So here’s how it goes… I just got back from running in the park in January on a day when it was in the seventies. Oh, global warming. I’m listening to the new Bruce Springsteen (which is really good, by the way), as the birds chirp and sing out in my backyard. My house is marginally clean, Christmas decorations taken down, trash out, dishes done (and put away). It’s like I am a whole new person. Truth is, I just had a day off, finally. So I bought some new music (also the soundtrack to Once, the new Kanye West and Jay-Z, as well as Amy Winehouse and Bruce—It’s been a bitch having an old computer and not being able to download the newest version of iTunes—I’d curse Apple if I didn’t love Macs so very much). My point in all this is, I’m taking stock. The beginning of the year will do that.
For one, I cannot promise I will write much. I hate it when writing is just one more thing I have to do. It’s dumb, and frankly, counter-productive. If I don’t have anything to communicate, then I shouldn’t have to. And if I don’t have the time to do it properly, my words full of the love or loathing, then what’s the point? So, I am officially announcing the end of my other blog, Down, Out, and Hip in St. Louis. Like all younger siblings, it has the potential to be better than it’s older sister, but I just don’t have the time. So all my valuable (and sometimes not so…) thoughts will now be here. And… as I have been getting back to my roots and writing a shitload about culture lately, you might be in for some small surprises along the way—some not so STL inspired writings.
Oh, and expect some lists. I was just looking over my list of 30 things I wanted to do this past year in STL. I only managed, like, seven. Maybe 5. One of which occurred recently—I finally went iceskating at Forest Park, and it was totally worth it. It felt like winter, and had that continuity that only activities you have known since your youth can have. It had been about 20 years, but I was happy I went. It was a great $8.50 and I am looking forward to popping in on random lunch hours to skate over the winter.
Also, I managed the following:
-a trip to Luckett’s Lounge
-a trip to Peveley to see the stock car races (it’s not summer unless I go, and this year, it took me until almost October to get off of work and get there)
-lunch at the Blue Owl
-a bratzel at Gus’s (eaten while on the hill, watching traffic on the interstate)
That might actually be it, but in fairness, I was out of the country for a few weeks missing some events. And then I only had, like, six days (literally) off between May and October, so not much happened there.
I’m compiling my list for this year, though it’ll be much shorter. I am shooting for one new thing a month. If you want to compile your own list, drop me a comment and we can compare notes.
And for the record, the same weekend I went iceskating, I also managed to eat dinner on Cherokee, hit the Hideaway, drink beers at Riley’s and have a killer sandwich at Blues City Deli—not a bad weekend in all, and each I strongly recommend. Thus far, 2008 is looking pretty good. Maybe it’s because “eight’ rhymes with “great”. We’ll see.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Shhhhh... it's a secret.
I am so excited. I just got tickets to go see the Post Secret vs. Found Magazine Charity tour, which is hitting Mad Art in Soulard next week. I have never been to a Found event, though I have always heard that they are pretty cool. And I have high hopes, but mostly, I am super excited to see Frank and hear him speak.
Postsecret.com is a Sunday ritual for me. I usually wake up and check the secrets before I even pee, shower, or make tea. If you don't know what Post Secret is, just go check out the site. And then after you have, buy tickets for the event (buying online tics at SmartTix for this event was the easiest thing I have ever done online-- about time). Yay!!! Now I want to do a little dance.
Look at the secrets.
Post Secret/Found Tour
Mad Art Gallery
12th St in Soulard (right across from AB)
8pm, Tues. Nov. 13
Tickets are $15 ($16.50 online)
Postsecret.com is a Sunday ritual for me. I usually wake up and check the secrets before I even pee, shower, or make tea. If you don't know what Post Secret is, just go check out the site. And then after you have, buy tickets for the event (buying online tics at SmartTix for this event was the easiest thing I have ever done online-- about time). Yay!!! Now I want to do a little dance.
Look at the secrets.
Post Secret/Found Tour
Mad Art Gallery
12th St in Soulard (right across from AB)
8pm, Tues. Nov. 13
Tickets are $15 ($16.50 online)
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Rest In Peace
Last week, a good man, and someone whom I particularly admired, lost his fight to cancer. Dr. Tom Amlung, a retired veterinarian and former college professor, passed away on Monday, October 22. As I kept thinking of him over the weekend, I remembered that years ago I had written an essay about Tom and his wife, Carol-- it was dated 2003. Perhaps if you read it, you'll recognize the character of Tom Amlung. Simply put, he was honest and kind, and he'd call it like he saw it.
