Heaven and Hell Exists as Work
I generally like to play, particularly when I'm at work.
I find out fairly quickly who's game and who isn't. Some encourage it. Some want nothing to do with it. The ones who have been in very long term relationships are looking for an outside interaction, an intervention. The on-the-first-date-ites look for a distraction from the new set of eyes across from them. The occasional veering adds comfort. Looking into eyes is extremely intimate. And sometimes it garners a memorable story.
"Do you remember me," asked a pretty blonde girl of about my age, maybe slightly older.
The Comrade: Please refresh my memory.
The 5'0 Blonde who's dating a guy who's 6'4": Well, I was on my first date with my now boyfriend, whom I'm in love with, and you asked us whether we'd exchanged spit yet, and he thought you said "Does it fit yet?"
The Comrade: Well, does it?
Two older gents sat in my section. Within the first 2 minutes one of them announced they were both from Australia. I feel if a person needs to patriotically wave their native flag, particularly within the first few bars of interaction, I feel I'm dealing with a Nationalist. I like to make fun of Nationalists.
Aussie #1: So, since we're from Australia, we don't want to have any wine from there. We'd like to try something else.
The Comrade: Oh, you don't trust your palate to winemakers who come from a long line of criminals? Nor do I.
Just in case you don't know: Once upon a time, long, long ago, the Queen of England decided to give options to the convicted criminals of the land, as its prisons were full to capacity and she didn't want any dark stains on her ruling.
Her Majesty's Option #1: Death
Her Majesty's Option #2: Banishment
The Monarch conspired with some other European countries, to bring out their worst. Collectively they shipped whores, thieves, swindlers and swine alike on boats destined for Australia, this huge, desolate island, with no supplies, just the shirts on their back.
This is the thing about people who don't operate conventionally within the parameters of the law: they're very resourceful.
As soon as I detect an accent, particularly stemming from the Queen's Commonwealth, I put on a pouncy, very posh, reputedly bad (according to my British mates), though sounds completely right in my head, accent from some fictious area in England, that green and pleasant land.
Aussie #1 = Nick, 60's, dyed black hair, vain, a tad closeminded, slightly paranoid, bad breath.
Aussie #2 = Don, 60's, long in the tooth, white hair, father of 2, deliberate, careful, earnest.
Many people are very interested in what I do outside of my work at the restaurant. They think I must have something of a greater pursuit than that of being a conduit between need and sating of oral gratification.
Nick: So, besides being a comedienne, what else do you do?
My standard answer is, "I do other things, but I do them for myself and don't make any money off it. It's purer that way."
Nick: As in...?
So we start talking about blogging and I launch into what a potentially powerful, liberating, community driven, and meritful opportunity this is for the People. Nick then launches into a paranoid diatribe of how my vision is limited and why can't I see the negative ramifications of this insidious thing.
Nick: Can't you see that with all of this traffic it could tie up lines of communication placing us in jeopardy?
The Comrade: What are you talking about?
Nick: Our homeland security!
The Comrade: Criminal... Are you, fucking mad?
Nick: Well, what about all the advertising the agencies would put inside of the individual blogs, effectively clogging up engines?
The Comrade (still keeping the stupid accent) : I am versed in a bit of code, sir. I would simply rip the code for the advertisement out. It's all html based.
I try to explain it's an independant server issue and that governments make sure that there is more than one mode of communication, if immediate and urgent messages and information need to be conveyed (which governments still ignore), streaming in from wholly independant conduits.
Nick: Bah! You still don't see the negative ramifications!
The Comrade: [looks to her right, acknowledges a table who is in need of her attention] Good Lord! [leaves]
Three women, ages ranging from late 30's to mid 40's. Three boys, ages 2-9. The boys were looking for amusing interactions with the staff, as their mothers were losing their edge.
Boy #1 = 8 years old, looked like a young Edward Furlong, the kid who played John Connor in the Terminator 2: Judgement Day. Adorable. Ruckus. Little shit disturber. I loved this kid.
Boy #2 = Jack! 2 years old, graduated baby speak, wanted to know if the staff was going to abuse them. Drew me a Christmas card, currently on my fridge, with ringed notepaper, a black marker, yellow highlighter and pencil mediums dedicated to me, lovingly signed by him. I loved this little fucker.
