Apparently Jesus Was Against Tipping

During some of the house-cleaning this past summer, I spent a lot of time going through paper clutter, throwing out a ton of junk, scanning it in for the archives whenever necessary and/or possible.  Even though some of the stuff I exhumed brought back interesting memories, a lot of it wasn’t worth saving in a digital reincarnation—regardless of how little storage space it would take.  I not only decided to save this one, but I wanted to pass it along.

Quick lead-in: I waited tables for a little over three years back home, and for anyone who doesn’t live under a rock, a server’s income consists largely of gratuity—a.k.a. tips.  In the state where I live anyway, it’s legal to pay servers much less than minimum wage because it’s expected gratuity will make up the difference, and from what I recall, I made right about $3 per hour in those days.  Aside from those in the know (others who’ve worked in the service industry and realize how much tips mean), most people tend to be pretty average tippers, neither bad nor good.  Then there is the broad spectrum of shitty tippers; the people who are either too ignorant to realize the level of their own self-awareness, those who use tipping (or the lack thereof) as a source of sadistic amusement, and then the others who fall somewhere in between.  One day, I found this sitting in the tray after a couple customers left.

 

This was the first time I’d seen one of these, and if you’ve ever received one, you can probably guess my reaction and completely understand how I felt.  Here’s what was on the inside.

No, if you do this, let me give you a real tip—stop being an asshole cheapskate under the guise of pious self-righteousness.  If there had been some cash accompanying this card—which there wasn’t—I might have chuckled in passing as I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash, but getting this trash in lieu of money was unacceptably rude.  To break it down, if you happen to give one of these to a fellow Christian, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re preaching to the choir and actually hurting one of your own by withholding income.  If you give it to someone like me, you’re only presenting one more example of how the religious can operate outside the norms of society while claiming some moral high ground based on their elite membership in their secret society.

Here’s the deal; the conversation with these people didn't go above and beyond the typical, “Hi, I’ll be your server,” “We want a big plate of tacos,” and, “Sounds good, enjoy, and here’s your check.  Please come again.”  There was nothing in the transaction that implied my heathen soul needed saving, unless there was a cue for a secret handshake or nod I missed somewhere in there, but I’m fairly certain that even if I was a fellow believer, my motivation for taking that job was not to collect propaganda freely disbursed at the weekly cult meetings.  I think I can confidently speak for anyone who ever has or still does work in the service industry, regardless of whether or not they/we ever enjoyed the work; we didn’t take the job for unsolicited advice or suggestions on how to live our lives, no matter how noble the intention.  It’s all about the cash.

I Haz A Plan

This post is actually appearing in tandem with my other blog, mainly because I haven’t touched either for a while, and this topic is relevant to both. The issue at stake (mmm, steak) right now is my writing; since the beginning of this semester, what little writing I was doing has slowed to a crawl, but I think I’ve figured out a way to get back on that horse, thanks to technology. Thank you, technology horse.

Anyway, after prepping for courses, teaching those courses, and then evaluating students’ work from those courses, the motivation to write has been beaten right out of me. I wallow in shame at my lack of stamina; however, while the flesh is weak, the mind is still strong and willing. Well, willing anyway. Between blogs, new short story ideas, and The Novel, I’ve usually got quite a few narratives bouncing around in my head—so many that I often find myself thinking, Oh crap, what the hell was that idea about that thing that came to me the other day? The irony in this is that I’ve publicly boasted my habit of not jotting anything down, because if it’s a strong enough or good enough idea, then it’ll “stick,” but my brain has lost its stickiness. It’s like one of those window-crawling toys I had as a kid that lasted approximately half a dozen trips down the window before it just bounced off the glass and landed on the floor every time I threw it. No more sticky. Gone.

So I had to dig down into that crispy decrepitude and figure out some way to get past this, uh, this dry spell (ba-dum bum, crash!). After taking a quick inventory of tangible and intangible assets, I’ve devised a plan based on the resulting list which consists of:

• 6 hours of commute per week (more to come by the end of October),
• 1 laptop with relatively long battery life,
• 1 earpiece headphone w/microphone,
• 1 voice-recognition software application,
• 1 word processing software application,
• 1 audio recording software application (should the previous list item crap out on me).

Using my drive as writing time seems inevitable. My collection of podcasts and audio books is dwindling, and lately I’ve noticed my thoughts wandering off from whatever happened to be playing anyway. Focusing those thoughts on talking through my stories should be the ticket for making progress on this stalled creativity, even if I’m doing something as trivial as filling plot holes, talking myself through character profiles, or even dictating stupid blog posts.

Expect progress reports—probably on the other blog. This one will probably be filled with the stupid dictated posts.

The cat looked hungry. It was out of food.

I was driving slowly down a quiet residential side street earlier this evening and saw someone about a block down cross in front of me to get to his parked car. They were on the other side, yet they waited for me to pass before opening the door. Both my windows were down, and right as I passed him, he ripped quite an impressive fart. There's no way he didn't hear me laughing before he got into his car.

Not that my story has anything to do with anything, except that lately it seems I've been a coincidental witness to some strange things. It's like I somehow turn invisible at the exact moment someone decides to pick their nose, one of those blatant deep digs typically done in private. But no, I get to share in the glory of random sightings that have yet to leave deep emotional scars, but they do leave me wondering: is this just happening to me, or is this widespread, signifying that people are generally becoming ruder?

I live in a relatively small community--a university town with a population that fluctuates at the beginning and end of the school year--so it's not like I'm in L.A. or Manhattan where a guy in a thong and superhero cape rollerblading past would be part of the daily landscape. Besides, someone like that is most likely looking for the attention anyway, whereas the people I'm talking about are doing or discussing things that feel completely unscripted, completely unintentional.

I'm almost ready to accuse myself of being too cynical here, but I have this gut feeling that people are becoming less aware of what's private and what isn't, forcing unwilling spectators to take on the role of audience members in their own personal reality program.

Yeah, I do sound pretty cynical. I also hope I'm wrong.

It was meant to be.

The world's first Klingon opera.

`Bout time.

Hittin' midgets with a squishy biscuit.

I made burritos tonight. These burritos were so good that I think they could have ushered in an era of world peace. Kim Jong Il would've eaten these and spent the rest of the night crying on my shoulder as he confessed all of his innermost fears.

Too bad I ate them. Man, they were good.

The semester is in full swing and I didn't get anywhere close to finishing my summer reading list. Or getting any significant writing done. The good news is that things are starting to even out now that classes are underway, I've made progress on my re-read of Tropic of Cancer, and I'm anticipating some writing time in the near future. I picked up some tutoring hours on campus after my classes, and one option open to me at the moment is to write while no one seems to have any major papers due yet, but I don't expect the quiet to hold out. One other option that recently occurred to me is to "write" during my commute between schools.

I teach for two schools right now (it will be three in late October), and I drive about an hour and half, round trip. I've been using my time to either listen to the news or catch up on a backlog of podcasts that have been piling up on me, but I recently recalled that I have voice-recognition software, a microphone headset, and a laptop with almost three hours of battery life. There is absolutely no reason I can't be dictating a few pages a week in transit, except maybe for the fact that I'll look like a blathering idiot to anyone who happens to drive past.

Screw it; I think this will be worth it. Hell, if this works, I may just have to get one of those adapters where I can charge my laptop in the cigarette lighter. Although it may affect my routine of drinking scotch while writing.