban did it, so we must attack their country. But what is your definition of victory?
They have been fighting for thousands of years, Sam. We can't put an end to terrorism - it is naive and foolish to think we can root out terrorism.
They have been fighting for thousands of years, Sam. We can't put an end to terrorism - it is naive and foolish to think we can root out terrorism.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
Right...but they attacked us, that's the historical separation. Victory to me is killing Bin Laden and permanently disbanding the Taliban, or forcing them into some pathetic semblance of a political force like the Aryan Nation. Of course "the Muslims" don't like us invading. But they are glad to be rid of the Taliban, and there are polls to support that.
Dave Linsalata
I think part of our debate hinges upon time. Let's see in a few years how much public support there is for this war. Remember Bush's war had good support at the start, but when reality set in, many people lost faith in the war. I personally never supported his wars, and will not support this war. I think the public will wake up to that but it will take time. You will see Obama's ratings fall if he sends more troops to afghan and this war goes on for a few years and tons of soldiers die, and debt continues to pile up, and Afghan is still the same corrupt country - then the public will see Obama's policies are no better.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
I mean, I think Bush's support fell when it became clear he didn't give a shit about the Taliban and was just looking for a foot hold in the Middle East. That's why I'm supporting Obama because he's refocusing military attention on the only legitimate beef we had over there.
Dave Linsalata
It comes down to this for me Sam - I can never support a war that I will never fight in myself. If they are such a threat and I feel threatened, then I would join and fight. I don't believe they are an imminent threat. Regardless of the fact that our army is voluntary, I believe if an individual feels threatened and wants to protect his country, they will go and fight for it, not wait on another individual or group to do so.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
Ok, that's fair, but I think its a bit impractical. If everyone got up and fought in Afghanistan when the approval rating was through the roof our country's infrastructure would collapse.
Dave Linsalata
My point is this: Many people talk and talk about how we need to be over there. But many of these people who wouldn't send their sons or daughters, and these congressman and our government can talk all they want about how we need to defend our security, but would they go fight or send their loved ones to do so? No - it's always SOMEONE ELSEfighting the war's for them, even though most people are opposed to this war.
Actually, most liberals do not want a troop increase. It'll be interesting to see if Obama caves into the republicans fear mongering on this, or will he draw back? I think he will cave in and send more troops.
Actually, most liberals do not want a troop increase. It'll be interesting to see if Obama caves into the republicans fear mongering on this, or will he draw back? I think he will cave in and send more troops.
Dave Linsalata
Who is "we," - it is not you and Me Sam - it is the military doing the bidding of our government. Regardless of how much someone says this war is noble and that they believe in it, it is hard for them to make such a statement if they are unwilling to put their life on the line. But that is just my view.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
I think that's strictly a military decision that is unfortunately politicized. I don't have the info or knowledge to make a real call there. As a human, I don't want to see a troop increase, but I'll leave that judgement to the full bird colonels and 4 star generals.
Samuel Lumsden Landfried
If the country forced me to, I wouldn't run to Canada, I would go to war. But thankfully we're not in a situation where we have to do that. I honestly believe I can make a more valuable contribution to the country than as a soldier.
Hoooooooooooooo boy I hope no one did the injustice to themselves of actually reading that. If you did though, is it just me, or does every time Dave use my name sound really condescending?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Franky Franky Frank -TS-C8-
Frank introduced himself to new customers and old timers at Steak & Shake by sneaking up behind them with a yellow "Wet Floor" cone and, using it as a mega phone, mooed loudly. Like a cow. Startled, the patron would jump and turn around, staring wild eyed at the Nubian giant behind them. He feigned ignorance, asking if the pranked had seen a cow. Because he could swear he heard a cow. This joke really didn't get old. Like dogs can pick up on tension in a room before humans because of some innate connection to their environment, Steak & Shake servers learned to watch Frank's artful approach to his attack. He used his janitorial job to blend in and deflect attention. He was a superhero in disguise. We'd watch his shifty eyes searching for prey. Very nonchalant, he'd grab a cone like he was just going to mop the floor. Everyone not trained in Frank-Study would believe it. We knew better. Scooting the cone closer and closer to his target booth, he'd gracefully lift it to his mouth like a Rabbi blowing a shofar and moo. The routine was predictable and totally hilarious.
Frank was really a fun, if eccentric, guy. In his mid forties, he bussed tables and mopped floors. He talked about his wife that left him for another woman and referenced jail time. The rumors about him stealing tips from servers did little to detract from his charm. The stories about him and a friend taking a woman behind a dumpster and going to town, however, did detract. The laugh accompanying the story worried me a little bit when sitting alone with him in the break room. He told the story leaning back in a chair pushed up against the wall. His feet crossed in a chair pushed away from him. His arms rested crossed on his chest. A dish rag covered his eyes and the wall supported his head. He kept shifting positions, trying to get comfortable in his makeshift hammock. The story rolled out, mixed in with chuckles and chair shifting fidgets. The straightforwardness of his telling caught you off guard. It was delivered to impress, a good joke you know told to a girlfriend's parents. "So me and my buddy raped this girl!" He never said rape, to be fair. Who knows, perhaps his dumpster indiscretions were consensual. Covered by a dish rag, the tale didn't seem like it came from the mooing Frank but some super villain in a wash cloth mask. "The Scrubber" they would call him.
One night, Frank in his thirty minute break position, wash cloth visor and all, asked me if I thought God would be upset if he fucked his wife up. He was upset that, to paraphrase, his slut wife was licking some dyke's asshole. If someone asks this question, do you really think they are looking for spiritual consent? From a white kid half your age, nonetheless? I tried to explain that, no, God probably wouldn't approve of whatever "fucking up" your wife entailed. Frank continued to defend his stance. He must have thought I didn't understand she was licking some dyke's asshole. I reiterated my position. Frank went back to work and I told myself I did my part. I hope Frank found his peace on that count.
