Burn the Swine

Drumroll please!

Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrratat!!

We have a guest speaker!

*oohs* *aaahs*


Well, it was almost that exciting. This week I had a couple of guest speakers in my Information and Visual Resources for Journalists class (say that three times really fast without yawning); a photo editor and photographer from the National Post. And they talked about the most exciting thing to happen to Toronto since the Leafs won the cup during the cretaceous period: the G20 riots.

So they're mucking around at the lectern for twenty minutes getting their spiffy MacBook keynote presentation all cued up and then when the woman comes to speak it's like your drunk Aunt Doris giving an impromptu toast at a bar mitzvah. She practically giving the microphone fellatio, so that every 'P' or 'B' or even 'T' she utters jabs your ears with a boiling hot q-tip. And someone is a "P"icture editor talking about "P"age composition, setting "P"icture "P"recedent and assuring you that "P"ictures can happen in any neigh"B"ourhood, the hours start to feel really long.

But she is a housefly compared to the slimy cockroach photog who gets up to speak after her. Minutes into his presentation Senor Douche shows the pics of himself being arrested and all the 18-year-old bosoms in the room heave from "really, really like feeling his, you know pain and stuff." After which he brashly declares; "I'll just say this right now, I don't like cops." I can practically hear the swelling of teenage crushes behind me.

"You know I don't work like other photographers. I just don't work like that. You know most of the guys were wearing helmets and stuff. Of course I had mine with me but...you know I'm really trying to be down with these Black Bloc guys. You know, I was smokin' with them and stuff."

"Some of the other photo guys were wearing their gas masks." He jeers and clicks to a slide of a protester having his eyes flushed out with Maalox after being pepper sprayed. 'Yeah, I think, what idiots.'

Arman the nerdy (but really nice) kid who sits next to me in a lot of my classes raises his hand.

"Did anyone show up to the G20 protests wearing Guy Fawkes masks?"

"I don't know what that is?"



"It's the mask protesters wore in 'V for Vendetta.'"

Mr. Cool chuckles, "I don't watch movies."

Though ten minutes later he's dropping a Dr. Phil reference. Soooo, you don't watch those evil corporate picture shows but your schedule and your morals allow you to watch putrefying daytime television. Hmmmm, you really are a complex man aren't you?

To Mr. Cool's credit he witnessed and documented some major fuck ups by the police who ended up (violently) arresting mostly peaceful protesters. He showed one shot of a discarded pile of black clothing in a field where the instigating Black Bloc members had grouped together and shed their anarchist uniforms.

However, not before trashing Zanzibar a somewhat sad a rundown strip club on Yonge Street. Strippers are not generally included in the same category as Starbucks in terms of economic imperialism. And apparently the Black Bloc paused to discuss the value of trashing the source of revenue for a marginalized and looked-down-upon sector of society.

They thought about it....and then did it anyway. Smashing stuff is fun afterall.

The talk could have been really thought provoking. There were documented cases of police brutality and unlawful detention. The protesters degraded their cause through violence. The point is there was a lot to say that went unsaid because someone couldn't resist the opportunity to preen and bask in the unadulterated admiration of the naive.

Naturally there was a mob of eager women and a smaller number of shrugging wishful bromancers around Mr. Cool after the lecture. I made a b-line for the bathroom where a couple of pint sized hair-flippers discussed "like ohmygawd how hot was he?!"
"Oh I KNOW!"
"Why didn't we go talk to him?!"
"Well...like...what we're we going to say?!"
"Yeah, totally."

The irony of this circus frenzy and gee-whiz-aren't-newspapers-swell back patting is that the National Post is the most conservative right-wing piece of toilet paper currently in print. Its op-ed department is fond of publishing articles which voice support of Israel's naval blockade of Palestine and other such trendy neo-con causes.

I'm sure most of my fellow students thought the lecture was "great" and "entertaining" but it's all too easy to stand up there in a position of authority and shit on the cops, the protesters, the poor security guards who were scared shitless (had no guns) and were trying to not lose their jobs. It's easy to stand up there, charm everyone with seductive cynicism. But it's wrong because it is SO EASY. And if the goal is to turn this new batch of tadpoles into bait-swallowers, hook, line and sinker, then I say bravo. Mission Accomplished.

Poverty and Filth

You Know You're Ghetto Student-Poor When...

You stop buying those fancy expensive vegetables like tomatoes or mushrooms and start buying cabbage and 10 lb. bags of carrots.

