So I had a really good time both at work today and afterwards, but I am left questioning what my overall feelings are. I know that I am a person of routine, most happy when successfully executing a program known to me. Tonight was the first of three in a row Hell Nights that the restaurant I work at is putting on. These are nights with an in-your-face attitude, special menu featuring all-hot items, dark red & black strobe lit dining with thumping hardcore hip hop and metal blaring.
Ya’ll know I love hip hop, but breaking my routine is what really kills me. Granted, I am not really comfortable enough at the restaurant yet to have my serving routine on lockdown, so the newness does kill a bit of the learning curve nerves that I still feel. Cat told me to focus on the bottom line, which I suppose is good street attorney sense. My problem is more of an autistic problem. But why does it matter?
There was an error in the financial data I recorded tonight. All the other servers waited an extra hour while we all went over my checks and calculations. Eventually what it was was straightened out, but no one could tell me what the problem had been. Hell Night fries brains, what with the fog machine & haze of habanero & scotch bonnet fatali pepper stench hanging in the air… We liquify intestines for cash.
If Daedalus, Allah &…. what was your name? I can’t recall, I’m sorry… if you are reading this, big ups! You see? We joke about your name being too plain compared to Daedalus & Allah and my brain & memory do it. Ya’ll I definitely recommend going to Flaminglips.com (I’m not going to link cause I’m lazy). Flaming lips lets you listen to their entire album free and its dope, one I haven’t heard in entirety in a minute. Dope dope dope….
Whats weird is that this writer guy who has been shadowing the staff at the East Coast Grill for the past week describing himself as a freelance writer from the Upper West Side of Manhattan turns out to be the food critic for the New York Times. I expect to see my bizness card scanned in realsize on page whatever, mister! Or better yet, just pass it on to Maureen Dowd or Frank Rich. I heard they’re both looking for a good Dick Cheney, and I’m becoming just the one they need…
And ya’ll at the New York Times make my heart go bippity bop. Like Dick Cheney’s heart. Hey, Mister Gavin, weren’t you going to call me? Before you became mister nyt food critic I thought you were going to ask me out, but now I think you were probably going to just tell me your real status. Thats why I don’t answer my phone. Like Dick Cheney, he doesn’t answer his phone either, he has people do it.
I wait until I have 5 messages built up in my voicemail queue. By that time the crisis has usually passed. If not, then I know I am truly needed and I answer the calling. Ya’ll taking notes? To those not taking notes: This is a few years advanced passed Street Attorney 101, and you might be in the wrong classroom.
Yes, yes, yes, well, that sexy beast food “writer” Frank Bruni who you tried to pick up will be writing all about his experiences at ECG. He is better known as The Count in the blog The Bruni Digest. Ahh, The Bruni Digest Y’all should link that chizzamp. Now suck it.
lets say love came first. maybe hate is just love braized.
but on another note, youz the bizamp bomb. lets hear that noise from friday night up on the web soon mang!