I sit here with no power, yet again. Of course, I stay at one of the four houses out of power in a two mile radiusl. Go figure. We went from half-ass power, to no power. I of course, being a five year old, run and turn lights and appliances on and off listening to the drain from my AC going up and down. Maybe I helped the loss of total power for half an hour, or maybe it was a cable that burnt. Either way, I felt something.
Sitting here in the silence, scrawling on paper with the only sounds in life being the flicker of a candle, my cat licking herself, and the drone of machines attempting to what nature made man to realize, I heard something; Silence. It was beautiful.
Listening to the sounds of man made machines, attempting to fix what man harvested from nature. Man didn't make electricity, nature did. Man merely harvested the means of what nature provided us. Much like in poverish countries, a feast to them of buying a goat to slaughter is the equivilance to us buying a car in cash. It's something we don't savor like we used to. Something we don't appreciate.
Tonight I found something deeper within myself. Sure, it might have been there the entire time, but tonight it's back. My drive, my desire, my curiosity; It's all back in full swing and I'm ready to go in. That's why I cook, there is always some deeper, darker meaning behind the person who made the food, not the food itself. The food speaks for a person who cannot easily speak in poetic forms, and doesn't have the means to draw on a canvas. We have a walk-in, a dream, and an empty stomach to feed.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
The vultures,
They circle over a forbidden heart
A heart that has not yet died,
But is black as the night
They feast,
In patterns they swarm
Diving, and tearing flesh
Piece by piece until the bones are dry
Where do we go when we are the hunted?
Where do we run to when the ghosts are behind us?
Do we turn around to face them?
Do we run away and talk in circles?
Life is a giant merry go round,
Where the scenery changes everyday
Yet we call it progress
Because it's a new picture
They circle over a forbidden heart
A heart that has not yet died,
But is black as the night
They feast,
In patterns they swarm
Diving, and tearing flesh
Piece by piece until the bones are dry
Where do we go when we are the hunted?
Where do we run to when the ghosts are behind us?
Do we turn around to face them?
Do we run away and talk in circles?
Life is a giant merry go round,
Where the scenery changes everyday
Yet we call it progress
Because it's a new picture
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Trials
It's taken me far too long to finally have the ambition to better myself
Sure, I have drive, passion, and ambition that people see and I don't
I now see what the world (I presume) sees in me
I don't know if they are right, and I've been ignorant this whole time
Or if what I see is the truth, the real side of me nobody knows
But they see it. They have to.
If I could die right now, be reborn, and come back as something different
Perhaps, an animal...
Maybe if the entire human race did such a thing,
Maybe we could learn appreciation
Be who we are, and not live in our greedy, selfish human nature ways
Maybe we were better off as primates as opposed to being human
Today I saw two bums fight, one pepper sprayed the other
I had no idea where to stand in the situation
I also so my dear friend's baby, my goddaughter, but only in pictures
I wanted to be there as it happened
If I can give just one person advice in life it would be as follows:
Don't fuck up the one thing you have going, whether it be a friend, an enemy, a love, a life...We spend too much time it seems trying to forget memories. They are memories for a reason. Hold them close, and always keep your pride higher than your chin.
Sure, I have drive, passion, and ambition that people see and I don't
I now see what the world (I presume) sees in me
I don't know if they are right, and I've been ignorant this whole time
Or if what I see is the truth, the real side of me nobody knows
But they see it. They have to.
If I could die right now, be reborn, and come back as something different
Perhaps, an animal...
Maybe if the entire human race did such a thing,
Maybe we could learn appreciation
Be who we are, and not live in our greedy, selfish human nature ways
Maybe we were better off as primates as opposed to being human
Today I saw two bums fight, one pepper sprayed the other
I had no idea where to stand in the situation
I also so my dear friend's baby, my goddaughter, but only in pictures
I wanted to be there as it happened
If I can give just one person advice in life it would be as follows:
Don't fuck up the one thing you have going, whether it be a friend, an enemy, a love, a life...We spend too much time it seems trying to forget memories. They are memories for a reason. Hold them close, and always keep your pride higher than your chin.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Walls pt 1
Breaking down, no sound
Silence is the reigning king
But what is silence?
Better times? Forgotten memories?
Forgotten faces? Lost voices?
Voices we remember, yet can't hear
Faces we love, but can't remember the lines
From the jaw, to the chin, up to the lips
The beating heart, their eyelashes as they blink
While your fast asleep
I always thought I was a man of my word
Apparantly there was something I forgot
My words
If I could show you the world through my tired eyes
My aching back, my blistered feet, my bleeding fists
I don't think it's something you want to see
Silence is the reigning king
But what is silence?
Better times? Forgotten memories?
Forgotten faces? Lost voices?
Voices we remember, yet can't hear
Faces we love, but can't remember the lines
From the jaw, to the chin, up to the lips
The beating heart, their eyelashes as they blink
While your fast asleep
I always thought I was a man of my word
Apparantly there was something I forgot
My words
If I could show you the world through my tired eyes
My aching back, my blistered feet, my bleeding fists
I don't think it's something you want to see
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
*Insert Title Name*
I'm forcing these words through fingertips, thought through the brain to make the actions. For tonight has been a night of nostalgia. Talking to old friends, thinking of old memories, old tunes we used to jam from bands that have died off. Maybe they haven't died off, but it's all the same.
If it's too good to be true, it probably is. The matter of fact lies within how bad you want you it.
People tend to neglect the fact that everything is obtainable. Our dreams are direct refelctions of our passion, and our desire.
They are merely fallen stars. The burn for so long before we see them fade away. Mostly because we let them fall away. We watch them burn, and fade away.
I'm not letting mine burn, so what's the price to pay for glory?
If it's too good to be true, it probably is. The matter of fact lies within how bad you want you it.
People tend to neglect the fact that everything is obtainable. Our dreams are direct refelctions of our passion, and our desire.
They are merely fallen stars. The burn for so long before we see them fade away. Mostly because we let them fall away. We watch them burn, and fade away.
I'm not letting mine burn, so what's the price to pay for glory?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Note To The Editor
As I sit here and listen to fireworks intertwined with gunshots through my shoddy one room apartment, I read something that makes me ponder.
Life is a story that we write page by page everyday. You never know when the editor will ask you to turn in your assignment.
Some of you may view that as a negative thing, I for one found that to be a total pick me up. The glass is always half full when you enjoy the beverage that is coming out of it.
There is alot of things, and people more so often that tend to almost go out of their way to bring us down. To ruin us, destroy our hopes, destroy our lives in some cases. Why? Was it something you did? Said? Most of the time no. It's for being who you are. Jealousy is so deeply rooted in humanity that it makes me choke.
For instance look at the Silverback Gorillas. They have one head leader in their pack. He is the one who teaches, helps, works, and loves. The rest of his pack would follow him to the ends of the Earth because he is a leader, a lover, someone who inspires. Why can't humans follow someone like that? Instead we all try to out do one another with the latest trend, style, material item, material girl...or boy depending on who you are.
We idolize people who have millions of dollars, have sex with hundreds of people, drive the fastest, sportiest cars, who have the nicest houses, butlers, maids and the whole nine yards. We idolize sports stars, movie stars, musicians and for what? Did we idolize them before they got big? Of course not. We don't idolize aspiration. You just get called a sell out once you make money.
No my dear readers, we should idolize the few in the generation below us who do have hopes, dreams, a future that is not yet written, but they decided to write their own. Those are the people we should love and support.
Life is a story that we write page by page everyday. You never know when the editor will ask you to turn in your assignment.
Some of you may view that as a negative thing, I for one found that to be a total pick me up. The glass is always half full when you enjoy the beverage that is coming out of it.
There is alot of things, and people more so often that tend to almost go out of their way to bring us down. To ruin us, destroy our hopes, destroy our lives in some cases. Why? Was it something you did? Said? Most of the time no. It's for being who you are. Jealousy is so deeply rooted in humanity that it makes me choke.
For instance look at the Silverback Gorillas. They have one head leader in their pack. He is the one who teaches, helps, works, and loves. The rest of his pack would follow him to the ends of the Earth because he is a leader, a lover, someone who inspires. Why can't humans follow someone like that? Instead we all try to out do one another with the latest trend, style, material item, material girl...or boy depending on who you are.
We idolize people who have millions of dollars, have sex with hundreds of people, drive the fastest, sportiest cars, who have the nicest houses, butlers, maids and the whole nine yards. We idolize sports stars, movie stars, musicians and for what? Did we idolize them before they got big? Of course not. We don't idolize aspiration. You just get called a sell out once you make money.
No my dear readers, we should idolize the few in the generation below us who do have hopes, dreams, a future that is not yet written, but they decided to write their own. Those are the people we should love and support.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Every So Often
I come back to this feeling. This impatience, the lack of sleep, the brain that keeps wrapping itself around a fingers that it can control, but can't. It takes the mind to be able to control the surrounding situations, feelings, emotions. The mind controls the heart, the beating, blood pulsating through veins. Muscles contracting, ligaments streching, nerves feeling.
A heightened sense of touch, smell, taste, a passion living, a breathing living organism more so than that what the body can totally perceive. Rage makes drunks, depression makes pill-poppers, confusion makes stoners, the creator needs nothing more than a hammer, a nail, and an idea. For motivation is always deep within oneself. Much like inteliect is nothing more than opportunities that are found, and ignored.