Your sheets are threadbare...LITERALLY! You can feel the squeaky weirdness of your inflatable mattress through the bare patches.

You wear those embarrassing t-shirts you bought on vacation at that "really great bar down by the beach!", which has a cartoon shark drinking cocktails with umbrellas on it, because you don't have change to do laundry.

You try and use only three squares of toilet paper per wipe (with a 50% success rate).

You spend an hour pulling the pill-y bits off your sweater because time is still cheaper than H&M.



You wear your sunglasses and stride purposefully down the street because it makes you feel important and like you have somewhere to go.

You factor in your overdraft limit when making sure that your rent check is going to clear.

You get mad when you waste a stamp.

You never talk to friends who don't have Skype.

You go crazy and splurge on a can of refried beans instead of your usual purchase: No Name beans in tomato sauce.

You look at the girls who wear make up to class in disbelief, mixed with a dash of envy.



Your wild saturday night includes a bottle of cheap local Chardonnay and watching TV on the internet.

You leave an increasingly threatening series of voicemails on your former landlord's cell demanding the damage deposit from the apartment you vacated 6 months ago.

You go weak at the knees and your vision gets blurry when you find a GST check in your mailbox.

You pore over those supermarket flyers which clutter the apartment foyer like they're a raunchy tabloid sex-scandal expose.

You realize that you really really love what you're doing; otherwise you'd never put yourself through this.

On a different note, I've always had a great nostalgia and sense of respect for the inherent patterns of our furry forest neighbours. Whether it was following deer trails as a young 'un through the thick underbrush of the verdant west coast rain forests or making sure not to put my delicate human ankle down a gopher hole while romping around the prairie; I've always accepted the fact that animals leave their mark on the world. And since homo sapiens sprawl over most of the planet's surface I think it's only fair to cut the poor disadvantaged animals some slack. However, when the goddamn raccoons decide that my back step is their personal lavatory I TAKE EXCEPTION! Cute little mask-faced assh*les can go rot in a sewage pile. Since I'm sure some of you think I'm overreacting I documented the extent and (rather impressive) volume of defecation which occurs in front of my door.



Yes, frightening isn't it.

And if there wasn't enough icing on the cake already, what with the rampant squirrel problem thanks to the poutine shop having its dumpsters next to my other door, I came home this evening to find the item below on my stoop. Crumpled and used up, like my patience.

Damn dirty humans!

Ridiculous: Found

Late September is an odd time in Toronto; the white-knuckled grip of humidity finally breaks and the headiness brought on by frosh and TIFF has faded like the next day's hangover. The city seems to be settling, perhaps hunkering is a better word, any way you want to slice it, preparing, for the long dark seasons yet to come. But before this present gloom descended there was one hell of a party.

Toronto during TIFF (the Toronto International Film Festival) is like a city possessed. A rabid energy seems to take hold; the bars stock up on top shelf liquor, orange-shirted volunteers swarm the streets and everyone with a set of vocal chords starts speculating where the 'it' spot is going to be this year. This year the centre of the festival has been moved down to King Street, near 'the people' since the residents of Yorkville are no longer human but honorary members of the botulism species.

Unfortunately I work on King Street...and I'm just trying to get to work on time.

The sidewalks on Yonge are clogged with overflow from the rush ticket lines. The clock is ticking. I step out into the street to navigate around the crowd since traffic is at a standstill. Several bike couriers almost run me over and I'm feeling so harried that I don't even stop to mock Rick Campanelli's horrible fuchsia dress shirt as he hurries past me in the other direction. As a matter of fact not one of movie goers who are standing in line with bovine passivity notice Rick either. You've fallen far since your Much Music days Mr. Campanelli.

I do make it to work on time and as I scrub the restaurants patio railing, water and suds flying everywhere very much reminiscent of a cheap soft core flick, I notice an increased number of fedoras and superfluous looking scarves being worn by the usual hipster passers by. Ah yes, everyone has busted out their 'look I'm a filmmaker' costume kit.



It's Saturday night and the star fuckers are out in droves their plastic tits hoisted up, necklines pulled low and all standards for decorum and good behaviour have been completely forgotten. Anyone who is engaging in the favourite celebrity habit of wearing their sunglasses after the sun has gone down is instantly mobbed in the remote possibility that they might of had three lines in a Twilight movie.