Boy #3 = 9 years old. Brother to Boy #1. Totally brazen. Actually ate, on a dare, a piece of lime that had fallen on the ground. Was calling all the girls "ugly" and "stupid". He was awesome.
Boy #2 (Jack) : Do you want to sing the Santa song?
The Comrade: Gee, Jack, I'm not sure if I remember the Santa song. How about you start and I'll sing along?
Jack: Santa, Santa, Santa...
The Comrade: -ta, Santa...
Jack: S-A-N-T-A
Jack and The Comrade in unison: S-A-N-T-A. S-A-N-T-A... and Santa was his NAME-O.
I go back to the Australians. The last bottle of wine wasn't "jammy" enough. I suggest another. A Syrah from California. This time it is jammy. By glass number 5, Nick is starting to slur.
Nick: So, what what type of after dinner liquer would you suggest we have, on the house?
The Comrade: On the house?
Nick: Yes [grinning]
The Comrade: Let's recap, shall we?
Nick: Alright.
TC: How was the food?
Nick: Very nice.
TC: Was tonight's service arguably the best you've ever had?
Nick: Yes.
TC: How did you find the environs?
Nick: Very pleasant.
TC: The music?
Nick: Catchy.
TC: And yet you still feel we owe you something?
Nick: Yes, that would be nice!
TC: Nice try, you conniving, thieving Australian bugger! [cackles and leaves]
While trying to convey the evening's specials to a table of 2 women, one of whom chooses an appetizer of roasted veal bones, with crostini, an interactive dish that requires scooping out the marrow from the bones and spreading the goo on toast, I am distracted by the young punks at the adjacent table who are systematically driving my comrades crazy.
The Comrade [yelling from one table to the next] : Hey! This is NOT Chuck E. Cheese! Shut up and stop harrassing people!
When I asked that woman how the marrow was, she said, "If I wasn't in public, I'd be sucking on bone!"
The Comrade clears her throat and goes back to join the matrons and the little dudes.
The Comrade [pulls up a seat] : Hey, punk! Wanna thumbwrestle? Or are you not MAN enough?
Boy #3: [giggling] Okay!
Josh (my favourite at work Comrade): [leaning closely into Boy #3] : Kid... you're so dead.
T.C.: Okay, let's do this bad thing. [opens right palm, spits in it]
Boy #3 horks in his hand and offers it to me.
T.C. : Dude, that's disgusting. [taking the kid's little wrist and wiping the hork reside onto his pant leg]
Locking fingers while releasing thumbs, thumbs jumping back and forth side to side, collectively:
T.C + Boy #3 in unison: 1, 2, 3, 4... I declare a thumb WAR. Bow [thumbs crook and bow at the other's thumb]. Kiss! [thumbs lightly touch each other, while making a giant smooching sound] And... BEGIN!
This is how you win a thumb wrestle:
1. Intimadation. Go in very cocky. Maintain cockiness throughout.
2. Insults. Hurl "girlie-man", and "puny thumb" comments at your opponent.
3. Patience. Get them while they're tired and distracted. You only need to pin it down for a count of 3.
The kid wasn't a bad contender. I only broke out in a brief sweat. I still remained victorious, completely kicking his ass. I did 3 full victory laps around the restaurant. And contained myself to only 2 "in your face" comments.
Boy #3: [to the Comrade] You're soooo ugly! And you're sooo stupid!
The Comrade: [gently stroking his hair] It's obvious you're totally in love with me. Stop embarrassing yourself. I'm sorry, I'm too old for you.
Boy #3: Arrrggghhhh!
Aussie #2, Don, after paying the bill wanted to talk to me. He took a very long time, but I stood, eyes locked on his, smiling supportively as I know words sometimes come easily, sometimes are the hardest to come by. And I paraphrase, as I was and continue to be completely stunned:
"Continue to work on your self-confidence. As I have two daughters, it's something I worry for them much of the time. I believe in the work you do and I believe in what you're trying to achieve. In short, I believe in you. You have a magic quality. Did you see Star Wars? I didn't understand the phrase, "May the Force be with you" for 10 years. Then one day I understood. I say this to you now: May the Force be with you. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I know I was supposed to meet you and I know this interaction was suppose to happen. Does this make any sense to you?"
This made the most sense in the world to me. With blurry, teary eyes, I hugged him and thanked him profusely. That statement couldn't have come at a better time.
