The Eye-Opener

It all starts with a bowl of soup.

I’ve spent the better part of the last three or four years being bitter. I’ve been bitter about work, bitter about life, and bitter about myself. I’m not sure where this bitterness has come from.

I have my theories. Thousands upon thousands of hours of dealing with drunks is a likely source. Thousands upon thousands of hours of being, not necessarily smarter than, but, certainly, significantly more aware of everything around me than the vast majority of my co-workers and supervisors is another factor. Constant frustration can certainly wear on you. Who knew?

I’ve been given the gift, maybe the curse, of a very acute power of observation. When I bitch to my mom about the things I see at work, she sees it in me. When I talk to my best friends about my frustrations with the public, they see it in me.

But what do I really have to be bitter about? I make good money doing a job that I’m good at and that most people actually have a generous respect for. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you try talking to people in a mostly genial manner for nine hours a day, five days a week? But remember, the people you already know want to be treated like you’ve never met them before and the people you don’t know want to be treated like you’ve been friends for years. Every time you see them. Every week. Every day. Go ahead, give it a try.

I pay my bills, I put some money into savings, and, to a certain extent, I have the freedom to do whatever I want with the rest of my time.

Maybe my bitterness comes from the tediousness. Tenacity? Tenaciousness. Tedinacitiousness? Whatever. I’ve been doing this a long time. And as much as the bar business changes from day to day, in a sick, inversely-exponential kind of way, it stays the same. Yes, I see new faces every day. But at the same time, I clean the same bottles, I make the same drinks, I shake the same hands, I pour the same beer for the same regular like I have four days a week for the last year just to have him tell me that today was the day he was going to try something new but that it’s MY fault that I didn’t wait ask him what he wanted to drink before I poured it, and I deal with the same people who ask for their drinks with “light ice” because they somehow think their drink will be stronger if they get it like that.

Here’s a quick lesson in physics and displacement: Fill one glass full of ice and fill a similar glass halfway with ice. Pour one and a half ounces of rum into both glasses. Now, without adding anything else, you get to fill both glasses the rest of the way with coke. Just by looking at both glasses, which one would you choose? Good. I didn’t graduate college and I can figure that one out. Go tell all your friends.

So there’s this bitterness. It’s quite possible that it exists because I can’t control what other people do and, apparently, I really need to. Strike that. I don’t NEED to. I feel this urge to because I see how things can be done in a good way, the appropriate way, in a bar, but nobody else seems to think that way. Again, it’s the power of observation.

I don’t want to be bitter. I was unemployed (under-employed, to be completely truthful) for five months. That was awful. I was getting unemployment benefits. That was awful. That was bitter. I could be forced to have a job cleaning urinals at the local biker bar. That would be even more awful. Like I said before, I make good money at a good job that I’m really, really good at. So why is there this bitterness?

Before I move on, I’d like to get back to that bowl of soup. Wait, much like Willy Wonka, I have to go back before I can move forward. So I’d better move along.

I used to be cheerful. Like, all the time cheerful. I’d smile and laugh and nothing could bother me. I went through a phase where I literally was saying to my mom, as she ranted about something in her life, “Let it go.” Over and over and over again, I said it to her: “Let it go.” Somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to let it go.

When I worked downtown, I would take the same route to work every day. And every day I saw the same homeless lady with her dog on the same corner. I thought to myself, more than once, “I could do something for them.” I was thinking that more for the dog’s sake than the woman’s. I had this grand plan of getting a few cans of dog food for the dog and a few cans of ravioli for the woman, then delivering them and wishing her and the dog my best. But it never happened. To this day, I still think about them and wish that I’d done something. I couldn’t let it go.

I’d become bitter. Why should I spend my hard-earned money on something for a beggar? I worked hard for my money. It’s MY money.

Yes, it is my money. But I have a lot of it. I have more than a lot of people could hope for. And yes, I have a tendency to spend my expendable income rather frivolously. And yes, it’s my right to do with it what I please.

But why couldn’t I do something for someone like that woman? Why couldn’t I take ten bucks a week and deliver some canned and ready to eat, albeit cold, ravioli to a homeless person? Why not?

And now I’ll get back to the soup.

