The Best Reality Show Ever

•January 26, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I’m sure that a lot of people will guess that the title refers to “The Real World: New York” or everyone’s current favorite, “Jersey Shore.”  While they are both television phenomena, both “culturally” relevant, and both highly entertaining, my pick for the best reality show ever is actually “The Surreal Life: Season Two.”

Didn’t see it?  Let me sum it up for you.  In 2003, some producers in Hollywood theorized, wisely, that the key to a successful reality TV program is the train wreck.  And what is the most surefire way to orchestrate a train wreck?  Put a bunch of washed-up, D-list celebrities in a house together with inherent character conflicts and baggage that couldn’t possibly get through the foyer.

The first season of “The Surreal Life” dragged in MC Hammer, Corey Feldman, Vince Neil, Emmanuel Lewis (Webster), and some other random names from the celebrity graveyard.  I didn’t watch this season, I only caught it peripherally, and it didn’t seem that interesting.  But they were definitely on to something.  For Season Two, the producers were able to get a more eclectic blend whose trains would seemingly wreck upon introduction.

Two of the cast members of “The Surreal Life, Season Two” were of the Baywatch/Playboy variety, and admittedly, we could have done without them.  The core cast of the show consisted of Ron Jeremy, Tammy Faye Messner, Vanilla Ice, and Erik Estrada.  The world’s most famous porn star vs. the crazy religious lady.  The world’s most washed-up pathetic punch line of a white rapper vs. himself.  Erik Estrada, clearly a CHIP has been on his shoulder for a long time.  This train wreck is going to rule!

But then something else happened.  Initially, my roommate and I tuned in to see the same thing that the producers wanted to see.  But as Tammy Faye and Ron Jeremy began to get to know each other, the trains didn’t seem to be crashing.  Don’t worry, here’s Vanilla Ice, pissed off and violent.  Yes, that’s what we want!  He’s smashing his own 90’s white boy flat-topped image on the wall.  Let the trains collide!  But wait…what’s Erik Estrada doing?  Being a friend?   And Tammy, what are you doing helping Vanilla through his deep-seated issues?  You’re supposed to be fighting.

One week into the show and it became clear that the producers put these crazy fish into a bowl to eat each other and we tuned in for the same reason.  But together, as a unit, this misfit group that America wanted to laugh at, bonded.  They became friends.  They recognized in each other the same troubles, the same struggle with self-image and public scrutiny.  And they began to work through their issues together.  Ron Jeremy and Tammy Faye seemed the best of friends.  Their lives, up to this point, had been so completely opposite, their two trains traveling such a far distance away from each other, and now, here they were understanding each other.  Vanilla Ice went from self-hatred and shame to cathartically singing his own biggest joke, “Ice Ice Baby,” at a karaoke bar for his new friends.  He was becoming a better person!  That’s not what reality TV is supposed to be about!  And he was doing it because of the friendship of…the guy from CHIPs?  And Tammy Faye was treating him like a son?  What happened?

What happened was this: the show became beautiful.  And they knew it.  They talked about it.  They talked about how close they became in spite of the fact that the show was supposed to be like mixing up the animals in the zoo.  Clearly the precursor to Obama’s election in 2008, “The Surreal Life, Season Two” taught us all that our differences don’t have to be what define us, but our similarities and our compassion can lead the way.  Interesting that on “Jersey Shore,” the cast members couldn’t be more similar guidos and guidettes, but every episode ends with someone punching someone else in the face.

The producers doubled down on a sure thing, a train wreck that couldn’t miss.  But I guess the train wreck had already happened, and what they got was a group of survivors helping each other get back on their feet.

Sarah Palin’s Conservative Message is Now Fair and Balanced

•January 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Yesterday, Bill O’Reilly asked Sarah Palin why she is excited about being on Fox News and she responded that was happy to be part of the “fair and balanced” news team or whatever.

Less than a minute later, O’Reilly asked why “pinheads” don’t like her. Her response was that because said pinheads “don’t like the message, they don’t like the commonsense conservative solutions that I think I represent.” So if you have a message and you represent one side of the political spectrum, isn’t that the opposite of fair and balanced?

How dumb do the people who watch Fox News have to be to forget in a matter of twenty seconds that she said something about fair and balanced and then said something about having a message?

Why does Fox News still claim to be “fair and balanced?” They have no respect for America’s intelligence. I don’t care if you hate Obama and you hug your guns and cry every night cause you miss Dick Cheney but you can’t possibly actually think that Fox News is either fair or balanced.