Jovial and anguished, Frank's character weaved an untraceable double helix of an arc in my experience at Steak & Shake. He walked in the front door, shouted across the restaurant to Mac, "Hey Superman! What's up Superman?" because one time Mac wore a Superman shirt that Frank noticed. I don't think he knew Mac's name. He snuck up behind me and slapped my back, then spit out three sentences so fast I stared at him and asked, "What?" He laughed and didn't explain. Continuing the rounds of greeting, even Mike wasn't spared the overbearing friendliness. Mike was clearly afraid of him and would do his best to ignore the antics in a very un-Mike like fashion. Frank started mopping the floors. He flipped up all the seats onto their tables and did the necessary rearranging of other furniture. Then he set out his cones, making sure to moo at his victim for the night. Next he filled his bucket. Finally he got to work. We all knew the floor was Frank's at this point. More than once his darker side crept to the surface when a new server or kitchen staff stepped within his wet floor zone. Quickly they were informed in less than kind words that Frank did not play when it came to his floors, and they'd be wise to relocate.
The downfall of Frank, along with the night shift vibe of Steak & Shake, strolled into town with the decision to make the franchise nonsmoking. Frank wasn't a smoker, so this is a bit ironic. I remember that night well. All the staff heard we were switching to nonsmoking months before the actual date. It creeped closer and closer like Christmas though, without all the Hallmark reminders. None of us believed it, in classic addict manner. Finally, the night came. It was a Tuesday, a slow night, and the restaurant was empty when the clock started creeping towards midnight. The staff, led by Stovall, gathered in a booth and lit up what we thought was our last cigarette inside Steak & Shake. We finished and it was ten til midnight. So we kept going. Midnight struck and we cheered and cried. Stovall "swept the parking lot" a bit more than necessary that night.
The significance of Steak & Shake going nonsmoking is that afterwards, it became hell, mainly because Stovall was transformed into a more outspoken Mike. Deprived of his chemicals, he was angry all the time and blamed everyone around him. The screaming sessions became more frequent and less reasonable every day. Frank, after borrowing money from a server (as a server you always have cash from tips, so when someone asks to borrow three dollars it is hard to come up with an excuse), sat at the bar eating his eggs and bacon sandwich at three AM before he mopped the floors. I don't remember why, but Stovall had a problem with it. He decided this was the time to step his authoratative foot down on the man that mooed. Frank screamed, Stovall screamed, and no one was happy. Frank stormed out. He came back the next day but with promises to not stand for that shit. The shit kept coming, and Frank along with many others, including myself, couldn't deal with the new managerial style.
Frank was scrubbing floors at a steak house not long after Stovall's nicotineless-anger drove him out. I guess in the world of retail food, a steak house is a step up from Steak & Shake since they actually serve steaks. However, the peanut shells on the floor must be a constant affront to Frank's pride: the sparkling floor. Control is what it comes down to. He controlled that floor. He was a grown man. He couldn't control his dyke wife and her ass licking inclinations. He couldn't control his senseless boss or his addiction. But that floor. That was his goddamnit.
Frank was really a fun, if eccentric, guy. In his mid forties, he bussed tables and mopped floors. He talked about his wife that left him for another woman and referenced jail time. The rumors about him stealing tips from servers did little to detract from his charm. The stories about him and a friend taking a woman behind a dumpster and going to town, however, did detract. The laugh accompanying the story worried me a little bit when sitting alone with him in the break room. He told the story leaning back in a chair pushed up against the wall. His feet crossed in a chair pushed away from him. His arms rested crossed on his chest. A dish rag covered his eyes and the wall supported his head. He kept shifting positions, trying to get comfortable in his makeshift hammock. The story rolled out, mixed in with chuckles and chair shifting fidgets. The straightforwardness of his telling caught you off guard. It was delivered to impress, a good joke you know told to a girlfriend's parents. "So me and my buddy raped this girl!" He never said rape, to be fair. Who knows, perhaps his dumpster indiscretions were consensual. Covered by a dish rag, the tale didn't seem like it came from the mooing Frank but some super villain in a wash cloth mask. "The Scrubber" they would call him.
One night, Frank in his thirty minute break position, wash cloth visor and all, asked me if I thought God would be upset if he fucked his wife up. He was upset that, to paraphrase, his slut wife was licking some dyke's asshole. If someone asks this question, do you really think they are looking for spiritual consent? From a white kid half your age, nonetheless? I tried to explain that, no, God probably wouldn't approve of whatever "fucking up" your wife entailed. Frank continued to defend his stance. He must have thought I didn't understand she was licking some dyke's asshole. I reiterated my position. Frank went back to work and I told myself I did my part. I hope Frank found his peace on that count.
Jovial and anguished, Frank's character weaved an untraceable double helix of an arc in my experience at Steak & Shake. He walked in the front door, shouted across the restaurant to Mac, "Hey Superman! What's up Superman?" because one time Mac wore a Superman shirt that Frank noticed. I don't think he knew Mac's name. He snuck up behind me and slapped my back, then spit out three sentences so fast I stared at him and asked, "What?" He laughed and didn't explain. Continuing the rounds of greeting, even Mike wasn't spared the overbearing friendliness. Mike was clearly afraid of him and would do his best to ignore the antics in a very un-Mike like fashion. Frank started mopping the floors. He flipped up all the seats onto their tables and did the necessary rearranging of other furniture. Then he set out his cones, making sure to moo at his victim for the night. Next he filled his bucket. Finally he got to work. We all knew the floor was Frank's at this point. More than once his darker side crept to the surface when a new server or kitchen staff stepped within his wet floor zone. Quickly they were informed in less than kind words that Frank did not play when it came to his floors, and they'd be wise to relocate.
The downfall of Frank, along with the night shift vibe of Steak & Shake, strolled into town with the decision to make the franchise nonsmoking. Frank wasn't a smoker, so this is a bit ironic. I remember that night well. All the staff heard we were switching to nonsmoking months before the actual date. It creeped closer and closer like Christmas though, without all the Hallmark reminders. None of us believed it, in classic addict manner. Finally, the night came. It was a Tuesday, a slow night, and the restaurant was empty when the clock started creeping towards midnight. The staff, led by Stovall, gathered in a booth and lit up what we thought was our last cigarette inside Steak & Shake. We finished and it was ten til midnight. So we kept going. Midnight struck and we cheered and cried. Stovall "swept the parking lot" a bit more than necessary that night.
