An ability that an announcer must have is a complete dedication to the moment. They need to focus on the now so that the delivery is clear and smooth. It seems I need to work on this particular aspect of my announcing.
The big problem is ignoring the interior monologue I’m sometimes shouting at myself while I’m trying to speak on-air.
A few hours ago I was back-selling some songs, including Roxette. I looked online before I turned on the microphone and came to realize that Roxette had broken up in 2001 but were re-forming for a big tour which will kick off in Holland on the 23rd of this month –this is staggering news, I know.
Anyway, to myself, I thought, Ah! This is relevant to the listening demographic who love Roxette.
So I went on the air, “That was Lifehouse, Broken, on 95-7 Sun FM the energy of Powell River. Before that you heard Lenny Kravitz, and Roxette, It Must Have Been Love, “ I paused, “Hey a lot of people are wondering what happened to Roxette-“
And then the voice in my head started jabbering, Dude, who gives a crap what happened to Roxette?
“-well , ah, they’ve been quietly releasing albums-“
Why don’t you name some albums?
“-up until 2001-“
..Or don’t mention the albums, but definitely mention Marie’s brain tumor..
“...and it looks like after-“
Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor.
“ –eight years they’re, ah, getting back together to go on tour.”
Hey! Heeeeeeeey!
“The first concert for the newly reformed-“
Call them “Roxy”.
“-Roxy- um, I mean Roxette, sorry -will be in Antwerp on the 23rd of this month.”
Do NOT say it will be an “interesting” show. Any other word but “interesting”, please.
“ Wow, won’t that be an interesting-“
Aaargh!
“-show to see after all these years.”
Disaster! Get out, get out now! Just don’t say “a lot more great music on the way”. For the love of Christ, don’t say it!
“Well, stick around, a lot more great music on the way,”
I hate you.
I’m dealing with a rather unique problem in that every single day someone calls in and asks me where Bobby Fields is. Bobby Fields was the former morning show host. The kind of morning show host that has a little bicycle horn which she honked frequently on air; a horn that she meekly offered to me which I subsequebtly threw in the trash.
I’m not what you’d call a “horn honker”.
Regardless it seemed people loved her which makes me- the new guy -a shady pretender to the morning show. In a normal office environment, when you’re the new guy, your critics have faces. Not so in radio. My critics exist somewhere in the listening ether. This puts me at a significant disadvantage when trying to defend myself against not fulfilling all the giggling rowdiness that Bobby perpetuated.
Last week one woman called and, without introduction, demanded, “Where’s Bobby?”
“She’s not here anymore. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with the radio. I’ll be listening to Courtenay from now on.” Click, Bzzzzzzzzzz.
Notwithstanding the fact that by listening to Courtenay she’s actually listening to the parent radio station anyway, this threw me into a paroxysm of helpless rage. How do I defend against that? I wanted to ask her what needs improving, but this evil twat didn’t even give me that opportunity. She blasted me then hung-up.
The worse thing is that she knows who I am, but I don’t know who she is. It’s a small town we’re bound to run into each other.
To illustrate how small this town is, I’ll relate a story:
Last week someone called in to wish a little girl a happy birthday. As usual the guy was barely coherent as the words stumbled through his gapped and gnarled teeth. He said he was the girl’s step-father.
Moments later, jockeying for the chance to win a free birthday cake, a woman called in to wish the same girl a happy birthday. She said she was the girl’s mother. I told her that the girl’s step-father already called in. She said, “Oh, he’s not her step-father, he’s her uncle.”
I couldn’t help thinking, does he know that? Does the girl know that? Is this place so backwards and small that a little girl’s step-father can also be her uncle? And what’s his relation to you: cousin?
The little girl got her cake. I imagine the family will toss it in a blender and suck it up through a straw.
Sadly, my step-mom’s father died. Doug Baird. A man’s man and a real diamond. I loved that guy and I’ll miss him dearly. I went to Vancouver this weekend to celebrate- yes “celebrate”, he wanted it that way -his passing with about 80 of his friends and relations. Doug Baird flew bombers in World War II. Appropriately his favourite poem was this:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron,
RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
I was honoured by being asked to read it aloud by Leslie. I read the shit out of the thing with all the speaking prowess I could muster. I read it for Doug, I hope he heard me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
dry heaves
This ever happened to you?
You've popped all your clothing into the communal dryer- one of many -in your building and you return to your apartment to do other stuff. Then, when you come back to get your clothes someone has carefully folded them. This happened to me today. I came down to the laundry room and the clothes-folder was still there.
