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Waiter? There's an Asshole in my Soup
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6/27/2006
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An open letter to the friend we all have who mistreats the wait staff when we go out to dinner (you know you have this friend. Everyone does.)
Listen, it's time we had a talk. I know you make up to and including $40,000 at your awesome job that you got an associate's degree for, but you simply aren't at a point in your life where you are allowed to order people around- and when you do actually get to that point, you'll realize that ordering people around is just something that weak and stupid people do. We are all adults having dinner, and our server is doing his or her job, earning a buck just like we try to do. So here are some guidelines that will help you avoid being kicked to death by me.
When you get your water refilled, would it kill you to make eye contact and say thank you, rather than simply sliding your glass to the edge of the table and continuing your conversation without looking up?
Don't act all pissy. The waiter/waitress is serving food to several tables and trying to keep up with a lot of different things. If he or she brings you coleslaw instead of mashed potatoes, don't act like it was a personal insult. The server really doesn't have time to plot a scheme to ruin your evening. It's called a mistake- like today when your boss got mad and yelled at you for losing a fax and made you cry. That kind of mistake. So cut some slack to the person who has about a dozen bosses right now.
I know you feel really big and important when you get to send food back because it isn't to your specifications, but do you have to find something to bitch about EVERY TIME? If you find a pube or a bug in your food, fine. Being served shrimp when you ordered the chicken also counts as a valid reason. These are real issues that will ruin your dining experience. Sending food back because your fries are facing the wrong direction or your mixed greens aren't arranged alphabetically does two things-
1. It makes you (and vicariously, everyone at your table) look like an asshole.
2. It pretty much guarantees that your food (and possibly everyone else's) will contain 200% of the US RDA of boogers, semen, feces, and bird flu.
As stated above, the server is busy with people besides you, and you are not invisible. Therefore there is no reason to snap your fingers, whistle, or tap anything against your glass to get his/her attention. Doing so will only guarantee slower service and additional bodily fluids in your soup.
Oh my god if you talk down to the waitress again I am going to stab you to death with a salt shaker. If the server asks you if you'd like another glass of wine, the proper response is "Yes, thank you", with a smile. Nodding and waving your hand dismissively as if shooing an insect away makes you look exactly like the low-class person you think you are addressing. You are at dinner, not in a make believe land where you are better than other people, you infected scrotum.
After the meal, leave a goddamn tip. If we got crappy service, it's because you are a douchebag. The rest of us sitting at the table know the server deserves a bronze star just for dealing with you, and when you put down $5 on your $60 tab, we all will have to cover your greedy ass. No one cares if they don't tip in Europe and we all wish you would stop trying so hard to sound worldly. You are in America and we tip here.
So sack up and act like a productive member of society. You aren't better than the person bringing you your food, and you aren't making anyone like you by being a dick. The worst kept secret at the table is that we all respect the person bringing us our food more than we respect you.
 Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 5:25 PM |
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I Have Something to Tell You
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6/20/2006
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I'm questioning my orientation. You read it here first. I am thinking about switching teams.
Can you blame me? I've been a staunch PC user for almost ten years now, and they just aren't doing it for me anymore. I'm finding myself more and more attracted to Macs.
Before you get all judgy on me, let me confess a few things and explain a few other things. I guess the first person I should grovel to is my father. He has been a Mac user for years, and I made fun of him almost the whole time. I called it his practice computer, asked when he was going to admit to mom that he was gay, and even made an elaborate placard that said 'isuc' to put in place of the imac logo. Like any good parent, he may have stopped liking me, but he didn't stop loving me. He knew that time would once again prove the superiority of old age and wisdom over youth and mediocre looks.
I used to relish the freedom I had with my PC. If something wasn't working, I could take it apart and put a new framostat in line with the di-sub throwout bushing and make it run 15% faster. Woo hoo. My PC was like a custom car- it would be as fast as I wanted to make it and I could make it completely unique.
I soon realized that hotrod PC's have two other things in common with real hotrods- you need a couple of spare hotrods sitting on blocks in the front yard to use for parts, and they suck as a daily driver unless you are a professional mechanic.
