High school is a time for self invention. Our brains are developed enough, we think, to allow us the freedom to cast aside the silly notions of our parent's generation and craft a new tomorrow, unfettered by the moral restraints of yesterday! The fact that every generation since the dawn of sentience has believed this same thing to be true doesn't occur to us, but that's a good thing; it would only retard inevitable Progress!
Progress, schmogress. All high school is a time for is people taking on causes to look ttly awesum d00d! How many people in all the cause clubs even give a crap about the club beyond some generic platitude like "I support literacy" or "World peace would be cool"? Not everyone is like this; some people care, and that's awesome. More people should care about stuff like Chechan independence or the ineffectiveness of the UN, but that stuff isn't popular right now. Remember when every other celebrity was talking about Darfur? I sure do, and I thought, "Great, let's help the Sudanese get a working and non-repressive government together." Instead, all that happened was a bunch of celebrities and e-activists got together, had a big group hug, sent some money to the Sudan and then nothing happened. Hopefully, the money they sent got used more efficiently than the Oil For Food money (look it up), but who knows? More accurately, who gives a crap now (except maybe Anderson Cooper) about Darfur, since all the celebrities stopped talking about it?
The best cause currently is, of course, global warming or climate change or whatever increasingly generic name they give it now. While I agree with science (which shows that climates are changing, causing deadlier storms and harming ecosystems the world over), I don't like the movement that surrounds it. It all started with An Inconvenient Truth and Al Gore's Magical Graphs About Carbon Monoxide Emissions and Stuff... I guess I missed the part of the movie where he reconciled his love of science with his summary dismissal of scientific principles by using graphs without labels and scalar units. Oops! Must've been a deleted scene.
Currently, the target of my RAGE over global warming/climate change is the new music video by every celebrity I'm apparently supposed to care about but don't where they do a cover of "Beds Are Burning" by Midnight Oil. Midnight Oil is an awesome band (just like Peter Garrett is an awesome dancer) and to see this song get High School Musical'd by this bunch of losers stirs unspeakable thoughts deep within my psyche. If this was Minority Report, Tom Cruise would be all over me like celebrities on, well, an unnecessary, pretentious and trashy cover of an amazing song. The best part is, by rewriting the lyrics to make them more "applicable" (read: twisted) to their cause, they're completely negating the message of the original lyrics. These people wouldn't know Aboriginal rights if it bit them on the face. Amazingly, this is even worse than all the musicians on iTunes who covered "After the Gold Rush" as an environmentalist anthem by singing "Look at Mother Nature on the run / in the twenty-first century." Not only does it sound forced in context, but it completely contradicts the overall themes of the song (war, space travel, drug use, general melancholy and the continuing importance of french horn solos in popular music).
As far as environmentalism goes, I'm a traditionalist. Teddy Roosevelt liked the outdoors and so do I. Notwithstanding, he'd probably use his oft-quoted "big stick" (HUH HUH HUH) to beat the crap out of environmentalist groups like Earth First!, the Sea Shepherds and the Earth Liberation Front. Hey, Earth First! You think the optimum human population of the Earth should be under a million people? Well, an hero and make it happen faster. How the Sea Shepherds got a show on Animal Planet, I'll never know. Pretty much every country except the Netherlands has labeled them a terrorist organization, which if you do some research on their exploits, is pretty well corroborated. Also, the ELF tried to protest SUV's by burning a bunch of them at some dealerships in California a while back. Think about that- to protest cars which pollute a lot, they lit a bunch of them on fire, petrochemicals and all. Seriously. Like a hundred of them. Counterintuitive, much?