It's a weird thing because while someone's hands have been all over your clothes, they have also folded them. It also means that a complete stranger has been handling you underwear. Personally I don't like anybody touching my underwear unless I'm about to shag them.
And what do you say? The expectation is that you say "sorry" for occupying a machine they obviously desperately needed. My first reaction, thought, was to walk right up to her face, poke her in the forehead and say, " Don't you ever, ever, fucking touch my clothes again. Ever."
Of course, I didn't actually do that. That would be crazy, right?
What really ensued was an awkward exchange between two strangers, one of whom knows what the other's underwear looks like. She said, "I had to use the dryer, I'm under a time constraint."
What possible time constraint would still allow you enough time to, not only do your laundry, but fold someone elses on a Sunday? This was clearly someone that planned every minute of their day and was not to be tangled with.
I suppose I haven't been here long enough to let that B.C. chill I keep hearing about wash over me.
Yesterday was a busy day for me. I did my first remote. That's when you go to some business that's holding a special event and you broadcast live on location. The business I was at for 4 hours yesterday was Valley Building Supplies. Sort of a family-owned Home Depot type place. They were having the grand opening for their new showroom which featured wood-stoves. Due to budgetary constraints (I imagine) I didn't have the usual microphone and mixing board you usually see jocks using in bigger cities. I had a cell phone.
When you're at these things you cut into the regular broadcast, about three times an hour, and rave about the incredible things going on in the store. You're supposed to sound excited about the deals and try to attract people to the place. For me, it's really hard getting excited about wood stoves. I think I did manufacture the bulk of the emotion, but it must have sounded contrived.
I whooped about the free food, the great prices, the raffle, and other stuff you could buy at Valley Building. For one reason or another- and I did this about 5 times -I kept saying, "They've got everything from knee-pads to screen-doors!". The last time I told myself that I would not mention knee-pads or screen doors and ended up saying, " ...and they've got everything from power-drills to knee-pads!".
Here's the thing though; because my broadcast was via cellular telephone, to the casual shopper I must have looked like a lunatic screaming into his phone about how amazing the place was while demanding that the person on the other end get here as soon as possible to take advantage of the store's excellent customer service and bask in the glory of 40 wood-stoves. . . And finally, incongruously, naming a song that's coming up next.
This quest of mine to blend in is not going so well.
By the way, a woodstove showroom is not a place you want to be in 27 degree weather unless you have hypothermia.
After that I went to the town's Fall Fair. This was a cute little deal with local artisans selling stuff and farmers showing-off recent crops. There were many contests; from Best Pickled Fruit, to Nicest Home Made Pie, to Best Diarama of My Family. In addition, there appeared to be a contest for Strangest Looking Vegetable. First Prize went to a zucchini that had a conjoined twin.
There was also a table with depressed fat rabbits in small cages.
The whole thing was quaint. Really, really quaint.
Sun FM has something called "The Birthday Line". This is where anybody can call in and wish somebody a happy birthday. That person can also win a free cake from the Mitchell Brother's Grocer (by the way, if you Google "Mitchell Brothers" it takes you to the O'Farrell Theater in San Francisco which features live sex-shows. This is not the same pair of Mitchell Brothers). Now, if you have a certain kind of mind you may think: Doesn't that mean that anyone can call in and falsely get a free cake? You would be right, but I've been told that Powell Riverites don't cheat. Basically, if you're a sociopath you'd make out over here like a tiger in a chicken farm.
Anyway, as it turns out, the kinds of people that would go for the free cake are the exact kinds of people that don't have a firm grasp on the English language. This means that occasionally- on Sun FM in the early morning -you can suddenly hear someone jabbering excitedly, and incoherently, in no known human language, for about 30 seconds.
I get a lot of dumb calls too; like people asking me to see If I can announce that someone needs a ride to Surrey, or if I can enquire as to whether anybody has seen a husky named Ely wandering about.
Overall I'm still crawling up a vertical learning curve, but every day I get a little bit better. I've got most of the technical stuff down and soon I'll add a new aspect to my breaks: the music bed. That's probably meaningless to most of you, but to me it's adding an extra revolution to my high-dive.
You've popped all your clothing into the communal dryer- one of many -in your building and you return to your apartment to do other stuff. Then, when you come back to get your clothes someone has carefully folded them. This happened to me today. I came down to the laundry room and the clothes-folder was still there.