Everyone should have to spend some time in the food industry. Have it be a mandatory thing like signing up for Selective Service. A statement I proposed tonight to a very sweet person, and her reply...
Well, would that make the world more appreciative or bitter?
If people could only see the mental struggles, the stress, the heat, the passion, and more so the drive that cooks and servers go through (and everyone in between) to give you your food hot, fresh, and on a clean plate? I don't think people would go out anymore. We work with hours for people almost shoulder to shoulder. You have your cubicles, and Ipod to relieve your stress and motivate you through the day. All we have at the end of the night is our pride.
Sure, it may make the world bitter and groan at first. I for one would love to see a rich lawyer's son have to wash dishes at a resturant, but would I want to deal with him? Of course not.
Appreciation and chivarly are not some distant cities in France. They may sound it, but they aren't. I promise. The best advice I can, and will ever give someone is Don't bite the hand that feeds, or delievers.
A heightened sense of touch, smell, taste, a passion living, a breathing living organism more so than that what the body can totally perceive. Rage makes drunks, depression makes pill-poppers, confusion makes stoners, the creator needs nothing more than a hammer, a nail, and an idea. For motivation is always deep within oneself. Much like inteliect is nothing more than opportunities that are found, and ignored.
Everyone should have to spend some time in the food industry. Have it be a mandatory thing like signing up for Selective Service. A statement I proposed tonight to a very sweet person, and her reply...
Well, would that make the world more appreciative or bitter?
If people could only see the mental struggles, the stress, the heat, the passion, and more so the drive that cooks and servers go through (and everyone in between) to give you your food hot, fresh, and on a clean plate? I don't think people would go out anymore. We work with hours for people almost shoulder to shoulder. You have your cubicles, and Ipod to relieve your stress and motivate you through the day. All we have at the end of the night is our pride.
Sure, it may make the world bitter and groan at first. I for one would love to see a rich lawyer's son have to wash dishes at a resturant, but would I want to deal with him? Of course not.
Appreciation and chivarly are not some distant cities in France. They may sound it, but they aren't. I promise. The best advice I can, and will ever give someone is Don't bite the hand that feeds, or delievers.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Born To Die
The only meaning behind the title is it just happens to be the title of the song I'm listening to, and I don't feel like being witty. This is more of a "journal" blog as opposed to a giant rant of thought, anger, rage, etc. It lacks a purpose, but what the reader gets out of it is all up to the reader.
The past few nights at work have been one giant blur. If you follow this I already talked about the drunk guy, and kitchen virgin. So, drunk guy comes back today finally and safely assuming he is going through withdraws of alcohol. Which made me feel strange. I wanted to attempt to console him and help him out (I learned deep secrets of his family life today from another guy I work with, and I can't condone his drinking but it does make sense. I won't tell the details)
I also saw his passion and desire for the first time in forever. I'm assuming he quit drinking just for this job, and sure it's not anything spectacular and I don't think he can handle it, and his time in kitchens is up but seeing the desperation in a man's eyes while he hasn't said a word to you in days? Made me think. It actually made me see if you will.
I commented to my boss about him being out of it, and still fucking things up but I also believe in him. I think for once this almost 40 year old man belives in himself. If he so happens to read this, I'm glad. If not, well it might be for the better but might not as well. I believe in you kid, hang in there.
I also believe in humanity again. My ride home tonight came from two girls "on the verge of missing curfew" as I was walking to the gas station to continue onward to home. I invited them in for lunch/dinner on me whenever I am there. One of them said "I'm glad to see chivarly isn't dead" I replied with "I treat someone as well or as poorly as they treat me".
That's the whole point. She is right. Chivarly is a dying cause, and being a complacent asshole wins everytime. Who is happier in the end though? The girl who gets treated like shit and is forced into submission, or the prick who knows how to control someone to get his dick wet?
My point is what goes around, comes around. The golden rule is a powerful thing, and karma is even more set in stone. You piss off karma and it haunts you. You mention murphy and his law and he's out to get you. In the end of it all where are you happiest at? Getting your ass kicked because you spoke up, or getting you ass kicked because you didn't?
The past few nights at work have been one giant blur. If you follow this I already talked about the drunk guy, and kitchen virgin. So, drunk guy comes back today finally and safely assuming he is going through withdraws of alcohol. Which made me feel strange. I wanted to attempt to console him and help him out (I learned deep secrets of his family life today from another guy I work with, and I can't condone his drinking but it does make sense. I won't tell the details)
I also saw his passion and desire for the first time in forever. I'm assuming he quit drinking just for this job, and sure it's not anything spectacular and I don't think he can handle it, and his time in kitchens is up but seeing the desperation in a man's eyes while he hasn't said a word to you in days? Made me think. It actually made me see if you will.
I commented to my boss about him being out of it, and still fucking things up but I also believe in him. I think for once this almost 40 year old man belives in himself. If he so happens to read this, I'm glad. If not, well it might be for the better but might not as well. I believe in you kid, hang in there.
I also believe in humanity again. My ride home tonight came from two girls "on the verge of missing curfew" as I was walking to the gas station to continue onward to home. I invited them in for lunch/dinner on me whenever I am there. One of them said "I'm glad to see chivarly isn't dead" I replied with "I treat someone as well or as poorly as they treat me".
That's the whole point. She is right. Chivarly is a dying cause, and being a complacent asshole wins everytime. Who is happier in the end though? The girl who gets treated like shit and is forced into submission, or the prick who knows how to control someone to get his dick wet?
My point is what goes around, comes around. The golden rule is a powerful thing, and karma is even more set in stone. You piss off karma and it haunts you. You mention murphy and his law and he's out to get you. In the end of it all where are you happiest at? Getting your ass kicked because you spoke up, or getting you ass kicked because you didn't?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Conflict of Interest
Tonight I was faced with the most troubling of situations...
Mix one part kitchen virgin and first rush, and one schooled veteran we shall name cork and bottle. I won't explain the nickname because it is rather self explanatory. As any good story, it needs a fufilling preface. Such as follows...
I always show up to work at least a good hour early. (I take the bus, and get bored at my house and feel the need to leave) So, I show up to my salad guy doing prep, after hearing we didn't have any one scheduled to open pizza. Surprised I didn't get called, but it would also explain why my mise was all fucked and out of order.
Our new "prep" guy if you will, good guy, hell a great guy. Doesn't understand the jewish ghetto world in which we live in. So I had to teach him how to use a busted ass slicer. My best advice was "watch you finger placement so you don't loose one. "
I was ok with playing host, bartender, watching him, organizing the walk-in, and working the line when needed, or should I say, as I could. Then the "oh shit, panic" button was pressed.
Here I am, standing between a drunk guy who's twice my age, been cooking as long as I have been alive having 30 minute ticket times. A kitchen virgin who had no clue, is still new to the world asking help. Along with the drunk guy needing help and freaking out, a salad girl who just happened to constantly be in my way and not move fast enough. Here I am. Torn between helping cork and bottle out, and FNG.
After cork and bottle got sent home, I actually had a hostess tell my chef "the people are wowed with how fast pizzas are coming out" Averaging at least 4 tickets at a time my shortest time was 6, my longest 10.
Oh, meanwhile my owner is there the entire time watching this go down. I swear I looked like a chicken missing it's head with sweat instead of blood.
After all of that was over I stopped at my friend's kitchen on the way home for well, more free drinks. Ran into old friends from high school, and a few new people. It was actually proposed to me that I question my owner for a raise. I want one, but I don't. Sure, I deserve it, but do I really want the money when I don't want to stay there?
Mix one part kitchen virgin and first rush, and one schooled veteran we shall name cork and bottle. I won't explain the nickname because it is rather self explanatory. As any good story, it needs a fufilling preface. Such as follows...
I always show up to work at least a good hour early. (I take the bus, and get bored at my house and feel the need to leave) So, I show up to my salad guy doing prep, after hearing we didn't have any one scheduled to open pizza. Surprised I didn't get called, but it would also explain why my mise was all fucked and out of order.
Our new "prep" guy if you will, good guy, hell a great guy. Doesn't understand the jewish ghetto world in which we live in. So I had to teach him how to use a busted ass slicer. My best advice was "watch you finger placement so you don't loose one. "
I was ok with playing host, bartender, watching him, organizing the walk-in, and working the line when needed, or should I say, as I could. Then the "oh shit, panic" button was pressed.
Here I am, standing between a drunk guy who's twice my age, been cooking as long as I have been alive having 30 minute ticket times. A kitchen virgin who had no clue, is still new to the world asking help. Along with the drunk guy needing help and freaking out, a salad girl who just happened to constantly be in my way and not move fast enough. Here I am. Torn between helping cork and bottle out, and FNG.
After cork and bottle got sent home, I actually had a hostess tell my chef "the people are wowed with how fast pizzas are coming out" Averaging at least 4 tickets at a time my shortest time was 6, my longest 10.
Oh, meanwhile my owner is there the entire time watching this go down. I swear I looked like a chicken missing it's head with sweat instead of blood.