The significance of Steak & Shake going nonsmoking is that afterwards, it became hell, mainly because Stovall was transformed into a more outspoken Mike. Deprived of his chemicals, he was angry all the time and blamed everyone around him. The screaming sessions became more frequent and less reasonable every day. Frank, after borrowing money from a server (as a server you always have cash from tips, so when someone asks to borrow three dollars it is hard to come up with an excuse), sat at the bar eating his eggs and bacon sandwich at three AM before he mopped the floors. I don't remember why, but Stovall had a problem with it. He decided this was the time to step his authoratative foot down on the man that mooed. Frank screamed, Stovall screamed, and no one was happy. Frank stormed out. He came back the next day but with promises to not stand for that shit. The shit kept coming, and Frank along with many others, including myself, couldn't deal with the new managerial style.
Frank was scrubbing floors at a steak house not long after Stovall's nicotineless-anger drove him out. I guess in the world of retail food, a steak house is a step up from Steak & Shake since they actually serve steaks. However, the peanut shells on the floor must be a constant affront to Frank's pride: the sparkling floor. Control is what it comes down to. He controlled that floor. He was a grown man. He couldn't control his dyke wife and her ass licking inclinations. He couldn't control his senseless boss or his addiction. But that floor. That was his goddamnit.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
My Background is Supreme
Badness after badness piles up like sand in an hourglass. Alone insignificant, each grain added together marks the weight I do not want to bear. Flowing through time these grains are the changes that hurt and the signs of progress. Each grain has a story, and it would tell you if you asked. Each story is boring, mundane, but each grain added together builds a castle of feelings I don't understand.
They tell me my body is healing. They say it is better than slow suicide. Audre Lorde says we should not live fearing death. To avoid suicide is to avoid life. Philosophy or rationalization? What's the difference? Live to fight, and fight to live. Don't be a lover, be a fighter. I wish I was a fighter. I wish I was a lover. I wish I was fought. I wish I was loved. The Wild Things live in the dark parts of us. Maurice Sendak promises they are kind if we conquer them. I want to find out, but I want it to be easy.
Each grain reminds me of my loves, my hates and my lives. Sliding sand is a high-speed slideshow of memories that hurt too much to examine closely. Thankfully I watch the sand slide, one new wave covering the old. The cycle is self perpetuating. The sands of happiness are buried by the sands of loneliness. Digging through the pile, the old sand is tarnished by the fresh layer. I dig as deep as I can and all of it tells me why it hurts, and why it should hurt. I know at the core though is the magma that warms our planet and arranges our mountains. So I dig through the hurt and I dig to find the magma that warms and burns.
The sand grows faster than I can dig. This hour glass measures eternity. You don't need to flip it over.
Each grain reminds me of my loves, my hates and my lives. Sliding sand is a high-speed slideshow of memories that hurt too much to examine closely. Thankfully I watch the sand slide, one new wave covering the old. The cycle is self perpetuating. The sands of happiness are buried by the sands of loneliness. Digging through the pile, the old sand is tarnished by the fresh layer. I dig as deep as I can and all of it tells me why it hurts, and why it should hurt. I know at the core though is the magma that warms our planet and arranges our mountains. So I dig through the hurt and I dig to find the magma that warms and burns.
The sand grows faster than I can dig. This hour glass measures eternity. You don't need to flip it over.
Grain by grain my body and mind grows. Stronger? Weaker? Stabler? Shakier? The sand tells my story, grain by grain. They tell me my body is healing. Maybe I would agree if I could step back from each falling grain and see the hourglass.
Monday, October 5, 2009
DQ Blizzard -TS-C7-
For some reason, at some point, my friends started working at Steak & Shake, too. At one point, three others of our crew of eightish worked at Steak & Shake. Mac flipped burgers. Travis washed dishes. Dan made milkshakes for one night, maybe two. I kept serving. Somehow, our affinity for the restaurant as customers confused us into believing the experience as employees would be the same. In many ways it was. The unemployed members of our gang still came in and benefitted from improved access to free food, and the employed ones spent a solid amount of time hanging out with them in the dining room, or with each other in the break room.
Out of our various stations of employment, I was the luckiest. Most importantly, I made more money than any of the hourly wage workers. Second, I got to deal with humans besides angry coworkers. Comparision aside, their jobs just sucked. Mac routinely burned himself on the large, flat single burner that was the griddle for the World Famous Steak Burgers. He sweated from the heat and stress induced by Mike on the weekends. Travis never caught a break and was blamed for any delay of procedure, since it was his responsibility to collect dirty dishes from the dining room, then wash them, then bring them out for the servers and kitchen staff to use. Once business slowed down in the earlier parts of the morning he had to mop the restaurant and then rinse the floor, basically remopping it. He got the chance to go home early less than anyone else. One particularly miserable weekend had him degreasing the corners made by any wall or partition connecting to the floor, vacuuming the sealing, and thoroughly washing every window and reflective surface in a restaurant made halfly of chrome. By the time I quit, Mac was the only remaining element of the once proud and well represented, "Coffee Boys," an affectionate name granted by Julie.
By far, Dan had the shortest run as a Steak & Shake employee. His initials were DQ, a novelty we realized when Stovall decided his job would be working the essential milk shake fountain. Doesn't that sound like a fun job? It isn't. After the first milkshake you can't wait to make one for yourself on your break. On your break, after you finished making your fiftieth milkshake, your entire body feels like your tongue does after eating a big ice cream cone. Microscopic molecules of sugar work their way into your skin, making microscopic cuts that add up to irritation on par with a long day at the beach, assaulted by sand, wind, saltwater and sun. The smell of milk overpowers your nose and all that remains of your olfactory glands is an unkillable lingering of dairy. Or, in the words of Dan, "It fucking sucks." In addition to the physical problems associated with high-quantity milkshake production, it had an element of stress one wouldn't normally associate with, "hand-dipped, real milkshakes."