Two nights ago an older homeless gentleman came in and sat in the middle of my mostly empty bar. How did I know he was homeless? Well, his missing teeth, scraggily clothes, and general lack of good hygiene were three sure signs. I eyed him suspiciously as I approached him, as I’d removed homeless guys from my bar and seen homeless guys removed from bars in which I frequent, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

He calmly and quietly asked if he could have a glass of water, as he was waiting to meet someone. I obliged, as he didn’t seem to be much of a trouble maker, although I did doubt his assertion that he was meeting another person. He sat there for about fifteen minutes and drank his water and watched the game that was on tv. I went to ask him if he would like some more water when he leaned over a little and humbly asked me if we needed any kitchen help that night. I told him I was sorry, but that we were fully staffed for the evening. He thanked me and started to gather himself together to leave. I abruptly told him to wait and he got this worried look in his face. I smiled and said it was nothing bad, just that I wanted him to wait.

And that’s when the cheerful, non-bitter Kevin in me came out. I went in the back and poured a bowl of soup into a to-go container. That night we happened to be serving New England clam chowder with a garnish of bacon. If you know me, then you know my love for bacon. I put extra bacon in his soup.

I went out to the front and gave him his soup and wished him the best, just like I wish I’d done for that homeless woman and her dog. He didn’t ask for anything else. He didn’t say he’d be back. He didn’t try and bless me with God’s love. He simply said thank you and walked out the door. And for the simplicity of his gratitude, I will be eternally grateful.

It made me realize this: I have no reason to be bitter. I have a good life that I get to enjoy the way I want to.

And I want to say that I didn’t write this for me. Well, maybe a little, I did. But I didn’t write this to receive praise from you. I wrote this FOR you.

Don’t forget what makes you happy. Don’t forget the people that make you happy. Don’t be bitter about the things you can’t control. Laugh about them, instead. Give what you can, if you want. But things could be worse and there’s really no reason to be miserable in our good fortune.

I liked that the “old Kevin” came out for a little bit. I hope that homeless man comes back. I’d like to know his name. I’d like to buy him another bowl of soup. But mostly, and a little selfishly, I like what he brought out in me, and I’d like to see that again.

--TheKevin--

Fictional Flotsam

Hey you, with the cotton-candy hair and salamander eyes. I saw you looking at me from across the bar. You don’t remember? You undressed me with your eyes. I actually feel quite violated right now. Violated and alive. I feel like I need a cigarette after what you did to me. No thanks, I don’t smoke. How long have you been fantasizing about that? Just since you walked into the room or did it start when we met in your dreams last night? Gosh, you must be tired. From running through my mind all day. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist once we finally met. I know you can’t get over my rugged five o’clock shadow; the way it tickles your thighs when I . . . well, you know. And you! You look quite breathtaking, in your black stretch workout pants and zip-up sweatshirt. Is that a Nike hat? Mmm, I like girls in hats. And that aroma. Is that . . . could it possibly the new Chanel? No? Perspiration. Ooohh, I like the sound of that. That sounds sexy! I’ll have to buy a bottle of that for my girlfriend. I mean my EX-girlfriend. Yeah, we were serious for a while, but it just didn’t work out. I’m sure you know how that goes. You find someone and it’s fun for a minute or two, but it’s tough to spend that much time with someone that is just so inferior. I don’t want to be mean, but it just got tiresome talking to her and her not knowing what I mean about anything. Not like you and me, the connection we have. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. You’re special, I can tell. Me? I’m a skydiving instructor. Does that excite you? Hurtling towards the earth at a hundred miles per hour, not knowing if your parachute will open, wondering what the last thoughts will be going through your mind if you happen to die. I’m excited right now, just thinking about it. Oops, sorry, I didn’t realize I so close. I was on a skydiving tour once, traveling across the southland, and I met a woman who said that she thought she was going to die and the last thing going through her mind was chocolate syrup. Weird, I know. Do you like chocolate syrup? I do. I bet I can teach you to like it even more, if you know what I’m saying. Yeah, I know I’m forward, but what can you do? Especially with the chemistry we have. I was thinking about your sweatshirt again. Yeah, and how great it would look hanging from my ceiling fan. Shhhh. Sh-sh-sh-shhhhh. Don’t say anything. You know, my mom used to tell me that if I was patient I’d find the right girl. She’s going to be so excited when she meets you. I can tell by the tear in your eye you’re excited too. No, please, keep your money. Your drinks are on me. Please, I won’t take “no” for answer. I’m glad to be able to do it. Oh, oh, you’re leaving. Okay, well, another time, then. Believe me, I’ll be looking forward to the next time we meet. Next week? Same bat-time? Same bat-channel? Batman. The tv show. Nevermind. Au revoir, my sweet. Auf wiedersehen, my chicken dumpling. So long, my angel . . . sigh.