After all of that was over I stopped at my friend's kitchen on the way home for well, more free drinks. Ran into old friends from high school, and a few new people. It was actually proposed to me that I question my owner for a raise. I want one, but I don't. Sure, I deserve it, but do I really want the money when I don't want to stay there?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Something To Think About
Now, don't get me wrong here. I don't have an ounce of racist blood in me, prejudice? Not so much. Jealousy? Perhaps. Now, do I find it justifiable? With some people I do. Figured I had to warn the reader(s) of the upcoming rant.
Don't get me wrong though, I would hire a Pedro, over a Peter ANY day in a kitchen. Hispanics you can train, teach them, and god damn do they work. A white guy? Sure, some you can train and then something inside of him might have a crazy idea and go What if I try it this way... It may work, but for the most part it won't. Don't change things that work just fine.
I do however find it strange (well, again let me preface this)...
I work with a girl. A Peruvian. My chef is Peruvian, and the original FOH manager was also Peruvian. They were all friends, so needless to say she hired all of her friends. No big deal right? Negate the fact it's a German engineered Italian joint, but that's besides the point. She also referred to them as Princesses. All of them left except for one. Who still thinks she is a princess and in my opinion can get away with murder.
She isn't at the host stand when people come in? No big deal. A different host isn't there? Look out, the pain train cometh and not from me. Phone is ringing? Don't worry, I'll walk around the entire place to go answer it because you are doing something that's no where near important. Use the company phone to make personal calls because you can't use your cell phone? Sure, go ahead. Eat for free and the kitchen can't? Yeah, that's acceptable...somehow.
The whole point I'm trying to get at here is this. This hostess of mine thinks she is a princess. Why you ask? Well, I'm not going to call her stupid because that's just mean, but I am not to be expected to drop all of what I'm doing just to make you food. Especially during a rush and I'm alone on my station. My chef, and a guy who worked already that day just hanging out SHOULD NOT have to jump on the line to make food because my anger level is far past what any other human should be able to withstand.
The other guy I was supposed to work with got put on what I want to call, bull shit work that could have been done tomorrow but it at least saved my ass from doing it tomorrow work. He also left where he worked a total disaster. Sucks to be him. He opens tomorrow with me, and I left him with a pretty hefty list of things to do. That's how the dice roll, sir.
Back to the giant picture of the rant. Have you ever noticed it's the people that aren't exactly legal, that get the most help in the world? The people that may have their visas, or cards (whichever one it is) that get the help from everyone? Yet! The average working class man who busts their ass all day, and all night sometimes is lucky if he gets a pat on the back?
Why is this Amurika? Why do we seem to ignore and neglect those who truely work, and the ones who "think they work" get praise from the heavens? Is it because they speak up when they need more money? Is it because they can give them the hours and not the same pay to save on labor? What it is? Why do they seem to get their 40 hours a week, and I have to scrape, cheat, steal, etc...to get the money I need to live on?
I don't want to say it, but I will. I feel like I am being shorted because I'm not gay, and I'm not hispanic. If I call into my shift? Oh holy shit, it's a giant deal. The lesbian I work with? She calls in more shifts than she works it seems, and it's ok somehow.
Por que guey? Por que?
Don't get me wrong though, I would hire a Pedro, over a Peter ANY day in a kitchen. Hispanics you can train, teach them, and god damn do they work. A white guy? Sure, some you can train and then something inside of him might have a crazy idea and go What if I try it this way... It may work, but for the most part it won't. Don't change things that work just fine.
I do however find it strange (well, again let me preface this)...
I work with a girl. A Peruvian. My chef is Peruvian, and the original FOH manager was also Peruvian. They were all friends, so needless to say she hired all of her friends. No big deal right? Negate the fact it's a German engineered Italian joint, but that's besides the point. She also referred to them as Princesses. All of them left except for one. Who still thinks she is a princess and in my opinion can get away with murder.
She isn't at the host stand when people come in? No big deal. A different host isn't there? Look out, the pain train cometh and not from me. Phone is ringing? Don't worry, I'll walk around the entire place to go answer it because you are doing something that's no where near important. Use the company phone to make personal calls because you can't use your cell phone? Sure, go ahead. Eat for free and the kitchen can't? Yeah, that's acceptable...somehow.
The whole point I'm trying to get at here is this. This hostess of mine thinks she is a princess. Why you ask? Well, I'm not going to call her stupid because that's just mean, but I am not to be expected to drop all of what I'm doing just to make you food. Especially during a rush and I'm alone on my station. My chef, and a guy who worked already that day just hanging out SHOULD NOT have to jump on the line to make food because my anger level is far past what any other human should be able to withstand.
The other guy I was supposed to work with got put on what I want to call, bull shit work that could have been done tomorrow but it at least saved my ass from doing it tomorrow work. He also left where he worked a total disaster. Sucks to be him. He opens tomorrow with me, and I left him with a pretty hefty list of things to do. That's how the dice roll, sir.
Back to the giant picture of the rant. Have you ever noticed it's the people that aren't exactly legal, that get the most help in the world? The people that may have their visas, or cards (whichever one it is) that get the help from everyone? Yet! The average working class man who busts their ass all day, and all night sometimes is lucky if he gets a pat on the back?
Why is this Amurika? Why do we seem to ignore and neglect those who truely work, and the ones who "think they work" get praise from the heavens? Is it because they speak up when they need more money? Is it because they can give them the hours and not the same pay to save on labor? What it is? Why do they seem to get their 40 hours a week, and I have to scrape, cheat, steal, etc...to get the money I need to live on?
I don't want to say it, but I will. I feel like I am being shorted because I'm not gay, and I'm not hispanic. If I call into my shift? Oh holy shit, it's a giant deal. The lesbian I work with? She calls in more shifts than she works it seems, and it's ok somehow.
Por que guey? Por que?
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
It's Been Said
It's been said that bad decisions make good days.
I beg to differ. I make bad decisions all the time and what is I live with? A pounding head. Sure, it lets me know I'm still here, I'm still alive but why do we go to such great heights to neglect feelings?
We drink copious amounts of alcohol, someone of us smoke pot, some do both. Yet all we do is try to find a fix to escape the reality of what is our life. We try to take it as it comes, roll with the punches, take it all for face value, but we fail. We all have a vice gripping us to the wall that is life.
Passionate as we maybe to our calling, but I've learned passion works in two ways. A passion for love, as well as a passionate hatred. It's a sick cycle we all abide by, but than again, without passion where would we be? We would have never evolved. We would still be more barbaric than what we could have ever been, or would have ever been.
We are too concerned with things that don't mean a shit. Think about it. Global warming? Oil spill? Both great things to ponder/worry about. A poor child's education? Education in general? It goes un-noticed.
To be frank here, I don't know where this rambling/rant/poetry is going, I'll go as far as to say I don't even like it.
6 AM is going to come once again far too early.
I beg to differ. I make bad decisions all the time and what is I live with? A pounding head. Sure, it lets me know I'm still here, I'm still alive but why do we go to such great heights to neglect feelings?
We drink copious amounts of alcohol, someone of us smoke pot, some do both. Yet all we do is try to find a fix to escape the reality of what is our life. We try to take it as it comes, roll with the punches, take it all for face value, but we fail. We all have a vice gripping us to the wall that is life.
Passionate as we maybe to our calling, but I've learned passion works in two ways. A passion for love, as well as a passionate hatred. It's a sick cycle we all abide by, but than again, without passion where would we be? We would have never evolved. We would still be more barbaric than what we could have ever been, or would have ever been.
We are too concerned with things that don't mean a shit. Think about it. Global warming? Oil spill? Both great things to ponder/worry about. A poor child's education? Education in general? It goes un-noticed.
To be frank here, I don't know where this rambling/rant/poetry is going, I'll go as far as to say I don't even like it.
6 AM is going to come once again far too early.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Definition Of Passion
Passion cannot be defined by hours work, miles traveled, or praise given. It can only be measured in the direct result of actions. Smiles across faces, laughs to be had, memories that will forever be set in the minds of those who not only choose to embrace the moment, but cherish it. Tonight I heard a fellow cook talking to his son on a cell phone and before I left I’ll never forget the smile on this giant man as he said “I love you more” and chuckled slightly, gleefully if you will. The look at the barber shop today from a dad hearing from his wife “well, you could always help out with the kids too” and he chuckled and replied “well I could…” while reading a magazine and smiling at me. Something told me it was her idea to bring the heathens out into public and it’s something he was used to by now, and probably
proposed it to be a bad idea.
The passion of the cook expressing love to a son he can hardly see. An overheard conversation of “I have a baseball glove for him…yeah, I’m doing my best to break it in for him too…” Someone could write something magical about it, but what can I write about it? An elaborate story of a memory a father wants to have with his son? No. I can only tell the truth about what I heard and share the passion of father and a son.
Perhaps insomnia is a direct result of being overpassionate. I do belive there is a fine line between passion, and neurotic. Passion is wanting to share your love for said thing with others, neurotic is drilling other people into the ground because you have a degree for “what you love doing” yet you never show it. People never get to see it, taste it, hear it…and when someone does? It’s viewed by others as “why does he get special attention? Where is he when I really need the help?” The list could go on and on. And on and on.
Passion is a desire. Passion is sitting at the back door for an hour waiting to get in. Passion is walking upwards of five miles a day in extreme heat to make it to work. Passion is waking up still drunk and not complaining because you made the mistake the night before and working your shift. Passion is blood, sweat, tears, physical fatigue, muscles on fire.