You see, I've been dealing with something at work lately. The chef is making my life a living hell and trying to have me extricated from the restaurant. The reason, you may ask? She is the wife of the Police Man. She's looking for a reason to can me. She's frustrated because she doesn't have the power to fire me, as Guiseppe is effectively her boss too. Luckily Guiseppe adores the Comrade just as much as the Comrade adores him.
I was making a lot of mistakes with the kitchen this weekend.
To perform optimally, we need a safe environment to flourish. A person cannot work effectively with a gun to the head, under constant scrutiny. If you look at a thing under a microscope long enough, with ill intent, the subject will change to the side of whatever the intent is. That's a scientific fact. Loving support is constructive. To be calmly counselled works. A little empathy and understanding go a long way. Being yelled at in a shrill manner, focussed on and ostricized in front of the staff, and then complained about behind my back to whomever has ears does not make for effective workers. Complaints to Giuseppe alone would have been fine but, in addition, those made to suffer her shrill, hateful diatribe of all things me were bussers, bartenders, kitchen staff et al.
Apparently, the Police Man will not step foot into the place if he knows I'm working. I have not seen him since the incident. It's not as if he hadn't personally heard these repeatedly expanded upon hurling insults from me in the past .
The Filthy Law Enforcer is Guiseppe's oldest and best friend, though this relationship bears no reflection on the boss whom I adore, as they don't share any real similarities at all. The second interaction I ever had with the cop, prior to his tenure with us, went like this:
Police Man: [with diabolical, shit eating grin] I want to fuck you.
When I announced I had to go to the loo once, an announcement induced by the need for others to watch my section while I was away, the Dirty Cop offered his opened mouth as a repository.
Right from Day One I've told him exactly what I thought of him. The opinions expressed in my post were an abridged, less graphic version of the comments I've made throughout the year of interacting with him. His real problem isn't my opinion of him. His problem is with other people having read my opinion. He's afraid of being the laughing stock, the voodoo doll with inserted flaming spears and pointed fingers mocking him.
John Q. said the most hilarious thing after witnessing
The Events of Saturday Night:
1. A half dozen 20 year old girls in slutwear, drinking girlie cocktails they couldn't afford, thus in the end not paying for. Some poor chump had to.
2. The same young ladies taking their clothes off in the vault cum wine cellar (as the restaurant is a converted bank building). Having topless pictures taken of themselves by a very horny, shaky handed Josh, as an "artistic" contribution to our decor. (There are many naked shots of various people, sexes, preferences and sizes adorning our walls.)
3. These models of tubetops, recycled into skirts, stealing bottles of wine after rounds of shots were bought for them.
4. Blow being snorted in one of the bathrooms.
5. One shrill, caustic chef repeatedly LOSING IT in reference to me.
John Q.'s Holy Roller Statement : This was a house of SIN on Saturday night.
I learned last night that John Q. is a recovering drug addict. He needed extra help in getting him off the stuff. He found God. That sounds good to me. Whatever's needed. He's mostly turned into a peaceful, loving fella, but one that is a bit repressed and sometimes judgemental.
John Q: You know what, Matt? You'd do really well with the ladies. Why do you like men? Women are so much better! They have curves, and are hairless and soft. Really, all you have to do is just *decide* to like women!
The Comrade: I've been with women too, but as much as they were soft and hairless, there was always something missing...
The Comrade and Matty [in unison]: The cock.
We also learned last night that John Q. has had homosexual interactions with boys when he himself was a boy. It became something that wasn't right for him, but he discovered it honestly by living it. Now he was judging Matty. He was taught that this behaviour is wrong and sinful. He really liked Matty and earnestly wanted to save his soul.
Matt: Don't recruit me... especially when I'm hungover.
I got "macked" on by no less than 3 men on Sunday... God's Day!
1. Stuart McGregor. Adorable. Prolific DJ mixer who makes many of the compliation mixes for the restaurant. He says, "I've had a crush on you for weeks! I am trying to seduce you. You're the smartest woman I've met in a really long time. You're like one of those really hot, cool Moms." Good... fucking... Lord.
2. Brian Stiegl. Born Italian. Adopted by Jews. Cute. Left Kissy, John Q. and the Comrade $2 on a $34 bill. I went over to the table, sat beside him, smilingly and quietly said a round of hellos to the rest of the table. When my gaze reached Brian Stiegl, my smile faded.