It's a weird thing because while someone's hands have been all over your clothes, they have also folded them. It also means that a complete stranger has been handling you underwear. Personally I don't like anybody touching my underwear unless I'm about to shag them.
And what do you say? The expectation is that you say "sorry" for occupying a machine they obviously desperately needed. My first reaction, thought, was to walk right up to her face, poke her in the forehead and say, " Don't you ever, ever, fucking touch my clothes again. Ever."
Of course, I didn't actually do that. That would be crazy, right?
What really ensued was an awkward exchange between two strangers, one of whom knows what the other's underwear looks like. She said, "I had to use the dryer, I'm under a time constraint."
What possible time constraint would still allow you enough time to, not only do your laundry, but fold someone elses on a Sunday? This was clearly someone that planned every minute of their day and was not to be tangled with.
I suppose I haven't been here long enough to let that B.C. chill I keep hearing about wash over me.
Yesterday was a busy day for me. I did my first remote. That's when you go to some business that's holding a special event and you broadcast live on location. The business I was at for 4 hours yesterday was Valley Building Supplies. Sort of a family-owned Home Depot type place. They were having the grand opening for their new showroom which featured wood-stoves. Due to budgetary constraints (I imagine) I didn't have the usual microphone and mixing board you usually see jocks using in bigger cities. I had a cell phone.
When you're at these things you cut into the regular broadcast, about three times an hour, and rave about the incredible things going on in the store. You're supposed to sound excited about the deals and try to attract people to the place. For me, it's really hard getting excited about wood stoves. I think I did manufacture the bulk of the emotion, but it must have sounded contrived.
I whooped about the free food, the great prices, the raffle, and other stuff you could buy at Valley Building. For one reason or another- and I did this about 5 times -I kept saying, "They've got everything from knee-pads to screen-doors!". The last time I told myself that I would not mention knee-pads or screen doors and ended up saying, " ...and they've got everything from power-drills to knee-pads!".
Here's the thing though; because my broadcast was via cellular telephone, to the casual shopper I must have looked like a lunatic screaming into his phone about how amazing the place was while demanding that the person on the other end get here as soon as possible to take advantage of the store's excellent customer service and bask in the glory of 40 wood-stoves. . . And finally, incongruously, naming a song that's coming up next.
This quest of mine to blend in is not going so well.
By the way, a woodstove showroom is not a place you want to be in 27 degree weather unless you have hypothermia.
After that I went to the town's Fall Fair. This was a cute little deal with local artisans selling stuff and farmers showing-off recent crops. There were many contests; from Best Pickled Fruit, to Nicest Home Made Pie, to Best Diarama of My Family. In addition, there appeared to be a contest for Strangest Looking Vegetable. First Prize went to a zucchini that had a conjoined twin.
There was also a table with depressed fat rabbits in small cages.
The whole thing was quaint. Really, really quaint.
Sun FM has something called "The Birthday Line". This is where anybody can call in and wish somebody a happy birthday. That person can also win a free cake from the Mitchell Brother's Grocer (by the way, if you Google "Mitchell Brothers" it takes you to the O'Farrell Theater in San Francisco which features live sex-shows. This is not the same pair of Mitchell Brothers). Now, if you have a certain kind of mind you may think: Doesn't that mean that anyone can call in and falsely get a free cake? You would be right, but I've been told that Powell Riverites don't cheat. Basically, if you're a sociopath you'd make out over here like a tiger in a chicken farm.
Anyway, as it turns out, the kinds of people that would go for the free cake are the exact kinds of people that don't have a firm grasp on the English language. This means that occasionally- on Sun FM in the early morning -you can suddenly hear someone jabbering excitedly, and incoherently, in no known human language, for about 30 seconds.
I get a lot of dumb calls too; like people asking me to see If I can announce that someone needs a ride to Surrey, or if I can enquire as to whether anybody has seen a husky named Ely wandering about.
Overall I'm still crawling up a vertical learning curve, but every day I get a little bit better. I've got most of the technical stuff down and soon I'll add a new aspect to my breaks: the music bed. That's probably meaningless to most of you, but to me it's adding an extra revolution to my high-dive.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
single malt scotch
It's amazing how much your life can change in a couple of weeks. This time last week I was in a state of mild anxiety because I was about to be going live the following morning at 6am - gazing at a board of lights with hundreds of dials, buttons, keys, and faders and a wall of computer screens. Like the first monkey to space staring at the cockpit array during the pre-launch countdown.