Desire it what drives it. Desire for a raise, for a notice, a pat on the back, a heartfelt thank you, a satisfied customer, a customer who says they will return, a customer who gets sad when you aren’t there to make their food the way they like it without having to even order. Sure, they may not remember my name, but I remember their face. I know what they like, I can see when their day isn’t up to par, and they can read my face like I can theirs.
They know that if I make their day, they just made mine.
proposed it to be a bad idea.
The passion of the cook expressing love to a son he can hardly see. An overheard conversation of “I have a baseball glove for him…yeah, I’m doing my best to break it in for him too…” Someone could write something magical about it, but what can I write about it? An elaborate story of a memory a father wants to have with his son? No. I can only tell the truth about what I heard and share the passion of father and a son.
Perhaps insomnia is a direct result of being overpassionate. I do belive there is a fine line between passion, and neurotic. Passion is wanting to share your love for said thing with others, neurotic is drilling other people into the ground because you have a degree for “what you love doing” yet you never show it. People never get to see it, taste it, hear it…and when someone does? It’s viewed by others as “why does he get special attention? Where is he when I really need the help?” The list could go on and on. And on and on.
Passion is a desire. Passion is sitting at the back door for an hour waiting to get in. Passion is walking upwards of five miles a day in extreme heat to make it to work. Passion is waking up still drunk and not complaining because you made the mistake the night before and working your shift. Passion is blood, sweat, tears, physical fatigue, muscles on fire.
Desire it what drives it. Desire for a raise, for a notice, a pat on the back, a heartfelt thank you, a satisfied customer, a customer who says they will return, a customer who gets sad when you aren’t there to make their food the way they like it without having to even order. Sure, they may not remember my name, but I remember their face. I know what they like, I can see when their day isn’t up to par, and they can read my face like I can theirs.
They know that if I make their day, they just made mine.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
So, What's In The Bag?
I'm on my way home from work and walk past the same set of houses I always walk by, cross the same corners at all the same places, and this time this one was different. There was a cop in the middle of the intersection at one I had to cross. Now, here I am knowing I haven't done anything wrong, hell I didn't even have a drink before I started for home.
I get across the street, and see nothing but my shadow in the road in front of me. I was on the spotlight and they stop. I was then asked What's in the bag?
Ironically enough, I had a bag of trash in one hand and my knives across my back.
It's just my knives sir.
Oh. Are you a chef?
Yes. I work at Vapiano's at Mockingbird Station.
Oh. Cool. Well we just had to make sure, it looked almost like a gun case for a second.
We exchange our "be safe's" and say goodbye.
Now, thank god for the dam between my smart ass brain, and my tongue otherwise the conversation could have gone a totally different way. Now, granted I know he has to ask such questions, but when I'm walking home with a chef coat on, and tell you I have knives on my back? Of course I'm a chef.
Without the smart ass filter it could have gone as follows...
I'm actually an avid Jeffery Dahmer follower and walk around late at night with knives on my back to look for small woodland creatures and make them into dinner...well, sometimes I do. I'm trying to work my way up to stalking people on the bike trail and wearing their skin around for a day. Oh, the chef coat? It just helps further my facade.
Or...
Actually dude, I work at this place with a great new concept. The waiters dress like chefs, and the chefs dress like waiters in the back. That way, all the customers actually feel like they are getting their asses catered by a chef. The tips are amazing, and you wouldn't believe how gullible some girls are. If you know what I mean. Oh the knives? Yeah, I cut a lot of fruit garnishes at work.
Surely, I would never say things like that to someone carrying a gun and with my safety in mind, but sometimes you really want to. Much like when wearing a chef coat at a bar. "Oh, so what do you do?" I'm a bartender. I mean, really people? I know it's a means of small talk but fuck. Open your eyes.
I get across the street, and see nothing but my shadow in the road in front of me. I was on the spotlight and they stop. I was then asked What's in the bag?
Ironically enough, I had a bag of trash in one hand and my knives across my back.
It's just my knives sir.
Oh. Are you a chef?
Yes. I work at Vapiano's at Mockingbird Station.
Oh. Cool. Well we just had to make sure, it looked almost like a gun case for a second.
We exchange our "be safe's" and say goodbye.
Now, thank god for the dam between my smart ass brain, and my tongue otherwise the conversation could have gone a totally different way. Now, granted I know he has to ask such questions, but when I'm walking home with a chef coat on, and tell you I have knives on my back? Of course I'm a chef.
Without the smart ass filter it could have gone as follows...
I'm actually an avid Jeffery Dahmer follower and walk around late at night with knives on my back to look for small woodland creatures and make them into dinner...well, sometimes I do. I'm trying to work my way up to stalking people on the bike trail and wearing their skin around for a day. Oh, the chef coat? It just helps further my facade.
Or...
Actually dude, I work at this place with a great new concept. The waiters dress like chefs, and the chefs dress like waiters in the back. That way, all the customers actually feel like they are getting their asses catered by a chef. The tips are amazing, and you wouldn't believe how gullible some girls are. If you know what I mean. Oh the knives? Yeah, I cut a lot of fruit garnishes at work.
Surely, I would never say things like that to someone carrying a gun and with my safety in mind, but sometimes you really want to. Much like when wearing a chef coat at a bar. "Oh, so what do you do?" I'm a bartender. I mean, really people? I know it's a means of small talk but fuck. Open your eyes.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Desire
No matter what your desire, the severity of the desire and passion in life you have for one thing, on certain beautiful moment, opportunity...it only takes one person to cause a snowball effect of momentous occasions. That my friends is human nature at it's finest, one greedy soul, battling wits against another.
The more you want it, dream it, breath it...it only takes one person to let you down. I'm not meaning to be pessimistic by any means, I could be far off course on my rantings. When you have your "immediately family" of friends, co-workers, and even bartenders rooting so hard for you, pushing you so hard you yourself even have convinced your mind to not beat yourself up so bad. That you nailed it. After all, I have confidence right?
Welcome to the breakdown. This blog I've accepted will make no sense to most, maybe a little to some, but that's not the point really. It's far too pessimistic to make a point.
Destruction is creation. With my tearing myself down back to stage one again will only make me stronger. All of us stronger. Life shouldn't be this rough, but it isn't given to us right? We make it.
The more you want it, dream it, breath it...it only takes one person to let you down. I'm not meaning to be pessimistic by any means, I could be far off course on my rantings. When you have your "immediately family" of friends, co-workers, and even bartenders rooting so hard for you, pushing you so hard you yourself even have convinced your mind to not beat yourself up so bad. That you nailed it. After all, I have confidence right?
Welcome to the breakdown. This blog I've accepted will make no sense to most, maybe a little to some, but that's not the point really. It's far too pessimistic to make a point.
Destruction is creation. With my tearing myself down back to stage one again will only make me stronger. All of us stronger. Life shouldn't be this rough, but it isn't given to us right? We make it.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Atomic Bombs
If America ever decides to drop an Atomic Bomb on some poor, poverty ridden country again (or any country dropping it for that matter), I am making a vow right now, at 11:54pm on May 31st 2010 that I will volunteer to not drop the bomb. That sense of power would haunt me for the rest of my life and it's something I don't need that much control of. I don't have power trip moments due to feeling insecure. Whiskey takes care of that one for me.
No my children, I want to be the fucker strapped to the bomb. I want to feel the wind whipping and stinging my face. I want to see the world in such a way that an object of mass destruction sees it. The one pushing the button generally only sees radar blips. Dots, dashes. I want to see what the actual bomb sees before it cause a wild fire of burning flesh and embers.
We simply push a button that is controlled by a switch, in return it releases the harness of death, chaos and destruction. Man made mind you! I'm curious to see what the bomb sees before it hits the ground. For it is not human, it does not know the pains of life, love, poverty, richness, health, sickness...it knows none of these things. The person hitting pressing the "fuck it" button if you will, given by orders from someone above him in the "food chain of power" tells him to do such a horrendous act.
What do we do it for? To end a war that we stumbled upon? To save lives? To end lives as an act of revenge? Words are a very powerful equation of letters stacked upon letters, making noises, making a word, which makes a sentence, that turns into a phrase, which leads to a paragraph, which leads to a quote, which ends in a memory.
I want to see the "face" of mass murderer. For it is surely not the person pushing the button that drops the bomb, it's the person in charge who sends the orders to drop it, but he didn't kill anybody. The ordinance drifting freely on a guided mission does. That's the face I want to see.
No my children, I want to be the fucker strapped to the bomb. I want to feel the wind whipping and stinging my face. I want to see the world in such a way that an object of mass destruction sees it. The one pushing the button generally only sees radar blips. Dots, dashes. I want to see what the actual bomb sees before it cause a wild fire of burning flesh and embers.
We simply push a button that is controlled by a switch, in return it releases the harness of death, chaos and destruction. Man made mind you! I'm curious to see what the bomb sees before it hits the ground. For it is not human, it does not know the pains of life, love, poverty, richness, health, sickness...it knows none of these things. The person hitting pressing the "fuck it" button if you will, given by orders from someone above him in the "food chain of power" tells him to do such a horrendous act.