Don't get me wrong, there are goods causes as well. Music Rising, for instance, is good. It has a specific goal- raising money to buy instruments for musicians who lost theirs because of Hurricane Katrina- with a clearly outlined plan as to how they'll get the money. I don't mind that they sell merchandise, because that's how they fund their goal. However, (Product) RED and the generic "Darfur" cause are the worst offenders I can think of. Now, I normally think Bono's activism is alright; he's supported and campaigned for pretty much the same organizations his entire career. However, (Product) RED has devolved into a fashion statement rather than an awareness statement. Like "Oh, look, I got the new (Product) RED iPod!" or "How do you like my new (Product) RED Armani watch?" How about some (Product) RED duct tape so I don't have to listen to you go on and on about something you don't care about above a non-specific statement made through trendy fashion accessories? "But I don't like AIDS, tuberculosis or malaria!" Surprise! No one does. Well, unless you happen to believe that AIDS- or GRID (Gay-Related Immunodeficiency Disorder) if you're up on your 80's lingo- was created by the Reagan administration to rid the world of black people and gays, because then you'd likely believe that Reagan liked AIDS. However, there really isn't any evidence for this hypothesis to be found on anything more reputable than a conspiracy website, so it's a silly hypothesis at best. Just for laughs, check out the ratio of advertising funds by participating (Product) RED corporations to the amount donated per item or purchase of applicable products. Oh, Starbucks! Look how silly you are, telling me you care about AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria while only donating $0.05 per sale from only three limited-run beverages! It's almost like you're inspiring me to maybe semi-care. Check these guys out to see what organizations you can donate to without having to shell out a couple thousand bucks for some Armani sunglasses or having to wonder why the sale of a $1200 Dell PC only contributes around $80 to the Global Fund.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
H is for Hummers
Now, you might think I'm getting on the Hummer hater bandwagon a little late, but as far as I'm concerned, it's never too late as long as people are buying them. Now, I'm not talking about the Army Hummers, 'cause those things are legit. Granted, they're almost obsolete, but still. No, I'm talking about the H2, the H2 truck or whatever it is and the grandly unnecessary H3. Surprise! No one really cares about Hummers, except people who want one for some strange reason (I'll get to that later) or people who already have one.
This is old news, but worth reiterating- the only people who want or own Hummers are insecure and (likely) impotent. It doesn't get much more complicated than that. The thought processes can go a little something like this:
"How do I tell people/women that I'm a man without having to say or do anything physical? Oh, I know! I'll buy a freaking HUEG car that's typically used by the military! Then they'll know I'm so tough, because my car's so tough. Plus, not only will I look a whole lot manlier, I'll have an expensive car, which I know all women love! Who needs some wussy exotic roadster when my car is made of enough plastic and fiberglass to make like 700 pairs of skis, and it's HUEG enough to crush every other car in its path?"
I wish I had a billion dollars for every time I saw a Hummer on the road and RAGED, 'cause then I'd have 75 quadrillion dollars. I'd then use that money to pay off the national debt, fund a revitalized space exploration effort, build lots of rockets, buy every H2, H2 truck and H3 in existence, load them all onto said rockets and fire them into the Sun, just like at the end of Battlestar Galactica. OK, OK, the Hummer hadn't been invented yet in the BSG continuum, but the concept is still there. As a side note, if I had 75 quadrillion dollars, you bet I'd build myself a fully-functioning Battlestar. That was never really a question.
P.S. I'd also build some Cylons, 'cause Cylons are kickin' rad and my new Battlestar would need something for target practice (other than cargo ships filled with Hummers, that is). Positions for Executive Officer and Commander of Air Groups are opening soon, so send in those applications!
This is old news, but worth reiterating- the only people who want or own Hummers are insecure and (likely) impotent. It doesn't get much more complicated than that. The thought processes can go a little something like this:
"How do I tell people/women that I'm a man without having to say or do anything physical? Oh, I know! I'll buy a freaking HUEG car that's typically used by the military! Then they'll know I'm so tough, because my car's so tough. Plus, not only will I look a whole lot manlier, I'll have an expensive car, which I know all women love! Who needs some wussy exotic roadster when my car is made of enough plastic and fiberglass to make like 700 pairs of skis, and it's HUEG enough to crush every other car in its path?"
I wish I had a billion dollars for every time I saw a Hummer on the road and RAGED, 'cause then I'd have 75 quadrillion dollars. I'd then use that money to pay off the national debt, fund a revitalized space exploration effort, build lots of rockets, buy every H2, H2 truck and H3 in existence, load them all onto said rockets and fire them into the Sun, just like at the end of Battlestar Galactica. OK, OK, the Hummer hadn't been invented yet in the BSG continuum, but the concept is still there. As a side note, if I had 75 quadrillion dollars, you bet I'd build myself a fully-functioning Battlestar. That was never really a question.