Dan worked by himself, the lone soldier armed with tubs of generic frozen dairy product, a full bar of syrups, and some mixing contraptions straight out of Hellraiser. Had Dan stayed longer, he would have learned the trick to effective milkshaking is preparation. Whenever someone orders a chocolate milkshake, don't make one milkshake, make as many as you can and save the rest for the next person that orders a milkshake. However, anyway you shake it, it is still a hard job. To complicate the endless orders of milkshakes, malts, sundaes and cobblers, customers can customize their order with nuts, hot fudge, caramel sauce, cherries, whipped cream and specific amounts of milk, syrup, or variations in consistency. It's not easy to keep up with the orders, and I imagine it a bit of a blow to the ego to see customers enjoying your blood, sweat and tears so thanklessly. I got the money from them when that milkshake was particularly delicious, Dan got near-hypothermic fingers and a permanent aversion to dairy based desserts.
Speaking of desserts and their influence on gratuity, Steak & Shake had this policy where at the discretion of the server, a dessert could be given to a table free of charge to compensate for any problems that might come up during the meal. I had a policy where I tried to make as much money as possible. Giving your customers free stuff, especially when they don't ask for it, is a surefire way to achieve this end. You had to ask for a refill? I'm so sorry! Please, let me get you a Berry Berry Cobbler to resolve this injustice. Your French Fries weren't crisp? By all means, enjoy this Brownie Fudge Sundae. (God those brownies were good).
Back to Dan. He had a feisty latin temper, and his pride butted against the demands of the masses incurably. I really think he never came back after the first night, and I'm not sure if he even finished his shift. It was this same pride that kept him from hanging his head and shame and backing out of the Steak & Shake life, though. In fact, I probably couldn't have stayed at Steak & Shake for as long as I did if not for Dan. You see, I didn't (and still don't) own a car. Corey gave me rides to work, or let me borrow his car, but usually I was stuck looking for a ride at five or six AM. Dan, afflicted by Halo similarly to me, was up at these hours fragging his way to multi kills and rampages, making a name for himself in the virtual Microsoft Live universe. He used to play on my account (Landfried) and when he migrated to his own he kept part of the name he earned his reputation with and I believe goes by the tag DANXXFRIED or something like that. But he would pick me up. We shared a couple cups of coffee, actually Mountain Dew in his case, and hung out at the restaurant before the breakfast crowd started showing up.
It was always a surreal transition from dinner to third shift, or third shift to breakfast. I mentioned earlier how Steak & Shake was a very different place during the night. I always forgot the side of the social spectrum beyond the bar rush crowd, late night college students and general weirdos that popped in during the early AM. After doing battle with the hordes of insomniacs and drunks, it was slightly confusing to see groggy eyed factory workers and senior citizens coming in for their usual, low key breakfasts. The sun rose and filled the restaurant with harsh, direct light. People were quiet, building up the nutrients and energy needed to face their day. Dan and I didn't live in their world. We just finished our day, and we certainly didn't understand, and wouldn't be able to deal with, the lifestyle these individuals chose or found themselves in.
What does it say about him and I as people that the majority of humans in our country, the 9-5 early risers were space aliens to us? What value set and life path had we embarked on to feel so separated from the normal? It's not like we were artists or people pursuing a higher ideal than afforded by conventional lifestyles. We were just kids not really considering where life was taking us. We were having fun surfing down the road of faux-adulthood. For the first time in both of our lives we were self sufficient. We provided our own food, shelter and clothes. Perhaps back then that was enough for us. Never did we stop to consider what we would do with those things.
Out of our various stations of employment, I was the luckiest. Most importantly, I made more money than any of the hourly wage workers. Second, I got to deal with humans besides angry coworkers. Comparision aside, their jobs just sucked. Mac routinely burned himself on the large, flat single burner that was the griddle for the World Famous Steak Burgers. He sweated from the heat and stress induced by Mike on the weekends. Travis never caught a break and was blamed for any delay of procedure, since it was his responsibility to collect dirty dishes from the dining room, then wash them, then bring them out for the servers and kitchen staff to use. Once business slowed down in the earlier parts of the morning he had to mop the restaurant and then rinse the floor, basically remopping it. He got the chance to go home early less than anyone else. One particularly miserable weekend had him degreasing the corners made by any wall or partition connecting to the floor, vacuuming the sealing, and thoroughly washing every window and reflective surface in a restaurant made halfly of chrome. By the time I quit, Mac was the only remaining element of the once proud and well represented, "Coffee Boys," an affectionate name granted by Julie.
By far, Dan had the shortest run as a Steak & Shake employee. His initials were DQ, a novelty we realized when Stovall decided his job would be working the essential milk shake fountain. Doesn't that sound like a fun job? It isn't. After the first milkshake you can't wait to make one for yourself on your break. On your break, after you finished making your fiftieth milkshake, your entire body feels like your tongue does after eating a big ice cream cone. Microscopic molecules of sugar work their way into your skin, making microscopic cuts that add up to irritation on par with a long day at the beach, assaulted by sand, wind, saltwater and sun. The smell of milk overpowers your nose and all that remains of your olfactory glands is an unkillable lingering of dairy. Or, in the words of Dan, "It fucking sucks." In addition to the physical problems associated with high-quantity milkshake production, it had an element of stress one wouldn't normally associate with, "hand-dipped, real milkshakes."