What do we do it for? To end a war that we stumbled upon? To save lives? To end lives as an act of revenge? Words are a very powerful equation of letters stacked upon letters, making noises, making a word, which makes a sentence, that turns into a phrase, which leads to a paragraph, which leads to a quote, which ends in a memory.
I want to see the "face" of mass murderer. For it is surely not the person pushing the button that drops the bomb, it's the person in charge who sends the orders to drop it, but he didn't kill anybody. The ordinance drifting freely on a guided mission does. That's the face I want to see.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Dear Granny
Give me eyes, so that I can see the world
Give me feeling, so I can touch everything I see
Give me a nose, so that I can take in the sweet smell of
The honey the bees buzz around valiantly to produce
Give me a tongue, to speak kind words to those
Who hear nothing
Give me a beating heart, so these hands can continue
To pursure childhood dreams
Give me a mind, so that I can understand
The deeper meaning of my intuition
Give me feet, so I can wander this Earth
Combined with my hands to share the journey together
For we are not alone
Lastly, give me wings so I can soar above the heavens
Dropping little notes to those without eyes
Without hands, without feet, without compassion
Without thoughts, without imagination,
Without an understanding,
Without anything.
I want to show them that there is hope at the end of the tunnel.
I can't wait to meet you again so you can see the tattoo I'm getting for you.
Give me feeling, so I can touch everything I see
Give me a nose, so that I can take in the sweet smell of
The honey the bees buzz around valiantly to produce
Give me a tongue, to speak kind words to those
Who hear nothing
Give me a beating heart, so these hands can continue
To pursure childhood dreams
Give me a mind, so that I can understand
The deeper meaning of my intuition
Give me feet, so I can wander this Earth
Combined with my hands to share the journey together
For we are not alone
Lastly, give me wings so I can soar above the heavens
Dropping little notes to those without eyes
Without hands, without feet, without compassion
Without thoughts, without imagination,
Without an understanding,
Without anything.
I want to show them that there is hope at the end of the tunnel.
I can't wait to meet you again so you can see the tattoo I'm getting for you.
Hands Like Asbestos
So, presumeably an old chef came into the resturant on Friday night. He came in after a large party of people decided to go out to eat at 10:15 at night. I'll never understand why this is the trend, but so be it. In any case he wants to order some pizzas and asks for garlic bread, and marinara for dipping. Now, why in the middle of a rush with only two on the line do I go out of my way to kick my ass a little more? No idea.
In the midst of running all over the place I make all these special requests for this kind man, normally things I would never do for anybody. Why did the other people start groaning and complaining because they had to wait, while this guy forcefully hands me money and says one of the greatest compliments I have ever gotten
Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.
Nobody has ever thanked me for my time in a kitchen. Ever. Well, a patron at least. It was rare, beautiful, and slightly mysterious.
Shortly after he orders even more food. Then I hear the greatest phrase ever coined.
Careful Dad, the plates are hot.
It's ok, I used to cook for a long time. I have hands like asbestos.
It was then that the appreciation made total sense, the twenty dollars in my pocket, the memories I will have from this, and memories I left with them.
I never got his name, but he didn't quite hear mine. So to him and his family I will be remembered as Jeff.
In the midst of running all over the place I make all these special requests for this kind man, normally things I would never do for anybody. Why did the other people start groaning and complaining because they had to wait, while this guy forcefully hands me money and says one of the greatest compliments I have ever gotten
Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.
Nobody has ever thanked me for my time in a kitchen. Ever. Well, a patron at least. It was rare, beautiful, and slightly mysterious.
Shortly after he orders even more food. Then I hear the greatest phrase ever coined.
Careful Dad, the plates are hot.
It's ok, I used to cook for a long time. I have hands like asbestos.
It was then that the appreciation made total sense, the twenty dollars in my pocket, the memories I will have from this, and memories I left with them.
I never got his name, but he didn't quite hear mine. So to him and his family I will be remembered as Jeff.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Nostaglia
Running into an old friend on the bus yesterday telling me he hardly recognized me. He doesn't stay where he used to, and that he is working on day eight of being sober. Such a beautiful moment, and so many words I wanted to say, but alas...my stop my next.
Dean-o was his name. He used to hang out with me at the bus stop while we both shivered to the bone in the dead of winter. I used to give him smokes and change for beer, food, I did whatever I could for that man, even if some days it was nothing more than conversation. Talks about life, girls, stories exchanged, warm spirits all around.
Tonight at work, I ran into an old friend, an old family member if you will. It being so long since we've seen each other, we again almost passed each other up for a conversation. My saving grace I suppose was the recognition of my tattoos. He asked how our tightly knit brotherhood that is our family is doing, and if I still talk to so and so.
I also saw regulars I haven't seen in ages. Their excitement to see me took me back to the first dishes I cooked for them and how excited they were to gorge themselves on food, on love. A family even, excited to see me. A pre-teen girl nearly shrieking once she saw me, waving excitedly. Of course, I remember what this family orders even though it's been months. Without even having to hear them order, I knew what to make.
Then I get a table of ladies who don't know what they want, but I can safely assume what to make for them. I urge them to allow me to let my creativity flow. They accepted the offer and trusted me. Now, I didn't make something extravagant by any means of the imagination, something different? Of course. They trusted me, so I had to deliver.
Not so much as a "Thank you" or "That was great" was even muttered from their mouths. Not too bad of a blow, the plate came back empty so I guess they enjoyed it, or like most women are great at faking. Who knows? If I sat here trying to figure out the complexities of the woman mind, my head would in fact explode. Hell, I have a hard enough time trying to figure mine out.
I'll have a slice of sanity, with the estrogen on the side please.
Dean-o was his name. He used to hang out with me at the bus stop while we both shivered to the bone in the dead of winter. I used to give him smokes and change for beer, food, I did whatever I could for that man, even if some days it was nothing more than conversation. Talks about life, girls, stories exchanged, warm spirits all around.
Tonight at work, I ran into an old friend, an old family member if you will. It being so long since we've seen each other, we again almost passed each other up for a conversation. My saving grace I suppose was the recognition of my tattoos. He asked how our tightly knit brotherhood that is our family is doing, and if I still talk to so and so.
I also saw regulars I haven't seen in ages. Their excitement to see me took me back to the first dishes I cooked for them and how excited they were to gorge themselves on food, on love. A family even, excited to see me. A pre-teen girl nearly shrieking once she saw me, waving excitedly. Of course, I remember what this family orders even though it's been months. Without even having to hear them order, I knew what to make.
Then I get a table of ladies who don't know what they want, but I can safely assume what to make for them. I urge them to allow me to let my creativity flow. They accepted the offer and trusted me. Now, I didn't make something extravagant by any means of the imagination, something different? Of course. They trusted me, so I had to deliver.
Not so much as a "Thank you" or "That was great" was even muttered from their mouths. Not too bad of a blow, the plate came back empty so I guess they enjoyed it, or like most women are great at faking. Who knows? If I sat here trying to figure out the complexities of the woman mind, my head would in fact explode. Hell, I have a hard enough time trying to figure mine out.
I'll have a slice of sanity, with the estrogen on the side please.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Time
Time is something that is inescapable, uncomprehensible, unforgiving, inexcusable, and something in which we live by. You show up late for work and it's something you can't escape. You live a life time and it's something you never understood. You have something you choose to regret, and you won't ever forgive yourself or the action. You claim I didn't have the time in the day...it's an excuse for being lazy. Don't worry, it's something we all do.
Have you ever thought about time though? Simplistically, it's numbers, hours, digits, analog, dial...etc. What is the extent of it's multitude though? What it is that makes us able to fall asleep at said time, to wake up at another. What is it that makes these numbers, gaps in between life moments if you will. We sleep in between the gaps of the processes of life.
Think about how much goes on while your asleep...Life forming, life ending and everything in between. A junkie starting an addiction, a junkie ending an addiction. A man starting a job, a man loosing a job. A soldier picking up arms, a soldier taking a nap and laying his down. A fisher reeling in his catches for the day, the chef waking up to go peruse these musings of fresh sea life, only to be put on a dinner plate in a few hours.
A father disowning his son, a son coming to a father saying sorry. A mother watching in agony, a mother watching in bliss. A drunk stumbling home, a sober man staggering to the bar to order a drink. The lonely reminiscing over love lost, the lonely finding love that's been there all along.
A sinner at an all night confession, a prostitute searching for a confession. A new life. The gambler leaving hoping for a better tomorrow, a gambler realizing he is going to loose and gives up.
A baby crying, a father tending to the child while the mother sleeps. A mother tending to her child while the father sleeps. A poor family loosing all they having. Starving. Full of desperation and an empty stomach. A family gaining a meal, and a lost son.
Time is almost an illusion of what's in store for life. It's like the preface to the epilogue. What's written in between you ask? The novel, the sweet novel!
The memories in which will never be forgotten. The faces, voices, sounds, touches, emotions...that's what life is. It can not, and shall be not measured by time. Age is but a number, a memory is but a time, but time? That's a matter of one's definition.
Have you ever thought about time though? Simplistically, it's numbers, hours, digits, analog, dial...etc. What is the extent of it's multitude though? What it is that makes us able to fall asleep at said time, to wake up at another. What is it that makes these numbers, gaps in between life moments if you will. We sleep in between the gaps of the processes of life.