The restaurant is beyond busy, it's slammed. And for once everything runs smoothly. The restaurant's record for covers (people served) in one night has been surpassed and all without tears, drama, hair-pulling, threats etc. And if I can permit myself to be immodest for one moment, I rockstarred it up! As I'm doing my cash out I tally up the amount of tips which I made, unfortunately for the tip pool and not myself, it was over $700.

Walking home I was tired as hell but I was happy, I was proud and best of all I felt like there was hope that work was going to be something other than a dead and festering albatross around my neck.

And then I came into work on Tuesday and my delicately dream of a happy work life was shattered.

According to those who were there it was the restaurant's worst night...ever! And that's all they would say, no one wanted to talk about it or provide any dirty details other than the fact that Woody Harrelson came in during the height of the shit storm. But based simply on the vacant listless gazes of those who had survived this apparent night from hell it must have been a doozie.

With 'the fear' already creeping up my spine at the pre-shift meeting my worst suspicions were confirmed: Saturday night had been a fluke.

At 5 pm the entire floor staff is sitting at the bar ready for our daily meeting. Bootylicious is not there. Napoleon pulls on his cuffs and aggressively slurps his coffee.

"See this is what I'm talking about, WASTING TIME!"

Bootylicious is apparently upstairs printing new wine lists for the third time this week. Every time she prints a new batch Napoleon finds a spelling mistake (anyone interested in a fine bottle of Pinot Noor?). Though apparently the printers are not working, naturally we require wine lists for service which brings the situation to this impassable juncture.

His patience exhausted Napoleon starts yelling at Bootylicious in the office upstairs through the ceiling and to make the situation even more ridiculous she yells back and they proceed to have an entire conversation in this manner.



"__________ EVERYONE IS WAITING!"

"THE PRINTER IS BROKEN, I'M TRYING TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW DRIVER."

"I GUARANTEE YOU THAT THE PRINTER IS NOT BROKEN."

"IT IS BROKEN! I WAS TRYING TO GET SOMEONE TO COME HELP ME BUT NO ONE WOULD COME HELP ME. CAN SOMEONE COME HELP ME?"

"THEY DIDN'T COME 'HELP YOU' BECAUSE THEY WERE SETTING UP THE FRIGGIN' RESTAURANT FOR SERVICE."

"WELL THAT DOESN'T SOLVE THE PROBLEM DOES IT?"

And so on.

That night were busy. It's TIFF, people who want to pretend to be someone or maybe just see someone who's someone flood our doors. Service is scrappy. We get through it but barely. And I decide I've had enough.

"Don't you dare leave me here!" Says K, the other girl who started at the same time I did. "No one else has a goddamn sense of humour about anything!"

But I'm not going to wait for this silly restaurant to break me. It's better to leave as a rockstar than as a bitter flat-footed waiter.

It's time to boldly go and seek ridiculousness elsewhere and in this city it grows in abundance. The pictures attached to this post were taken at the university mall a couple of days ago. One of the candidates in Toronto's mayoral election staged an 'I care about the plight of the indebted student' photo op bringing a legion of green shirted buffoons...I mean supporters with him. What you can't see is that dancing around behind the cameras is a spin doctor, PR type who keeps miming gestures to the slack-jawed supporters reminding them to smile. He's the fellow wearing a blazer on the left side of the photo directly below. Too bad computers aren't equipped with 'Slimeball O' Vision' though I think he does a pretty good job of oozing through the screen all on his own.

Mission, find ridiculousness: Accomplished.

I Spy...

For various reasons I don't feel particularly verbose this week. So I thought I'd post some photos of the KISS concert from a few weeks ago, some streets scenes of the city and conclude with a picture of my bed which has been doubling as an "office" for the last few days. There are more hilarious stories close on the horizon, so trim that sail ye yella' bellied land lubbers and prepare to be boarded by the infamous and bloodthirsty Captain Rhetoric sometime very soon. Yaaarrrr!

Day Care

Despite appearances I did not move to Toronto to be abused by bitchy career servers and their narcissistic overlords. Back in Vancouver each day of slinging beers and scraping stacks of greasy plates was chipping away a small part of my soul. Every night as I hauled in the patio furniture and waited for the last drunks to leave it was glaringly apparent that serving nachos was not my destiny. So I did what most people in their mid-twenties with a useless arts degree do; I went back to school.

And not just any school, one of the best for my new discipline, 25,000 students deep, the campus located in the heart of Toronto's belching teeming core. This was going to be awesome.