Hi there, pretty eyes, with your . . . pretty eyes and pumpernickel ears . . .

--TheKevin--

Bitching About People At The Bar.....An Oldie, But a Goodie

Originally posted on Facebook, July 21, 2010.

There were a bunch of fucking weirdos out and about tonight, and apparently they ALL made their way into my bar.

Weirdo #1: Before I even clocked in, I had a server tell me about a lady that asked if we could remove the light over her table, because it was too bright. She didn't ask about dimming the light, she didn't ask about turning the light off. No, she just went straight for the removal of the light. Who does that? Yeah, because THAT'S the simplest option.

Weirdo #2: The lady breast-feeding her baby AT THE TABLE. I get it, it's natural and beautiful and blah, blah, blah. But there has to be some common courtesy there, right? Fine. If you're gonna breast-feed in public, then don't mind me when I "honor" the beauty of your actions by staring. Or asking for a sip.

Weirdo #2, part deux: The same lady drinking multiple glasses of wine. No, I'm sure your infant will enjoy the cabernet as much as you did.

Weirdo #3: The lady who stepped in a puddle OUTSIDE the restaurant and then asked our hostess if there was anything we could do about it. Yes ma'am, let me go outside and make Mother Nature stop the rain. Better yet, I'll go tell that mean ol' puddle that what it did was unacceptable and it should apologize. Better YET, I'll go back in time and make sure that puddle doesn't jump out from behind that bush and get under your foot. Because I'm sure it wasn't in the same spot the whole time you were walking down the street.

Weirdo #4: The girl who asked me to make her a shot...."Something sweet and something sexy; something AMAZING." Yeah, let me go put some Ryan Reynolds in a shot glass. Trust me, sweetie, if I had orgasm in a bottle, I wouldn't be wasting it on you.

Sincerely,
The Kevin

Spoiler Alert!: The Best Commercial from the 2011 Super Bowl

I hate spoilers as much as the next person. But really, you should see this. Volkswagen has a commercial that is brilliant on so many levels.

Yes, it's "cutesy" in that the child wants to do something seen only in the movies. But we can all relate to that, can't we? Didn't we all grow up with that one true fantasy of what we could be? Of what we might possibly be?

The child continuously struggles with the force. Through constant disappointment, the child keeps trying, keeps hoping. And with failure after failure, "Darth" keeps trying.

Now watch the video, and try and tell me that you can't relate......



Amazing.

It is amazing, right?

We all grew up wanting to do this and do that; wanting to be this and be that. And for a lot of us, we ran into enough obstacles and/or were told "You can't do that" just enough, that we lost hope. And here we are, doing what we do. Maybe we love it. Maybe we don't. But we're doing it.

Sometimes we still run into people that tell us we can't do what we want to do, that we can't be what we want to be.

How much would you give, right now, for a dad with a remote to the car?

Sure, we all know a person can't start a car with "the force." But what if, for one moment, each of us had one person in our lives that would let us believe, that would help us believe, that anything is possible. Anything.

I'm sure a lot of us still yearn for the innocence of our youthful desires. To be a fireman. To be an astronaut. To be a football player. To be a teacher. An author. A scientist. Whatever it might be.

I feel like this commercial encourages all of us, not just the kids or the parents, to be what we want to be. To be who we want to be.

--TheKevin--

Takes and Tokes 2/4/11

Takes and Tokes is a new weekly feature here on Flotsam & Jestsam. This will be a look at what has happened during the week in pop-culture, online, in the world, and whatever else I feel like talking about. This first post will be an abbreviated one, but no less interesting, I guarantee you that.