Think about how much goes on while your asleep...Life forming, life ending and everything in between. A junkie starting an addiction, a junkie ending an addiction. A man starting a job, a man loosing a job. A soldier picking up arms, a soldier taking a nap and laying his down. A fisher reeling in his catches for the day, the chef waking up to go peruse these musings of fresh sea life, only to be put on a dinner plate in a few hours.
A father disowning his son, a son coming to a father saying sorry. A mother watching in agony, a mother watching in bliss. A drunk stumbling home, a sober man staggering to the bar to order a drink. The lonely reminiscing over love lost, the lonely finding love that's been there all along.
A sinner at an all night confession, a prostitute searching for a confession. A new life. The gambler leaving hoping for a better tomorrow, a gambler realizing he is going to loose and gives up.
A baby crying, a father tending to the child while the mother sleeps. A mother tending to her child while the father sleeps. A poor family loosing all they having. Starving. Full of desperation and an empty stomach. A family gaining a meal, and a lost son.
Time is almost an illusion of what's in store for life. It's like the preface to the epilogue. What's written in between you ask? The novel, the sweet novel!
The memories in which will never be forgotten. The faces, voices, sounds, touches, emotions...that's what life is. It can not, and shall be not measured by time. Age is but a number, a memory is but a time, but time? That's a matter of one's definition.
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Journey
So I know this is slightly off of everything else I have written but I had to share this mainly for the one person I know of who reads this. (Not to exclude anyone else of course).
Leaving work early today for a job interview I had to re-schedule, and sadly I didn't get it, but I'll get to that. I met a guy today who was a chef and I couldn't even recognize it. The last one whom with spoke to me was a brief conversation about the weather and the such, he gave me a parting phrase that I tend to dwell on daily. Keep your knives sharp. This man in which I met today actually empathized with me. Here I am standing at a train station in a chef coat, and it's already about 90 and humid.
He said back in New Orleans he worked (I wish I could remember where) but it was some hotel, or resort type thing, or perhaps I made that up. Maybe it was Arizona...Regardless he said he used to do parties for up to 10,000 people. 14+ hour days. He said the fact that I stood there after him asking me Do you carry your knives everywhere? that he respected me for battling such extremes.
In any case I finally make it to the interview, dripping in sweat. I didn't get the job because basically I didn't make it there in time. He had a spot for me though, and once things settle down and they weed through people, he would hire me if I bugged him enough. A month away at the shortest...or the longest. I'm going to view it as the latter.
At yet another bus stop, I get asked if I'm a chef and I work somewhere. I come to later find out she works at a place in which I have had such the strong desire to work for for years. I don't know what the amazement is about the place, but there is something to it. Just the prospect of getting to work there makes my bones dance.
Leaving work early today for a job interview I had to re-schedule, and sadly I didn't get it, but I'll get to that. I met a guy today who was a chef and I couldn't even recognize it. The last one whom with spoke to me was a brief conversation about the weather and the such, he gave me a parting phrase that I tend to dwell on daily. Keep your knives sharp. This man in which I met today actually empathized with me. Here I am standing at a train station in a chef coat, and it's already about 90 and humid.
He said back in New Orleans he worked (I wish I could remember where) but it was some hotel, or resort type thing, or perhaps I made that up. Maybe it was Arizona...Regardless he said he used to do parties for up to 10,000 people. 14+ hour days. He said the fact that I stood there after him asking me Do you carry your knives everywhere? that he respected me for battling such extremes.
In any case I finally make it to the interview, dripping in sweat. I didn't get the job because basically I didn't make it there in time. He had a spot for me though, and once things settle down and they weed through people, he would hire me if I bugged him enough. A month away at the shortest...or the longest. I'm going to view it as the latter.
At yet another bus stop, I get asked if I'm a chef and I work somewhere. I come to later find out she works at a place in which I have had such the strong desire to work for for years. I don't know what the amazement is about the place, but there is something to it. Just the prospect of getting to work there makes my bones dance.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Conversations At Bars Part II
Myself
Bartender
So, I lost one of my best friends today. I woke up this morning to hear my dog was put to sleep after being struck by a car. The worst part, I think, about it is that the only tire marks were left across his back. Doesn't appear that the car slowed down, I doubt the car even fucking stopped.
I'm assuming you want a whiskey right? And a guinness? The Jameson is on me.
I thank her kindly for the hospice, and the shot and we banter back and forth for a while talking about the slow night last night, the dead day today. We conclude that it has something to with a festival going on in a town which shouldn't even be a town. Well, city rather than town. The city is basically a long strech of road lined with resturants and bars. That's all it is.
As I sit there staring off into space, thinking our eyes catch.
You shouldn't dwell on it, it's not very good to dwell on things.
I can't help it. That's the way my brain works, I don't intentionally dwell on things, but it's like an avalanche. One thing leads to another, one thought provokes a different one. My great grandmother passing, my dog being put to sleep...What's the third one? Who is it going to be?
You need to teach yourself how to meditate. It helps I promise. I'll give you the best meditation advice I can give you. Next time someone goes down on you, focus on your breathing, your heart beats, the sounds of the two. It puts what is happening to you in full perspective. It's quite the calming experience when you think about it that way. It's more pleasurable than the physical act. You just need to get some head.
Funny how things work out like that. I walked into the bar with no desire for sympathy. More so the desire to see some familiar faces, hear familiar sounds, feel something. Anything. I found that, and far much more.
Bartender
So, I lost one of my best friends today. I woke up this morning to hear my dog was put to sleep after being struck by a car. The worst part, I think, about it is that the only tire marks were left across his back. Doesn't appear that the car slowed down, I doubt the car even fucking stopped.
I'm assuming you want a whiskey right? And a guinness? The Jameson is on me.
I thank her kindly for the hospice, and the shot and we banter back and forth for a while talking about the slow night last night, the dead day today. We conclude that it has something to with a festival going on in a town which shouldn't even be a town. Well, city rather than town. The city is basically a long strech of road lined with resturants and bars. That's all it is.
As I sit there staring off into space, thinking our eyes catch.
You shouldn't dwell on it, it's not very good to dwell on things.
I can't help it. That's the way my brain works, I don't intentionally dwell on things, but it's like an avalanche. One thing leads to another, one thought provokes a different one. My great grandmother passing, my dog being put to sleep...What's the third one? Who is it going to be?
You need to teach yourself how to meditate. It helps I promise. I'll give you the best meditation advice I can give you. Next time someone goes down on you, focus on your breathing, your heart beats, the sounds of the two. It puts what is happening to you in full perspective. It's quite the calming experience when you think about it that way. It's more pleasurable than the physical act. You just need to get some head.
Funny how things work out like that. I walked into the bar with no desire for sympathy. More so the desire to see some familiar faces, hear familiar sounds, feel something. Anything. I found that, and far much more.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Por Que?
What is it about a chef coat that shocks people into that state of I don't like it, could you make something else? challange?
Last I checked, I'm not French so I'm not as hardcore, or old school as they are. If you don't like it, it's ok. Certain foods aren't for everyone, pallettes are different. Don't be so timid when you come up to me saying you didn't like what I cooked for you. For the love of all the is holy though, please have an educated reason as to why you didn't like it. Overly salty? Too much pepper? Undercooked? Overcooked? Those are acceptable answers. The simple I just don't like it doesn't exactly fly well.
If you don't like pesto, don't order it. That simple. Don't be adventerous on my time. Make it on your own time. You don't like pasta? Too many carbs? Don't go to an Italian joint. You don't like spicy food? Don't eat Thai. Foods too rich for you? Diet? Don't eat French.
Don't blame me because you are fat. Not my fault your eyes are bigger than your stomach. If something is labeled Hot Shit use common sense. It's coffee. It's going to be hot. Don't sue because you burned your vagina on the way to work because you were too busy updating your Facebook status, finishing putting on your makeup, all while trying to drive.
A handy no-spill thermos, an adequate non-genitalia burning vessel you can purchase for a few bucks and it lasts for years. There's an idea! Wake up a little earlier, make your coffee at home, put your make up on at home...and YES, I mean ALL of it. Another mind bending idea!
I wish I could find the dealers you guys use for your pot. Seriously, to be on that retarded level? Sign me up.
Last I checked, I'm not French so I'm not as hardcore, or old school as they are. If you don't like it, it's ok. Certain foods aren't for everyone, pallettes are different. Don't be so timid when you come up to me saying you didn't like what I cooked for you. For the love of all the is holy though, please have an educated reason as to why you didn't like it. Overly salty? Too much pepper? Undercooked? Overcooked? Those are acceptable answers. The simple I just don't like it doesn't exactly fly well.
If you don't like pesto, don't order it. That simple. Don't be adventerous on my time. Make it on your own time. You don't like pasta? Too many carbs? Don't go to an Italian joint. You don't like spicy food? Don't eat Thai. Foods too rich for you? Diet? Don't eat French.
Don't blame me because you are fat. Not my fault your eyes are bigger than your stomach. If something is labeled Hot Shit use common sense. It's coffee. It's going to be hot. Don't sue because you burned your vagina on the way to work because you were too busy updating your Facebook status, finishing putting on your makeup, all while trying to drive.
A handy no-spill thermos, an adequate non-genitalia burning vessel you can purchase for a few bucks and it lasts for years. There's an idea! Wake up a little earlier, make your coffee at home, put your make up on at home...and YES, I mean ALL of it. Another mind bending idea!