Dan worked by himself, the lone soldier armed with tubs of generic frozen dairy product, a full bar of syrups, and some mixing contraptions straight out of Hellraiser. Had Dan stayed longer, he would have learned the trick to effective milkshaking is preparation. Whenever someone orders a chocolate milkshake, don't make one milkshake, make as many as you can and save the rest for the next person that orders a milkshake. However, anyway you shake it, it is still a hard job. To complicate the endless orders of milkshakes, malts, sundaes and cobblers, customers can customize their order with nuts, hot fudge, caramel sauce, cherries, whipped cream and specific amounts of milk, syrup, or variations in consistency. It's not easy to keep up with the orders, and I imagine it a bit of a blow to the ego to see customers enjoying your blood, sweat and tears so thanklessly. I got the money from them when that milkshake was particularly delicious, Dan got near-hypothermic fingers and a permanent aversion to dairy based desserts.
Speaking of desserts and their influence on gratuity, Steak & Shake had this policy where at the discretion of the server, a dessert could be given to a table free of charge to compensate for any problems that might come up during the meal. I had a policy where I tried to make as much money as possible. Giving your customers free stuff, especially when they don't ask for it, is a surefire way to achieve this end. You had to ask for a refill? I'm so sorry! Please, let me get you a Berry Berry Cobbler to resolve this injustice. Your French Fries weren't crisp? By all means, enjoy this Brownie Fudge Sundae. (God those brownies were good).
Back to Dan. He had a feisty latin temper, and his pride butted against the demands of the masses incurably. I really think he never came back after the first night, and I'm not sure if he even finished his shift. It was this same pride that kept him from hanging his head and shame and backing out of the Steak & Shake life, though. In fact, I probably couldn't have stayed at Steak & Shake for as long as I did if not for Dan. You see, I didn't (and still don't) own a car. Corey gave me rides to work, or let me borrow his car, but usually I was stuck looking for a ride at five or six AM. Dan, afflicted by Halo similarly to me, was up at these hours fragging his way to multi kills and rampages, making a name for himself in the virtual Microsoft Live universe. He used to play on my account (Landfried) and when he migrated to his own he kept part of the name he earned his reputation with and I believe goes by the tag DANXXFRIED or something like that. But he would pick me up. We shared a couple cups of coffee, actually Mountain Dew in his case, and hung out at the restaurant before the breakfast crowd started showing up.
It was always a surreal transition from dinner to third shift, or third shift to breakfast. I mentioned earlier how Steak & Shake was a very different place during the night. I always forgot the side of the social spectrum beyond the bar rush crowd, late night college students and general weirdos that popped in during the early AM. After doing battle with the hordes of insomniacs and drunks, it was slightly confusing to see groggy eyed factory workers and senior citizens coming in for their usual, low key breakfasts. The sun rose and filled the restaurant with harsh, direct light. People were quiet, building up the nutrients and energy needed to face their day. Dan and I didn't live in their world. We just finished our day, and we certainly didn't understand, and wouldn't be able to deal with, the lifestyle these individuals chose or found themselves in.
What does it say about him and I as people that the majority of humans in our country, the 9-5 early risers were space aliens to us? What value set and life path had we embarked on to feel so separated from the normal? It's not like we were artists or people pursuing a higher ideal than afforded by conventional lifestyles. We were just kids not really considering where life was taking us. We were having fun surfing down the road of faux-adulthood. For the first time in both of our lives we were self sufficient. We provided our own food, shelter and clothes. Perhaps back then that was enough for us. Never did we stop to consider what we would do with those things.
Learning Makes Me Cry
I decided it would be a good idea to go to one of my classes that I haven't attended since the first day of this semester. Perhaps I'm a weirdo, but I don't deal well with big lecture classes. There are probably 100 kids in this class, most of them on a laptop, staring at the bulbous professor pace back and forth on the stage. Behind him a giant powerpoint projection plasters the wall. Almost every sentence he repeats. Sometimes he repeats them twice. This probably is to emphasize a point in addition to giving the note takers a chance to transcribe verbatim.
The format of large lecture classes allows for little beyond rote memorization. Really, if the University is worried about saving money and consolidating resources, they should just offer the class online. Virtually, that is the experience in a class of that size. There is no interaction, we do not discuss and analyze. We are presented with information that we are supposed to digest. The professor provides an experience comparable to reading a book. Assembling people to share the information in the same room is a facade of intellectualism. This is not a chimney-side parlor talk. This is a television channel broadcast from 100 miles away.
Again, perhaps it is just me that doesn't get much out of this method of education. I need to interact to learn. I have to pick up the ball of an idea and run my fingers over it to absorb the texture. I need to lift it and toss it to a friend to recognize its weight. I need that friend to toss it back at me, maybe aggressively, for me to feel its impact. My classroom experience was more like walking through a museum of ideas. In the distance, on the stage, the ball sat on a pedestal. We were invited to look at it and listen to our tour guide describe its characteristics. Look but don't touch is a disgusting mantra that is callous in its insult to humanity.
The format of large lecture classes allows for little beyond rote memorization. Really, if the University is worried about saving money and consolidating resources, they should just offer the class online. Virtually, that is the experience in a class of that size. There is no interaction, we do not discuss and analyze. We are presented with information that we are supposed to digest. The professor provides an experience comparable to reading a book. Assembling people to share the information in the same room is a facade of intellectualism. This is not a chimney-side parlor talk. This is a television channel broadcast from 100 miles away.
Again, perhaps it is just me that doesn't get much out of this method of education. I need to interact to learn. I have to pick up the ball of an idea and run my fingers over it to absorb the texture. I need to lift it and toss it to a friend to recognize its weight. I need that friend to toss it back at me, maybe aggressively, for me to feel its impact. My classroom experience was more like walking through a museum of ideas. In the distance, on the stage, the ball sat on a pedestal. We were invited to look at it and listen to our tour guide describe its characteristics. Look but don't touch is a disgusting mantra that is callous in its insult to humanity.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Rush -TS-C6-
If you never lived in the Bible Belt or Utah, you might not be familiar with "Blue Laws". The religious powers that be decided to impose "God's Will" on the heathens led astray by booze. Nonsensical restrictions abound in Kentucky. For example, you can't buy alcohol anywhere except restaurants on Sunday. Beer is available at gas stations and grocery stores but wine and liquor are only available in liquor stores. These liquor stores have to close at 11 pm. You can still buy alcohol at bars until 2 am, and gas stations and grocery stores still sell it until then. The 12 am marker on Saturday night/Sunday morning is a bit of a gray area, and whether or not you can buy beer for the first 2 hours of Sunday varies from vendor to vendor. Apparently God couldn't make up his mind on the most effective limitations on piousness.
