last night at work

Last night I came to the sad but seemingly necessary conclusion that the time has come to put this dear blog out of its misery. It's been a good two-plus years, but ever since I threw away all my biz cazh clothing and started working at the restaurant the Urge to Blog has been elusive. I've tried to find the Urge, but the Urge has a mind of its own. This has resulted in almost as many unfinished drafts as completed posts, and that is a little depressing. Although I suppose it makes sense.

No longer am I sitting in front of a computer all day scouring the internet for hilarious links like this YouTube Taco ToWn! video. And for reasons unknown I've lost all desire to share the details of my personal life, as the celebrities like to call it (although I prefer the more apt description, "whom I'm fucking,") with strangers on the internet. Even though I should've had stories galore, like, say, the time Bartender called me at 5:30 in the morning the night I found out Jose died and since I was lying awake anyway I hopped in a cab to Brooklyn where, in his basement warehouse bedroom, he sang songs about women and Jesus until we decided it was time to get naked, and how my roommate's friend from Georgia was supposed to crash on our couch for five nights later that week, and let's just say he did not sleep on the couch much, and how Bartender called at 3:30 am just seconds after Roommate's Friend and I sealed the deal for the first time, and how the other night after work I was drunk with N at our favorite Bar Around the Corner and texted both Bartender AND Scruffy Brit, whom I have not heard from nor attempted to contact in months and am completely 100% over, even though I'd probably still have sex with him if I ran into him on the sidewalk after work one night and he said in his suave, Gina-killing Manchesterian way, "Let's go have sex," which was exactly what happened the last night I saw him and which I also never bothered to write about.

Anyway, so I'm starting a new feature here, and it's called Last Night at Work, since that's all I have the capacity to write about at this drunken, nocturnal juncture in my life. So last night at work, I was extremely exhausted for non-debauchery related reasons and owe the retention of my job to two tables who kept me entertained and awake. On an outside table sat three folks who were clearly seasoned restaurant patrons. Low maintenance, asked about the restaurant's history, let me decide what they should drink, etc. As I brought out a bottle of kickass limited production Cerasuolo rosato (bottle number four for them--clearly my kind of folks,) one guy was standing next to the table smoking a cigarette and looking shaken. He'd just stopped a robbery, he said, as he pointed to the man being led out to a police car in handcuffs. He'd gone to the bodega nextdoor for a pack of cigarettes and, on his way out, noticed a man fleeing with a wad of cash. As the man reached the door, my drunkenly emboldened customer slammed the door, trapping his cash-filled hand in the door, called the cops, and held it until they arrived. Then it was back to that delicious rosato. Aaah, New York. Meanwhile, back inside, one of my twotops had been sat with four very, very French people. Like, barely-spoke-English French people. They were all talking, nay, shouting, at the same time so finally I just said, "I am going to bring you this, this, and this. Yes?" They sat there for a couple hours and blew through about five bottles of wine and spent about 3/4 of that time outside smoking cigarettes. Their final bill: $166.84. Their tip: $3.16. Aaah, France. I actually kind of loved them for their complete, stereotypical obnoxiousness. Had they tipped me even remotely reasonably I'd have had to revamp my whole worldview. Nevertheless, if it were my restaurant I'd totally add "and the French" to the part at the bottom of the menu where it says "20% gratuity added for parties of six or more."