I wish I could find the dealers you guys use for your pot. Seriously, to be on that retarded level? Sign me up.
Eulogy
So, tonight a friend proposed to me a question. “Can you write something to be read at a Eulogy? It’s for my Grandfather. “ Now, I’ve never met this man in my lifetime, but maybe I will in the next one. The only thing I can safely assume that due to the time of his death that he was a World War II veteran. Which, by the grace of God is something that I can relate to. Not because I’ve fought a war, fired a gun at another man, demolished a building, or yelled commands in a forigen language to the people I am fighting against. Oh no, I can write this because my great grandfathers were veterans. Proud veterans. Two men whom I love dearly, and would even give my own life to sit and have coffee with them one morning.
The greatest gift that they have ever passed through a bloodline is their pride. Ignore the diseases, the health problems, the “addictions” (if you will), but their values are more evident than any other generation of the twentyith century. These were earnest men, hard working, dedicated, loving, caring, observant, and most of all, family men.
They went across an ocean to fight a war and weren’t exactly expected to come back. Their dog tags, a valiant medal hung around their neck to give to their grandkids. To give to their best friends in order to give to their wife. A medallion to be given to their children back at home that they had to leave behind. Forget their boots, forget their helmets, forget the neatly folded flag that was given to them by their country, forget the white cross stapled above their grave, the dog tags hold the most meaning one man can have.
Their name, their blood type, their identification number, their legacy hung around their sun beaten, or frost bitten necks. These were men of valor, honor, integrity. Men in which we should remember for their contributions not only to a war, not to a country, not to end a tryanny…but to a family, a wife, a child, a future generation, a promise, a wedding vow. Wasted and wounded these men fought for what we have today.
Letters from a loved one stuffed in their chest pocket. The smell of the sweet perfume their lovers wear. A secondary letter written of love, lust, and instructions also folded up nicely behind their lovers letter for the “just in case”. Given to their best friend to send back to their wives, their girlfriends, their children.
John Steinbeck says it best, “It has always seemed strange to me... the things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.”
Which is why we should honor the fallen. Not just the soldiers, but the generation that they came from. They re-appear as stars dotting the sky. Giving us hope, direction, guidance, even more so a chance. The twinkling lights on a clear night are all the lost loved ones we have had, along with the thousands of other loved ones who admire the sky every night looking for that special twinkle. That recognizeable twinkle that let’s us know we are being looked upon from the heavens.
Much like the look of two star gazed lovers with crossed eyes, staring intently at every movement, every rise and fall of the chest while they are sleeping, their hair tossing back and forth across the pillow while they toss and turn, the way position their hand in yours, the way they seem to fit magically between your arms, how they smile in their sleep during a dream. In the same way our lost love and family stares upon us from the stars. We can’t see them in the daytime, but the stars still shine through the blue skies. A perfect sonnet if you will.
We choose paths in life not for eternity, but for the times. What the times shall bring? Nobody knows, that’s the excitement of it all. We trip, we stumble, we dream of something better, but in the end? We all close our eyes and lay down to rest. Our dreams never cease. For we keep searching, we continue learning, we continue growing long after we close our eyes. We search for clarity, for purpose, for love, passion, desire, success…our dreams become part of our lives.
We are all born as rain drops. Full of meaning, full of hope, full. We patter against the walls, the windows, the wills of other human beings. We start floods which turn into lakes, lakes which branch off into rivers, rivers which feed into oceans, oceans which crash against shores of far away lands. Full of life, full of wonder and beauty.
So let us not view the greiving process as something that is morose and mundane, but a celebration. A gathering of friends, of family, of a legacy. A gathering of a room full of “remember that time when…”. A gathering of love, respect, admiration, and determination.
The greatest gift that they have ever passed through a bloodline is their pride. Ignore the diseases, the health problems, the “addictions” (if you will), but their values are more evident than any other generation of the twentyith century. These were earnest men, hard working, dedicated, loving, caring, observant, and most of all, family men.
They went across an ocean to fight a war and weren’t exactly expected to come back. Their dog tags, a valiant medal hung around their neck to give to their grandkids. To give to their best friends in order to give to their wife. A medallion to be given to their children back at home that they had to leave behind. Forget their boots, forget their helmets, forget the neatly folded flag that was given to them by their country, forget the white cross stapled above their grave, the dog tags hold the most meaning one man can have.
Their name, their blood type, their identification number, their legacy hung around their sun beaten, or frost bitten necks. These were men of valor, honor, integrity. Men in which we should remember for their contributions not only to a war, not to a country, not to end a tryanny…but to a family, a wife, a child, a future generation, a promise, a wedding vow. Wasted and wounded these men fought for what we have today.
Letters from a loved one stuffed in their chest pocket. The smell of the sweet perfume their lovers wear. A secondary letter written of love, lust, and instructions also folded up nicely behind their lovers letter for the “just in case”. Given to their best friend to send back to their wives, their girlfriends, their children.
John Steinbeck says it best, “It has always seemed strange to me... the things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.”
Which is why we should honor the fallen. Not just the soldiers, but the generation that they came from. They re-appear as stars dotting the sky. Giving us hope, direction, guidance, even more so a chance. The twinkling lights on a clear night are all the lost loved ones we have had, along with the thousands of other loved ones who admire the sky every night looking for that special twinkle. That recognizeable twinkle that let’s us know we are being looked upon from the heavens.
Much like the look of two star gazed lovers with crossed eyes, staring intently at every movement, every rise and fall of the chest while they are sleeping, their hair tossing back and forth across the pillow while they toss and turn, the way position their hand in yours, the way they seem to fit magically between your arms, how they smile in their sleep during a dream. In the same way our lost love and family stares upon us from the stars. We can’t see them in the daytime, but the stars still shine through the blue skies. A perfect sonnet if you will.
We choose paths in life not for eternity, but for the times. What the times shall bring? Nobody knows, that’s the excitement of it all. We trip, we stumble, we dream of something better, but in the end? We all close our eyes and lay down to rest. Our dreams never cease. For we keep searching, we continue learning, we continue growing long after we close our eyes. We search for clarity, for purpose, for love, passion, desire, success…our dreams become part of our lives.
We are all born as rain drops. Full of meaning, full of hope, full. We patter against the walls, the windows, the wills of other human beings. We start floods which turn into lakes, lakes which branch off into rivers, rivers which feed into oceans, oceans which crash against shores of far away lands. Full of life, full of wonder and beauty.
So let us not view the greiving process as something that is morose and mundane, but a celebration. A gathering of friends, of family, of a legacy. A gathering of a room full of “remember that time when…”. A gathering of love, respect, admiration, and determination.
Don't Bite The Hand That Feeds
Why do people ask you a question and then turn their back upon the initiation of the pending conversation?
Soo, are you an arteeest?
In some form of offbeat French accent.
Well, I do cook so I suppose I am.
Before I could even finish, her back was turned as she was engaging in conversation with someone behind her. It's the equivilant to the Hey, how are you today? inquiry. I don't think you really care, or for that matter really want to hear.
Well, I'm hungover from last night. My back is throbbing along with my feet from standing all day. I have this lovely dribbling line of sweat going down my ass crack. I think I ate something last night I shouldn't have because I spent the latter part of my lunch break throwing up an un-recognizable substance. Oh, and you have the nerve to go out to eat on a Friday night and are the pickiest mother fucker I have ever dealt with. Why do you even eat out?
Somehow, I don't think someone wants to hear that. Especially while I'm standing in front of you cooking your food. Don't ask something if you don't want to know.
You start your onslaught with the preamble of
Sir, I don't mean to be rude...
Which really means...
Hey, I'm about to be a real pain in your ass again because I think you should be kissing my ass and you aren't, and oh yes. I do think I can do anybody's job better than them. Just ask my mailman.
Greatest lesson in life? Never piss off and bite the hand that feeds. Cooks hear it from the waitrons, hell I can even hear it walking through the dining room. We have our ways of dealing with you.
Soo, are you an arteeest?
In some form of offbeat French accent.
Well, I do cook so I suppose I am.
Before I could even finish, her back was turned as she was engaging in conversation with someone behind her. It's the equivilant to the Hey, how are you today? inquiry. I don't think you really care, or for that matter really want to hear.
Well, I'm hungover from last night. My back is throbbing along with my feet from standing all day. I have this lovely dribbling line of sweat going down my ass crack. I think I ate something last night I shouldn't have because I spent the latter part of my lunch break throwing up an un-recognizable substance. Oh, and you have the nerve to go out to eat on a Friday night and are the pickiest mother fucker I have ever dealt with. Why do you even eat out?
Somehow, I don't think someone wants to hear that. Especially while I'm standing in front of you cooking your food. Don't ask something if you don't want to know.
You start your onslaught with the preamble of
Sir, I don't mean to be rude...
Which really means...
Hey, I'm about to be a real pain in your ass again because I think you should be kissing my ass and you aren't, and oh yes. I do think I can do anybody's job better than them. Just ask my mailman.
Greatest lesson in life? Never piss off and bite the hand that feeds. Cooks hear it from the waitrons, hell I can even hear it walking through the dining room. We have our ways of dealing with you.
Butcher
There is something all too magical and calming about watching a butcher work. The way the knife glides through muscle tissue, releasing the large fatty strands away from the tender meat that lies underneath.