A week before that I was looking at my entire life packed into a suitcase, guitar case, and duffle-bag on the floor of my dad's place in Ottawa.
This past week has been a 5 to 5 marathon of learning the systems: How to load commercials, how to load the news, PSAs and spots, how to record a conversation, how to voice-track, how to change the face of the day-to-day programming, learning entire software and hardware from scratch, battling the edginess of a moody mixing board, learning how to use an FTP window, how to log the day, how to set the system up for the next day, and a myriad of other technical ding-bats, whatsits, and blubbersnaps. Yeah I know you stopped reading. I don't blame you. I did too.
...And that was just behind the scenes. On top of that I was getting used to proper on-air levels for my voice, where the mic should go in relation to my face, that certain buttons will broadcast the wrong things on air, that the weather needs to be shorter, that my voice needs to be longer, that I need to sound more enthusiastic about Mission Distract, Rod Stewart, and Hedley.
Then there's the interviews: I've recorded interviews at an average of about two a day with everybody from the United Way, to theatre organizers, to cops and hockey coaches, to people who've made calendars that they think are amazing enough to be talked about on-air. I am the major source for news clips that are sent to Courtenay where the news guys, namely Derek Bouchard, turns them into something newsworthy.
All this while dealing with the usual crap associated with living in the digital age; email crashes, program glitches, and generally stuff that you never saw Chris Stevens deal with on Northern Exposure.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention that I was alone out here?
When I agreed to the job at the end of August I was told that that it would be me and two others - that I was meant to show up and “show some initiative” and “take charge”. When I arrived to the Courtenay station on the 8th, to “learn” software from people that have a hard time elucidating, I was told the station in Powell River was down to one person – Bobby Fields. More about her in a second.
When I arrived, via ferry, to Powell River with Derek Bouchard, my guide, there was no one here. Bobby Fields had been laid off.
Derek is a good soul, he drove me all over the place so I could get a bead on Powell River. The trip was a blur as I fought exhaustion and could only muster up, “Yeah, it's stunning”, or “Wow, it's gorgeous”, or, “Hey, that's awe inspiring” without the conviction of being in -as people keep telling me- “God's country”.
God is definitely here in terms of the imaginations of the kinds of people who host a Creative Arts event in honour of it being “Creation Month”. An event that I cringeingly had to promote on air.
I counted several fundamentalist churches here including the Jehovah's Witness, Seventh Day Adventists, and a huge amphitheater with the unmistakable look of an evangelist's hollering block.
Yes it's beautiful here. It's the kind of place that the Alien and Predator do battle, and the whole town gets nuked at the end. It's the kind of place where Jack Nicholson is a “dull boy” and later shows up to seduce three middle-aged women. It's the kind of place where angsty scowling teens screw each other, and others die in horrible drunken collisions. It's a tiny San Francisco without the homosexuals and nightlife. It's the set for any chain-saw wielding horror flick. It's pick-up trucks and Indian reservations, farmers markets and opulent sea-side houses, massive trees and a crumbling airport, two stoplights and a much ballyhooed junior hockey team.
There is a lot of nature here. There is a dying lumber mill, yet the town still keeps it's head significantly above the water line. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of this.
And once again I am the incongruous 'other' who looks entirely out of place and draws looks from the population which averages about 50-years-old. People here are white. I saw one lady at the Telus counter who might have been East Indian but perpetrated a homey small-town Canadian drawl. I did see one brother speed by in an SUV with his head ducked behind the steering wheel as he made his way to the wild nothingness North of town. I thought, “That can't be right.”
Embarrassingly, in a town filled with trucks jacked-up on tires so large they could crush a house, i'm driving a white Toyota Matrix with a baby-blue and orange Sun FM logo blasted on it's sides, hood, and bumper. A car that can only be described as “gay looking”.
This draws looks. Even more when a tall, bald, dark person emerges.
A couple of days ago a gas station attendant saw me coming and was scrambling to find the Sun FM signal on the radio when I walked into his store. He apologized for not being able to find it. I said, “I'll tell you what, in the studio where I work I can't tune in the station either. I have to stream it online.”
He said, “That's Powell River for ya.”
People are not used to change here. And it doesn't help that Sun-FM has a revolving door. I can't count the number of times somebody asked me, “Where's Bobby?”. Indeed, where is Bobby? Well, she's often at the studio moping depressively, or twisted on caffeine, picking up her mail and talking endlessly as I try to get work done. I don't have the heart to kick her out. I did, after all, unwittingly end up with her job. I don't know the exact circumstances of her firing, so I exist under the threat of suddenly being canned for doing, or not doing, something she did or didn't do.
