A man is a fool

A man dies as a fool. In his twenties he's a complete, utter, fucking, king, grade-A prime beef fool. As he ages, he loses adjectives until at last, on his deathbed (or lying in the gutter after being struck by a soccermom in an SUV) he comes to a total understanding of everything he's ever done and experienced, and deicedes that life wasn't all that bad after he figured it out. The problem was that he was figuring it out as his guts were distending from the weight of the Ford Expedition parked on his midsection.

This is how I believe my father felt as he spoke to me from the gutter. Possibly he had meant to call an ambulance, but quick-dialed me by mistake. After a moment's thought, however, I feel he decided that it ws his time and he'd rather speak to his son than a bored 911 operator.

"Son," he said in a labored, wheezing tone, "it's time I told you I'm a fucking idiot."

"Jesus Dad, are you at a brothel again?" I said. He'd called me while he was screwing a whore in Bangkok one time. I'd mistakenly put him on speaker phone while I was at client's restaurant. The worst part was it was an upscale Indonesian joint, and behind my dad's voice I (and the numerous staff of the family owned business) could hear a strongly accented woman's cries of encouragement. I lost the account. They went out of business after a year, but before that happened I didn't talk to my dad for a month.

"Shut up," he said, coughed wetly, then "I want you to live well. Are you? Do you live well?"

"Dad, what's going on?" I could hear excited voices now as well as someone vomitting in the background.

"Just tell me you're happy with your life," he said.

"OK, yes, I'm happy."

"I did you right?"

I was taken aback for a moment. "Yeah, you did fine."

"Good." He hung up at that point. It took twelve hours for the Indiana State Police to send someone over to my house, during which time I was completely oblivious to the fact that my father had died as he hung up on me.

curve ball

Harry hands me a new menu; he watches my eyes carefully. I betray nothing. I like my criticism to be a complete surprise to my clients.

"It's good."

"Really?" He seems surprised.

"Yes. Your graphic designer did a really good job on the art highlights and the layout. The narrow format is good for your limited menu too."

"Really. Dristi? Dristi!"

"What?" a young woman's voice calls from the kitchen.

"Come out here." A tall woman (young, early twenties) walks over to the table, spins a chair around, and sits down. I pretend to glance at my vPod to keep from staring slack-jawed; she smiles at me and I smile back.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi, I'm Doug. Did you design this?"

"Yeah, it's good right?" She gives Harry a Look when she says this.

"Yes, it works quite well for what you have here."

Here is "Hari Kari". The only indian restaurant for fifty miles. Harry could crap in the food, and the local college literati would eat it out of desperation. Northwest Ohio is not particularly famous for ethnic food. It is famous for having been a swamp at one time, and corn.

Dristi turns to Harry, and delivers a calm but rather loud tirade with a proud smile on her face, finally slapping her hand on the table at the last few words and storms off back to the kitchen.

I'm in love.

Goodbye summer my old friend

"Hello my buddy!" Harry Handoo pumps my hand not holding my iPod video with great enthusiasm. I like this guy. A lot. There aren't many restaurant managers that I'd help out as often as this guy needs it. There aren't many restaurant managers I'd brake for if I saw them crossing the street.

Owners, sure; I'll kiss their asses all day, and honestly too since they actually write my paychecks. I like owners. Rich people are alright. When your main worry is whether or not your son is going to live up to the family name and make it into harvard (which wouldn't even make a minor dent in your bank accounts), and not whether or not your next paycheck is going to be a week late or a month late, you tend to be a more mellow person.

Anyways, Harry. Hari actually. He's indian. He came here with high hopes (since he was from a lower caste in Indian society), became a citizen, and had those hopes destroyed just like the rest of us natives. He fits in well.

"Sit, sit, sit!" he crows. He waves to the back, his smile stretching from ear to ear across his welcoming, round face. I smile back, he smiles more, and we compete for a few seconds as to who can be happier to see the other. Finally, I concede defeat, and Harry/Hari sits down. He winces for just a brief moment, and I worry for my friend.

Managers work far harder than owners, since the owner is just a guy who happens to have enough money to buy a restaurant and hire people to work in it.

Do you really want to hurt me?

I am Doug, and I am a mediachondriac.

When I wake up, I face one of the three screens in my room: the one on the ceiling, the one to the right of my bed, and the third, obviously, on my left. They are all set to the same station since it doesn't matter what is on so much as that I have some form of non-conceptual input streaming directly into my brain.

(They happen to be set on Telemundo this week. I like the fact that not being able to understand the language isn't a problem for holding off the inevitable anxiety attack that comes after a minute or two of no stimulation.)

I eat in front of the TV for breakfast like I do at every meal when I'm at home. For a change of pace I turn it to Telemundo, and put it on mute. I don't have to hear it if I can see it, and vice versa. However, after a minute I start to feel queasy. I realize that I've been paying more attention to my food than the television since I couldn't hear it. I sigh and change it to APW, the Professional Wrestling channel. All "Sports Entertainment", all the time. On the TV, John Cena is walking around a ring proclaming his greatness. I only know who John Cena is because he has been the most heavily featured "babyface" since Hulk Hogan.

Also, because like most wrestlers he occasionally speaks in the third person.

My faith healer sister tells me I'm nuts, and that I'm making it all up. I tell her she thinks ginko biloba will help her pass the state nursing board without studying (she refuses to study since nearly all the test is about treatments and procedures that go against holistic theory).

I wish I was a pro wrestler, and not a resturant consultant. I'd certainly be a lot less fat.