Even if my politics were different, even if I thought invading Iraq was the right move, that health care should be privatized, that abortion should be illegal, that gays should be denied the right to marry, even if I thought these things, I would still be pissed that the conservative politicians and news makers in our country are solely engaged in trickery.

“Well, I don’t wanna be a pinhead! I hate pinheads! Quick, give me a buzz word. Freedom. That’s why I vote Republican. Freedom. Support the troops. Christian values. All right, let’s go to Denny’s.”

Baby It’s Cold Outside: A Realistic Contemporary Re-Imagining

•December 17, 2009 • Leave a Comment

First of all, let’s all stop being naive.  Everyone’s beloved Christmas carol, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” is about a man, possibly an alcoholic, coercing a younger woman to have sex with him.  I’ve always preferred the version sung by Dean Martin and Doris Day, not because of the vocal styling of our Deano, but because I really believe that he has been in this situation before.  And I like my Christmas carols to be based in truth and full of sexual coercion.

I know I’m not the first person to make this connection and point out “Baby It’s Cold Outside’s” date-rape-ish qualities, but this Christmas I thought I would scribe a contemporary re-imagining based on the lyrics, but in a way that we can all more realistically see happening.

We’ll call the male character “Dean” and the female “Doris.”

While reading, click play here on this video.  Ignore the Disney characters, just listen to the song and follow along with the lyrics – it’s not exact but try to keep up.

The setting is a man’s apartment, decked out to impress the ladies.  A lava lamp sits under a zebra skin rug.  The lights are dim.

At rise, Dean is saying goodbye to the last of the party guests from his small but merry Christmas party as they exit the front door.  Doris is also dressed to leave.

Dean closes the door and turns to Doris like a lion who has just cornered his prey.

Doris. Well.  I guess I should take off.

Dean. (drunkenly.) Nah, you don’t want to go out there.  It’s cold as shit.

Doris. Yeah, but…well, I have to go.

Dean. (drunkenly.) No, seriously, your ass will freeze off.

Doris. I had a great time tonight.

Dean.  Let me hold your hand.

Doris.  Dean.  You’re drunk.

Dean.  Maybe that’s true.  But that’s when I’m a viking!

Doris.  All right, well, seriously, I’m underage and I think my Mom’s gonna call my cell any minute…

Dean.  Forget about your Mom.

Doris.  And my Dad is real dick when it comes to stuff like this.

Dean.  You like my fireplace?  That’s how grown-ups do it.

Doris.  So…I gotta go.

Dean.  Ask yourself this – why are you rushing out of here?  Are you scared?  Scared of love?

Doris.  Well, all right, maybe I’ll take another shot of Jameson’s.

Dean.  That’s what the fuck I’m talking about!

Dean pours two shots of whiskey.

Dean.  Put some Jay-Z on.

Doris puts music on, Dean has the shots ready.

Doris.  Your neighbors are gonna be pissed.

Dean.  I think we should make love.

Pause.  They do the shot.

Doris.  Holy shit.  Did you roofie me?  Mother fucker.

Dean.  You can’t get a cab anyway.

Doris.  Fuck dude.

Dean.  Your eyes are so hot.  And your butt…

Doris.  I think I’m really messed up.

Dean.  Your hair…

Dean puts his hands all over her.

Doris.  I wish I didn’t want to…

Dean.  But you do, so whatever.

Doris.  I should go.

Dean.  Fuck that.  It’s cold outside.

They kiss, sloppily. Dean can barely find her mouth, yet he continues.

Doris.  All right, for real, I’m out.

Dean.  Nah, not for real.

Doris.  I’m saying no, Dean.

Dean.  Say yes instead.  It’s cold.

Doris.  You know, this has been a fun party…

Dean.  Look out the fucking window!

Doris.  You’re dating my sister, Dean.  She’s gonna kill me.

Dean.  I want your lips.  Look at your lips.  Delicious…

Doris.  My brother said if I ever lost my virgini–

Dean.  Your lips are like fucking…fucking waves! On a tropical shore.  Knowamsayin?

Doris.  You had sex with my Aunt!  I’m not supposed to…

Dean.  Lemme just kiss you and then we’ll find out…we’ll find out if it’s true love or not!  We’ll know.

Dean goes in for a kiss but Doris pushes him off her.

Doris.  Can I take a bong hit?

Dean.  Of course.

Dean packs the bong for her.

Dean.  It’s a fucking blizzard out there.  You might as well stay here.

Doris. (while pulling a bong hit.) I gotta go home.

