In the Rain

The couple had been sitting there for over a half-hour that I’d noticed. I was hoping that they wouldn’t be sent to my section. They looked like trouble, young and idealistic bad tippers, special order types, anyway no one likes apologizing for a rush. I almost wanted to avoid the youth as when he put up his hand, as if this were a classroom, trying to get my attention, while I had a delicate handful of biscuits n’ way too much gravy.

“I’m sorry folks table for two has got to be less than 5 minutes away.” I said

“What about the deck, don’t you guys have a deck?”

The deck was closed.

“It’s raining.”

“We don’t care we have to eat something, and we don’t mind the weather.” The buckish suitor asked while pointing with his free hand.

“It’s coming down pretty hard.” I reasoned.

The lobby was actually pretty full because people who were waiting for a table couldn’t recline on the picnic tables in the tea garden. Every one was packed in there, trying to figure out what to do when there isn’t anywhere to sit. Babies were carried to make room for maximum capacity.

“Do you guys mind sharing a booth with another couple?” I asked.

“We want to eat outside. It’s noisy in here, and a little rain never hurt anybody.”

“You’re going to be eating.”

“So let us eat,” he grabbed two menus from off of the host station and led the way, with missy en toe.

I delivered my food and followed him as he approached the deck entrance, politely working his way through a full house. I wondered if he was late to see a play, or if he was caught up in a rush of Pacific-Northwestern bravado, but eating out there was going to be an unpleasant soggy experience for them and me.

“Hey, c’mon we can find you a place to eat in here.” I begged.

“No we really kind of just want our privacy. It’s too chaotic in here.” The girl said, pushing her freshly dried bangs out of her face to prepare for the noises on the room.

I let them out and told them I’d be out with waters and coffees in a minute. I walked with a daze through the lobby smiling and looking for people who would want to close up their tabs and make room for more annoyed patrons to drink up the coffee that just wouldn’t brew fast enough. When I got back out to the deck the couple was fairly drenched, hair soaked, clothes heavy the cardstock menus were wilting and dripping dissolved ink.

“Ready to order?” I asked them while putting down precarious, ever-diluting cups of coffee, and water.

She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and the soup de jour (minestrone). He got a breakfast burrito, both in full defiance of the elements and sense.

The lobby was just becoming navigable when their food was ready, and I was able to take it out on one tray with ketchup salt n’ pepper, hot sauce and some dry napkins. Perhaps I would only going back to fill coffees, if necessary. I was still damp when I pushed open the rustic wooden door. The tortilla deflected the water fairly well, but the soup and sandwich were increasingly becoming a mess. All smiles I put them down in front of the right seats, asked about coffee.

“O.K, I’ll be right back. Enjoy.”

I cursed them for making me go back out there. It was letting up a little, but it was still really wet. I decided to help a few more of the customers inside first. I even considered sending a busser out to pour the drinks, but I’m not that much of a dick. I was already wet. The lobby was comfortable, but we were still full.

When I got back out there the woman had a damp stack of napkins on her soup and a soggy sandwich in a second bundle, from which she ravenously pecked. The guy’s burrito was getting really wet but he didn’t seem to mind, he just nibbled away at it undaunted. I poured coffee after emptying out the tinted rain water that had accumulated in their cups.

I asked them half-facetiously, “How is everything?”

“Good sausage.” He said pointing with his fork down as he looked up from his puddle of a plate.

I nodded and said, “It’s fresh ground,” and left to dry off and take orders.

Next time, rather than go out and get soaked again, I looked out the window to see if they were still eating. As I bent the blinds with my fingers, I noticed that the rain had largely subsided and it wouldn’t be too much of a chore to check up on them.

“How you guys doing out here?”

They were holding hands watching a rainbow crystallize and with half full plates of soggy food. The air was fresh and moist and the deck was. The kid nodded and sipped his coffee like it was the perfect temperature, long and slow.

“We’re fine,” he replied rubbing his girl’s back.

When I came back for to bring the check they had worked away at the soggy food and dried off faster than I had running orders. I didn't even ask them if they wanted a box, and they were lousy tippers.

Masturbatory Manifesto

I turn on my computer (aptly named the Pornalator5000) for two basic reasons. Either to blog or masturbate, both serve very similar functions, but service different wings of the nervous system. It would be all too simple to reduce this complex dichotomy to a question of mental stimulation vs. physical, because both are present in both activities. Masturbation is absolutely necessary for my mental health, not just for the release, but the repetition of regular masturbation is essential to my comforting morning routines. Blogging, while seemingly only useful for mental gratification, actually provides a little tickle of physical pleasure, often times culminating in giddy chuckling. Knowing I'm writing something makes me feel like I am living out my purpose and distracts me from any aches, pains or Münchhausen I'm suffering from.

The very practice of writing a manifesto is extremely masturbatory. My idea is so important that it will manifest itself in your mind upon reading my defense of it. I have accomplished something today; I have declared myself to be an original thinker worthy of conical consideration. My idea isn't that strange of one, or that new of one, but you really don't hear it that often, especially among writers.

Proposition #1: The point of life (and by dubious association the point of art) is to enjoy yourself as much as possible.

Proposition #2: Good art is that which the artist's labor brings him/her the most joy.

Traditionally, we think of good art as something that is universally meaningful, or something that expresses itself in a way that resonates with an audience. Like much of what we learn in school, this view is highly romantic and is based on the idealized notion that audiences are looking to be changed by art. I personally believe that audiences view art to affirm feelings or views that they already have, and find the idea of change as unsettling if not repugnant.