The Comrade: Brian. Did you just leave $2 on a $34 bill? What the fuck's wrong with you?
Brian: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know how much to leave.
TC: Oh, so you figured $2 was a good number? That's okay, none of our cats have to eat.
Kissy and John Q. are looking horrified and delighted at the same time, wondering how in God's name I get away with this behaviour.
Brian Stiegl shyly approached me later and offered his phone number. Shuddering, it was tossed.
3. John Q. Who did dazzle me a bit when he told me, after witnessing one of the tyrades the chef had of me, to keep my "God Shield" up, as there was a lot of "sinful" energy directed at me. As he told me this, he held my face. I said to him later that I was glad he saw my goodness. He said, "That was the highlight of my evening."
When I told the story about my initial interactions with the Police Man to the small group consisting of Kissy, Matty and John Q., John Q. said, "Fuck him. He deserves this. This is God's intervention. This was meant to happen. Maybe it will change him." I allowed him a prolonged holding of my hand while saying, "Thank you John Q... I'm still not going to be your girlfriend, though."
John Q. : But I keep trying.
The Comrade loves that he keeps trying because sometimes she's a vain little thing. Still the idea of being with anyone right now sends a bolt of panic through her. She runs away. Arms not flailing this time as she doesn't want to attract too much attention.
The three young, delightful punks and their mother figures have donned their jackets, just about to leave. They call me over. They collectively have created a Three Cheers and a Hip Hip Hooray song just for ME! I was so tickled pink I felt I might explode. I said goodbye to each of them individually and saved the most obnoxious, irreverent one for last.
The Comrade: Goodbye, Sweet Pea.
He turned to me, with a slightly twisted face, and threw his arms around me for exactly 3 seconds and ran away.
You know something? I am one of the luckiest people in the world.
I find out fairly quickly who's game and who isn't. Some encourage it. Some want nothing to do with it. The ones who have been in very long term relationships are looking for an outside interaction, an intervention. The on-the-first-date-ites look for a distraction from the new set of eyes across from them. The occasional veering adds comfort. Looking into eyes is extremely intimate. And sometimes it garners a memorable story.
"Do you remember me," asked a pretty blonde girl of about my age, maybe slightly older.
The Comrade: Please refresh my memory.
The 5'0 Blonde who's dating a guy who's 6'4": Well, I was on my first date with my now boyfriend, whom I'm in love with, and you asked us whether we'd exchanged spit yet, and he thought you said "Does it fit yet?"
The Comrade: Well, does it?
Two older gents sat in my section. Within the first 2 minutes one of them announced they were both from Australia. I feel if a person needs to patriotically wave their native flag, particularly within the first few bars of interaction, I feel I'm dealing with a Nationalist. I like to make fun of Nationalists.
Aussie #1: So, since we're from Australia, we don't want to have any wine from there. We'd like to try something else.
The Comrade: Oh, you don't trust your palate to winemakers who come from a long line of criminals? Nor do I.
Just in case you don't know: Once upon a time, long, long ago, the Queen of England decided to give options to the convicted criminals of the land, as its prisons were full to capacity and she didn't want any dark stains on her ruling.
Her Majesty's Option #1: Death
Her Majesty's Option #2: Banishment
The Monarch conspired with some other European countries, to bring out their worst. Collectively they shipped whores, thieves, swindlers and swine alike on boats destined for Australia, this huge, desolate island, with no supplies, just the shirts on their back.
This is the thing about people who don't operate conventionally within the parameters of the law: they're very resourceful.
As soon as I detect an accent, particularly stemming from the Queen's Commonwealth, I put on a pouncy, very posh, reputedly bad (according to my British mates), though sounds completely right in my head, accent from some fictious area in England, that green and pleasant land.
Aussie #1 = Nick, 60's, dyed black hair, vain, a tad closeminded, slightly paranoid, bad breath.
Aussie #2 = Don, 60's, long in the tooth, white hair, father of 2, deliberate, careful, earnest.
Many people are very interested in what I do outside of my work at the restaurant. They think I must have something of a greater pursuit than that of being a conduit between need and sating of oral gratification.
Nick: So, besides being a comedienne, what else do you do?