Due to no fault of my own I sleep through orientation. The story involves insomnia, a few too many double cocktails on a patio, swimming in an outdoor public pool in my skivvies and the inevitable visit to McD for a 4am french fry chow down. As you can imagine when my alarm went off at 7:30 motivation to leave my bed could not be found and so I didn't.

The result of my truancy is that as I make my way to my very first class, brain bleary and fogged up from a night of anxiety fuelled insomnia, I have no idea what I'm walking into.



None of the credits from my first degree were "transferable" so I'm right back to first year. But I'm sure there's bound to be some older students, there has to be...oh god, please let there be.

First year classes are always easy to find, just look for the milling confused crowd of kids who are talking a bit to loud and trying a bit too hard to be liked. My first class of my new life is Grammar. I enter the lecture theatre and grab an aisle seat near the front. Slurping my saccharine spiked coffee I look around the room and my heart sinks.

The noise is the first thing that hits you, that high whine, that cadence exploding with enthusiasm. "OMG!" "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!" "I HAVE, LIKE, A FOUR HOUR LECTURE AFTER THIS. I KNOW!" "MY ROOMMATE IS SOOOOOO WEIRD!" "OH MY GOD, I KNOW." The girls are all wearing makeup and carefully chosen outfits, smacking their gum as they fidget. The boys, and oh yes they are boys, look like walking Clearasil ads. Their adams apples protrude from their scrawny necks, clothes hang awkwardly on their unfinished frames and quite a few of them are obviously still virgins.

The gum-smacker to my left turns to me and introduces herself.

"You're older aren't you?" Is the second thing she says.

Gum-Smack here is only 19 and it takes only five minutes for me to realize that, other than school, we have absolutely nothing in common.

It's the same in all my classes. Young people, unsure and unrealized, barrage the profs with questions about correct assignment formatting and term grade breakdowns. They're so eager to 'get it right' and 'do well', as if grades were the most valuable thing to be gleaned from this experience. I want to scream at them; "LIFE! This is about life goddamnit! You don't even know who you are yet. Even your faces still look like silly putty. You have no shape yet." But I don't and instead listen to them fuss over details which won't matter one whit once term papers and exams are bearing down on them like a herd of rabid rhinos.



One of my program requirements is a first year english class and though I like my prof and she strikes me as an intelligent and thoughtful person there is one overwhelming factor in this equation; there is no lower common denominator than a first year university english class. The first day we get into groups and do the introduction game. "One person from you group introduce everyone else and include one interesting fact about each of them. After that it will be time for your bottles and a nap." The required reading material fares no better. As I wait in the interminable line at the bookstore I make use of the time to read the first selection. It begins: "The truth about stories is that is all we are."

I wake up to find it's night and I'm locked inside the deserted bookstore. No not really. But I had to fight down a powerful wave of disinterest to wade through the derivative and righteous tone of this simplistic tripe. Only two and a half months to go hurrah!

To survive first year with my mind in one piece I must have a strategy. I must stay focussed.

1. Avoid all extracurricular activities, this includes pub crawls, orientations, sporting events and activist/anarchist groups.
2. Do hang out on campus.
3. Do assignments as soon as they are handed out, no lolly-gagging.
4. Kick serious academic ass.
5. Use my age and cunning to beat their youth and enthusiasm. They won't see it coming mu ha ha ha!

That's right, when those bushy-tailed first are dragging their asses to class after their beer bong or keg stand experience I'm going to be right there in my seat alert, ambitions and ready with a big ole can of whup-ass.

I leave you with some peaceful photos taken at the City Hall farmer's market.

And the beat goes on....

On an otherwise cheerful and sunny Monday afternoon I board the streetcar and head to the job which has put humble pie with a side of anxiety back on my personal menu. Cruising through the business district women in ill-fitting business casual outfits and men deeply engrossed in their Blackberries hustle and bustle about the streets. They look busy, slightly tired and, some of them, like they have a dildo of self-importance shoved up their poop shoot. But to my eyes they look...peaceful. Worker bees buzzing merrily away for the good of the hive.

That's it, I'm determined to quit. I must. Mentally I attempt to fuse this moment of resolve to my backbone. And as I walk in the back door, past the line jockeys, already sweating while they hover over pots belching garlic/ginger/onion vapour, I almost have myself convinced that I'm going to make a clean break.