I give to you a video. It's not just any video. It's wrestling. And at the start, it looks like any other low-budget wrestling match. But at the 13 second mark--yes, just 13 seconds in--it takes a turn for the weird. And then it goes downhill from there. So, without any further delay, here is this week's installment of....

WHAT WERE THEY SMOKING?



You're welcome.

--TheKevin--

The Depression Cycle: A Quick Synopsis

Depression is a strange beast. It can come around at any time and stay for however long it chooses. There are certain things one can do to try and combat it, but the impending return is always looming over our heads. That, of course, may seem like a self-fulfilling prophecy, but believe me, the last thing any of us want is to be on a down-swing at a most inopportune time. One of the most difficult things about predicting depression is that we never know what it might be that will trigger an episode.

I will use Friday, January 28 as a model for how quickly and violently the depression monster can strike.

9:30 am - Alarm goes off. There's lots to do today and it's going to be gorgeous out, so don't waste it.

11:00 am - Look at my clock and realize that I turned my alarm off and had gone back to sleep. Go back to sleep.

12:30 pm - Wake up. Get out of bed.

1 pm - Finally get dressed and leave the house.

1:30-2 pm - Put money in the bank. Be pleasantly surprised at the resulting balance. Pick up tax forms at the library.

2:15 pm - Go to Subway for a turkey sandwich. Actually order a buffalo chicken sandwich.

2:45-4 pm - Do taxes. Be happy that, after two years of owing hundreds of dollars, I'm getting money back from both Federal and State. Feeling really good about the day and myself.

4:30 pm - Sit around.

5:30 pm - Try to decide if I really want to go out by myself tonight.

5:45 pm - If I stay in my neighborhood, I can walk everywhere, but there's only three places I really like to go. Dink around on the internet.

6:00 pm - If I go downtown, I'll have to drive and pay for parking. But I know a lot more people downtown and there are more places to go. There will also be more opportunity to be ignored by girls. Dink around on the internet.

6:15 pm - Maybe I'll just go to dinner in my neighborhood and come home. But I have a tendency to get depressed when I'm not being social.

6:20 pm - I also have a tendency to get depressed when I go out, spend too much money, and still don't have the kind of "fun" night one might imagine you could have downtown on a Friday night.

6:25 pm - Dink around on the internet.

6:30 pm - I'm really not even that hungry.

7:00 pm - Starting to get hungry. Okay, I'll go out. Maybe I'll just go have a steak at Texas Roadhouse. That way, because it's so far away, I can just go and come back without feeling like I "went out."

7:10 pm - Decide to flip a coin to determine if I'll stay in the neighborhood or go downtown. Heads: Neighborhood, Tails: Downtown. It's heads. I decide to go downtown.

7:30 pm - Head to the bathroom to shower.

Now, this is the point in the story where things really took a turn for the worst. I won't bother with time-stamping it, I'll just go through it all:

-Look in the mirror and hate my goatee. Don't feel like trimming it properly, so I decide that I'll shave it off.
-Shower. Nice and refreshing. All bits and pieces and crevices thoroughly washed.
-End shower. Now that my hair is longer, I use gel in it to help tame the "frizz." But I hate putting on my shirt over my freshly finger-styled hair, so it now becomes a process: dry my torso, deodorize my pits, shirt on, then gel the hair, then shave.
-Screw up the process when, out of habit, I start immediately putting shaving cream on my face. But as any of you who have shaved your face know, the best shave is done on whiskers fresh out of the shower.
-Shave.
-Deodorize and put on shirt.
-Gel hair. Hate how it comes out. My hair is kind of in a "tweener" phase right now, not short enough to lay flat, not long enough to be curly. It's annoying.
-Wet hair.
-Gel hair. Still hate it.
-Decide that I'll just wear a hat. Besides, I look good in a hat. Be pissed at myself because of all the time and gel I just wasted.
-Realize that my chosen wardrobe for the night won't look good with a hat. I'll just wear a sweatshirt, I guess. Which really isn't any different than any other night.
-Realize that tonight, overall, probably won't be any different than any other night. It'll just be more crowded.
-Look in the mirror and realize how fat I've gotten. And I probably shouldn't have shaved off the goatee.