Rest in Peace
Obituary of Dr. Tom Amlung
_______________________________________________
It is Thursday night, one of the only times I look forward to going to work. It is not because I have only four more shifts until a day off, though that does occur to me. Rather, it is because of the Amlungs.
When people ask me if I like my job, the answer varies by the day, dependent on how tired I am, how many problems I have recently encountered, and how organized the restaurant is running. But if people ask me why I like my job, the answer is always the same: the customers. Of course, this is also why so many people hate it.
But there are those ones, those regulars whom you think of even years after you have quit. they are the ones who have not only let you into their lives, but made you a part of their lives. And with each, the reason varies.
The first job I ever worked was at a Steak n’ Shake in Bloomington, Illinois. There, it was a man named Ralph. He came in each night at five, sat at table 1-1 by the door and ordered the same thing, what we called a “Ralph Special”: a steakburger with no bun, a plate of tomatoes sliced, and cottage cheese. Ralph was older, his family grown and gone, his wife dead for five years when I met him. He had little money, could not drive, and few hobbies. He was a little grumpy and complained each day of whatever he might be reading about in the newspaper. He tipped somewhat appallingly, but when he liked you, he really liked you. And Ralph learned to like me, something that happened at the exact same time I had to stop asking him what he wanted to eat. He would walk in, and I would order his food, and in the few minutes I saved, I would sit with him and we would talk. It was never much-- how I was doing in school, an atrocity that had befallen him that week, how the university football team was doing. It was never much, but it became important to me.
Being a waitress means being anonymous. It is like when someone commits a crime and everyone present identifies them differently, each description bearing no commonalities. Being a waitress is like that: no one see you, and no one hears you. You mostly move unnoticed, and usually speak with little consequence. If asked, few people would even remember you being there at all.
But sometimes in restaurants, like in life, there are those people who see you. And not only do they see you, but they are hooked; they’re fascinated; they’re in. And you come alive. You become a person when before you were just a job. You are no longer performing or simply reacting, but you are participating. And it’s wonderful.
They need you for different reasons. Some, like Ralph, need you because they have no one else, because they need to speak to someone in order to remember that they are still present, that they still have something to say. Some need you to be their confidante, the people who give them advice, perspective, or hold their secrets. And some need you to be their friend, or their family, and treat you accordingly: baking you cookies occasionally, bringing you their extra tickets for the baseball game, giving you a card at Christmas, asking you how your vacation was, or offering help with your resume.
And you need them to remember that you are more than a fast-moving robot, more than a job description, a complaint or a good tip. You need them to remember that you have thoughts and feelings, and things to say. You need them to remember that you are interesting and passionate and motivated. You need them to remember that you have something to offer, something other than another glass of beer.
And that’s why Thursday nights, I wait for five o’clock. I wait for Mr. and Mrs. Amlung to open the door and walk in. Mr. Amlung, a retired veterinarian who now teaches, ambles in, all of his weight supported by his cane. Mrs. Amlung follows behind, smiling, her new haircut making her look younger, young enough that I can imagine what she might have looked like when they met. They see me and smile, and then wave as they walk to their table. They, like a waitress, are also creatures of habit, and their Thursday night ritual is somewhat routine. They come regardless of weather-- six inches of snow, an ice storm, wind or heat. She has a Harp while he drinks a Bass (two to her one), and then they order. They are not interested in specials and usually pick within the same two or three items, though he always asks for extra raw onion, chopped and put on top of anything he has. When she has her second beer, he has a Beamish, and then they sit and talk. Often, between my visits, they make lists and speak earnestly, planning for different things.
We speak of my parents, and over time, they have come to be like a second set, though in a less intimate manner. And we speak of their children, Mrs. Amlung often smiling and saying she hopes her kids speak of her as I speak of my mother (which I imagine they must). They ask me about my endeavors, and I ask about their conferences, vacations, their politics, their hopes.
And then we say good night at 6:45, and I am left waiting for another week to feel so alive. But when people ask me why I do it, why I keep waiting tables, even though I could do other things, I think of them, and all the others I have gathered throughout the years. I think, in other jobs, I would not know the Amlungs, and even if it’s just for a brief period of one shift, in other jobs, I would not feel this alive.
