It's true - I don't watch the news anymore. Not even CNN (which used to be on continually when I was dating SMRGE, though we toned it down when the child came to live with us...oh, so much of that gawdawful japaneseinspired cartoon tripe...what was her name? can't remember now, but it will come to me shortly, surely *sailor moon, it's name was sailor moon). But I do watch the Daily Show, which is like news, but with my filter on, so that's nice. And, of course, Jon Stewart is DREAMY. More dreamy than Cesc, yes. Right. So. I've been absent for most of the Libya debacle, save for the moments when my INSANE swiss boss starts using it as a metaphor for management styles. Holy crap. I literally stood back and let my internal monologue go into great detail as he rambled on, and on, and on. It was a typical anti-American screed. Which always makes me smirk because HEY! SWISSGUY! WHERE YOU LIVE NOW?...WHY??? if it's so goddamn great elsewhere (and of course, you'll get no argument from me, christ, if I could figure out a way to decamp to anywhere in Europe and live, I would be on the first plane out of here) GO. I am tired on the constant berating of my poor, sad countrymen (and of course, women). Tired of your ridiculous ethnic tirades, especially about the Mexicans who are the backbone of your company. Seriously. You, and your ridiculous Japanese wife, need to stop with the racial slurs already. It is going to come to a point where I will have to draw a line. I am already feeling a moral twinge, and it's getting worse. You calling people by your secret "Jalapeople" name isn't helping. You enabling flawed Kenyans, is only making it more painful. You treating me like a small chimp with cymbals is irritating, and makes me wish, for the first time in 7 years, that I'd never left reprographics. Nice work, Swissguy. Nice work
Wait, this was going to be about my lack of media consumption. Ah well. What I should actually write about is the guy, locally, who is hanging the "Free Leonard" signs in my area. The guy who I hope will be back on the overpass once the weather improves. The guy who is still committed to the fight. I mention it because I miss being committed to something, to change, to helping change come about. I almost feel like I'm not sure how to make it happen anymore, I'm so consumed and depressed by all these people having babies and turning the world in on itself on themselves, so that everything is about them, the wonder of their child.
And it seems they lose sight of the rest of the world. Which I guess is how it goes. And it means I need to remain sober and vigilent becuase who the hell else will? How does this work now>
Monday, March 28, 2011
I forget sometimes. That I have experienced some amazing stuff, come across some individuals who have touched me, and in turn, have let me know that I have touched them. I am a habitual leaver of people, of contact, of assuming that less is more, or that if they aren't reaching out to me, they don't want to be reached....yeah. What's got me on this tangent? A little light housekeeping (as, let's be honest LIGHT housekeeping is really the only kind I do) had me sorting through cds, and I found a compilation that Peter, the Lantana bartender had made for me. Now. I'm a sucker for mix tapes, and in this millennium have learned to accept cds as a reasonable (barely) facsimile. I love that I know how to spell facsimile because I worked at Kinko's. I gained so much from those years...
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, Peter. He of the knowing glance and stories from volunteering in Tanzania, though, like so many of us misfit toys who ended up at Lantana, he was docked in Fresno for the moment. We had a good rapport (as I recall - though it's misty, I was pretty constantly pickled through much of that experience; including, but not limited to the evening of our official opening, when I was so literally hung over that I found myself on all fours on the brand new tiles of the women's restroom hurling my guts out, and staggering back to my station to work the shift pale and shaking, but finished it nonetheless. Imagine how amazing my work would have been, had I been sober).
Yeah, so, Peter. He was forever playing amazing samba and latin jazz stuff in his 2001-space odyssey bar. It struck me particularly because I had worked with a guy from Brazil (or so he claimed) named Fernando at a record store called Nobody Beats The Wiz when I was in WDC. Fernando wore a slick eurotrashy suit to work every day and sold cds like a mofo to yuppies who wandered into our Georgetown store during their lunch. In the passing hours of the day he introduced me to everyone from Sade to Gilberto Gil. it was awesome, and as has often been the case in my musical education, I learn best from people who are passionate about what they listen to. To the point of even listening to and appreciating TOOL, but that is another story altogether.