P.S. I'd also build some Cylons, 'cause Cylons are kickin' rad and my new Battlestar would need something for target practice (other than cargo ships filled with Hummers, that is). Positions for Executive Officer and Commander of Air Groups are opening soon, so send in those applications!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
E is for Ex Post Facto Michael Jackson Fans
Where were you people when he was alive?! My money says you were either in elementary school dancing to crappy boy bands (all of which owe Michael Jackson their entire livelihood) or were to busy not giving enough of a crap to go out and buy a copy of "Thriller" or something. Yes, he'd dead. Yes, he was good. No, the impulsive purchase of a hastily thrown-together compilation album at Target does not constitute life-long fanhood.
Discovering new music is great; everyone should do it all the time. But the whole "OMG hes dead i gotta go buy a cd nao cuz im sad and everyone else iz doin it :(((" attitude just gets on my nerves. You either liked him before he died or you didn't. There is no middle ground, and no, I'm not a Sith. I was usually neutral when I played KOTOR, but that's beside the point.
The day after he died, I was in Target for an eye appointment or something, I don't remember exactly. I got bored and went over to electronics to make sure they had an adequate supply of Radiohead and Frank Zappa- you know, the basics- and while I was there, I found not one, but TWO(!) Michael Jackson compilations. They were the last in the store. I could be awesome and leave them for that guy, or be awesome and buy them both, laughing all the way home. However, I chose to not care about greatest hits albums and just went over to check out the vidya games- mostly to see if the Orange Box was finally cheap, which it was- and saw this thirtysomething couple standing in the middle of the big aisle between the books and the make-up. The wife was panicking about how there weren't any Michael Jackson CD's left in the whole store and the husband was assuring her that somehow, some way, they'd pull through this tragedy of not having a CD to buy. I thought to myself about the CD's I'd seen. Should I tell them? Or should I go back and snipe them? Finally, after two or three minutes of not really doing anything but checking prices on "Empire at War: Forces of Corruption" and the first Halo, I heard a bizarre squealing sound off to my right. I looked over to see that same couple going nuts; they'd found the Michael Jackson CD! Their lives were complete! This was, in fact, the best of all possible worlds after all!
Of course, now I laugh my head off every time I go to any electronics section anywhere, because the Michael Jackson compilation fad has come to an end. I was in Wal-Mart the other day and they had like 5000 copies of "Essential Michael Jackson" sitting unwanted on the shelves. Actually, it was kinda sad, since they had a 25 square foot area of shelving set aside as the Michael Jackson section and no one was even looking at it. Even death is a fad, and even memories can oversaturate the market. Oh, well. At least "Thriller" was a good video.
Discovering new music is great; everyone should do it all the time. But the whole "OMG hes dead i gotta go buy a cd nao cuz im sad and everyone else iz doin it :(((" attitude just gets on my nerves. You either liked him before he died or you didn't. There is no middle ground, and no, I'm not a Sith. I was usually neutral when I played KOTOR, but that's beside the point.
The day after he died, I was in Target for an eye appointment or something, I don't remember exactly. I got bored and went over to electronics to make sure they had an adequate supply of Radiohead and Frank Zappa- you know, the basics- and while I was there, I found not one, but TWO(!) Michael Jackson compilations. They were the last in the store. I could be awesome and leave them for that guy, or be awesome and buy them both, laughing all the way home. However, I chose to not care about greatest hits albums and just went over to check out the vidya games- mostly to see if the Orange Box was finally cheap, which it was- and saw this thirtysomething couple standing in the middle of the big aisle between the books and the make-up. The wife was panicking about how there weren't any Michael Jackson CD's left in the whole store and the husband was assuring her that somehow, some way, they'd pull through this tragedy of not having a CD to buy. I thought to myself about the CD's I'd seen. Should I tell them? Or should I go back and snipe them? Finally, after two or three minutes of not really doing anything but checking prices on "Empire at War: Forces of Corruption" and the first Halo, I heard a bizarre squealing sound off to my right. I looked over to see that same couple going nuts; they'd found the Michael Jackson CD! Their lives were complete! This was, in fact, the best of all possible worlds after all!
Of course, now I laugh my head off every time I go to any electronics section anywhere, because the Michael Jackson compilation fad has come to an end. I was in Wal-Mart the other day and they had like 5000 copies of "Essential Michael Jackson" sitting unwanted on the shelves. Actually, it was kinda sad, since they had a 25 square foot area of shelving set aside as the Michael Jackson section and no one was even looking at it. Even death is a fad, and even memories can oversaturate the market. Oh, well. At least "Thriller" was a good video.
