Saturday, August 27, 2011
I Spit in William Shatner's Omelet
Fight scene from Star Trek: Captain Kirk is stranded on a desert planet, sweating in his impractical uniform, and a Lizard Man is heaving boulders at him. He's been losing the fight for six or seven minutes, he's run out of rocks and karate chops, and so he just turns and runs for his life over the burning sand. You can't win 'em all.
The first time I swore off of the restaurant industry was when I quit B**nstr**ts. At the time, I was convinced I had some form of brain damage from working there, or maybe several years of my life had rotted away. The place was a mecca for perverts and aimless head-cases, staring down the barristas with their hands hidden under the tables. Most of the art was pictures of nude women, some painted by the owner himself, and the kitchen had murals of grinning sunflowers and a big happy sun, leering creepily through half closed eyes. Every time a can of whipped cream emptied, the employees would scramble for it and rush into the back, greedily sucking the nitrous oxide out, starved for a moment of merciful oblivion. I never wanted to see another snickerdoodle latte or open mike night again.
One hot day, some weeks before my own Kirk-in-the-desert-with-Lizard-Man moment, I had to shove my way past a line of people to get in the door to go to work. At the head of the line, bright and early, was William Shatner, loudly complaining about his flight to Hollywood in half an hour. Now, I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it's impossible to fly to Hollywood from Asheville, or at least it was in 2002, and anyway there was no way he was going to get to the airport in half an hour. On top of that, did Shatner really have a pressing engagement, or did he just think he was entitled to get his omelet ahead of everybody else? I was pretty groggy still, hungover and reeling from a bad night of suppressing the rage and angst that hung like cologne around this place. If the first thing somebody said directly to you on a morning like that was “Shatner's being a dick. You should spit in his omelet,” what would you do?
The first time I swore off of the restaurant industry was when I quit B**nstr**ts. At the time, I was convinced I had some form of brain damage from working there, or maybe several years of my life had rotted away. The place was a mecca for perverts and aimless head-cases, staring down the barristas with their hands hidden under the tables. Most of the art was pictures of nude women, some painted by the owner himself, and the kitchen had murals of grinning sunflowers and a big happy sun, leering creepily through half closed eyes. Every time a can of whipped cream emptied, the employees would scramble for it and rush into the back, greedily sucking the nitrous oxide out, starved for a moment of merciful oblivion. I never wanted to see another snickerdoodle latte or open mike night again.
One hot day, some weeks before my own Kirk-in-the-desert-with-Lizard-Man moment, I had to shove my way past a line of people to get in the door to go to work. At the head of the line, bright and early, was William Shatner, loudly complaining about his flight to Hollywood in half an hour. Now, I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it's impossible to fly to Hollywood from Asheville, or at least it was in 2002, and anyway there was no way he was going to get to the airport in half an hour. On top of that, did Shatner really have a pressing engagement, or did he just think he was entitled to get his omelet ahead of everybody else? I was pretty groggy still, hungover and reeling from a bad night of suppressing the rage and angst that hung like cologne around this place. If the first thing somebody said directly to you on a morning like that was “Shatner's being a dick. You should spit in his omelet,” what would you do?
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
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