The pre-service trips through the bar I would make - generally to communicate the specials of the day, as I reigned over both appetizers and desserts and took an odd and bizarre pleasure in making sure the front of the house could explain my shit, were always punctuated by a lively conversation with Peter where he, like Ryan and a few others, would quiz me about the food. My compatriot, the Executive Chef, the delightful Ray, wasn't quite as intense about that, though he was certainly intense about his food and getting it done. He also looked great in his whites.
Again, another story for another time. My point, if there is one, is that there was a cadre of young males (my favorite demographic, in case that was in doubt...) that were interested in food, and looked to me as their source - and, while I had only so much experience, what I lacked in actual miles logged I had more than made up for in passion and an adaptability with recipes. I tweaked the hell out of everything I was curious about: French Laundry ideas? Yup. Chez Panisse inspired? Yup again. Both Ray and I were skating along, making it up as we went, and getting away with it for quite a while (well into a year plus before I bailed), and honestly, all I was trying to communicate to the FOH boys was my passion for amazing food, great produce, for caring about what you do versus the shit you sling at Claim Jumper (not that it's bad to do that, after all, you gotta pay the rent sometimes, but for us, then, it was all I lived for, and since I couldn't be working at those dreamy restaurants, I was bound and determined to create the experience for myself, as best I could anyway). It worked, and Peter seemed quite taken with my rabid devotion to the farmer's markets, and made me several cds of the Brazilian music he favored. Later, when I moved on from Lantana, he gave me a fantastic book about heirloom tomatoes (the holy grail for me, which I expressed eloquently in a fantastic caprase that still makes my heart swell, just thinking about how beautiful those plates were, how fantastic they tasted....argh). So I was reading his inscription to me in the book and it, like so many similar things made me wonder about subtext, about my inability to act on things. There was an amazingly drunken evening that finished at his house - I awoke in a room I could barely remember being in, and I was alone...it was typical of the time. We were so close all of us, when the restaurant started, and then like so many relationships it all fell apart. Ah well.
I still have the book, the cds and warm thoughts again.
I was going to wax on about the significance of mixtapes/cds, but maybe next time. You know, I've only made one for anyone else (CG, of course) - didn't even make one for SMRGE...but have had many made for me. Kind of miss music as communication. Remembering now the FOH guy at Pangea who until he heard me listening to the Get Up Kids while prepping one afternoon, kind of hated me a bit because I was pretty rough on him - and he immediately opened up, and a day later came in with not one, but 3 cds for me. Funny, really. When I get all wigged out about being alone, and about not being very successful with personal interactions (which is easy to do when everyone you have an actual relationship with ultimately leaves you and goes on to find their actual soul mate & true happiness, and yet you continue on, wondering what the hell it will take to understand the reality of what is going on around you...) it's good to remember that some people do dig you, or HAVE dug you. That every now and then, you'll get a phone call from a long lost pen pal, or an email from someone you love a ton but think has forgotten you...it's why I keep getting up every morning, even though my dog is gone and my job is lacking and I'm struggling to find that outlet, that thing that will let me fly again. Or something like that. If you've never lost, never hurt, never failed, how can you know what success feels like, right?
Yeah.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, Peter. He of the knowing glance and stories from volunteering in Tanzania, though, like so many of us misfit toys who ended up at Lantana, he was docked in Fresno for the moment. We had a good rapport (as I recall - though it's misty, I was pretty constantly pickled through much of that experience; including, but not limited to the evening of our official opening, when I was so literally hung over that I found myself on all fours on the brand new tiles of the women's restroom hurling my guts out, and staggering back to my station to work the shift pale and shaking, but finished it nonetheless. Imagine how amazing my work would have been, had I been sober).