I've found a one-bedroom apartment to live in. It's filled with the following furniture:
A bed
I've had to pace myself in terms of expenditures towards housey type items. I have three forks, three spoons, and three butter knives. I've got a cutting board. I have my computer and an internet connection (thank the cavalry). I have my clothes and my guitar. I have a mobile telephone.
Okay, this all may sound grim. But let me put it into perspective:
This is a dream job for someone right out of college. It happened faster than the average grad will achieve. I've skipped over all the usual garbage surrounding trying to break into The Industry including mindlessly pushing buttons and dancing like a doof near banners and other branding silliness. I have a lot of lateral leeway in terms of where I want to take the station and what the output is outside of advertising (awful, awful, evil advertising).
I'm learning everything about the day-to-day operating of a radio station.
I'm working with (remotely of course, everybody I answer to is across a massive body of water in an entirely different station) really nice patient people.
The music is not country.
The landscape is not prairies.
I'm on the ocean, which has always been where I hoped to be. I know I'm near the ocean because I've tasted the water. It was salty.
Finally. I've been lonely before. I have my parents to thank for making me an only-child and equipping me with the right shoes to stride right through it.
A week before that I was looking at my entire life packed into a suitcase, guitar case, and duffle-bag on the floor of my dad's place in Ottawa.
This past week has been a 5 to 5 marathon of learning the systems: How to load commercials, how to load the news, PSAs and spots, how to record a conversation, how to voice-track, how to change the face of the day-to-day programming, learning entire software and hardware from scratch, battling the edginess of a moody mixing board, learning how to use an FTP window, how to log the day, how to set the system up for the next day, and a myriad of other technical ding-bats, whatsits, and blubbersnaps. Yeah I know you stopped reading. I don't blame you. I did too.
...And that was just behind the scenes. On top of that I was getting used to proper on-air levels for my voice, where the mic should go in relation to my face, that certain buttons will broadcast the wrong things on air, that the weather needs to be shorter, that my voice needs to be longer, that I need to sound more enthusiastic about Mission Distract, Rod Stewart, and Hedley.
Then there's the interviews: I've recorded interviews at an average of about two a day with everybody from the United Way, to theatre organizers, to cops and hockey coaches, to people who've made calendars that they think are amazing enough to be talked about on-air. I am the major source for news clips that are sent to Courtenay where the news guys, namely Derek Bouchard, turns them into something newsworthy.
All this while dealing with the usual crap associated with living in the digital age; email crashes, program glitches, and generally stuff that you never saw Chris Stevens deal with on Northern Exposure.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention that I was alone out here?
When I agreed to the job at the end of August I was told that that it would be me and two others - that I was meant to show up and “show some initiative” and “take charge”. When I arrived to the Courtenay station on the 8th, to “learn” software from people that have a hard time elucidating, I was told the station in Powell River was down to one person – Bobby Fields. More about her in a second.
When I arrived, via ferry, to Powell River with Derek Bouchard, my guide, there was no one here. Bobby Fields had been laid off.
Derek is a good soul, he drove me all over the place so I could get a bead on Powell River. The trip was a blur as I fought exhaustion and could only muster up, “Yeah, it's stunning”, or “Wow, it's gorgeous”, or, “Hey, that's awe inspiring” without the conviction of being in -as people keep telling me- “God's country”.
God is definitely here in terms of the imaginations of the kinds of people who host a Creative Arts event in honour of it being “Creation Month”. An event that I cringeingly had to promote on air.
I counted several fundamentalist churches here including the Jehovah's Witness, Seventh Day Adventists, and a huge amphitheater with the unmistakable look of an evangelist's hollering block.
Yes it's beautiful here. It's the kind of place that the Alien and Predator do battle, and the whole town gets nuked at the end. It's the kind of place where Jack Nicholson is a “dull boy” and later shows up to seduce three middle-aged women. It's the kind of place where angsty scowling teens screw each other, and others die in horrible drunken collisions. It's a tiny San Francisco without the homosexuals and nightlife. It's the set for any chain-saw wielding horror flick. It's pick-up trucks and Indian reservations, farmers markets and opulent sea-side houses, massive trees and a crumbling airport, two stoplights and a much ballyhooed junior hockey team.
There is a lot of nature here. There is a dying lumber mill, yet the town still keeps it's head significantly above the water line. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of this.