D is for Denny's
Tuesday, February 3, 2009 at 8:41am
As many of you know, today was nationally-advertised Free Grand Slam Breakfast Day at your local neighborhood Denny's. Immediately, I was totally pumped, and who wouldn't be? Free breakfast is free breakfast. Plus, anyone who was in Dr. Glockhamer's class for senior English can automatically recall the movie "Smoke Signals" and the infamous "Your dad took me to Denny's" story. Man, who doesn't love Thomas-Builds-the-Fire? So, with all this on my mind at 11:00 Sunday night, I knew that I had to embark on a quest of epic nature and uncertain consequences- I would go to Denny's. My sister and I already had our plans laid out: go to sleep early (early, as in asleep by Tuesday morning), wake up at 5:00 and book it down to Denny's to go eat free breakfast and ironically quote goofy movie lines. Little did we know that untold horrors awaited us...
Not being one to enjoy the earlier parts of the morning, i.e. the buttcrack of dawn (that's a technical term for "really freaking early"), I woke up at five and went back to bed for another ten seconds, only to find out that ten seconds here meant half an hour. So, at 5:30 in the morning, my dad unceremoniously opens my door and asks me if, in fact, I intended to go to Denny's this morning. I'm not sure how I managed to answer coherently, but I did. I'd waited long enough, I thought, to get that free breakfast, so I was going. However, after a freezing ride down to the Denny's by the mall in our piece of crap Volvo, the realization came that my sister and I were in for tortures of the mind and body unlike anything we'd before put up with for free food.
It's a proven fact that old people love three things more than anything else: waking up when it's dark, coffee and grumbling about anything. Well, guess what Denny's serves up as side dishes with their complimentary Super Bowl Grand Slams. Oh yeah- everything that old people like, including but not limited to: early, dark mornings, coffee and things to grumble about. Sounds like a recipe for success, right? Well, all I can say to that is "hahahahahahahahahahaha" and "no". Ask yourself this quick question: what's the greatest amount of old people you've seen ever in your life? 'Cause let me tell you, there were at least 400 of them at Denny's this morning, and that's just in the lobby. You know, that front part of the restaurant that only has like two benches for you sit on and a claw machine full of stuffed animals? Yeah. There were 400 old people in there, and that's discounting the rest of the people there- the one's that didn't grow up listening to Churchill speeches on the radio and the ones who can remember when you could get a car in any color you wanted, as long as that color was black. In all, there must have been 600 people, all waiting for a seat in place that can only legally hold around 240 customers without violating the fire and building codes.
Being packed in a tiny, smelly room with the dead and dying for about an hour can wear on anyone's nerves, so maybe it's understandable that some people got tired of waiting for a seat and got a rain check instead. However, nothing can justify the unholy rage of Stinky Beardman, one of the guys I had the pleasure to stand next to for an hour. When he and his buddies weren't snarking about the economic commentaries a scenario such as this one could make (if they knew anything about economics, then they'd know that it doesn't matter how good or bad the economy is, people will still show up in droves for free food), they were whining about how the Man- in this case, a short, fifty-ish Hispanic woman with long, braided hair- was keeping them down. If you've ever seen Alan Ginsberg, then you've seen this guy. If you've ever smelled a bushel full of hobos, then you've smelled this guy. So, let's just carry on with that image in our heads, shall we?
After about an hour of waiting in a standing-room only lobby full of octogenarians, we finally got a table. There, we wondered what could make our little tour of pain any worse, and it was there that we got our answer, for, in accordance with my general bad luck, I scored a booth that was not only within smelling distance of Stinky Beardman and his hobo posse, he was the only thing I could see when I looked up from my food. Naturally, this did not make keeping said food down an easy task, but I persevered. I'd gone this far already, so I was gonna see it through. Granted, it would've been easier to persevere if the restaurant had been any warmer than the outside air, which was a balmy "freaking cold", but there wasn't anything I could do about that except clutch my jacket even tighter and pour about half a gallon of Tabasco on my double portion of scrambled eggs, rendering them not entirely unlike napalm. However, my attempts at normalcy would be in vain, which is ironic, because "vain" is a homonym of "vein", which is the bodily structure that STINKY BEARDMAN STUCK A HYPODERMIC NEEDLE FULL OF UNIDENTIFIABLE LIQUID INTO WHILE SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RESTAURANT. Reread that last sentence a couple of times to let it sink in. All done? Now do it again and realize that your horror at this concept pales in comparison to mine and my fellow diners because we saw it happen. I mean, this guy could've one to the bathroom to administer his insulin/morphine/rhino tranquilizer, but instead, he figured "Nope, the middle of this crowded dining room is fine!" Fantastic. Just fantastic. Watching a hobo shoot up right in front of me while I was eating my pancakes was like a nightcap of disgusting on my morning of stupid. Oh, yeah- and I forgot to leave a tip on my $5.08 bill (constituted by two, count 'em, TWO glasses of juice), so guess who got to zip on down to Denny's again to leave a tip with the hostess for a waitress that I couldn't even identify by name? That's right, me. Hoo boy, that was fun.