Dean.  But it’s freezing outside.  Boo-yah!

Doris.  Do you even have a condom?

Dean.  You’ll be up to your knees in snow out there.  You might as well be on your knees in here.

Doris.  Thanks for the pot.

She hands the bong to him, accidentally touching his hand.

Dean.  I get hard when you touch my hand.  That’s how hot you are.

Doris.  I can’t, Dean.

Dean.  You’re killing me.  I’m gonna die of blue balls.

Doris.  Everyone’s gonna call me a slut.  You’ve already slept with half the town.

Dean.  What if you died going home?  Huh?!

Doris.  I’m not a slut, Dean.

Dean.  Get over it.  You know you want this.

Doris thinks for a second, her head cloudy with pot and booze.  While she is thinking, Dean grabs her breasts and starts licking her mouth, somewhat resembling a kiss.  They both agree that it is, indeed, cold outside, and start to drunkenly undress each other.

A Letter From a Celebrity Actor to His Ex-Girlfriend.

•November 20, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Dear Vikki,

Hello!  I am just writing to say hello and tell you that I hope you are doing well in Kentucky.  It seems like you are, from what I can gather by googling you.  I suppose I could be embarrassed for googling my ex-girlfriend, but I firmly believe that’s what google is for.  And, for that matter, what ex-girlfriends are for.  I used to think ex-girlfriends were for something else, but that got me in a lot of trouble.  As you well know.

Anyway, I just want to clear the air a little bit now that I’ve made it and you’re “back home” in Kentucky.  I want to make sure that my success doesn’t turn me into the kind of douchebag we always used to make fun of.  You know the type, goes to a fancy hotel bar but can’t name one expensive imported beer.  I like to think even though I’m a pretty big star and no longer have to work at BJ’s Wings, I have class.

I realize now that you and I were headed down different paths.  Right before I got the lead in “Ninja Hamster,” you were telling me about how your mom was sick or something and how you felt you needed to be in Kentucky.  Totally understandable.  Just unfortunate timing for you and your mom, because my path involved two things – nunchuks and a hamster wheel!  Turns out the next step on my path was renting a big house in the Palisades and yours was playing the fiddle down in the hills of Kentucky.

But I want you to know I haven’t forgotten our time together working at BJ’s Wings and our time together as struggling artists.  I still remember that play you did by Chekov (can’t remember the title) and you were so hot!  That’s what really kills me is that you were actually pretty enough to make it too.  But like I said, different paths.

Also, I never felt our age difference much when we went out, but after we broke up, I realized that maybe you were a bit young for me.  Then again, not long after you moved to Kentucky I started dating an 18-year-old girl.  That particular relationship didn’t last long, but a few weeks can seem like a lot when you’re just beginning your adult life.  Or a celebrity.

In pictures I’ve seen of you, via google image, it seems like you are getting better and better looking everyday.  Which is great, I don’t want to sound like I feel cheated.  I can’t help but wonder though, how good are you going to look?  Are you peaking now-ish or do you plan to get even better looking?  I hate to sound shallow, but as far as the 6 months we went out, did I get the second-best time period, like the Knicks when they had Latrell Sprewell, or did I truly get the dark ages, like the current Knick team?  (In your present state, you’re obviously the Knicks of the mid-90’s with Patrick Ewing at center.  Don’t let it swell your head too much though, they never won a championship).  Not that I’m complaining, I’ve since had my share of Lakers championship teams and even a couple 1990’s Chicago Bulls.  But just so I have a sense of where I came into the picture, which Knick team did I get?

Anyway, I sincerely hope that you are doing well down there.  And I want you to know that yes, I still think of you.

As for how I’m doing, besides the obvious success and everything, terrific!  I couldn’t be better.  There are a whole host of things I plan on getting into now that I’ve made it, including but not limited to: yoga, meditation, organic cooking, jogging, Buddhism (yeah, I’m talking Buddhism-happy), stuff to do with hemp, gardening, taking classes (on pretty much anything you can think of), politics, classical literature, and a lot of other amazing things.  It seems like there’s not enough time in the day to do all the many things that I am interested in these days.  But it also helps that internet porn is not as much of an issue as it used to be.

In conclusion, even though our relationship did not ultimately work out, I want to say that I’ve learned a lot in the past few years, about myself, about us.  And I realize you were definitely right about some things.  Especially the fact that I was, indeed, selfish.  And I definitely shouldn’t have cheated on you those times.  So if by some chance your mom is no longer sick or you want to taste what life could have been like, feel free to drop me a line and we’ll see what we can work out.  I’m serious about that.  And if it helps sweeten the deal, I have a hot tub now.

