Thursday, July 30, 2009

Feeling Immobilized

Up at 9:30 on my first day with nothing to do. Anxiety has my mind on the almost-finished bottle of Coppola Merlot downstairs but my better judgment has kept me in bed now trying to deal by writing about it.

Watching a clip of Maria Maldaur and The Jim Kweskin Jug Band’s performance of I Ain’t Gonna Marry simultaneously helps open my airway through it’s beautiful slingshot vocals while channeling my drifter desire which hasn’t been utilized thus raising my heart rate. See for yourself.
I’d be her in this moment over and over again for the rest of my life.

I’ve just been to Spain and hope to explore the east coast a little for the next month. I’ll be driving Hope (younger sister) down to school in Miami in August so that’ll help.

Now I’m tired of this narcissistic ramble so I’m going to start my day. I hope yours is keeping you grounded and that you do all the things of your desires.

July 21

Thursday, July 23, 2009

you can never have too much storage

Found these on one of my externals when I was looking for something to use as a banner. They're from when I first started getting into photography about 2 years ago.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Getting up and Started

This blog may be a little backwards for some time as I post older writings

an unemployed waitress is a happy waitress

This short story written by Tom Robins has gotten me through the last few weeks of work:

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret
sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of aching
arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes
diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of
burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely
American woman living a uniquely American compromise,
I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Okay, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But
she is well-educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit,
ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something
equally valued in contemporary marketplace. Even if
she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't
pay beans--so she slings them instead. (The genius
waitress is not to be confused with the
aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan
and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in
temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy,
funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic,
weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a
difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian,
often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though
her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as
a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and,
above all, geniune.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old
folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from
handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and
if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back.
Never, however, never try to impress her with your
resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends
with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like
a menu and always knows when she's being offered
leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by
her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built
bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover
that whereas in the public dining room she is merely
as proficient as she needs to be, in the private
bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and
counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or
the triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal
art forms--while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually, she leaves food service for graduate
school or marriage; but unless she wins a grant or a
fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a
few years down the line, reciting the daily specials
with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor
of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie,
the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds
of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the
side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your
order--and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break

Of her, I sing.

Tom Robbins
Playboy, 1991

It’s his appreciation of the worker and his understanding of lying awake at night unable to sleep because your hair stinks of pizza and your finger nails are backed up with a tar-like substance made up of grease, garlic sauce, and, most importantly money dirt that prevented me from pouring steaming marinara in the face of every old-money Manhattan bachelor I've had to explain to why they could NOT have my number. Now your wondering why I wouldn’t just shower after work before going to bed and the answer is that after a 14-hour shift the thought of having to continue standing just to be clean is not worth it to me by a long shot. Many a night I’ve contemplated bringing a lawn chair in the tub with me but the undertaking of such a project gets lost in my thoughts around the prospect of fumbling around my dark yard searching for said chair. I’d rather sleep in my own filth and worry about the rest in morning.

You may also be wondering why on earth I would quit a decently paying job as a recent college graduate in this kind of job market and I'll put it right on the table for you now: I'm okay with my head being bigger than my bank account.

Long story-short tonight was my last night of work at Michael’s Ristortante. Although I did shed a tear at the thought of leaving my coworkers, most of whom I’ve had an outstanding working relationship with for three summers now, I couldn’t be happier to get away from the pizza-loving freaks that occupy that place at the most god awful hours of the morning. If you’re one of the drunks that has felt the need to yell over the 7 people ahead of you in line to make sure you get the corner slice of the Sicilian pie you will never see my rosey face again.

Written July 13