And once again I am the incongruous 'other' who looks entirely out of place and draws looks from the population which averages about 50-years-old. People here are white. I saw one lady at the Telus counter who might have been East Indian but perpetrated a homey small-town Canadian drawl. I did see one brother speed by in an SUV with his head ducked behind the steering wheel as he made his way to the wild nothingness North of town. I thought, “That can't be right.”
Embarrassingly, in a town filled with trucks jacked-up on tires so large they could crush a house, i'm driving a white Toyota Matrix with a baby-blue and orange Sun FM logo blasted on it's sides, hood, and bumper. A car that can only be described as “gay looking”.
This draws looks. Even more when a tall, bald, dark person emerges.
A couple of days ago a gas station attendant saw me coming and was scrambling to find the Sun FM signal on the radio when I walked into his store. He apologized for not being able to find it. I said, “I'll tell you what, in the studio where I work I can't tune in the station either. I have to stream it online.”
He said, “That's Powell River for ya.”
People are not used to change here. And it doesn't help that Sun-FM has a revolving door. I can't count the number of times somebody asked me, “Where's Bobby?”. Indeed, where is Bobby? Well, she's often at the studio moping depressively, or twisted on caffeine, picking up her mail and talking endlessly as I try to get work done. I don't have the heart to kick her out. I did, after all, unwittingly end up with her job. I don't know the exact circumstances of her firing, so I exist under the threat of suddenly being canned for doing, or not doing, something she did or didn't do.
I've found a one-bedroom apartment to live in. It's filled with the following furniture:
A bed
I've had to pace myself in terms of expenditures towards housey type items. I have three forks, three spoons, and three butter knives. I've got a cutting board. I have my computer and an internet connection (thank the cavalry). I have my clothes and my guitar. I have a mobile telephone.
Okay, this all may sound grim. But let me put it into perspective:
This is a dream job for someone right out of college. It happened faster than the average grad will achieve. I've skipped over all the usual garbage surrounding trying to break into The Industry including mindlessly pushing buttons and dancing like a doof near banners and other branding silliness. I have a lot of lateral leeway in terms of where I want to take the station and what the output is outside of advertising (awful, awful, evil advertising).
I'm learning everything about the day-to-day operating of a radio station.
I'm working with (remotely of course, everybody I answer to is across a massive body of water in an entirely different station) really nice patient people.
The music is not country.
The landscape is not prairies.
I'm on the ocean, which has always been where I hoped to be. I know I'm near the ocean because I've tasted the water. It was salty.
Finally. I've been lonely before. I have my parents to thank for making me an only-child and equipping me with the right shoes to stride right through it.
Monday, June 8, 2009
I am (was) a waiter
I'm somewhat of a bastard, which probably makes me ill-suited to be a waiter. Regardless this is what i've been doing for the past two and a half years.
I wait tables at a local greasy spoon here in Ottawa. The place is roughly the size of a cargo container and is overrun with lebanese. They serve standard greasy-spoon fair; hamburgers, pasta, poutine (that Quebec creation which combines all the carbohydrates of fries, cheese, and gravy with all the health benefits of freebasing lard), caesar salads, and arguably, the best pizza in town.
I am the only waiter in the place on Monday, Tuesday and Saturday evenings. Along with me are 1 to 2 cooks and any number of dishwashers who cannot speak English. You would think that would be frustrating for them, but it's not, because most of the conversation between the staff is in lebanese...Which I don't speak but believe I can at least reach a close proximity to by wildly waving my arms around.
They are generally nice people, even funny. Unfortunately the two guys - a cook and the cashier - are more moody than a lonely wet cat in heat.
Also, there's a disher-washer on Monday who makes up for the fact that he's utterly useless by maintaining a steady tuneless humming throughout the evening. The closer I get to him, the louder he hums. It's a nervous humming, because we both no that he is about as helpful as a dog turd on a sidewalk. Thankfully he provides additional assistance during pressure-time by puttering around directly in my flight path.
There's Vlamur from Bosnia. Totally competent and a real nice guy. We bond because we're the only staff that speaks English. We tend to agree with each other whether it's hockey or the slightly confused management style. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.
There are two modes of operation at the restaraunt: stillness pervaded by boredom, or racing around pervaded by spastic.