In closing, if you're ever thinking about going down to Denny's, ordering a Grand Slam Breakfast, quoting Sherman Alexie movies and generally having a good time, don't.
As many of you know, today was nationally-advertised Free Grand Slam Breakfast Day at your local neighborhood Denny's. Immediately, I was totally pumped, and who wouldn't be? Free breakfast is free breakfast. Plus, anyone who was in Dr. Glockhamer's class for senior English can automatically recall the movie "Smoke Signals" and the infamous "Your dad took me to Denny's" story. Man, who doesn't love Thomas-Builds-the-Fire? So, with all this on my mind at 11:00 Sunday night, I knew that I had to embark on a quest of epic nature and uncertain consequences- I would go to Denny's. My sister and I already had our plans laid out: go to sleep early (early, as in asleep by Tuesday morning), wake up at 5:00 and book it down to Denny's to go eat free breakfast and ironically quote goofy movie lines. Little did we know that untold horrors awaited us...
Not being one to enjoy the earlier parts of the morning, i.e. the buttcrack of dawn (that's a technical term for "really freaking early"), I woke up at five and went back to bed for another ten seconds, only to find out that ten seconds here meant half an hour. So, at 5:30 in the morning, my dad unceremoniously opens my door and asks me if, in fact, I intended to go to Denny's this morning. I'm not sure how I managed to answer coherently, but I did. I'd waited long enough, I thought, to get that free breakfast, so I was going. However, after a freezing ride down to the Denny's by the mall in our piece of crap Volvo, the realization came that my sister and I were in for tortures of the mind and body unlike anything we'd before put up with for free food.
It's a proven fact that old people love three things more than anything else: waking up when it's dark, coffee and grumbling about anything. Well, guess what Denny's serves up as side dishes with their complimentary Super Bowl Grand Slams. Oh yeah- everything that old people like, including but not limited to: early, dark mornings, coffee and things to grumble about. Sounds like a recipe for success, right? Well, all I can say to that is "hahahahahahahahahahaha" and "no". Ask yourself this quick question: what's the greatest amount of old people you've seen ever in your life? 'Cause let me tell you, there were at least 400 of them at Denny's this morning, and that's just in the lobby. You know, that front part of the restaurant that only has like two benches for you sit on and a claw machine full of stuffed animals? Yeah. There were 400 old people in there, and that's discounting the rest of the people there- the one's that didn't grow up listening to Churchill speeches on the radio and the ones who can remember when you could get a car in any color you wanted, as long as that color was black. In all, there must have been 600 people, all waiting for a seat in place that can only legally hold around 240 customers without violating the fire and building codes.
Being packed in a tiny, smelly room with the dead and dying for about an hour can wear on anyone's nerves, so maybe it's understandable that some people got tired of waiting for a seat and got a rain check instead. However, nothing can justify the unholy rage of Stinky Beardman, one of the guys I had the pleasure to stand next to for an hour. When he and his buddies weren't snarking about the economic commentaries a scenario such as this one could make (if they knew anything about economics, then they'd know that it doesn't matter how good or bad the economy is, people will still show up in droves for free food), they were whining about how the Man- in this case, a short, fifty-ish Hispanic woman with long, braided hair- was keeping them down. If you've ever seen Alan Ginsberg, then you've seen this guy. If you've ever smelled a bushel full of hobos, then you've smelled this guy. So, let's just carry on with that image in our heads, shall we?