So now you have a glimpse into the mind of a depressive. And I know what some of you might be thinking: "Kevin, your life is never going to change unless you change it. Things will never get better unless you work to make them better."

Yes, I know all that. I spend most of my free time telling myself that. I've been trying to go back to the gym for over a year, now. I've been thinking about re-vamping my wardrobe, but I don't want to do that until I've lost weight. I've been thinking about cleaning my car and my room, but for what? No one is going to come over and stay the night until I lose some weight and get some new clothes and become more desirable. And I don't make it to the gym because I wake up late, then there isn't enough time before work, then I'm too tired after work. Can you see the vicious cycle? Anyone?

Anyone?

--TheKevin--

The Dating Game: Exes and Ohs

I don't know if all of this is a game. On the one hand, you hear people refer to it as the "dating game." On the other hand, you're often warned that "love isn't a game." But isn't dating supposed to lead to love? And if one is a game and the other one isn't, how do you move from the former to the latter? While perusing singles ads on Craigslist, you can find any number of women requesting guys that "don't play head games." Okay, but are love games allowed? And if so, how do I know what's good and what's bad?

I recently had a rematch with two of my ex-girlfriends (not at the same time, mind you, because I would have NEVER quit that game in the first place) and despite enjoyable experiences on both dates, I'm still left lonely and confused.

Ex #1: I might refer to this one as a perpetual re-start. We met eight years ago and dated for ten months. At the time, that was the longest relationship I'd had in my "adult" life (now that I think about it, that's still the longest relationship I've had as an adult). Things didn't work out between us, mostly because I discovered a lot of female interest in moi and I wanted to explore that; a.k.a. I wanted to date other people. Long story short, we ran into each other off and on for the next six years, never dating, but always having a good time and enjoying each other's company. Then, in the spring of 2009, we tried, once again, to give it a go. I felt like I was ready to be in a relationship and I knew that I truly enjoyed hanging out with her. Once again, for a variety of reasons, it didn't work.

Then, a couple weeks ago, we texted each other and decided to meet up and catch up. Over drinks, we filled each other in on the details of our lives over the last couple years, and, as she is wont to do, she started bringing up our failed relationship attempts with each other. This part of our evenings always seemed to bring out the current state of loneliness in both of us, and this night was no different. We agreed that we really enjoy spending time together. We agreed that we both had some things we needed to work on. We agreed that we both wanted the same things out of a relationship. Then we agreed to go home together.

The next morning we made plans to call and text and there were promises that she would try to join me for my upcoming birthday festivities. We did a good job of texting the next few days, but when my birthday rolled around, I didn't hear one word from her. And I still haven't to this day.

So was this a game? Was this a head game or a love game? Should I completely disregard the conversations we had and chalk it up to a lost cause? I may never know. Personally, I'm betting 100 quid that she got back together with the boyfriend from her freshly broken up relationship.

Ex #2: Crazy is as crazy does. For those of you who know about whom I speak, please don't judge, because sometimes loneliness makes us do strange things. And the strangest thing was that we had a really good time. Which I guess isn't so strange, considering we didn't have the specter of a relationship surrounding us. It was easy and laid back. And I went home alone.

So now the question becomes WHY CAN'T IT BE LIKE THAT EVERY TIME (except for the going home alone part, that part always sucks)? What is it about having announced that you're in a relationship together that seems to ruin or put pressure on the time you spend together? That date was enjoyable enough that it is seriously forcing me to consider trying to make another run with Crazy.

The thing is, if this is a game, there's no playbook to help me through it. I don't have a manual directing me to call instead of text, or whatever. As much fun as dating can be, it's also a lot of work. And I've never found work to be fun. Games are fun.

My best girl friend from college, Rebecca, may have said it best. One day, as I was heading out for a date, she called to me from across the parking lot:

"Good luck!" she yelled.

"Good luck?" I replied. "It's not like I'm going to a game or something."

"They wouldn't call it scoring if it wasn't a game."

Touché

--TheKevin--