Road to peak ten

When I was a kid I used to dream about living in a van.  That seems like a silly thing to wish for.  I mean, it doesn't take much to achieve.  I am almost 30.  I don't live in a van.  I still have dreams about many things.  And occasionally I dream of being a hobo, a vagabond, a man without roots.  The truth is, no matter how many novels I read, I will always have roots.  I can dream of being a doctor or a fireman but I will never be the nomad I thought I might end up being when all else failed.  Because failure is not the means that brings us to our ends.  We end up where we came from. 

"If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were." --Isaac Brock

Time is on my side

It's the elbow.  It's funny because about ten minutes before I hurt myself I was actually thinking how nice it is to lift heavy w/out any current injuries.  And as I thought that, my other brain thought: "dude, you just jinxed yourself."  Well, I went to pick up a weasel 95 lb dumbell and dropped it right on the floor and yelled like a girl.  I am a big fat mess.  I guess it is time to admit I am turning thirty.  I have weak ligaments.  I am a big, fat, weak mess.  My elbow is a pussy. 

Nyquil dreams...

I am so sick.  This is the third time I have gotten sick this winter.  Maybe my body is going through some sort of skiing withdrawal.  Maybe I am not as healthy as I look.  Maybe Acai juice is crock of shit.  All I know is it is the worst fucking feeling to be so sick that you do not want to open your goddamn eyes in the morning but you know you have to because you have to shlep soup to the tables of absurdly wealthy people as you eavesdrop on conversations concerning 10 million dollar playpens for the new dog.  But I am doing this for a reason.  I don't want to grow up.  I don't want a real job.  And I can't sit still.  I need to know that if I make another life shaking decision or migration; I won't be abandoning my 401K or the new property investment I just commited to.  So, here I am.  Sick in bed.  With no health insurance.  A few hundred years ago, this flu probably would have killed me.  So, at least I have that.  I will win this battle.  Onward... 

"Me fail english? That’s unpossible."

Most people who know me know I am somewhat of a grammar snob.  I am constantly correcting people when they use the word good where well should be or use made up words like anyways and funner.  Yes, I am annoying.  But come on, people.  How can  funnest come out of your mouth and sound correct to you?  It's embarrassing. 

What's the deal with people pronouncing the t in often?  Everyone does it.  Didn't we all go through the same assimilation process as children?  Why did I learn that the t is silent and no one else did?  This isn't Great Britain.  Go over there and pronounce your t's. 

It's enough, already.

Well done steak with extra ketchup

Fucking guy with a black button down shirt that says Wrangler on one side and Jack Daniels on the other and a big black cowboy hat on his mustached head walks into the restaurant tonight. 

It's amazing how with the different seasons come the different flows of restaurant-goers.  Mid summer, there were sophisticated, wine drinking 20% tippers packing the lobby.  Lately it's table after table of foreigners with their fresh American dollars, so new that they stick together like pieces of sandpaper, ordering Berringer white Zinfindels and appertizers for entrees.  "Oh we're just gonna do a few starters for our meals, mate." 

"Oh are you?  The bread is free.  The water is free.  And if you tell me it's your birthday you'll get a free dessert, too."

Sometimes I love waiting tables because it gives me the freedom to live the lifestyle I enjoy.  And sometimes I feel like it will drive me into a misanthropic, downward spiral leading to my working at a gas station, going to law school or something equally as backward.

I schlepp soup, muthafucka!  What do you do?

You want I should circle?

The thing about having a car in Manhattan is that even if you never take it anywhere it always has to be moved.  I am in my car all the time but I am not driving it down to the drug store or the movies like Jerry and Kramer were always doing.  I am moving it from one side of the street to the other.  So, it's a job.  It always has to be done.  I always have to be aware of what day it is and what side of the street my car needs to be on to avoid that $65 fine from the city of  New York.  I am always on the lookout for a good spot.  I find myself muttering to myself in the west village, nowhere near my car or where I live, "look at that spot."  "And it's a Tues & Fri spot.  Sweet!"  I am constantly checking parking regulation signs in neighborhoods all over the city.  I am making mental notes.  "If I am ever near 68th and 10th, there are some good spots on the west side of the street."  If I see an empty space between two cars, no matter where I am, I mentally size it up to see if my car would fit.  Meanwhile my car is on 97th street, nowhere near any of these thoughts.  It is all I think about.  Fucking parking!  I set my goddamn alarm early just so I can get up and move my car before it is too hard to find a spot.  I get so excited when I get a spot right in front of my building.  I have no idea why.  It's not like I ever need to get to it quickly.  I never take it anywhere.  If someone asks me for a ride home, I make up an excuse why I can't drive them.  The real reason is I don't want to give up my sweet spot.  I am kind of looking forward to the day when I wake early on a Thursday, walk to 101st street to move my car and find it is no longer there.  Then I can finally sleep in. Then I will not be plagued by available spaces between cars all over this car-crowded city.  Sometimes I feel like no one really uses these Manhattan cars to go anywhere.  We are all just moving them from one side of the street to the other.  Anyway, if you see that piece of shit, white Nissan Sentra w/ the CO plates and the Sirius satelite antenna on top anywhere in this city, take it.  Free me.

Take a bite out of a clove of garlic

When you're sick everyone has the cure.  All of the sudden everyone is an M.D.  It's ridiculous the things people are coming up with.  Anything and everything is a cure.  Olive leaf extract, echinacea, vitamin c, zinc, whole baby artichokes.  I mean, let me just sleep it off.  This guy at work actually suggested that I kill a puppy and make a soup out of it.  The scary thing is I am not sure if he was kidding or not.  He is from Ecuador and he made it seem like that's what they do there.  He told me when his son was sick as a baby, he made puppy soup and he has never been sick since.  So, I'm off to the pound.  I'll let you know how it goes...