BISCUITS AND GRAVY

I worked at The Diner today. Now I have the IQ of a dog biscuit. A brussel Sprout. A clump of pocket lint. My shifts are only five to six hours long, but whenever I'm done I find my body at war with my mind. The former keeps wanting to smile and scowl and greet and seat and quip and bitch while the latter has successfully turned from solid to liquid, something with the viscosity of a hearty New England Clam Chowder.

So. There were serious negative energies pulsing through The Diner today, and nobody was immune. The customers, waitresses, cooks and Tess (the boz) were all infected. Even Buddha would have spat in someone's eggs. For the first time ever, I felt the true brunt of Tess' rancor as she flipped her shit, methodically sought out six exhausted, overwhelmed waitresses in order to personally scream at them about ice. Yup. Ice. The stuff that floats in soft drinks. But then she had the audacity to turn and spew invented accusations at petit moi. I called her on it and when I did, she was silent because she knew her bullshit had nothing on me. Later, I'm thinking about the three hundred plus people that died in Beslan yesterday and I'm wondering: How can these two worlds exist on the same planet?

Then, there was the cranky skater punk who was THROWING A TEMPER TANTRUM because we couldn't seat him fast enough. He was alone and all we had were tables for four or more. And when he started snarling and howling injustice, I calmly turned my heal and walked away. It's just a little trick I picked up during my work with young children.

Tonight I'm chillin'. Singing the dulcet tunes of Belle and Sebastian.