The main thing that has changed for me is the purpose my computer serves. In the past, I used it to write blogs, send emails, and play games (by "play" I mean "look at" and by "games" I mean "porn"). As of today, roughly 100% of my income relies on a computer in some way. For the record, less than two-thirds of that income is porn related. That being said, if the money machine isn't performing at peak efficiency, my food pellets start to fall into someone else's bowl. I hate when that happens.
When I first realized how much a fancy laptop would increase my net worth, I consulted with PC gurus the world over and spent about $2700 on the biggest, fastest, heaviest, smelliest PC laptop on the market. For about four months it was the hottest thing going and it worked like a charm- 2G of ram, 200G hard drive, 17" display at 1900x1200, every kind of port allowed under the Geneva Convention, and a 12.3 Gigaflop processor. I thought I had found nirvana. Then, true to Windows form, something was installed that conflicted with something else and another thing had to be installed and I had to update drivers every day and replace this with that.
Before long, security broke down and about 72,000 viruses, worms, and Trojans got in, chewing away at whatever was left in the spinning hemorrhoid that once was a hard drive. When this kind of crap happens on a PC, it's like your girlfriend getting hepatitis- she's still the same on the outside (aside from a little yellowing around the eyes), but you know your only real option is to get a new one. Even if you reformat her, it is inevitably going to happen again.
Going back to the automobile metaphor, I decided I need the computer equivalent of my new Accord. It's fast, shiny and pretty, has lots of bells and whistles, runs great, and most importantly- every time I turn the key, the motor starts and it does exactly what I need it to do.
That's all I ask of a computer- when I push the on button, I want it to turn on and stay on, allowing me to compute until I push the off button. Sure, I could sit around on PC forums diagnosing the issue so it can be fixed until the next one arises, but I don't get any money for that. Until Microsoft starts paying me for the hours I spend dicking around with settings, drivers and updates, they can keep their operating systems and the computers they rode in on. I'm going Mac, and I doubt I'll go back.
If anyone knows how I can save a few bucks on a 17" dual core Macbook Pro, I'm all nostrils. Just throwin' it out there.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 4:24 PM |
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I'm Stealing My Cars From Now On
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6/13/2006
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I drive a Honda because I can only handle buying a car every 10-15 years. Last week I turned in my 93 Accord for a new one...
I called my car "Ol' Crossbite" (affectionate name I gave it after an incident with a Camry knocked the front bumper halfway off a couple of years ago). It had its share of quirks- the anti theft system consisted of an ignition system that only worked if the wheel was turned within 5 degrees of the sweet spot, intermittent brakes, and overall appearance. I knew the Accord was almost gone, and having put a couple thousand dollars into parts over the past year, I just wanted it to get me to the lot so I could trade it in.
Imagine my rage when they offered me a paltry $700 for it. Never mind the fact that it actually started smoking on our last trip together about a mile from the lot where my new car was waiting. There's sentimental value here, people. Ol' Crossbite has seen me perform minor surgery in the back seat with a fish hook and a bottle of whiskey, throw up at least once, use it as a saw horse, cry, and even haul unconscious animals to the emergency vet clinic.
I went on a lot of first dates in that car.
But I ended up taking the $700 anyway.
In working out the details of buying a car, I reaffirmed my hatred for three things-
-Car Salesmen
-Banks
-Buying cars
Car salesmen can't count or understand spoken English. I'm going to tie an arbitrary number to this for the sake of illustration and see if you can empathize with my seething urge to kill several people at Cocksucker Honda of Atlanta:
Let's say I went in with $10,000. I planned on spending $10,000 on a car and that was all of the money I had allocated to this purchase. I'll also preface this by saying I have better things to do than argue with a douchebag with bad hair over a price that I think is fair to begin with. My first and last offer are the same because I find haggling over price about as fun as running a toenail biting booth at a retirement home.
Salesguy- So, how much you lookin' to spend?
Me- I can spend $10,000. That is all of the money I have for a car.
Salesguy- let me talk to my manager.
Me- Why? If you can't do $10,000, I'm not buying it- I seriously am not here to barter beads and otter pelts. Just tell me if I can have it for that price.
Salesguy- I'll be right back.
*10 minutes pass*
Salesguy- He said he can do $11,000, but that includes tag, taxes, and...
Me- Alrighty. Sorry for wasting our time. *walking out door, never to return again*
Salesguy- SIR! Wait...maybe I can get him to...