Like clockwork Steak & Shake was inundated with the falling-over-drunk shortly after the clock struck 2. We called this the bar rush, because that's exactly what it was. The restaurant sat 130 people, and it wasn't rare for their to be a line of drunks waiting for a table. The most servers I remember every being handy at that hour was five, and more usually it was two or three. In some ways this job of biblically difficult proportions was a blessing. On a good night you could pull in $100 or more in tips. Not because the drunks were particularly generous, but because there were simply so many of them. Making just $1 per table per hour led to some nice dough. That raises the question though, how much would you sell your sanity for?
More than once I saw a customer's request for extra salad dressing or a spilled tray of food lead to tearful breakdowns in the break room or explosive, screaming resignations. Servers were tense like cats threatened by an overfriendly dog. Backs arched, we approached our tables frantically and prayed they didn't expect much. Multi-tasking was an essential skill, and those that lacked it earned the wrath of all the other servers like Gomer Pyle. We didn't beat the incompetent with socks stuffed with bars of soap, but we talked behind their back, we didn't play on their team. We left them to drown in the sea of their outraged patrons. They didn't stay long. The list of servers culled out of third shift serving at Steak & Shake is imposing. Memorizing the needs of five tables at once was mandatory for survival. Ketchup at the booth thirteen, three Cokes and a sweet tea at table twenty five in the corral. Side of fries with cheese on the side at the bar. You could write it all down if you wanted to but the tickets started to get confused. You were better off winging it at break neck speeds, motivated by the knowledge that if you stopped or dropped the ball at one table the whole universe would collapse. Even more futile was plugging the orders in to their full accuracy at the computer. Not recording six drinks or additions after the initial order made time sense, and therefore money sense. Haphazardly surfing the rush, the successful servers went with the flow and just kept smiling until their brains fried.
The first few weeks, to adjust to the unusual, late-night time frame, I took ephedrine to stay energized. This is what Wikipedia says about ephedrine:
A variation of the bar rush was the Bosnian rush. Bowling Green has an unusually high percentage of Bosnian immigrants. I've heard this explained by Bowling Green being an international refugee center. I can't confirm this, but I do know I was always a little surprised how Bowling Green, Ky. attracted such a large number of war torn Eastern Europeans. It seems that at night they traveled in packs, not to belittle them or compare them to predatory animals, but this was just a fact. Once a week or even less, they decided Steak & Shake was the cultural center of Bosnian culture, and they fell on the establishment like locust. Allow me to defend myself in the midst of the racism I'm spewing. I was really great friends with several Bosnians and have no issue with their culture or residence in Kentucky. However, it is indisputable that after a night at the bars, and concentrated into one room, they were a hand full.
The Bosnian rush usually started with a large Slav looking gentleman in a tight black shirt with metal necklaces who sported a short, slicked hair cut. His alpha male intentions reeked up the room while his lady friends followed him in. Usually there were two or three of them, and the general attire was tight jeans, high heels and some sort of low cut, transparent blouse. Heavy make up finished the picture. If they waited for a table, which usually they did not, a pet peeve of mine as a waiter, they would greet the server or host with an upturned nose and communicate in grunts and nods. Once sat, their interactions with each other usually involved faces of boredom and the occasional complaint about some personal drama. The girls looked in their compacts and applied make up while the man usually put an arm on the top of the booth and stretched his feet out while looking around the restaurant like he was scanning for rogue male lions threatening his pride.
The group grew exponentially. Next two crews showed up, then four, then eight, then the restaurant was full of people that all seemed to know each other, switching tables at will to shake hands with a friend or hit on a girl. I'm all for one love and that bullshit, but as a server, trying to keep track of dozens of individual tickets moving throughout a restaurant of people trying to look identical, it made life a little bit of a hell. In their defense, they tipped better than any other ethnic group (Caucasians included). They had a habit of making things very uncomfortable for me with questions that maybe weren't weird in their culture? "My girl thinks you're cute" or "You look like you know where the weed is" were met with my awkward smile, slow nod, and quick exit.
Some times the giant group led to serious problems. One time some guy got jumped in the bathroom, and I think he got stabbed. The police showed up and the servers kept trying to get those Frisco Melts out. Without fail, someone would vomit in the bathroom, and occasionally shit on the floor. I imagine the motivation behind that was just messing with the staff, surely no one could make it into a restaurant so drunk that they really don't get how to use a toilet? I remember another night where it wasn't so much a Bosnian rush but a table of Bosnians very intox. They had a food fight. They threw soup on each other and then chased each other around the restaurant. I actually got them more soup when they explained they spilled it on accident. I'll admit they scared me. They dripped machismo I had never encountered before. I usually didn't take crap from tables, or at least I wouldn't respond well to it. I earned notoriety for kicking a table out after they sat at a table without waiting to be seated. But I licked these guys' boots. I'm not proud of it, but I did make a lot of money off them.
By far, the most epic rush, that I only experienced once, was the legendary New Year's rush. Weeks before the first minute of 2006 the servers told stories of past New Years with terrified reverence. They spoke of the holiday with the air of an urban legend that people half believe, like the psychopath who escaped from the insane asylum showing up in the backseat of that poor girl's car. On December 31st minutes before midnight I stood in the server station behind the soda fountains, staring at an empty dining room. Literally not one table was occupied. The parking lot was empty and snow lightly fell from the sky. Mike, the dry drunk general manager, stood with me. He held a small glass cup, the one's servers drank out of. He too stared at the empty tables. He hit the trigger for Dr. Pepper and filled his glass with slow, calculated movements unusual for his normal, panicked and frenetic approach to motion. He uttered the only words I ever remember being able to understand from him. Not so much to me as to himself and the universe, he said, "The quiet before the storm." The room was so quiet that we could hear the big hand on the clock swing to the 12 position.
