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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