Love Always,

Chase Summers

A Letter From a Celebrity Actor to His Hometown.

•November 18, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Dear Wilsonville,

Hello!  It’s been a while, hasn’t it, fine people of Wilsonville?  Before I get started on singing your praises as a cute little place to be from, I want to explain why I haven’t been back since high school.

Most importantly, my parents moved back to New Jersey.  That should explain most of it right there.  They say now that it may have been a mistake to move the family to Wilsonville in the first place, but I’ve learned over time that no choice is the wrong choice, no matter how bad it looks from the outside, because it leads you to the next path in life.  I try not to think about what life might have been like had I grown up somewhere more cosmopolitan or closer in proximity to what I now consider “civilization.”  I instead, celebrate being from Anytown, USA, as it made me who I am today.

Secondly, I want to be clear that I did try to get back to Wilsonville, shortly after I starred in “Ninja Hamster” after college, but things didn’t quite work out.  See, “Ninja Hamster” was a kids’ movie, but I was no kid.  I may have looked 16 but I was actually 24 years old.  And while working with Wilsonville’s elected officials, we didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on the charity event we were trying to organize.  Besides the fact that I wanted an open bar (it was a party after all) and they wanted a crappy picnic in Bill MacAbee park, there was also an issue of money.  They didn’t seem to think the folks in Wilsonville had $500 a head to give towards a good cause.  I guess they thought Wilsonville was filled with a bunch of selfish, poor hicks.

Well I disagreed and the trip back “home” was canceled.  So now, six years later, I’m writing to let you know that I still love you, Wilsonville.

Let me first give a big shout out to all the teenagers and kids looking up to me in Wilsonville.  Yes, it’s true, I was once exactly like you. I was miserable.  Stuck in a small-minded place filled with small-minded people.  But I clung to my dream of getting out and becoming somebody.  And look at me now.  I believe it was during the press junket for the sci-fi thriller “The End of Space” when the waiter at this fancy hotel ran to McDonald’s to get me a Big Mac cause there was nothing on the menu I liked that I realized that I made it.  So to all you Wilsonville kids out there, be you trailer trash, white trash, poor white trash, or project kid, I just want to say, it is possible to get out and make something of yourself.

Next, to the regular folk.  The dentist, the fireman, the mayor, heck, even the schoolteachers, I want to say that your hometown hero has not forgotten his roots.  Wilsonville is my home and it’s a wonderful little place.  I moved there when I was 12 years old, attended Bison-Madison Middle School, then on to Cowpike High School, where I was heavy into drama (and girls!).  I wouldn’t trade my coming-of-age in Wilsonville for anything.  In fact, while playing the title role in the coming-of-age independent film, “The Redneck Poet,” I pulled from my experience growing up in “Dub-ville” quite heavily.

I don’t know if Wilsonville has gotten a good movie theater yet that shows “indie” films, but if it has, maybe some of you have seen “The Redneck Poet.”  In that film, I play the son of an abusive father and an alcoholic mother who sleeps with his sister and dreams of running away.  At the end of the film (spoiler alert!) he does run away.  It’s very triumphant and I urge you all to Netflix it, those of you who know what Netflix is.  Anyway, without my teenage years being spent alone on Friday nights while the kids with fishhooks in their hats went “cruising” and the slutty girls only seemed interested in guys with big trucks (I’m talking to you Misty Dawn – oh yes I went there!), I may not have been able to find the kind of misery that “Pete” felt deep inside.  So even in my art I am constantly paying homage to Wilsonville.

Now, after wrapping principal photography (sorry for the industry jargon) for “Ninja Hamster 2, Enter the Cage,” I am open to the idea of a hometown hoo-rah once more.  After years in L.A., I’ve come to realize that “everybody’s gotta be from somewhere,” and me – I’m from Wilsonville and proud of it.  So write to your mayor, your city planner, or whoever makes the decisions down there in Who-ville, and tell him that you want to have a party.  A celebration of someone from Wilsonville who made something of himself and is willing to give a little something back.

So please don’t think that I’ve forgotten where I come from.  I always like to think there’s a plaque with my name on it somewhere at Cowpike High, probably in the drama room, and some kid is staring up at it wondering if he too can get out and make something of himself in Hollywood or New York City.  Yes you can, young me, yes you can.