After about an hour of waiting in a standing-room only lobby full of octogenarians, we finally got a table. There, we wondered what could make our little tour of pain any worse, and it was there that we got our answer, for, in accordance with my general bad luck, I scored a booth that was not only within smelling distance of Stinky Beardman and his hobo posse, he was the only thing I could see when I looked up from my food. Naturally, this did not make keeping said food down an easy task, but I persevered. I'd gone this far already, so I was gonna see it through. Granted, it would've been easier to persevere if the restaurant had been any warmer than the outside air, which was a balmy "freaking cold", but there wasn't anything I could do about that except clutch my jacket even tighter and pour about half a gallon of Tabasco on my double portion of scrambled eggs, rendering them not entirely unlike napalm. However, my attempts at normalcy would be in vain, which is ironic, because "vain" is a homonym of "vein", which is the bodily structure that STINKY BEARDMAN STUCK A HYPODERMIC NEEDLE FULL OF UNIDENTIFIABLE LIQUID INTO WHILE SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RESTAURANT. Reread that last sentence a couple of times to let it sink in. All done? Now do it again and realize that your horror at this concept pales in comparison to mine and my fellow diners because we saw it happen. I mean, this guy could've one to the bathroom to administer his insulin/morphine/rhino tranquilizer, but instead, he figured "Nope, the middle of this crowded dining room is fine!" Fantastic. Just fantastic. Watching a hobo shoot up right in front of me while I was eating my pancakes was like a nightcap of disgusting on my morning of stupid. Oh, yeah- and I forgot to leave a tip on my $5.08 bill (constituted by two, count 'em, TWO glasses of juice), so guess who got to zip on down to Denny's again to leave a tip with the hostess for a waitress that I couldn't even identify by name? That's right, me. Hoo boy, that was fun.
In closing, if you're ever thinking about going down to Denny's, ordering a Grand Slam Breakfast, quoting Sherman Alexie movies and generally having a good time, don't.
M is for Michael Bay
Dear Michael Bay- I hate you. A lot. I realized that this is because while I think science is a wonderful thing, you made a little movie called "Armageddon". Plus, your movies cost millions of dollars and still give me cerebral hemorrhages. Really bad ones, too. Money can't buy quality, apparently. I'm fairly certain I could make a better movie than you could using only Transformers 2's script printing budget. Let me know when you cut the check and trust me, you won't miss the money. You've got enough, ten thousand times over. It's not me, really, so much as it's you. I almost said sorry there, but didn't because that would be a lie. Just thought you'd like to know.
Sincerely,
Me
Sincerely,
Me
Saturday, October 3, 2009
F is for Fine Dining
I like eating out. I'm sure lots of other people do too, otherwise I wouldn't have a job. See, I bus tables at a steakhouse, and am therefore highly dependent on the good graces and wallets of others to make a semblance of a living. Hourly wages being what they are (minuscule), I basically rely on tips. Not as much as the waiters, whose paychecks basically break even after taxes, but still.
Now, there are rules to eating out that extend past what your mom told you about manners, even past Emily Post. Come to think of it, these things are so simple that Emily Post probably didn't even think of them, as she spent most of her time dealing with shrimp forks and the proper table placement of foreign dignitaries and such.
Food service is just that; a service industry. However, that doesn't mean that restaurant staff are servants in the medieval sense- mostly, they just bring you food, clean up and adjust the thermostat. That being said, there are certain things that every customer must remember to stay in the staff's good graces, and trust me- you don't want anybody at a restaurant hating you.
If you skipped to the end, that's really too bad, since all my jokes were up there in the body. Oh well.
Either way, the point is that people at restaurants want to make you happy, if that includes giving you discounts, free dessert, up-selling booze or just generally being nice. Make our job easier by being nice back, even if you're having a bad night. It won't be a struggle to put on a facade of happiness for an hour just to please your server, because chances are, your server is putting on a facade of happiness for 6 or 7 hours to please you and everyone else in the whole building.
Now, there are rules to eating out that extend past what your mom told you about manners, even past Emily Post. Come to think of it, these things are so simple that Emily Post probably didn't even think of them, as she spent most of her time dealing with shrimp forks and the proper table placement of foreign dignitaries and such.
Food service is just that; a service industry. However, that doesn't mean that restaurant staff are servants in the medieval sense- mostly, they just bring you food, clean up and adjust the thermostat. That being said, there are certain things that every customer must remember to stay in the staff's good graces, and trust me- you don't want anybody at a restaurant hating you.
