Now, having finished this, an amusing read, pop-psychology-new-age-jibber-jabber, the Bible contemporized, "Secret Esoteric Teachings" done in the Vernacular; "The Secret", which, of course, is no secret at all, it has been written about for thousands of years - change yourself, change your thinking, and you will change the world...
The entertaining part of this is the authors' "Mental Imagery", or provided "Psycho-Pictographs", stories that he tells, contemporary, that illuminate or illustrate his point.
Now I'm somewhat struck by the fact that he's simply recycling and updating the Bible, the Psalms and Gospels actually illustrate the same points, only they are in need of some contemporizing; few people can nowadays relate to the imagery of a shepherd and their flock.
But an introduction to more obtuse authors along the same theme, for example Richard Maurice Bucke, author of "Cosmic Consciousness", others who I will have to look up later, a curious read, and as I've the idea already, the plot, the theme from a hundred, thousand other authors I'll soon have to find the time to apply all of these abundant teachings...
Now, herein lies a problem, that most of what I'm reading in one way or the other reinforces my thinking, and I'm in need of something that rather challenges it...
- Category: Books
Yesterday I give my notice. I'm on another 12 hour double as JR has a job interview. Day is slow, night is busy, a "late busy", the kind that pisses you off when you're getting ready to go home and tables start arriving, the piss-off of a late close.
Tickles, of course, is crashing, and SR and his wife are in the kitchen helping, SR washing dishes, his wife cooking, Tickles on cold side making salads.
It passes and Tickles is left to clean up.
The shift, probably the biggest single ring out of the summer, yet it ran smoother than any of the shifts where I rang out half as much with the "help" that I was given.
They ask no questions about my resignation. It was expected, overdue, they don't want the answers they know will come. Like "Am I a fucking Donkey?" and "How did you think this was sustainable" and "WTF???". They're strangely, solemnly quiet.
Out loud they voiced a plan to work towards closing, then, my departure is the nail in the coffin.
It isn't, there are servers that would happily work in reasonable circumstance, reasonable hours, but these are things they can't provide. They need donkeys, a whole new team, they've killed the old team...
Today, up early, another day in fucking hell. Drive out, because I don't fucking know my schedule, it's perpetually being upended by JR's antics, find JR mopping, he arrived late last night, no, I'm on the split today...
Sure. 2 weeks 2 more days of this.
SO now, on the Balfour Beach, bottle of tequila in one hand, laptop in the other, a scour of the beach found me a well-worked flint with all of the divots from pressure flaking, but no good shape, a scraper, or discard. A beautiful day made lousy by the prospect of work, but 12 shifts left and I'm free, and there's no telling that I won't be free before then...
I start at 12:30, JR retires, his day is done. He's upstairs pouting. He told me they'd be closing on October 9th, I held firm on my departure Sept 30th. The opportunity to negotiate a graceful exit is long past.
- Category: Blog
on Facebook, the family - restaurant - is in rough shape. There's been kickback over a couple of the owner's more indiscreet Facebook posts re: the death of S***, and she's now in the hospital, under observation, nervous breakdown...
...the restaurant may not open tomorrow.
Never mind, it'd be nice to have some notice is all, not do the drive for nothing, but, it is what it is...
I can have no sympathy for these people.
- Category: People
The last week, a largely somber mood at work. Friday, slow, Saturday, busy.
There was a vintage car show in Nelson, all the streets and side streets filled with hot rods and roadsters, vintage cars, while some of them are nice the streets are too busy for my taste, and so get out of town. Pass the homeless - all on the move, 10 shopping carts filled with possessions, displaced because the town didn't want the black eye of homeless encampments to tarnish the auto show.
We're beginning to look a bit like Spokane. And not in a good way.
To work early, SR is showing the property, this fatality, it's spurred them to want to get out of there even more, if possible. The basement, he's explaining, is off limits, he can't explain why, sealed off by the Coroner until the next of kin are notified, can claim his possessions.
JR, doing as little as possible, busy with the winter ferry schedule, unprepared travelers, and people coming and going from the car show in town.
Crows gather in front of the basement door. They're drawn in by the smell, hopping up to the stairs in the shadows, the bodies gone but they don't know that,...
You can tell the motor enthusiasts, they're trying to order the fancy cocktails, margaritas, martinis...
Sunday, JR is trying to get out, circumstances don't permit. It's half busy, busier than one waiter, not busy enough for two, and he's annoyed every time he has to pick up a table.
Then, in the kitchen, Mister Tickles, on his own, crashes and burns. Soon everyone is in there helping him, SR, JR, his mother.
A customer, older fellow, pays, tips well, and tips me again: "Pay for a haircut...I'm a barber!!!".
I didn't think I was fooling anyone, but I have to laugh at his frankness...
Monday, Thursday, I'm on my own. Doubles, open, close, this is to be my schedule for the foreseeable future. Having burned C**** and killed S*** it's me and Mister Tickles, 50, 60 hours a week. No fucking way. No fucking way. An hour commute to the restaurant, with construction, half an hour back.
They've moved the goal posts, removed the carrot from the stick, and this Donkey will be giving his notice. I need a goal, I need my own life back, these people, they are demons....
Monday - slow and steady all day. $3,000 at the end of it, never too busy, just a slow steady stream of customers. The easiest shift of the summer, made so largely by the absence of "help". Meaning T*** and L**** and JR.
Mister Tickles is crashing and burning in the kitchen the entire time. He's hysterical, he can't keep up, can't do it, he's in tears, yelling, all the customers can hear, I just smile and pretend nothing's going on. Mister Tickles, he's not used to doing this on his own, he's not S***, hasn't the skills. I stagger my orders, wait until he's cooked an order for two before I put the next order for two in, but he's not managing, not even fucking coping. He won't survive the next week or two, my notice will be a formality; there's no way they can stay open with Tickles in the kitchen on his own, it will kill him...
September 30th and I'm out. I can already hear the mock distress, appeals to my loyalty, the "we didn't know you wanted a life" and "I told you every time you asked me...", the "Why", the slow, careful explanation that I'm not a donkey, that I can talk and walk on two legs and dress in clothes should have been a clue, that it's September and I should be relaxing, business drops off, and instead they keep piling on the hay, there was no straw that broke this donkey's back, rather a dozen bales thrown carelessly on...
September, I've brought my own goalposts and let that fucking shithole crash and burn. Their problems are their problems, I have plenty enough on my own...
- Category: Blog
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