Sunday, February 06, 2005

Calcium Citrate

Why did we move from Whimsy, California?
Was it the increasing number of deer ticks?
Was it the independent rock band that got lost in our mountains?
(Rumor has it, the remains were found but ignored)
Or were things just too damned simple in Whimsy?
Haiku Complicated Life
pills for depression
tax sheltered annuity
tipsy death marches

Limes have bones! Try milking yourself!

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous8:38 AM

    About 7 years ago, I waited tables at a Red Lobster in Valencia, California. A gay coworker of mine, Mike Madrigal, called me "Jehovah", because at the time I was a Jehovah's Witness. Besides his waitering job, he managed a clothing store in Palmdale. "Hey Jehovah, could you get me a side of ranch? Table 22 can kiss my ass! You know they're not going to leave ten percent and they work me like a dog. Girl, you don't want to know what went in their salad! Ha! Jehovah, the ranch? Hello! Can you believe I was slapped with a lawsuit for sexual harrasment? By a woman! I brought my lover into the courtroom - I don't know what she was thinking - but honey, the judge didn't need evidence..." He was my introduction to the world of flaming gay waiters, or gay anything for that matter. He was even on the Jerry Springer show. Living in my sheltered world, I thought that all homosexuals acted like Mike Madrigal. They were the only ones I recognized.

    My coworkers there were really my biggest introduction to the world outside of the Jehovah's Witnesses. I had been home schooled, which means I grew up in a bubble within another bubble. Since Jehovah's Witnesses aren't allowed to celebrate holidays, I was faced with telling my coworkers that I couldn't help them sing the "Happy Birthday" song, and would need them to sing for any birthdays in my section. This caused a lot of griping from a coworker named Kim. But complaining was part of his nature. Another server with a protective motherly instinct came to my defense however, and backed him into a corner with a speech on freedom of religion and that he would take the fuckin' cake and sing the song. I liked her.

    There were some other interesting coworkers of mine. Mariany was from Brazil. She had that amazing intoxicating accent and had she been more bubbly she would have floated away. There goes Mariany. Goodbye! Everything she said was explanation marked and prefaced with the word "sweetheart". "Oh sweetheart how are you, you're looking so good honey!" On the lunch shift, we had Maria. She was a short, stout, German woman in her 60s who never failed to issue a complaint when one was warranted. But the guests loved her. They begged to come back for more of her abuse. Then there was "Marnie" with big hair. She was from Palmdale. She used to ask me questions about my religion and as I explained my beliefs she nodded, but somehow still gave me the impression that I was from another planet and she was reaching out to try and understand me.

    I think it was at the Red Lobster that in many ways I came out of my shell. I sang Broadway showtunes in the back, urging the other waitstaff to join in. They probably figured it out about me. After all, how many guys knew all the words to the Little Mermaid soundtrack?