Someone from the kitchen yelled, "Happy New Year!" The rest of the staff, which was quite a few since they scheduled every employee they could for the night, sat quietly casting sideways glances at Mike. Before the second hand finished a full rotation on the clock, a single sedan drove carefully into the parking lot. Four staggering college students fell out of their car and stumbled towards the restaurant.
Mike set his Dr. Pepper down, looked out the window and said, "Here they come." He turned around and walked into the kitchen like a dead-man-walking. Within five minutes two school buses, countless cars, taxis and drunk buses dropped off troves of people in spirits much higher than ours. Many held plastic cups and wore silly glasses and party hats. They were loud, they were happy, and they were drunk. We tried to keep up with the deluge, we tried to sit them on time and keep up with the three-minute-after-food-delivery check ups. We tried to get orders right and we tried to keep smiling but we were drowning.
Like an unprepared General, Mike screamed at the kitchen staff while casting eyes-ablaze on any server that tried to ask him a question. The servers pulled each other's limp bodies through the trenches and gave encouraging words of false hope. That was all that kept us from drowning ourselves in the deep fryer. It is remarkable how the communal high of celebration shared by the customers manifested in unparalleled rage towards the servers. Their derision fueled the inebriated party in our restaurant. I went numb. I stared at my tables without the slightest attempt at pleasantness. At one group of eight too distracted with themselves to look at me I yelled, "What do you need? What do you want?" They didn't respond, so I left and went to the next table. How unhappy we were correlated directly to how good of a time they had.
Physically we survived, but I think I speak for the staff as a whole when I say a part of us died that day. When the restaurant finally cleared several hours later we huddled in booths and shook while we stared at the mess we had to clean up before we went home. Several bills went unpaid and Mike was busy tracking down the servers responsible and made the usual threats of forcing us to pay the tabs. Less exhausted we probably would have defended ourselves somehow, but we just sighed. I actually gave him thirteen dollars for one of the tickets. I was a soldier tired of battle. War weary I was willing to pay any price for peace.
Being New Years and all, I feel like I should finish this piece with something about resolutions. Perhaps I resolved to lead my life in a way that would guarantee never again would I celebrate the upcoming 365 days with people I despised to make some bucks. I didn't. There was talk at the beginning of the night of resolutions to quit smoking. I think even the non-smokers were hammering in a few coffin nails after that night, and who could blame them.
Like clockwork Steak & Shake was inundated with the falling-over-drunk shortly after the clock struck 2. We called this the bar rush, because that's exactly what it was. The restaurant sat 130 people, and it wasn't rare for their to be a line of drunks waiting for a table. The most servers I remember every being handy at that hour was five, and more usually it was two or three. In some ways this job of biblically difficult proportions was a blessing. On a good night you could pull in $100 or more in tips. Not because the drunks were particularly generous, but because there were simply so many of them. Making just $1 per table per hour led to some nice dough. That raises the question though, how much would you sell your sanity for?
More than once I saw a customer's request for extra salad dressing or a spilled tray of food lead to tearful breakdowns in the break room or explosive, screaming resignations. Servers were tense like cats threatened by an overfriendly dog. Backs arched, we approached our tables frantically and prayed they didn't expect much. Multi-tasking was an essential skill, and those that lacked it earned the wrath of all the other servers like Gomer Pyle. We didn't beat the incompetent with socks stuffed with bars of soap, but we talked behind their back, we didn't play on their team. We left them to drown in the sea of their outraged patrons. They didn't stay long. The list of servers culled out of third shift serving at Steak & Shake is imposing. Memorizing the needs of five tables at once was mandatory for survival. Ketchup at the booth thirteen, three Cokes and a sweet tea at table twenty five in the corral. Side of fries with cheese on the side at the bar. You could write it all down if you wanted to but the tickets started to get confused. You were better off winging it at break neck speeds, motivated by the knowledge that if you stopped or dropped the ball at one table the whole universe would collapse. Even more futile was plugging the orders in to their full accuracy at the computer. Not recording six drinks or additions after the initial order made time sense, and therefore money sense. Haphazardly surfing the rush, the successful servers went with the flow and just kept smiling until their brains fried.
The first few weeks, to adjust to the unusual, late-night time frame, I took ephedrine to stay energized. This is what Wikipedia says about ephedrine:
Ephedrine (EPH) is a sympathomimetic amine commonly used as a stimulant, appetite suppressant, concentration aid, decongestant, and to treat hypotension associated with anaesthesia. Ephedrine is similar in structure to the (semi-) synthetic derivatives amphetamine and methamphetamineDid you notice the line about Ephedrine being similar to methamphetamine? Ephedrine is marketed in several different ways. You can, or used to be able to, buy it at any gas station with attractive names like, "Hot Body Xtreme" on account of its hunger suppressing qualities, or "Yellow Jacket", appealing to dozy truckers. If I attempted to market the drug accurately, I would call it, "Simulated Heart AttackZ". The drug kept me alert, but I'm not convinced it was for any reason other than I was literally afraid I was going to die. I could almost see my pulse throbbing, no, exploding out of my wrist. My ribs cracked from the strength of my heart beating against them. My head would snap from left to right and my hands fought the shakes while I rolled silverware or tried to distribute a tray of ten tall glasses of soda. Abrupt, sharp, unexpected laughter would meet my tables when they made some friendly joke. Ephedrine did not mix will with a bar rush, a situation that already produces anxiety, and with slightly higher blood pressure probably real heart attacks. Eventually I decided a steady IV drip of coffee did the trick just as well without the fear of death.