Bootylicious, the incompetent and ill-mannered general manager, is off on Mondays so I ask my gay French-Canadian assistant manager if he has time to talk. It only takes one look into those quivering liquid eyes for my resolve to evaporate like virtue on a drunk Saturday night. My pride settles for insisting on a 3 day work week once school starts and my cowardly hope is that I will be fired on the spot.

"No, that should be fine."

'Shit!' I trudge downstairs and put on my blacks.

But it's an eternal truth that when fighting the hydra of life the moment you cut off one head another ugly mug emerges from the deep. Enter stage left the psychotic (and possibly drug addled) neighbour.

After a slightly melancholy after work pint and shot of Jack, endured rather than enjoyed by my lonesome, I'm looking forward to nothing more than a good night's sleep.

Ha!

It's 2 am, the air mattress squeaks gently against the wall as I climb onto its cheap pillowy goodness. I can feel my brain matter spreading into an inactive puddle within my skull, the distant hum of the street cleaner, the gentle whir of the fan...so peaceful....

GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! RAOW! RAOW! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! RAOW! RAOW!

'What the fuck?!' I'm instantly irritated and very much awake.

"Looooooooooooouuuuuuuuu. LOU! Lou stop it!" The nasal wail of my downstairs neighbour tickles my already sufficiently tickled ears.



The smell of her chain-smoked cigarettes slowly invades my apartment as she attempt to discipline her dog Louis in a deplorably half-assed manner. Her voice sounds sloppy like that over the hill cocktail waitress you feel sorry for who still thinks 'she's making you thirsty' as she leans over the bar at you in her faded low cut top.

The dog continues to growl and yap intermittently and she continues drunkenly yell at it to stop for the next 3 HOURS! Just before 5 am order is restored and I fall into a fitful slumber. At 10 am the barking, shouting and smoking resumes. By now I'm tired to the point of being rather emotional about it and with a shuddering sigh I rise from bed and accept that there will be no rest.

Though I deep 6 myself with a double dose of valium the next night and get my full 8 hours I return to work feeling drained. Conveniently, that night is one of the worst yet.

The former manager of the restaurant who has been 'consulting' i.e. stalking around the dining room with slitted eyes and upbraiding staff in the middle of the dining room during service, decides a pep talk is in order.

During our usual pre-service meeting Napoleon (as I will call him from now on) tries to raise the flagging spirits of the staff members with the following stirring words;
"Look, I don't have the time to be here. I really don't. And after I'm gone it's all up to you. And based on what I see now this restaurant will FAIL within two months after I'm gone. It's going to get worse."

"I'm not even going to comment on the new people." I breathe an inward sigh of relief. "Because if you are not going to lead by example and train them properly then what is the point of bringing in new staff." Wait a minute, that's not good. "When I was manager here this place ran like a well oiled machine. The restaurant that was here before was considered the best in Canada, one of the top 50 in the world, and NOTHING is going to touch that. But we have gotten lazy! And this place, now, is hanging by a thread."

And with those inspirational words under our belt the restaurant launches into a chaotic, horrible and embarrassing dinner service. The kind of night where you thank God that most of the guests are too drunk or too ignorant to see the sloppy horror show going on around them. Early on (around 7) Napoleon calls the ENTIRE floor staff into the kitchen (something which is unheard of in any normal restaurant) because there's something 'he wants to show us.' We all stand around nervously wondering what gross ineptitude Napoleon has uncovered now.

"Okay everyone look a the washroom checklist." Everyone looks at the laminated sheet where bathroom checks are signed off on every half hour. "What date do you see there?" Mumbles, the date is yesterdays. "EXACTLY! And what day is it today? See this is why this restaurant is falling apart, details." And with that we're allowed to resume our frantic duties.



My personal low came at the height of the insanity. Another server had asked me to take wine glasses to a table for her. Done, I deposit the glasses. Now almost every server on the planet likes to do their own wine service, it's a moment to build rapport with your table, it's also an opportunity to coax the guest into buying another (overpriced) bottle.

So a little while later I'm waiting in the kitchen for some plates to receive their final delicate touches when the aforementioned server bursts into the kitchen.

She starts shouting the moment she's inside the door and comes so close to my face that I could have counted the longish blond hairs on her clenched upper lip.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!! You run the fucking glasses and don't even open the fucking wine!? What the fuck?! There goes the fucking tip!!!"

We're busy, nay, SLAMMED at this point in the evening. Not a great time to pick a fight.