My standard answer is, "I do other things, but I do them for myself and don't make any money off it. It's purer that way."
Nick: As in...?
So we start talking about blogging and I launch into what a potentially powerful, liberating, community driven, and meritful opportunity this is for the People. Nick then launches into a paranoid diatribe of how my vision is limited and why can't I see the negative ramifications of this insidious thing.
Nick: Can't you see that with all of this traffic it could tie up lines of communication placing us in jeopardy?
The Comrade: What are you talking about?
Nick: Our homeland security!
The Comrade: Criminal... Are you, fucking mad?
Nick: Well, what about all the advertising the agencies would put inside of the individual blogs, effectively clogging up engines?
The Comrade (still keeping the stupid accent) : I am versed in a bit of code, sir. I would simply rip the code for the advertisement out. It's all html based.
I try to explain it's an independant server issue and that governments make sure that there is more than one mode of communication, if immediate and urgent messages and information need to be conveyed (which governments still ignore), streaming in from wholly independant conduits.
Nick: Bah! You still don't see the negative ramifications!
The Comrade: [looks to her right, acknowledges a table who is in need of her attention] Good Lord! [leaves]
Three women, ages ranging from late 30's to mid 40's. Three boys, ages 2-9. The boys were looking for amusing interactions with the staff, as their mothers were losing their edge.
Boy #1 = 8 years old, looked like a young Edward Furlong, the kid who played John Connor in the Terminator 2: Judgement Day. Adorable. Ruckus. Little shit disturber. I loved this kid.
Boy #2 = Jack! 2 years old, graduated baby speak, wanted to know if the staff was going to abuse them. Drew me a Christmas card, currently on my fridge, with ringed notepaper, a black marker, yellow highlighter and pencil mediums dedicated to me, lovingly signed by him. I loved this little fucker.
Boy #3 = 9 years old. Brother to Boy #1. Totally brazen. Actually ate, on a dare, a piece of lime that had fallen on the ground. Was calling all the girls "ugly" and "stupid". He was awesome.
Boy #2 (Jack) : Do you want to sing the Santa song?
The Comrade: Gee, Jack, I'm not sure if I remember the Santa song. How about you start and I'll sing along?
Jack: Santa, Santa, Santa...
The Comrade: -ta, Santa...
Jack: S-A-N-T-A
Jack and The Comrade in unison: S-A-N-T-A. S-A-N-T-A... and Santa was his NAME-O.
I go back to the Australians. The last bottle of wine wasn't "jammy" enough. I suggest another. A Syrah from California. This time it is jammy. By glass number 5, Nick is starting to slur.
Nick: So, what what type of after dinner liquer would you suggest we have, on the house?
The Comrade: On the house?
Nick: Yes [grinning]
The Comrade: Let's recap, shall we?
Nick: Alright.
TC: How was the food?
Nick: Very nice.
TC: Was tonight's service arguably the best you've ever had?
Nick: Yes.
TC: How did you find the environs?
Nick: Very pleasant.
TC: The music?
Nick: Catchy.
TC: And yet you still feel we owe you something?
Nick: Yes, that would be nice!
TC: Nice try, you conniving, thieving Australian bugger! [cackles and leaves]
While trying to convey the evening's specials to a table of 2 women, one of whom chooses an appetizer of roasted veal bones, with crostini, an interactive dish that requires scooping out the marrow from the bones and spreading the goo on toast, I am distracted by the young punks at the adjacent table who are systematically driving my comrades crazy.
The Comrade [yelling from one table to the next] : Hey! This is NOT Chuck E. Cheese! Shut up and stop harrassing people!
When I asked that woman how the marrow was, she said, "If I wasn't in public, I'd be sucking on bone!"
The Comrade clears her throat and goes back to join the matrons and the little dudes.
The Comrade [pulls up a seat] : Hey, punk! Wanna thumbwrestle? Or are you not MAN enough?
Boy #3: [giggling] Okay!
Josh (my favourite at work Comrade): [leaning closely into Boy #3] : Kid... you're so dead.
T.C.: Okay, let's do this bad thing. [opens right palm, spits in it]
Boy #3 horks in his hand and offers it to me.
