“…I’ve come to wish you an unhappy birthday…”
It’s my birthday. I’m 26. I’m feeling strangely okay about this.
The server has almost fully recovered from last week’s attack. My e-mail is back up and running, so I’m once again receiving all those helpful e-mails about Rolex watches, bigger penises, larger cumloads and moms I’d like to fuck (all of which, coincidentally, can be found on my birthday present wish list).
Actually, there are two new spams I’ve gotten that are pretty amusing. One is some sort of spray can that promises to make your license plate invisible to those traffic cameras that catch you running red lights. It’s the sort of product that causes one to marvel at the ingenuity of capitalism. The other is software that will help you vote as many times as you want for “American Idol.” I, for one, am encouraged by the youth of today’s zeal for participatory democracy.
I’ll be at Botanica (Houston and Mulberry) tonight, “celebrating.” Please, no autographs.
To Insure Proper Service
Is it bad manners, bad breeding or consumer alienation in our service economy that makes your typical New York Times reader so fucking stupid?
For the second time in recent memory, the Times’ Dining and Wine section has published an article on obvious tipping etiquette. The gist of the message?
At the end of the day New York’s delivery rules are pretty basic: Watch your dog. Have your money ready. Tip well, and do it in cash.
No fucking duh. Earlier in the year, the Times wrote about a couple of websites where waitstaff complain about bad patrons and reveal (gasp!) that customers who are rude and don’t tip will get a little extra spit in their meal. Have these uppity twits never heard the term “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” Is it only we socialists who think that working people deserve respect and decent pay?
I’m a picky eater, so I’m a even more careful about pissing off the waitstaff. In a hectic restaurant, every deviation from the menu is a pain in the ass. I know that, but I really can’t stand “goo” (i.e. mayo, mustard, salad dressing, etc.), so in the nicest, politest way possible, I request that it be left out of my meal…and I make sure to tip generously. I actually make a point of being a regular at most places that I eat. It’s just easier. It only takes two or three meals with a pleasant request to abstain from goo and a handsome tip at the end of the meal before the waitress can predict my idiosyncrasies.
“Pineapple fried rice, salad – no dressing – right?” they ask with a smile at 9th and 46th’s Yum Yum Bangkok whenever I eat there. In fact, once I nearly broke up with my girlfriend while dining there. It took forever to get the check. When it came, the waitress was very concerned and said that the chef had noticed that I hardly touched my meal and wanted to know if anything was wrong. It was touching that they cared, and certainly preferable to a little spit. I don’t need to feel like Lord of the Manor when I eat out, and I don’t understand why anybody else does.
So, if you’re one of those twits who doesn’t know how to tip, the rules are pretty basic: Tip your waitstaff at least 20% (if the service is bad, you can tip 15%). Tip your delivery guy 20% no matter how long you’ve waited and cough up more dough if the weather sucks. Tip your bartender a buck or two for every drink; if you’re buying expensive stuff, tip more. Tip anyone who comes to your home to perform a service. Just fucking be ready to tip. Consulting with others with how large a tip you should give is fine, as long as you begin with the belief that people in the service sector deserve extra compensation. They’re not your serfs. They’re just working stiffs whose low wages are the result of the low prices you’re paying. That’s right, the lower prices are just a cheap come-on since you’re expected to make up the difference with your tip. Think that’s unfair? What about your waitress who is trying to make a living on crappy wages and tips that are subject to situations that are beyond her control? Mentally adjust the advertised price and tip accordingly.
Hear You Been To College?
I’ve been hiding a secret. I applied to grad school. When I graduated from Queens College, I was pretty sure that I was done with school. I felt like the higher up you go in higher education, the less actual education there is and the more image-conscious bullshit there is (Yeah, I’m looking at you, Ward Churchill). Besides you can only “study” the labor movement for so long before you become an armchair academic critic. It’s much more of an education to go to work for a union. Get in there and get your hands dirty. You’ll do some amazing work, but you won’t stay ideologically pure, and you’ll be better off for it.
I’ve counseled lots of people to stay away from grad school. Hell, I’ve counseled people to drop out of college if the right gig came along. “Why stay in college? Why go to night school? Gonna be different this time?” I’m frustrated that too many people go from high school to undergrad to grad, all in succession, and find themselves in their mid-to-late-twenties, deeply in debt and knowing lots about little.
Given my attitude, which is well-known among friends and family, you can understand why I decided to keep this under my hat. I applied to the University of Massachusetts – Amherst, but I didn’t just apply to any old grad school program. Through my comrade Matt Andrews, I learned about a special program of the university’s Labor Center, its Union Leadership and Administration Master’s of Science in Labor. It’s a limited residency program for active union staff. The idea is to go through the program while continuing your full-time (and then some) job in labor. You do the assigned readings during your own time, go to Amherst for ten days of instruction a semester and then return home to write your papers. That’s a workable schedule.