The way a leg gets sectioned in order to ensure that when roasted correctly, the meat will surely slip seamlessly off the bone. Watching the blood covered apron flow through the kitchen. Sectioning this, cutting that. Hanging what was once a wallowing mud covered animal on a giant hook.
Hanging meat to expose it to oxidation and festering airborne particles in a dark, and dimly lit room to allow it to age for days, weeks even.
Shoving a ground up mix of meat into the lining of another animal's intestine lining. The beauty, and magic is why we do it. Food is a powerful thing.
The way a leg gets sectioned in order to ensure that when roasted correctly, the meat will surely slip seamlessly off the bone. Watching the blood covered apron flow through the kitchen. Sectioning this, cutting that. Hanging what was once a wallowing mud covered animal on a giant hook.
Hanging meat to expose it to oxidation and festering airborne particles in a dark, and dimly lit room to allow it to age for days, weeks even.
Shoving a ground up mix of meat into the lining of another animal's intestine lining. The beauty, and magic is why we do it. Food is a powerful thing.
The Prostitute
Getting one's hopes up, just to see the same thing all over again. Empty promises, empty bottles, empty and meaningless sex. A prostitute selling herself for the lewd, casual, yet discreet sexual favors for the cheating husbands, the deginerate slime that walks these streets are by far the most honest people in America.
Sixty bucksfor half an hour. Not done in time? Too bad. You pay them to leave. They leave after the half hour is up. You were told You only get this half hour of whatever void of pleasure you aren't getting from your wife.
May God bless America. You worry about the terrorists in other countries, and at home. I'm going to worry about finishing on time.
Sixty bucksfor half an hour. Not done in time? Too bad. You pay them to leave. They leave after the half hour is up. You were told You only get this half hour of whatever void of pleasure you aren't getting from your wife.
May God bless America. You worry about the terrorists in other countries, and at home. I'm going to worry about finishing on time.
The Man On The Bus
Today I saw and a man and a boy on the bus. The man was the driver, the boy was his son. For once, I've never felt so envious of a four year old. Sure, he probably sat through the same routes day in, day out but he got to see life. People. New people, old people, young people, people that ride the same bus, the same time everyday. Being able to see all walks of life. Witnessing human nature from every corner of the spectrum.
Then I realized I get to do the same thing as a cook.
Then I realized I get to do the same thing as a cook.
Slice of Pie
Getting told by a fellow line cook as I'm making what I like to call The Porker 'Za, the Man, Bourdain or any other pig lover would be proud of me pizza. I finally told her I'm a vegetarian and her response was as follows
You are fucked up, you know that right? Why don't you practice more habits of what you eat?
People are generally afraid of healthy food and living. I've been to a raw food bar or two and found myself eating a slice of greasy, heart stopping, almost heavenly goodness of pizza that no doubt sat under a heat lamp for a good hour or two. Why? I wasn't full. Spending fifteen bucks on what was supposed to be a Raw Veggie Burger, which it sounded far different on paper.
Sunflower seeds mashed into a fine paste to make a tortilla alternative which was supposed to replace the bun. Shredded lettuce, avocado, red onions, and tomatoes then topped it. It was served with three dipping sauces however that were rather weak. Sun Dried Tomato Pesto, and two other mayonnaise based sauces I couldn't put my finger on. They certainly weren't that amazing otherwise I would have been able to describe them better, or at all.
Back to why I love cooking terrible food. We all love to indulge in the fatty, processed, rich and highly caloric foods. It what binds America together. I feel my heart palpitating dreaming such gastronomical endeavors because we are on the top of the food chain. I can do that. I can cook that, I can cook this, marinade that, cook one animal in another animal's fat.
We are selfish, we are human after all. What you eat will eventually haunt you, but so does the alimony checks you pay to your high school sweetheart who became a lesbian. You only live once. If you want something fast and unsatisfying get Burger King. If you want something slower and halfway satisfying, dine in at a nice sit down joint. If you want a memory, catch it, kill it, and cook it yourself.
You are fucked up, you know that right? Why don't you practice more habits of what you eat?
People are generally afraid of healthy food and living. I've been to a raw food bar or two and found myself eating a slice of greasy, heart stopping, almost heavenly goodness of pizza that no doubt sat under a heat lamp for a good hour or two. Why? I wasn't full. Spending fifteen bucks on what was supposed to be a Raw Veggie Burger, which it sounded far different on paper.
Sunflower seeds mashed into a fine paste to make a tortilla alternative which was supposed to replace the bun. Shredded lettuce, avocado, red onions, and tomatoes then topped it. It was served with three dipping sauces however that were rather weak. Sun Dried Tomato Pesto, and two other mayonnaise based sauces I couldn't put my finger on. They certainly weren't that amazing otherwise I would have been able to describe them better, or at all.
Back to why I love cooking terrible food. We all love to indulge in the fatty, processed, rich and highly caloric foods. It what binds America together. I feel my heart palpitating dreaming such gastronomical endeavors because we are on the top of the food chain. I can do that. I can cook that, I can cook this, marinade that, cook one animal in another animal's fat.
We are selfish, we are human after all. What you eat will eventually haunt you, but so does the alimony checks you pay to your high school sweetheart who became a lesbian. You only live once. If you want something fast and unsatisfying get Burger King. If you want something slower and halfway satisfying, dine in at a nice sit down joint. If you want a memory, catch it, kill it, and cook it yourself.
Conversations At Bars
Working in a busy open kitchen, I somehow always look at the person (or people)I just made food for. Seeing the look of complete and almost dumb-founded bliss as they enjoy themselves is a rare beauty. Pictures can't obtain the feeling I have, let alone the looks on their faces. They eat, they drink and for maybe just a few moments I shared my passion with them.
Maybe they were just hungry and where I work was the first place they saw that wasn't corporate trash. Having the "I don't cook on a level that you do, but I highly respect what you do everyday" type of conversation has preceeded after they finish their entree, as I have two seconds to breath in the midst of the rush.
How many people do you see stopping at a road side construction site and thanking them for the back breaking work they do everyday? Fixing the holes in the road so we don't damage our freshly bought SUVs and Land Rovers. Regardless of the traffic, and the extra five minutes of our commute in the morning.
Oo, I'm sorry. You didn't get your double venti chai mocha whipped cherry no whip, extra soy latte.
Well, in the end you got to eat your dinner sitting down and enjoy it. I get to scarf mine down next to piling up dishes in the dish room.
Maybe they were just hungry and where I work was the first place they saw that wasn't corporate trash. Having the "I don't cook on a level that you do, but I highly respect what you do everyday" type of conversation has preceeded after they finish their entree, as I have two seconds to breath in the midst of the rush.
How many people do you see stopping at a road side construction site and thanking them for the back breaking work they do everyday? Fixing the holes in the road so we don't damage our freshly bought SUVs and Land Rovers. Regardless of the traffic, and the extra five minutes of our commute in the morning.
Oo, I'm sorry. You didn't get your double venti chai mocha whipped cherry no whip, extra soy latte.
Well, in the end you got to eat your dinner sitting down and enjoy it. I get to scarf mine down next to piling up dishes in the dish room.
A Chef's Lament
My walks through the neighborhood allow me to reminisce my childhood. The smell of honey suckles and roses penetrating something deeper than my nostrils. Watching a middle school couple walk a dog, holding hands. Blissfully ignorant to their surrounds, yet dead in conversation.
For if I didn't have motion sickness I could write a book of short stories on buses. I sit on the vessels for sometimes hours. Sometimes it's just what feels like hours. I look at the same bleak faces everyday and wonder why people take the same bus at the same time everyday.
Are they going home? To work? From work? Their clothing gives only a small semblance of what they really do. I can tell the people who work with food, but the others propose a new challenge. What do they do? Why do they wear a suit and a tie? Where do they work? Do they like it? Why do they do it?
Every great cook I have ever known either has his own home, or a car. Rarely both. We tend to party until the sun touches the sand. Why you ask? I couldn't tell you. Long hours, stress, a void we try to fill? Perhaps it's like an old chef I had worked with told me. "Isn't it funny how we used to skip class in high school to smoke cigarettes, are tattoo and thrill seeking junkies. For as much shit as we got by our peers isn't it funny that we cook for them now, and they respect us?"
We as America abolished slavery, yet it's still something we live by.
For if I didn't have motion sickness I could write a book of short stories on buses. I sit on the vessels for sometimes hours. Sometimes it's just what feels like hours. I look at the same bleak faces everyday and wonder why people take the same bus at the same time everyday.
Are they going home? To work? From work? Their clothing gives only a small semblance of what they really do. I can tell the people who work with food, but the others propose a new challenge. What do they do? Why do they wear a suit and a tie? Where do they work? Do they like it? Why do they do it?
Every great cook I have ever known either has his own home, or a car. Rarely both. We tend to party until the sun touches the sand. Why you ask? I couldn't tell you. Long hours, stress, a void we try to fill? Perhaps it's like an old chef I had worked with told me. "Isn't it funny how we used to skip class in high school to smoke cigarettes, are tattoo and thrill seeking junkies. For as much shit as we got by our peers isn't it funny that we cook for them now, and they respect us?"
We as America abolished slavery, yet it's still something we live by.
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