Either i'm sitting there - usually doing a crossword puzzle, or watching the cook cook, or pacing back and forth along the narrow length of the restaurant, or watching Mythbusters - generally bored, or i'm madly scrambling from table to table to kitchen, to fridge, to dishwashing nook, to store, and back to table. All this punctuated by quick inane comments to other members of the staff and customers. Things like:
"No, they're not lesbians...Lebanese from lebanon."
"It's cream of spinach soup...It's made from cream and spinach."
"No, you can't have the gravy for free."
"Define 'warm it up' considering it just came out of the oven."
I say these things with a straight face. It comes out smoothly because i'm part of the flow of the restaurant. I'm a nice guy. I can put it on and calmly deflect an old man screaming in my face because his turkey dinner with mash potatoes is 45 minutes late, because the cook has to do deliveries and he's the only on that can cook turkey.
I don't say to Old Turkey Mash, "How do you know that was actually Turkey you just ate?"
Other things cross my mind throughout the evening.
Like, families that sit down and order a large greek salad, a plate of zucchini sticks, a plate of nachos, two medium deluxe pizzas, one spaghetti, a round of milkshakes, slices of apple pie with extra ice cream. . .and then ask for Diet Cokes. What crosses my mind is: kind of like trying to melt the iceberg that just hit the Titanic with the hair dryer isn't it.
Then there's the people that order some extravagant cocktail even though it's clear the decor in the place consists of model trains, pictures of trains, pictures of train stations, and what appear to be miniature trains but are in fact trucks. Inevitably it's a women in her late fourties, round, leathery, grey roots, puffing on a Benson and Hedges Gold, with a beleaguered looking, late-fourties male companion. She orders a Twisted Julep Frat Face with a Touch of Gin. I look at her blankly, straight faced.
"What's the matter, you don't have single malt scotch?"
I look around me, at the trains, and I say, "This is pretty much a greasy spoon. How's a gin and tonic sound?"
Then there are the people who take painfully long to order, and don't answer when you ask, "Do you need a moment to decide?" It's funny each customer to some degree or another is convinced that they are the center of the known universe. That is to the exclusion of anyone one else who might need the one waiter that is the only one available.
In this particular degree it's like trying to get and order out of William Shatner on quaaludes:
"Ieeeeeee. Woooooooould. Lieeeeeeeke." they pause to bring the menu closer to their face like it's a secret code and the message will change, "Emmmmmmmmmmm. Hooooow's.Yoooooooooour... Huuuuuuuuuuuummus?"
"We don't have hummus."
"Aaaaaah. Wellllllll-"
"Do want me to give you more time?"
"Weelllllllll. Nooooo....Caaaan. Yoooooou. Sugessssst... Somethinggggggg?"
"How about some fries and a Red Bull?"
"Frieeeeeeees? Iiiiiiiis. Thaaaaaaaat. Onnnnnnnnnn- wherrrrrrrrrrrrrre. Issssssssss. Thaaaaaaat?"
And so on.
There are those people that have come to a restaurant fully equipped with competent cooks and begin to create there own special meal. This is usually by way of a long painful game of twenty questions:
"I see that you have zuccinni sticks. Do you have blue cheese?"
"No."
"Do you have....Honey Dijon mustard?"
"No."
"Do you have duck liver?"
"No."
"Do you haaaaaaave... fried plantain?"
"No."
"Butter scotch builla-base."
"No."
"Hm.....How about-"
"Look lady, if you can't read the menu i'll get the kids' one. It's got pictures."
And yes, it's usually the middle-aged women that are worst customers. They narrowly edge out extremely old people and young families as people the most likely to demand the most and give the least.
They are also the most hormonally extreme in terms of pre-food and post-food attitude.
(sorry to end this one so abruptly. i ran out of steam when I was writing many ages, and now, a world ago.)
I wait tables at a local greasy spoon here in Ottawa. The place is roughly the size of a cargo container and is overrun with lebanese. They serve standard greasy-spoon fair; hamburgers, pasta, poutine (that Quebec creation which combines all the carbohydrates of fries, cheese, and gravy with all the health benefits of freebasing lard), caesar salads, and arguably, the best pizza in town.
I am the only waiter in the place on Monday, Tuesday and Saturday evenings. Along with me are 1 to 2 cooks and any number of dishwashers who cannot speak English. You would think that would be frustrating for them, but it's not, because most of the conversation between the staff is in lebanese...Which I don't speak but believe I can at least reach a close proximity to by wildly waving my arms around.
They are generally nice people, even funny. Unfortunately the two guys - a cook and the cashier - are more moody than a lonely wet cat in heat.