The UMass Labor Studies department has a great reputation for being hard-working, down-to-earth and pro-labor. The course listing looks awesome. Besides the core required courses in law, history and research, it looks like there’s some really nitty-gritty administration training in here, like “Union Financial Analysis” and “Human Resources Management for Union Leaders” (a lot of us could use that course!).
One thing that I’ve missed the last few years is a feeling of connection to a broader movement for social change. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in one’s work and miss for the forest for the trees. I think I need to make this sort of commitment to myself in order to maintain links between my work and my union and the larger movement.
Of course, I’m not currently “active union staff,” though I’m working on it. I hesitated before applying. I do so hate rejection. Well, today I officially received the good news that I’ve known for two weeks. I’ve been accepted to the program. My reading assignments come in April, and my classes begin in July. I promise you will hear more about my experience in this program in the coming months and years.
A Happy Fun Adventure
I killed a cat today. I was walking Elana back to the J train. She asks if we could go to the cheap fruit stand and buy some pineapple. I tell her it’s a little out of the way, but we go anyway. We turn the corner and walk down Jamaica Ave. under the elevated train tracks. Before we walk ten feet we spot a cat in the road. “Ooh, kitty,” she says in that voice that’s affected for babies and kittens, “get out of the way if you don’t want to get hit.”
The cat looks dazed. It’s walking in front of cars, slowly and off-balance. It stands in front of a car that’s stopped at the red light. The light changes, and the driver has to back up and turn to avoid the cat, who’s barely moving. We surmise that it’s been hit by a car and debate what to do. “There’s an animal hospital nearby,” I say. She starts emptying her bag so that we can have something to carry the cat in, but the cat’s still walking into on-coming traffic. I need to get him out of the road now. I walk towards the cat and bend to pick him up, but I hesitate. He’s a mess. I don’t even know how to carry a healthy cat, let alone a badly injured one.
Some guy yells at me from down the street. He’s carrying lumber, I assume for the construction site two blocks away. “Jus’ pick up da fuckin’ cat,” he yells helpfully, “he ain’t gonna hurtcha.” This guy’s one of these New York characters. I don’t see him picking up the goddamn cat. But I do, finally. I’m not gonna put him in a bag, though, like roadkill. I carry him in my arms. He’s dirty and he smells, and I worry about my dry cleaning bill, to tell the truth.
Elana’s shaken up. She apologizes for not being much help, and says she has to walk ahead of me because it’s too upsetting. I ask her if I’m holding the cat right. She tells me I am. Because she’s walking ahead, she gets to the animal hospital first. When I walk in the lobby, she’s already talking with the vet, who’s explaining the situation. It’s about the delicate matter of the cost. The city-run animal shelter is a few blocks further, he tells us. They won’t charge, but they are required to euthanize strays. We ask him how much money, and he says about $50, just enough to cover the expense, which we agree to pay.
He brings us to an examination room, but he has a few other matters to attend to before he can examine the cat. I put the cat on the table and he starts walking in a daze again. He’s gonna walk right off the table. I hold him down a bit by petting him. “Calm down, kitty,” I say in that baby/kitty voice. I joke with Elana that “I guess I bought myself a damn cat, if he pulls through.” I see the cat’s face for the first time, and see now why Elana had to walk ahead. He’s a gooey mess. His mouth is open in the shape of an “o” and it’s oozing green snot. He’s still restless, but I calm him and he curls his body against my arm.
The vet returns. He feels the cat’s body and doesn’t think anything’s broken. “I’m not sure he was hit by a car,” he says. “If he’s unspayed, he’s probably feral.” The vet checks and is right. This is nobody’s cat. He was sick, and walking in the street to die. Elana leaves the room. The vet asks me to stay with the cat for a moment while he gets the medicine. When he returns, his assistant brings me to another room where I can wash my hands while he puts the cat down.
I join Elana in the lobby. She apologizes again, but she felt dizzy, which is understandable. I tell her I need to go to the ATM. She says she has her checkbook with her, but I tell her my bank has an ATM just two blocks away and that I’ll be back in five minutes.
The ATM is across the street from the fruit stand that we wanted to go to. I go inside, but there are no pineapples. Of course.
When I return to the animal hospital, Elana’s settling up the bill with the vet. It’s only $35. I give her a $20. We leave and separate. She, to Williamsburg; me, to the dry cleaner.
At the cleaners, I empty my pockets and remove my coat. The lady at the counter does the usual inspection. “Missing a button,” she notes. “Yeah, and this pocket’s torn and the lining’s all ripped up,” I tell her to make clear that I won’t hold the establishment responsible for that. “I just have to make do for the rest of the season,” I continue. “Yes, more storms coming,” she says in her Chinese accent, while fishing through a container of loose buttons. “A ha,” she says, as she finds a perfect match for my missing button and smiles.
This story has no moral, except that we should all heed Bob Barker’s advice and spay and neuter our pets. I would have taken that coat to the cleaner another day, and she would have found the button then instead, or I would have just thrown that old coat out in the spring. God does not work in mysterious ways and all things do not happen for a reason. I suppose we gave that cat some comfort in his last minutes, but I didn’t stay for his last minute. I left to wash my hands.