OK so here I am in a sheik (wait; is that word Expired? Probably. Is it the right version of that word? Crap!) – ok, a cool restaurant in The City, in between meetings (my vocabulary could do with a remodel, but that’s a separate topic). Alright, so here I am. Waiting. And Waiting. And WAITING. Yeah. Service. What is that. No one here seems to know. It’s 11:45 a.m., mind you; I’d say that’s about lunch time for many folks. I did the math: at least 37% of the population is digestively needy at this shadow of the sun dial. OK so this place is nice, cool, well set up, and there are seven waiters in sight. And five customers, counting me. But my status as "customer" is in question - at least and apparently only in my mind. Not in theirs, not at all. I don't exist. I don't get it. I have been here before so I know the food is good, which is why I came back. So I am sitting and waiting, still, until finally, after ten full minutes have elapsed, I decide, this is enough. If I hadn’t worked so hard to get a stupid parking spot - and by a stroke of extremely good fortune, I nailed a spot right in front of the building - if that hadn't'a happened, I’d be hitting the door about 17 seconds ago. However, after doing a split second inventory of my parking spot, and of my blood sugar issues, I decide to get someone’s attention and ask for some service. What do I get? You already know, don’t you: the same basic lame confused cross-eyed answer of Everyone assuming that Someone had taken care of me since Anyone could but lo and behold Nobody did, so here I sit, no drink, no receptive ear ready to take my order, no nothing. Of course, as good folks, they now fall all over themselves to right this wrong, but how do people remain invisible? I showered; I don’t smell. It can’t be that. I have no superpowers of invisibility. It can’t be that. I can’t get lost in the crowd because, yeah, there isn’t one. Yet somehow seven people wander back and forth past me, repeatedly, people on the payroll mind you, and not a one does jack til I pipe up. Service. Did it die and I missed the listing in the obituaries? At it’s most primal root, Service means at least that I meet your needs. How hard is that to identify, in a restaurant no less? For some, just grasping the concept for this crew is about as hard as flying to Mars. But at this point, I should probably shut up. The food is here, and it is really good. Wontons in a nice broth, spicy, flavorful, delish. Spinach salad with thinly sliced apples, glazed walnuts, dried raspberries, feta cheese, flower pedals (?), a fresh slice of sourdough bread on the side, vinegarette (sp?) dressing. I have to remember to breath between bites. Didn’t realize I was this hungry. It was worth the initial absence of service, I must admit. Park Chow on 7th in SF. Try it.
Which brings me to my next topic: running. Why? Because at this moment, with a nicely contended belly, 40 minutes away from a food-coma (if it was Sunday), the absolute very last thing I want to do is run. And since I am half a block from Golden Gate Park, I have seen my share of runners today. I love to run. I hate to run. I hate to run when I am running, and the only thing that gets me through it is the music in my ears providing a cadence to my running, the die-first refusal to grow fat, and the satisfaction of doing something good for my body (except the knees). I just realized that I have to restate this. I don’t love running. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis. Afterward, when I am done sucking in air like I have been holding my breath two full minutes, when I am done feeling the pain in my side that’s feels like some Ali Babba terrorist stuck me with a sword, when I am done resisting the urge to throw up everything up to and including the cookies I ate in sixth grade, afterward, I feel pretty good. The leg muscles are tight and sore, in a good way. I probably have endorphins floating through my system, somehow lifting me with an exercised-induced high. After it’s all done, I feel great. More energy, more everything. The sky is bluer, the birds sing sweeter, the flowers are more colorful, the air is cleaner, the bills matter less, the cares of life are more easily ignored. I smell more, feel more, see more. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis.
Not knowing which word (run vs ran) is the right word makes me feel stupid, but since I am too lazy to look it up, I’ll just use it to transition to a particular example I have in mind of People That Are That Stupid. When I say stupid, I mean dumber-than-a-bag-a-hammers, can’t-spell-my-own-name, can’t-pronounce-my-own-name stupid. That stupid. This particular example…wow. How do you get not one PhD, but two – count ‘em – two PhD’s, then go into a selling job – I could stop there and add a question mark. I will. ? There. (I could actually stop there and make my point. But I will go on.) How do you do that? How do you get 2 PhD’s, then go into selling technology, and you have not one, not two, but three conference calls on a particular large opportunity which you are working on with a business partner. You get two emails from that business partner, both expliciting spelling out what inputs are required from you to win this deal. You are told on three calls what is needed of you. How does that all occur, and four days before the bid is due, you ask, what do you (business partner) need of (Company X aka) me? How do you ask that? How can you not know what is needed of you? After having read the emails, how do you say that you were never told what was needed of you? There were witnesses, on the call, and on the email string. In other words, How Can You Be That Stupid? Conclusion: some people don’t have the brains God gave a goose. My dad, who has a ninth grade education, told me that as a kid. Second conclusion: no amount of education, no quantity nor height of degrees will solve the first conclusion. If you’re stupid, and you have an education, you are now an educated idiot. But an idiot, still. It’s your condition. It Is What It Is. The only reason we didn’t figure it out on the first pass is because you are swallowing all your saliva, and blinking regularly, like a person who has good sense. But no worries. We eventually figure it out. Why? Because we’re not That Stupid. Another statement Dad made (to me once when I said something stupid – I have an excuse: I was young): son, it’s better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you are smart, than to open it and remove all doubt. Regrettably, no number of profound nuggets of Okie wisdom will improve the intellectual horsepower of someone That Stupid.
Wait. Newsflash! A majority of a whole nation, it turns out, is this stupid. You HAVE to watch this youtube entry from France: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxmHEGy7JUU. Do not drink anything while you watch this.
OK, I think it’s all out of my system. What is my deal?
:-/
Thanks for playing.
Hey real quick – one last thing. If you enjoy this, hate it, or have ANY feedback, leave me a comment. Show me a pulse!
1 comment:
Keep up the good work.
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