Yeah, so, Peter. He was forever playing amazing samba and latin jazz stuff in his 2001-space odyssey bar. It struck me particularly because I had worked with a guy from Brazil (or so he claimed) named Fernando at a record store called Nobody Beats The Wiz when I was in WDC. Fernando wore a slick eurotrashy suit to work every day and sold cds like a mofo to yuppies who wandered into our Georgetown store during their lunch. In the passing hours of the day he introduced me to everyone from Sade to Gilberto Gil. it was awesome, and as has often been the case in my musical education, I learn best from people who are passionate about what they listen to. To the point of even listening to and appreciating TOOL, but that is another story altogether.
The pre-service trips through the bar I would make - generally to communicate the specials of the day, as I reigned over both appetizers and desserts and took an odd and bizarre pleasure in making sure the front of the house could explain my shit, were always punctuated by a lively conversation with Peter where he, like Ryan and a few others, would quiz me about the food. My compatriot, the Executive Chef, the delightful Ray, wasn't quite as intense about that, though he was certainly intense about his food and getting it done. He also looked great in his whites.
Again, another story for another time. My point, if there is one, is that there was a cadre of young males (my favorite demographic, in case that was in doubt...) that were interested in food, and looked to me as their source - and, while I had only so much experience, what I lacked in actual miles logged I had more than made up for in passion and an adaptability with recipes. I tweaked the hell out of everything I was curious about: French Laundry ideas? Yup. Chez Panisse inspired? Yup again. Both Ray and I were skating along, making it up as we went, and getting away with it for quite a while (well into a year plus before I bailed), and honestly, all I was trying to communicate to the FOH boys was my passion for amazing food, great produce, for caring about what you do versus the shit you sling at Claim Jumper (not that it's bad to do that, after all, you gotta pay the rent sometimes, but for us, then, it was all I lived for, and since I couldn't be working at those dreamy restaurants, I was bound and determined to create the experience for myself, as best I could anyway). It worked, and Peter seemed quite taken with my rabid devotion to the farmer's markets, and made me several cds of the Brazilian music he favored. Later, when I moved on from Lantana, he gave me a fantastic book about heirloom tomatoes (the holy grail for me, which I expressed eloquently in a fantastic caprase that still makes my heart swell, just thinking about how beautiful those plates were, how fantastic they tasted....argh). So I was reading his inscription to me in the book and it, like so many similar things made me wonder about subtext, about my inability to act on things. There was an amazingly drunken evening that finished at his house - I awoke in a room I could barely remember being in, and I was alone...it was typical of the time. We were so close all of us, when the restaurant started, and then like so many relationships it all fell apart. Ah well.
I still have the book, the cds and warm thoughts again.
I was going to wax on about the significance of mixtapes/cds, but maybe next time. You know, I've only made one for anyone else (CG, of course) - didn't even make one for SMRGE...but have had many made for me. Kind of miss music as communication. Remembering now the FOH guy at Pangea who until he heard me listening to the Get Up Kids while prepping one afternoon, kind of hated me a bit because I was pretty rough on him - and he immediately opened up, and a day later came in with not one, but 3 cds for me. Funny, really. When I get all wigged out about being alone, and about not being very successful with personal interactions (which is easy to do when everyone you have an actual relationship with ultimately leaves you and goes on to find their actual soul mate & true happiness, and yet you continue on, wondering what the hell it will take to understand the reality of what is going on around you...) it's good to remember that some people do dig you, or HAVE dug you. That every now and then, you'll get a phone call from a long lost pen pal, or an email from someone you love a ton but think has forgotten you...it's why I keep getting up every morning, even though my dog is gone and my job is lacking and I'm struggling to find that outlet, that thing that will let me fly again. Or something like that. If you've never lost, never hurt, never failed, how can you know what success feels like, right?
Yeah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