T.C. : Dude, that's disgusting. [taking the kid's little wrist and wiping the hork reside onto his pant leg]
Locking fingers while releasing thumbs, thumbs jumping back and forth side to side, collectively:
T.C + Boy #3 in unison: 1, 2, 3, 4... I declare a thumb WAR. Bow [thumbs crook and bow at the other's thumb]. Kiss! [thumbs lightly touch each other, while making a giant smooching sound] And... BEGIN!
This is how you win a thumb wrestle:
1. Intimadation. Go in very cocky. Maintain cockiness throughout.
2. Insults. Hurl "girlie-man", and "puny thumb" comments at your opponent.
3. Patience. Get them while they're tired and distracted. You only need to pin it down for a count of 3.
The kid wasn't a bad contender. I only broke out in a brief sweat. I still remained victorious, completely kicking his ass. I did 3 full victory laps around the restaurant. And contained myself to only 2 "in your face" comments.
Boy #3: [to the Comrade] You're soooo ugly! And you're sooo stupid!
The Comrade: [gently stroking his hair] It's obvious you're totally in love with me. Stop embarrassing yourself. I'm sorry, I'm too old for you.
Boy #3: Arrrggghhhh!
Aussie #2, Don, after paying the bill wanted to talk to me. He took a very long time, but I stood, eyes locked on his, smiling supportively as I know words sometimes come easily, sometimes are the hardest to come by. And I paraphrase, as I was and continue to be completely stunned:
"Continue to work on your self-confidence. As I have two daughters, it's something I worry for them much of the time. I believe in the work you do and I believe in what you're trying to achieve. In short, I believe in you. You have a magic quality. Did you see Star Wars? I didn't understand the phrase, "May the Force be with you" for 10 years. Then one day I understood. I say this to you now: May the Force be with you. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I know I was supposed to meet you and I know this interaction was suppose to happen. Does this make any sense to you?"
This made the most sense in the world to me. With blurry, teary eyes, I hugged him and thanked him profusely. That statement couldn't have come at a better time.
You see, I've been dealing with something at work lately. The chef is making my life a living hell and trying to have me extricated from the restaurant. The reason, you may ask? She is the wife of the Police Man. She's looking for a reason to can me. She's frustrated because she doesn't have the power to fire me, as Guiseppe is effectively her boss too. Luckily Guiseppe adores the Comrade just as much as the Comrade adores him.
I was making a lot of mistakes with the kitchen this weekend.
To perform optimally, we need a safe environment to flourish. A person cannot work effectively with a gun to the head, under constant scrutiny. If you look at a thing under a microscope long enough, with ill intent, the subject will change to the side of whatever the intent is. That's a scientific fact. Loving support is constructive. To be calmly counselled works. A little empathy and understanding go a long way. Being yelled at in a shrill manner, focussed on and ostricized in front of the staff, and then complained about behind my back to whomever has ears does not make for effective workers. Complaints to Giuseppe alone would have been fine but, in addition, those made to suffer her shrill, hateful diatribe of all things me were bussers, bartenders, kitchen staff et al.
Apparently, the Police Man will not step foot into the place if he knows I'm working. I have not seen him since the incident. It's not as if he hadn't personally heard these repeatedly expanded upon hurling insults from me in the past .
The Filthy Law Enforcer is Guiseppe's oldest and best friend, though this relationship bears no reflection on the boss whom I adore, as they don't share any real similarities at all. The second interaction I ever had with the cop, prior to his tenure with us, went like this:
Police Man: [with diabolical, shit eating grin] I want to fuck you.
When I announced I had to go to the loo once, an announcement induced by the need for others to watch my section while I was away, the Dirty Cop offered his opened mouth as a repository.
Right from Day One I've told him exactly what I thought of him. The opinions expressed in my post were an abridged, less graphic version of the comments I've made throughout the year of interacting with him. His real problem isn't my opinion of him. His problem is with other people having read my opinion. He's afraid of being the laughing stock, the voodoo doll with inserted flaming spears and pointed fingers mocking him.
John Q. said the most hilarious thing after witnessing
The Events of Saturday Night:
1. A half dozen 20 year old girls in slutwear, drinking girlie cocktails they couldn't afford, thus in the end not paying for. Some poor chump had to.
2. The same young ladies taking their clothes off in the vault cum wine cellar (as the restaurant is a converted bank building). Having topless pictures taken of themselves by a very horny, shaky handed Josh, as an "artistic" contribution to our decor. (There are many naked shots of various people, sexes, preferences and sizes adorning our walls.)