Me- Okay, listen carefully- I know you are doing a job and you have to get money from me, but I'm not retarded. I want to buy a car, and $10,000 is all of the money I have. I am laying it all out there to save both of us some time and theatrics. So add it all up and come up with $10k or less. If you can't, I'll buy something else. Nothing personal.
Salesguy- I don't know, I'll see what he says.
Me- Alrighty.
*five minutes pass*
Salesguy- He said $10,750 is the lowest he can do.
Me- See, the thing is, that number is bigger than the number I told you initially (which hasn't changed). So no deal and I'm starting to hate you.
Salesguy- Let me talk to my...
He actually followed me out to my car and watched me drive away. He even called my cell phone, but I wouldn't answer until the next day. Apparently they sold a child to the gypsies or something and were able to meet my price. I gladly went in and signed the papers. I told them I'd get them a cashier's check the next day.
Next massive pain in the ass - The Bank
The guy at Perforated Colon Savings and Trust told me that even though the check had been deposited and the money was in my account, I couldn't have it. They have to "wait for the funds to be released". If you ever hear this, your bullshit siren should start wailing like a camel caught in a sewer grate, because you are being lied to. I would officially be able to spend the money on the 17th. They told me this on the 8th, so I was pissed.
I spoke to a couple of drones who are chained to tables answering the phones somewhere, and was repeatedly told that Jesus himself did not have the ability to release the funds. I was going to have to wait nine days to claim a car I had already bought.
Let's figure out what the bank is doing here- the money originally came from a credit union- not some dude writing a personal check. So the garbage they feed you about waiting for the check to clear is obviously crap. Now the money was in my account at the First Bank of Lucifer, but I couldn't have it until they said so. Do you know what that is, boys and girls? That's right- the bank gets a large interest-free loan for ten days. When you consider that they do this thousands of times a week to people all over the country, it starts to smell like crime.
I was pissed, but I eventually decided that I'd just shut up and wait. I didn't have the energy to fight the man anymore.
I called the dealership and told them that I wouldn't be able to pick up the car until the 17th.
They said it was fine.
With one huge condition: Salesguy said I had to pay $30 per day for them to keep the car there until I picked it up. I called him a "fiery vaginapede" and then just started slamming my phone down on the table over and over. Eventually he called back.
Salesguy- What's the problem?
Me- That is absolutely not going to happen under any circumstances. If I think of a way to make this clearer, I'll call back later, but for now just understand that I am not going to be charged for you guys to keep that car there until I pick it up.
Salesguy- I'm sorry. It's not...it actually is in the contract and everything, and my manager...
Me- I think I need to talk to your manager if he thinks he is serious about this.
*hold music*
Manager- Hey, Dusty, how are you doing today?
Me- I'm about average right now, but you and you alone have the power to make me happy.
Manager- Anything you want (acting like he hasn't been a part of this deal until just now), champ. What can I do for you?
Me- Don't charge me for leaving my car on your lot until the 17th.
Manager- Oooooh...wellll...see, we can't really do that. We are required to receive a daily fee for blah blah and insurance thisandthat, so blah.
Me- No. Stop. Don't. Seriously, I will back out of that contract, hire a lawyer and waste so much time and money on this that we will all lose our jobs. I am very committed to this. Really. Find a spot in the back corner of the lot somewhere and just leave it until I come get it. Think of the children.
Manager- See, the thing is, we have to-
Me- AAAHHHHH! AH! AH! DON'T SAY WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO SAY BECAUSE I WILL MOVE TO MEXICO TO AVOID THIS AND I HATE MEXICO.
Manager- Well, alright. I guess we can keep it here for a few days, but if there is any way to get us that check sooner, that would be great.
Huh?
Since the manager showed some humanity, I decided to return the favor by making an effort to get him his money and uphold my end of the deal. After all, I did tell him I'd have it on Thursday. Plus I didn't think Ol' Crossbite had another week left. I redirected my hatred toward the bank. The more I thought about it, the pisseder I got at the stupid bank. Not pissed like I want to yell at people, pissed like I was going to show up at the CEO's house with a baby alligator and a ball gag.
Fortunately, I didn't have to go to those lengths. I ran into an old friend at the ball gag store who used to date a girl who was a branch manager at my bank. I asked him if she still worked there, and he said she did. He even gave me her phone number.