Let's say that good art is actually the art that the person making it enjoys the most. Think Kindergarten finger-painting. The kid who got the most praise from the teacher wasn't the kid who tried to smear something life-affirming. The teacher smiled and told us to have fun, to smear with gusto, to smear whatever is bugging you, or whatever you saw on the playground earlier that day. Smear for the love of smearing. After you washed up and everyone compared their smearings some would claim theirs was better than others. The teacher might even try to analyze some of the smearings for deeper meaning, but one thing is evident to anyone (excepting the self-enamored artist): The paintings all suck. It's O.K. to admit, you're five you were only using tempura paint and your hands. You can't expect to much.

Now let's take this idea to the Louvre, line up the greatest works of art made by man and look at them carefully. Now look out the window at the skyline, maybe a few trees, and come to this conclusion: These paintings all kinda suck. It's alright to admit this. Sure these are some man's best attempts to immortalize an image, but so much is lost on many viewers, so much is made up by historians and critics and the kicker, many of these works weren't considered great by the artist, or by the artist's peers. Maybe this is the wrong criterion for judging art. Maybe we are holding ourselves to standards much to high to be attainable or even realistically measurable.

Many artists comment that their best work isn't their most famous. I purpose that their best work might not be their most famous, or what they consider their best. Really their best work is the one that brought them the most glee, which distracted them the most, which turned them away from life, something transcendental. It might not bring any acclaim, but it will bring a great sense of personal satisfaction that is more salient. I could get a standing ovation and get boner at best, but the only way to realistically get myself off is to strip down and jack it. Sure, it doesn't seem as satisfying for the audience, but think about the stories they will tell. "Honey I was at the opera last night and you wouldn't believe what the bullfighter did during intermission." Maybe that is art.

The Race

Yesterday I was walking by the softball fields on Iowa Street, and right as I walked by a foul ball got popped into my periphery. It went over the fence that separates the field of play from the audience and bounced just short of the fence that separates the crowd from the sidewalk. Normally, I would just keep walking and let someone else worry about ball shagging, but I had some time to kill. Watching all of those stir-uped little girls kicking up dandelions got my adrenaline pumping, and brought about a curious urge to do some fence-hopping.

I easily scaled the fence and started walking towards the ball. I put my hand up so the right fielder would know that I had it, and the ball would be back in play soon. She gazed at me from under the shade of her mit. Suddenly, from the bleachers, rushed a girl who was a few years younger than the girls on the field, out of uniform, but with a mit. She was on a full-bore sprint towards the ball that was a few feet away from where I was standing. If I wanted that ball I would have to act fast, so I skipped forward and scoped it up. The little girl was going so fast at this point that she couldn't stop herself in time from colliding with me. I made a quick bull-fighter dodge, and she stumbled to a stop a few feet past me.

She looked over at me, crushed. I took a crow hop and sent the ball right into the fielder's waiting mit. The fielder waved thanks and went back to her post. As I continued my walk, I thought about what I had done. I could have let the little girl grab the ball, but she probably wouldn't have thrown it over the fence on the first try; she might have been traumatically embarrassed. I probably needed the exersize and the practice more than she did. I haven't touched a baseball in years. Still got it.

My one hope is that my intervention provided the girl with the hunger that I once had for the sport. She will run her sprints and practice her little heart out for that first year of eligibility. Who knows maybe next time time she will beat me to the ball.

Leaving Town

I saw someone today that I will never see again for the rest of my life. We weren't great friends, probably won't keep in touch, but I think I will miss his possibility. As we went our separate ways, I tried to hold onto the sound of his footsteps in my mind.

I just bought a one-way plane ticket. It's an e-ticket so I don't actually get anything, but the people at the airport are supposed to let me onto the plane when I show them my credit card. It's a red-eye flight that lays over for an hour in Denver around midnight. I get to New York about 6 AM, my first move is going to be to find a good breakfast near La Guardia and wait for family to pick me up at a more reasonable hour. I'll probably blog if they have wireless. That calls for a blog. Buying a plane ticket doesn't really warrant one.The mouse click was similar to the rush a pubescent boy gets when buying a condom he knows he will use someday, maybe years from now. Stepping on the plane will be like unwrapping it with trembling, inexperienced hands. As the nose of the aircraft penetrates the clouds over the Eastern seaboard, I will breathe deeply towards the touchdown, and feel somewhat more like a man.

I'm doing my best to spent as much time outdoors as is sensible, thats what I will miss most. As spring approaches, it feels like my last. I'm going to go on a hike somewhere that has wireless, that might be tough to find. The air here is like a hangover remedy for me, out there I don't know what I'm going to do on those mornings. I might have to cut back on my drinking.

Worst-case scenario # 104: I get mugged before I can get deposit money in some broker's fat little hands. With, no address I can't get a job, so I live in a hostel and read dollar books from the Strand until my credit card is declined and I am forced to sell my laptop for a bus ticket to San Diego to live on my brother's couch and work for the parks department. Still beats Ashland.

Best-case scenario # 8: I wind up working as MC at a Karaoke bar frequented by actors and business men. I swoon the girl of my dreams with a steamy version of Bob Seger's "We've got Tonight." She lives with me down the street from the bar and we get free bar bites at 3 AM after I get off. My classes are in the early evening before work and I get up early to walk our dog through Central Park. Still don't have it made.

I'd say the worst thing I could ever lose, worse than losing money, jobs, respect things, my mind, my sight, would be to lose my appetite. I lost it to sudden nausea during a luncheon and I felt impotent as hot noodles mocked me from the plate below. As long as I have my appetite life is worth living, at least for one more meal. I hope leaving town makes me hungrier, even if I can't afford to eat.