A variation of the bar rush was the Bosnian rush. Bowling Green has an unusually high percentage of Bosnian immigrants. I've heard this explained by Bowling Green being an international refugee center. I can't confirm this, but I do know I was always a little surprised how Bowling Green, Ky. attracted such a large number of war torn Eastern Europeans. It seems that at night they traveled in packs, not to belittle them or compare them to predatory animals, but this was just a fact. Once a week or even less, they decided Steak & Shake was the cultural center of Bosnian culture, and they fell on the establishment like locust. Allow me to defend myself in the midst of the racism I'm spewing. I was really great friends with several Bosnians and have no issue with their culture or residence in Kentucky. However, it is indisputable that after a night at the bars, and concentrated into one room, they were a hand full.
The Bosnian rush usually started with a large Slav looking gentleman in a tight black shirt with metal necklaces who sported a short, slicked hair cut. His alpha male intentions reeked up the room while his lady friends followed him in. Usually there were two or three of them, and the general attire was tight jeans, high heels and some sort of low cut, transparent blouse. Heavy make up finished the picture. If they waited for a table, which usually they did not, a pet peeve of mine as a waiter, they would greet the server or host with an upturned nose and communicate in grunts and nods. Once sat, their interactions with each other usually involved faces of boredom and the occasional complaint about some personal drama. The girls looked in their compacts and applied make up while the man usually put an arm on the top of the booth and stretched his feet out while looking around the restaurant like he was scanning for rogue male lions threatening his pride.
The group grew exponentially. Next two crews showed up, then four, then eight, then the restaurant was full of people that all seemed to know each other, switching tables at will to shake hands with a friend or hit on a girl. I'm all for one love and that bullshit, but as a server, trying to keep track of dozens of individual tickets moving throughout a restaurant of people trying to look identical, it made life a little bit of a hell. In their defense, they tipped better than any other ethnic group (Caucasians included). They had a habit of making things very uncomfortable for me with questions that maybe weren't weird in their culture? "My girl thinks you're cute" or "You look like you know where the weed is" were met with my awkward smile, slow nod, and quick exit.
Some times the giant group led to serious problems. One time some guy got jumped in the bathroom, and I think he got stabbed. The police showed up and the servers kept trying to get those Frisco Melts out. Without fail, someone would vomit in the bathroom, and occasionally shit on the floor. I imagine the motivation behind that was just messing with the staff, surely no one could make it into a restaurant so drunk that they really don't get how to use a toilet? I remember another night where it wasn't so much a Bosnian rush but a table of Bosnians very intox. They had a food fight. They threw soup on each other and then chased each other around the restaurant. I actually got them more soup when they explained they spilled it on accident. I'll admit they scared me. They dripped machismo I had never encountered before. I usually didn't take crap from tables, or at least I wouldn't respond well to it. I earned notoriety for kicking a table out after they sat at a table without waiting to be seated. But I licked these guys' boots. I'm not proud of it, but I did make a lot of money off them.
By far, the most epic rush, that I only experienced once, was the legendary New Year's rush. Weeks before the first minute of 2006 the servers told stories of past New Years with terrified reverence. They spoke of the holiday with the air of an urban legend that people half believe, like the psychopath who escaped from the insane asylum showing up in the backseat of that poor girl's car. On December 31st minutes before midnight I stood in the server station behind the soda fountains, staring at an empty dining room. Literally not one table was occupied. The parking lot was empty and snow lightly fell from the sky. Mike, the dry drunk general manager, stood with me. He held a small glass cup, the one's servers drank out of. He too stared at the empty tables. He hit the trigger for Dr. Pepper and filled his glass with slow, calculated movements unusual for his normal, panicked and frenetic approach to motion. He uttered the only words I ever remember being able to understand from him. Not so much to me as to himself and the universe, he said, "The quiet before the storm." The room was so quiet that we could hear the big hand on the clock swing to the 12 position.
Someone from the kitchen yelled, "Happy New Year!" The rest of the staff, which was quite a few since they scheduled every employee they could for the night, sat quietly casting sideways glances at Mike. Before the second hand finished a full rotation on the clock, a single sedan drove carefully into the parking lot. Four staggering college students fell out of their car and stumbled towards the restaurant.
Mike set his Dr. Pepper down, looked out the window and said, "Here they come." He turned around and walked into the kitchen like a dead-man-walking. Within five minutes two school buses, countless cars, taxis and drunk buses dropped off troves of people in spirits much higher than ours. Many held plastic cups and wore silly glasses and party hats. They were loud, they were happy, and they were drunk. We tried to keep up with the deluge, we tried to sit them on time and keep up with the three-minute-after-food-delivery check ups. We tried to get orders right and we tried to keep smiling but we were drowning.
Like an unprepared General, Mike screamed at the kitchen staff while casting eyes-ablaze on any server that tried to ask him a question. The servers pulled each other's limp bodies through the trenches and gave encouraging words of false hope. That was all that kept us from drowning ourselves in the deep fryer. It is remarkable how the communal high of celebration shared by the customers manifested in unparalleled rage towards the servers. Their derision fueled the inebriated party in our restaurant. I went numb. I stared at my tables without the slightest attempt at pleasantness. At one group of eight too distracted with themselves to look at me I yelled, "What do you need? What do you want?" They didn't respond, so I left and went to the next table. How unhappy we were correlated directly to how good of a time they had.
Physically we survived, but I think I speak for the staff as a whole when I say a part of us died that day. When the restaurant finally cleared several hours later we huddled in booths and shook while we stared at the mess we had to clean up before we went home. Several bills went unpaid and Mike was busy tracking down the servers responsible and made the usual threats of forcing us to pay the tabs. Less exhausted we probably would have defended ourselves somehow, but we just sighed. I actually gave him thirteen dollars for one of the tickets. I was a soldier tired of battle. War weary I was willing to pay any price for peace.
Being New Years and all, I feel like I should finish this piece with something about resolutions. Perhaps I resolved to lead my life in a way that would guarantee never again would I celebrate the upcoming 365 days with people I despised to make some bucks. I didn't. There was talk at the beginning of the night of resolutions to quit smoking. I think even the non-smokers were hammering in a few coffin nails after that night, and who could blame them.
celebrate indeed
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