"I apologize."

She storms away. Only 10 people were present in the kitchen for my humiliating dressing down by the beaver-toothed, hairy-lipped baboon-woman. Only ten.

After service is mercifully over Napoleon calls everyone to the bar for ANOTHER staff meeting despite the fact that it is now 1:30 am. We're upbraided for the embarrassing service, someone cries and an ill feeling settles in my stomach. The walk home is long and lead-footed.

The next night we do better but I doubt anyone took much comfort in that fact.

This is a picture of a mysterious and evil looking insect which hides in my house and only emerges to scare the crap out of me from time to time (usually late at night when I'm feeling womanly and vulnerable). Does anyone know what this is? Apologies for the poor picture quality, little fucker is fast!

"Tonight we dine in hell!"

My job is a humiliating torment which causes me to wake every morning with a cold knot of dread curdling in my stomach. When I get home at night it’s straight to the kitchen, double vodka with something in a coffee mug then to the computer to watch something hideously inane all in an effort to turn my brain to non-functioning mush and hopefully…forget.

What, you must be asking yourself, exactly makes my job so terrible? Of course it starts at the top.

Chef _____ is a relatively famous chef, you mention his name in Toronto and EVERYONE knows who you’re talking about and (however undeserved this might be) they look at you with a new respect. “Oh, you work for him.”

That being said you must be imagining that there is a crackerjack team of managers who sail around the dining room with the calm and dignity of aristocrats, fluffing a napkin there, pouring out some Moet over here and schmoozing the guests with the ease which comes from years of experience. This could not be further from the truth.

My general manager is only 23, she’s never worked in restaurants before in her life and it takes ten seconds for anyone to see that see is absolutely scared shitless and for good reason. She deals with her fear in one way, not exactly the healthiest in my opinion; she is a raging inferno of bitchiness. This is my favorite quote;

“Rebecca, your steps are TOO SMALL! You….” Pause while she seethes with frustration at my step to ground coverage ratio. “You need to take bigger steps.”



And due to the trickle down effect everyone who works in the restaurant uses every opportunity to vent their frustration at being bitched at by bitching at those beneath them.

There is one occasion which typifies a normal series of interactions with my co-workers. It’s a busy night and a table of eight have just left the restaurant, the table needs to be turned into a six top for the evening’s second seating. The two extra chairs need to be taken downstairs and put away. I have already been instructed to take the chair from the end of the row closest to the staircase (“You’re more efficient that way.”). I do so and return for the second chair and immediately I am attacked by the hostess.

“Have you been told how to move chairs?” She barks at me.

“…Yes.”

“Okay look, before you bring the chair down you have to tidy the row. You can’t leave the table looking like a mess. It looks bad for the restaurant.”

“But I was going to come right ba-“

“It DOESN’T MATTER you MUST tidy the row before you go anywhere.”

So I tidy the miscreant row of chairs and proceed to the other side of the table. I move the extra chair slightly to the side and square the remaining chairs with their counterparts. A server who is much too young for the mantle of entitlement she wears sees me do this and stops mid-stride.

“What are you DOING!?”

“I’m moving this chair downstairs but I’m tidying the row first.”

She points to the extra chair which I’m about to whisk away. “You CAN’T leave this chair here. It’s in the lane of traffic where guests need to walk. Is that a PROBLEM!?”

“But how else am I supposed to-“



But with a jerk of her upturned nose she’s gone, not ready to dignify my humanity by listening to my response. And ALL this is over a measly couple of chairs.

The former general manager (who does actually know what he's doing) hangs around a couple of days a week and acts as mortar to this condemned shack of a restaurant. The other day he dropped this gem of encouragement in my lap: "I don't even bother to talk to new staff. Not until you've been here for at least a month or so. Because if you can't even get through the other servers...well...." Such wisdom gives me that warm and fuzzy feeling.

When I reflect back on my two weeks at the restaurant it’s hard to pick out specific events because everything is pain. I feel like Conan (in the first movie) pushing that giant wheel, over and over, round and round, going nowhere, suffering constantly. Of course there was the screaming match that ended Friday night’s service. The many instances where I’ve been asked; “What the fuck are you doing?!” The war stories of people brought to tears by tirades of abuse from management. And of course there’s the fact that because of how the pay periods fell I haven’t seen a red cent for all my labour. But there is no lynch pin to my world of pain.

It just is….