3. These models of tubetops, recycled into skirts, stealing bottles of wine after rounds of shots were bought for them.
4. Blow being snorted in one of the bathrooms.
5. One shrill, caustic chef repeatedly LOSING IT in reference to me.
John Q.'s Holy Roller Statement : This was a house of SIN on Saturday night.
I learned last night that John Q. is a recovering drug addict. He needed extra help in getting him off the stuff. He found God. That sounds good to me. Whatever's needed. He's mostly turned into a peaceful, loving fella, but one that is a bit repressed and sometimes judgemental.
John Q: You know what, Matt? You'd do really well with the ladies. Why do you like men? Women are so much better! They have curves, and are hairless and soft. Really, all you have to do is just *decide* to like women!
The Comrade: I've been with women too, but as much as they were soft and hairless, there was always something missing...
The Comrade and Matty [in unison]: The cock.
We also learned last night that John Q. has had homosexual interactions with boys when he himself was a boy. It became something that wasn't right for him, but he discovered it honestly by living it. Now he was judging Matty. He was taught that this behaviour is wrong and sinful. He really liked Matty and earnestly wanted to save his soul.
Matt: Don't recruit me... especially when I'm hungover.
I got "macked" on by no less than 3 men on Sunday... God's Day!
1. Stuart McGregor. Adorable. Prolific DJ mixer who makes many of the compliation mixes for the restaurant. He says, "I've had a crush on you for weeks! I am trying to seduce you. You're the smartest woman I've met in a really long time. You're like one of those really hot, cool Moms." Good... fucking... Lord.
2. Brian Stiegl. Born Italian. Adopted by Jews. Cute. Left Kissy, John Q. and the Comrade $2 on a $34 bill. I went over to the table, sat beside him, smilingly and quietly said a round of hellos to the rest of the table. When my gaze reached Brian Stiegl, my smile faded.
The Comrade: Brian. Did you just leave $2 on a $34 bill? What the fuck's wrong with you?
Brian: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know how much to leave.
TC: Oh, so you figured $2 was a good number? That's okay, none of our cats have to eat.
Kissy and John Q. are looking horrified and delighted at the same time, wondering how in God's name I get away with this behaviour.
Brian Stiegl shyly approached me later and offered his phone number. Shuddering, it was tossed.
3. John Q. Who did dazzle me a bit when he told me, after witnessing one of the tyrades the chef had of me, to keep my "God Shield" up, as there was a lot of "sinful" energy directed at me. As he told me this, he held my face. I said to him later that I was glad he saw my goodness. He said, "That was the highlight of my evening."
When I told the story about my initial interactions with the Police Man to the small group consisting of Kissy, Matty and John Q., John Q. said, "Fuck him. He deserves this. This is God's intervention. This was meant to happen. Maybe it will change him." I allowed him a prolonged holding of my hand while saying, "Thank you John Q... I'm still not going to be your girlfriend, though."
John Q. : But I keep trying.
The Comrade loves that he keeps trying because sometimes she's a vain little thing. Still the idea of being with anyone right now sends a bolt of panic through her. She runs away. Arms not flailing this time as she doesn't want to attract too much attention.
The three young, delightful punks and their mother figures have donned their jackets, just about to leave. They call me over. They collectively have created a Three Cheers and a Hip Hip Hooray song just for ME! I was so tickled pink I felt I might explode. I said goodbye to each of them individually and saved the most obnoxious, irreverent one for last.
The Comrade: Goodbye, Sweet Pea.
He turned to me, with a slightly twisted face, and threw his arms around me for exactly 3 seconds and ran away.
You know something? I am one of the luckiest people in the world.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
7:04 p.m.
3 Comments:
what a fantastic post! I loved the Aussies, I mean as much as anyone can "love" the Aussies. Be thankful they didn't try and slit your throat, those seniors can be pretty quick if you're not watching.
By
Anonymous, at 12:36 a.m.
Heh... I was just going to comment on the length of the post - but grumblecakes beat me to it!
By
Anonymous, at 1:46 a.m.
You think reading it was dauntingly long? I had to put my fingers in an icewater bath after hammering keys for SIX hours!
Thanks for all the kind words, you guys whom I adore.
By
Comrade Chicken, at 4:23 p.m.
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