Crappy Bank of Baby Rape, this is Jenny, how can I help you?
Hi Jen, It's Dusty. How's it going?
Super, how bout you? I read your blog all the time and you are the funniest, best looking guy on the planet. Everyone loves you and wants to be like you.
Yeah, well...
What can I do for you?
Well, it seems that the horrible institution for which you work has sequestered some of my money and they won't give it to me. They act like they are sitting on a bomb chair that is triggered by customer satisfaction.
Let's see if I can fix that. What's your account number?
2.
Okay. (clackity clack) Wow, you're rich as hell. I bet your girlfriend constantly brags about how lucky she is because you are so rich and handsome.
Yeah, most of the time.
Okay. The money will be available at midnight tonight. You want me to go ahead and have a cashier's check waiting for you tomorrow?
Jenny's getting flowers for helping to keep me out of jail.
A little divine intervention goes a long way; the next day at noon I was screaming around Atlanta in a shiny new automobile. It's swell to have a new ride, but the experience of buying it was more torturous than it was for you to read about it, so I'm good with doing that as infrequently as possible.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 2:50 PM |
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Is it Art?
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6/7/2006
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Art is what anyone wants to call art, and that is precisely why most art sucks. The most common argument to this completely solid line of logic is, "But it's a form of expressing onesself through creativity." To which I respond, "That still doesn't mean it's art. I sing my balls off in the shower to express myself creatively, but that doesn't make it something I expect people to pay for or even respect."
Art, regardless of the popular definition, is defined as creative expression executed with some degree of skill. Skill is what is most often missing in what is commonly known as art. I'm speaking mostly of visual arts, because when it comes to things like dancing and singing, it is always obvious when someone sucks at it, and people like Simon Cowell are not afraid to say so. When you call out a stupid waste of canvas painting, however, everyone acts like you just kicked a retard.
"What the hell happened here? Did a robot barf?"
"Dusty! It's FOLK ART."
"Folk art? Is "folk" the ancient Celtic word for "Shitty"? All I'm seeing is what looks like the guts of a microwave oven glued to a tire and painted green."
If you are the kind of person who doesn't like everything you are supposed to like, you know exactly what I am talking about. If you have been to any of the eleventeen festivals around Atlanta in the past six weeks, you know from whence came the inspiration for this little bit of rantology. The mere fact that no one else has done it does not art make.
Most people want to express themselves in some way. Unfortunately, only a tiny percentage of people wait until they have the skill sufficient to express themselves effectively. For instance, Monet could very easily have been another crappy impressionist, but he worked for most of his life to perfect it, and actually changed the world in some way. No one is going to remember the guy who perfected hot gluing pringles to a turd, because that is creativity without skill and the world does not need smelly chips or salty turds.
I swear I am making a point, so shut up.
Look around you at things that are not considered art in the general sense. Have you ever seen someone who can do something -anything- so well that you can't stop watching? I work with a guy who eats a hot pocket for luch every day. I have worked there almost six years and I have never seen the guy eat anything else. He cuts the hot pocket the same way every day- twice down the center lengthwise, and four times across. I bet if you weighed the pieces they wouldn't vary by more than a couple of milligrams between them. That's how good this guy is at cutting a hot pocket. He's good at other stuff too, but he could be on the wheaties box for hot pocket cutting. In a weird way, it is art. In another weird way, I am insane for even noticing.
Same with the guy I saw at the show who paints reflective surfaces in watercolor. Watercolor is a bitch in some ways, but this cat makes it sing. I stood with my nose about four inches from one of his paintings trying to decode brush strokes and figure out how he did it. He has worked for years to find his style, and only then did it become art. Before that, it was what my own work is- practice.
I have sat in the cockpit with my dad and watched him fly a plane. The guy can aviate like nothing I have ever seen. I'll make everybody on board puke with my interpretive approach style, but pops just brings it in like the control surfaces are attached directly to his brain. He also probably has a lot more missed approaches than I have had time to rack up, but it was all practice. After 40 years of flying, it is art.
Skill is what creates an artist- never the other way around; and the artist sometimes eventually starts creating art. The intermediate stuff is necessary, but should probably be kept in the garage until the artist is famous (or dead), because only then will it demand a price. When it really becomes art, you don't have to tell anybody you are an artist, either. They'll know.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 8:06 AM |
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