Also, there's a disher-washer on Monday who makes up for the fact that he's utterly useless by maintaining a steady tuneless humming throughout the evening. The closer I get to him, the louder he hums. It's a nervous humming, because we both no that he is about as helpful as a dog turd on a sidewalk. Thankfully he provides additional assistance during pressure-time by puttering around directly in my flight path.
There's Vlamur from Bosnia. Totally competent and a real nice guy. We bond because we're the only staff that speaks English. We tend to agree with each other whether it's hockey or the slightly confused management style. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.
There are two modes of operation at the restaraunt: stillness pervaded by boredom, or racing around pervaded by spastic.
Either i'm sitting there - usually doing a crossword puzzle, or watching the cook cook, or pacing back and forth along the narrow length of the restaurant, or watching Mythbusters - generally bored, or i'm madly scrambling from table to table to kitchen, to fridge, to dishwashing nook, to store, and back to table. All this punctuated by quick inane comments to other members of the staff and customers. Things like:
"No, they're not lesbians...Lebanese from lebanon."
"It's cream of spinach soup...It's made from cream and spinach."
"No, you can't have the gravy for free."
"Define 'warm it up' considering it just came out of the oven."
I say these things with a straight face. It comes out smoothly because i'm part of the flow of the restaurant. I'm a nice guy. I can put it on and calmly deflect an old man screaming in my face because his turkey dinner with mash potatoes is 45 minutes late, because the cook has to do deliveries and he's the only on that can cook turkey.
I don't say to Old Turkey Mash, "How do you know that was actually Turkey you just ate?"
Other things cross my mind throughout the evening.
Like, families that sit down and order a large greek salad, a plate of zucchini sticks, a plate of nachos, two medium deluxe pizzas, one spaghetti, a round of milkshakes, slices of apple pie with extra ice cream. . .and then ask for Diet Cokes. What crosses my mind is: kind of like trying to melt the iceberg that just hit the Titanic with the hair dryer isn't it.
Then there's the people that order some extravagant cocktail even though it's clear the decor in the place consists of model trains, pictures of trains, pictures of train stations, and what appear to be miniature trains but are in fact trucks. Inevitably it's a women in her late fourties, round, leathery, grey roots, puffing on a Benson and Hedges Gold, with a beleaguered looking, late-fourties male companion. She orders a Twisted Julep Frat Face with a Touch of Gin. I look at her blankly, straight faced.
"What's the matter, you don't have single malt scotch?"
I look around me, at the trains, and I say, "This is pretty much a greasy spoon. How's a gin and tonic sound?"
Then there are the people who take painfully long to order, and don't answer when you ask, "Do you need a moment to decide?" It's funny each customer to some degree or another is convinced that they are the center of the known universe. That is to the exclusion of anyone one else who might need the one waiter that is the only one available.
In this particular degree it's like trying to get and order out of William Shatner on quaaludes:
"Ieeeeeee. Woooooooould. Lieeeeeeeke." they pause to bring the menu closer to their face like it's a secret code and the message will change, "Emmmmmmmmmmm. Hooooow's.Yoooooooooour... Huuuuuuuuuuuummus?"
"We don't have hummus."
"Aaaaaah. Wellllllll-"
"Do want me to give you more time?"
"Weelllllllll. Nooooo....Caaaan. Yoooooou. Sugessssst... Somethinggggggg?"
"How about some fries and a Red Bull?"
"Frieeeeeeees? Iiiiiiiis. Thaaaaaaaat. Onnnnnnnnnn- wherrrrrrrrrrrrrre. Issssssssss. Thaaaaaaat?"
And so on.
There are those people that have come to a restaurant fully equipped with competent cooks and begin to create there own special meal. This is usually by way of a long painful game of twenty questions:
"I see that you have zuccinni sticks. Do you have blue cheese?"
"No."
"Do you have....Honey Dijon mustard?"
"No."
"Do you have duck liver?"
"No."
"Do you haaaaaaave... fried plantain?"
"No."
"Butter scotch builla-base."
"No."
"Hm.....How about-"
"Look lady, if you can't read the menu i'll get the kids' one. It's got pictures."
And yes, it's usually the middle-aged women that are worst customers. They narrowly edge out extremely old people and young families as people the most likely to demand the most and give the least.
They are also the most hormonally extreme in terms of pre-food and post-food attitude.
(sorry to end this one so abruptly. i ran out of steam when I was writing many ages, and now, a world ago.)
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