- When tipping, give at least 15%, even if the service and/or the food sucks. Seriously. The service was probably bad because your server was having a crappy night, so unless you want them to snap on a busboy (which, believe me, is not a happy thing) help 'em out with a nice tip. They make their living by being almost inhumanely subservient, so acknowledge it with some cash. If you really want us to love you, tip on top of the gratuity. If you really want us to hate you, tip like it's 1945 or something. We do not forget, and we likely will not forgive. If you leave a bad tip, either don't come back ever or don't expect good service on your next visit.
- Remember when your mom and/or elementary school had a "clean plate rule"? Well, it still applies in some respects. If you order too much food, you have two options: you can eat it all, or box it up and take it home. This is a big one for bussers, because we scrape all the plates. I can count on 75 hands how many 3/4 plates of chicken marsala, nibbled-on 16 oz prime ribs and half-eaten racks of ribs I've had to throw away because someone wasn't hungry or tactful enough clean their plate. I'm serious when I say that food safety laws and health codes are almost not enough to keep me from picking over an untouched plate of steak fries. However, I wouldn't do it, because people are gross. Come on, people. We have boxes and doggy bags for a reason. Also, you know how in "The Inferno" the final circle of Hell is reserved for traitors like Cassius and Judas Iscariot to be chewed on by Satan himself? Well, what they don't tell you is that there's another circle below that one (it's in one of the deleted scenes, if I remember correctly), and it's reserved for people like this guy we had at work tonight. He got the full rack of ribs, 'cause he's a man's man or some crap. So he eats all of his ribs but 10, and just to make sure the wait staff (who doesn't get to eat honey-prickly-pear-glazed baby back ribs, because we live on restaurant wages) doesn't eat his leftovers, he chews the top part of the ribs off. You know- that part where it curves and the skin is really thin and crunchy? Yeah. He nibbled it off like a little bug or some crap because he thought we would eat it if he didn't. Death is too good for him.
- If you're the last customers to eat there, tip like you're the best customers all night. The place I work at closes at 9, and the last seating is at 8:30. Only on special occasions do we seat past then, and if that happens to you, count yourself lucky. We want to go home by 8, most of the time. Well, if one of the servers has a hangover, they want to go home an hour before they clocked in, but that's beside the point. Regardless, toward the end of the night, we're all finished with our closing work and we want to go sleep/party/convalesce from a night of dealing with bad tippers and non-clean-plate people (see tips 1 and 2). If you're seated last, be awesome and leave a big tip. You'll make all of us happy, and when you come back, we'll likely remember you as "the nice people" and treat you like the God Emperor of the Known Universe.
- Little kids- where to start? Some of them are all right, in that they don't act like little kids, but others... Well, I'd go on, but I'd likely be called a supporter of extra-late term abortion or something. The bottom line is, don't bring your kids unless or until they can act decently in public. If they can handle the experience emotionally, they'll like it; they'll get to eat grown-up food, sit at a grown-up table and drink lemon water from a grown-up glass. Fun will be had by all! But if your kids are nightmares to you, they'll be nightmares to your server, who'll then have to try very hard to make it through the evening without an attempt on their own life. It's not pretty. Plus, if they die, I get tipped out less, which makes me sad, and no one wants to see me cry, right? RIGHT? :(
- Just because we have to pick up after you doesn't mean you have free reign to destroy your seating area. Don't leave napkins and detritus strewn all under your table, or else we'll probably remember you as dirty and give you bad service next time. Seriously. There have been waaaay too many times where I've wished for a power sander or something instead of my flimsy rag because some slob smeared barbecue glaze all over half their table. Not to mention the rice from their rice pilaf that's all scattered in the sauce, and the broccoli and crap all over the floor... Ew. Granted, that's not as nasty as picking up a napkin and finding a spilled cup of french dressing under it, which then gets all over both my hand and the table, then drips off the napkin and all on the floor (this happened tonight, actually), but it's pretty close.