Rest in Peace
Obituary of Dr. Tom Amlung
_______________________________________________
It is Thursday night, one of the only times I look forward to going to work. It is not because I have only four more shifts until a day off, though that does occur to me. Rather, it is because of the Amlungs.
When people ask me if I like my job, the answer varies by the day, dependent on how tired I am, how many problems I have recently encountered, and how organized the restaurant is running. But if people ask me why I like my job, the answer is always the same: the customers. Of course, this is also why so many people hate it.
But there are those ones, those regulars whom you think of even years after you have quit. they are the ones who have not only let you into their lives, but made you a part of their lives. And with each, the reason varies.
The first job I ever worked was at a Steak n’ Shake in Bloomington, Illinois. There, it was a man named Ralph. He came in each night at five, sat at table 1-1 by the door and ordered the same thing, what we called a “Ralph Special”: a steakburger with no bun, a plate of tomatoes sliced, and cottage cheese. Ralph was older, his family grown and gone, his wife dead for five years when I met him. He had little money, could not drive, and few hobbies. He was a little grumpy and complained each day of whatever he might be reading about in the newspaper. He tipped somewhat appallingly, but when he liked you, he really liked you. And Ralph learned to like me, something that happened at the exact same time I had to stop asking him what he wanted to eat. He would walk in, and I would order his food, and in the few minutes I saved, I would sit with him and we would talk. It was never much-- how I was doing in school, an atrocity that had befallen him that week, how the university football team was doing. It was never much, but it became important to me.
Being a waitress means being anonymous. It is like when someone commits a crime and everyone present identifies them differently, each description bearing no commonalities. Being a waitress is like that: no one see you, and no one hears you. You mostly move unnoticed, and usually speak with little consequence. If asked, few people would even remember you being there at all.
But sometimes in restaurants, like in life, there are those people who see you. And not only do they see you, but they are hooked; they’re fascinated; they’re in. And you come alive. You become a person when before you were just a job. You are no longer performing or simply reacting, but you are participating. And it’s wonderful.
They need you for different reasons. Some, like Ralph, need you because they have no one else, because they need to speak to someone in order to remember that they are still present, that they still have something to say. Some need you to be their confidante, the people who give them advice, perspective, or hold their secrets. And some need you to be their friend, or their family, and treat you accordingly: baking you cookies occasionally, bringing you their extra tickets for the baseball game, giving you a card at Christmas, asking you how your vacation was, or offering help with your resume.
And you need them to remember that you are more than a fast-moving robot, more than a job description, a complaint or a good tip. You need them to remember that you have thoughts and feelings, and things to say. You need them to remember that you are interesting and passionate and motivated. You need them to remember that you have something to offer, something other than another glass of beer.
And that’s why Thursday nights, I wait for five o’clock. I wait for Mr. and Mrs. Amlung to open the door and walk in. Mr. Amlung, a retired veterinarian who now teaches, ambles in, all of his weight supported by his cane. Mrs. Amlung follows behind, smiling, her new haircut making her look younger, young enough that I can imagine what she might have looked like when they met. They see me and smile, and then wave as they walk to their table. They, like a waitress, are also creatures of habit, and their Thursday night ritual is somewhat routine. They come regardless of weather-- six inches of snow, an ice storm, wind or heat. She has a Harp while he drinks a Bass (two to her one), and then they order. They are not interested in specials and usually pick within the same two or three items, though he always asks for extra raw onion, chopped and put on top of anything he has. When she has her second beer, he has a Beamish, and then they sit and talk. Often, between my visits, they make lists and speak earnestly, planning for different things.
We speak of my parents, and over time, they have come to be like a second set, though in a less intimate manner. And we speak of their children, Mrs. Amlung often smiling and saying she hopes her kids speak of her as I speak of my mother (which I imagine they must). They ask me about my endeavors, and I ask about their conferences, vacations, their politics, their hopes.
And then we say good night at 6:45, and I am left waiting for another week to feel so alive. But when people ask me why I do it, why I keep waiting tables, even though I could do other things, I think of them, and all the others I have gathered throughout the years. I think, in other jobs, I would not know the Amlungs, and even if it’s just for a brief period of one shift, in other jobs, I would not feel this alive.
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