- If you have a complaint, save it for the proper person and make sure it's about the proper subject. For instance, if your food isn't cooked right, don't chew out your server. They don't want to hear it, and they shouldn't have to. Just send it back and they'll fix it. If your food is slow, it's probably because we're really busy, which isn't our fault either, which brings me to another example of people who would- if this fine dining establishment were a movie theater- would get a spit corn. We were really busy this one night. I mean, we were totally packed, every table was full and we had a line up front. Busy. Anyway, this guy who's there with two of his friends gets a steak. Nothing crazy so far, since we have really good steak. However, the trouble starts when their server drops said steak on the ground- the whole plate just slides off the tray as it's being carried out to the table and expires in full view of the eating public amongst a mess of carpet fuzz and rice pilaf. "It's joined the restaurant invisible, it is an ex-sirloin" and so on. The server explains the situation to the guy, expressing heartfelt sorrow for dropping his dinner and promises a new (and better!) steak in 15 minutes. The guy's mad, but that could be understandable, if he had high blood pressure, was bipolar, had some severe social disorder or was incapable of sympathetic thought. So like 3 minutes later, the guy's new steak comes out, and the server explains that the cooks already had one coming, so they delayed someone else's order to please this guy. In a thus-far-unparalleled leap of rational thought, Mr. Steak Guy's logic train jumps from the "my steak was late, but now it's early!" track to the track labeled "my steak is earlier than predicted, therefore this new steak is the same steak that fell on the ground". Naturally, he proceeds to devise new swear words to use on his humbled waiter, who then defers to the manager. My manager can be very diplomatic, though this was apparently not one of those occasions; he took Steak Guy's abuse with a grin that said "I despise you and wish you'd die in a fire, and as a matter of fact, I have a couple fires going in the back right now, if you'd kindly follow me". Steak Guy caught onto this, so he just yelled louder until his stupid friends decided to get in on the fun as well. This continued for about 10 minutes until they left, probably without paying. Is hoping for a series of traffic accidents to claim the lives of former customers bad, or just not nice? I'm hoping for the latter.
- If you have a special request to make, remember that "special" is the key word. We try to have a good selection of beverages, desserts and meat products, and will probably make you anything you ask for as long as we have the right ingredients and can name the price. However, don't go overboard, like a man I shall refer to as Filtered Water Guy. The first sign that he was trouble was that he brought a water bottle into a Michelin-starred establishment, as if our water was unfit for his person, but I just brushed this off as some strange personal affectation that I didn't need to ask and/or worry about. Spoiler alert! The water in your glass is tap water. No fancy filters or artisan springs, just recycling processes and fluoridation. If you think fluoridation is a commie plot, you can't fool me; I've seen Dr. Strangelove too many times to be fooled by that nonsense. Come to think of it, if you believe in that stuff, shouldn't you be wearing a tinfoil hat when outdoors so the government can't use the HAARP installation to read and manipulate your brain waves? Anyway, Filtered Water Guy received this moniker because, upon receiving his customary glass of lemon water and basket of warm, fluffy rolls, asked me straight out to describe the filtration process his water went through. This is what I like to call "weird". I told him, perhaps unwisely, that it wasn't put through special filters, which he answered with a nice little diatribe about the "insufficiency of carbon filters" and other such nonsense. Since I still had some faith left in humanity at this point, I decided to rectify the situation and bring him different water from a reverse-osmosis system. This was, evidently, not good enough for him either, and he also rebuffed the waitress' attempts to get him some San Pellegrino or Fiji water, claiming that we'd already ruined his water experience beyond repair. All this could've been averted, however, if he'd just not worried about our water and just DRANK OUT OF THE BOTTLE HE CARRIED IN WITH HIM. But noooo, this was just too much for him. Long story short, he ended up forgetting his bottle and his car keys on the table, which I summarily recovered. A lesser busboy would've contemplated revenge, but I thought I'd just turn the other cheek and wait for him to come back and be grateful that I didn't hide his stuff or something. When he did come back, though, he was still mad and ran off to do Filtered Water Guy things. Surprisingly, he ate there a couple more times, bringing with him and his bottle a different woman every time and a big stack of anarchistic literature. Huh.
If you skipped to the end, that's really too bad, since all my jokes were up there in the body. Oh well.
Either way, the point is that people at restaurants want to make you happy, if that includes giving you discounts, free dessert, up-selling booze or just generally being nice. Make our job easier by being nice back, even if you're having a bad night. It won't be a struggle to put on a facade of happiness for an hour just to please your server, because chances are, your server is putting on a facade of happiness for 6 or 7 hours to please you and everyone else in the whole building.
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