Your Hometown Hero,

Chase Summers


You Might Be From Jersey…

•November 13, 2009 • Leave a Comment

What a great idea I had yesterday – take a mediocre bit that was run into the ground by someone who started a wave of bad “blue collar” comedy and adapt it for my home state, New Jersey.

Oh well.  Since I’m stalling before I write something for real, here’s some New Jersey versions of Jeff Foxworthy’s famous pre-Smarter-Than-A-Fifth-Grader bit:

medium_guido01

You Might Be From Jersey…

If you get your news from Maxim, you might be from Jersey.

If “hair gel” is on your grocery list weekly, you might be from Jersey.

If you avoid bars that don’t serve Red Bull because they don’t serve Red Bull, you might be from Jersey.

If you lost your virginity in the mall, you might be from Jersey.

If you pronounce guacamole without the “e” at the end, you might be from Jersey.

If you’ve ever complained about “all the Indians” moving into your neighborhood, you might be from Jersey.

If you know eight different ways to go into New York City but never actually go there, you might be from Jersey.

If you’re Italian-Irish and know at least two Hanukkah songs, you might be from Jersey.

Internet Tough Guy

•November 10, 2009 • 3 Comments

Turns out, occasionally, people actually read things that I write on the internet.  Which is a good lesson for everyone out there, you are responsible for your actions and your words, even if it seems like most of the time they get lost in the sea of words that is the internet.

Yesterday I got called out for picking internet fights twice. First, by Major League Baseball.  Since the off-season has begun, I was making fun of @MLB’s attempts at staying in the conversation and not losing followers: “Look @MLB, I’ll tell you like I told @NBA in the summer.  It’s the offseason, until someone gets arrested, take a little twitter break.”

Not the funniest tweet in the twitterverse, but I think it’s funny how the official twitter accounts of the major sports never do tweet about it when their athletes get arrested.  It’s also funny how many professional athletes get arrested.  Again, not the funniest joke in the world, especially if it takes a paragraph of explanation.

Then @MLB hit me with a pitch (or would that be a “twitch?”) and replied that baseball was a 24/7/365 conversation, referred me to their website, and burned me with “ask fellow humans.”  Holy shit!  MLB just tweeted at me.  Well, whoever’s job it is to tweet all day on behalf of MLB anyway.  I didn’t mean to piss you off, Major League Baseball, I’m just a funny guy trying to be funny.  I love baseball.

Then, the blog that I wrote in response to New York Times blogger Bruce Buschel’s blog “One Hundred Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do,” titled “One Hundred Things Restaurant Customers Should Never Do,” was actually read by none other than Bruce Buschel himself.  Which would be great except that in the blog, again trying to be funny, I called Mr. Buschel a “cockbag” and explicitly dropped F-bombs on him.

He replied to my blog by saying that he actually thinks I would enjoy dining with him and that my rules for customers were good.  And here I am picking an internet fight with him.  Now I’m the cockbag.

I guess there’s my lesson learned.  Try to be funny and insult people, even if you think they would never actually read what you write (I’m no Ashton Kutcher on Twitter and I’m convinced my blog is only read accidentally when searching for “Mike Farrell” from MASH)  and you should be prepared to face the repercussions.

Major League Baseball, I’m sorry.  Bruce Buschel, I apologize for directing years of waiting tables angst towards you, there are two sides to the exchanges that happen everyday at restaurants and you obviously understand that, perhaps better than I do.  If it’s any consolation, I don’t think I can think of fifty more things “restaurant customers should never do,” and I read your blog of 51-100 for restaurant staffers and they’re all pretty spot-on.

Mea culpa.

For the internet, the adage must go, “Even with barely any power whatsoever, comes great responsibility.”

One Hundred Things Restaurant Customers Should Never Do (Part One)

•October 31, 2009 • 8 Comments

Recently writer Bruce Buschel wrote a blog called “One Hundred Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do (Part One),” in which he listed 50 things that he thinks waiters shouldn’t do while waiting on customers.  To be fair, many of the items listed are right-on, good, albeit basic points of service, and guidelines to being a good waiter.  There are some misguided ones, the main point that he’s missing being that waiters don’t often decide how they are going to wait on tables, much of that is decided by their managers (i.e., when to take away plates, saying their name while greeting a table).  A point which Mr. Buschel may understand and he may be grouping management into “Restaurant Staffers,” however the distinction is not made and unfortunately, this may inspire customers to blame waiters for many things that are simply the policy of the restaurant.

A bigger mistake is assuming that waiters, unless employed by you, give a fuck what you think.

There are career waiters out there for sure, most of them in very nice restaurants, people whom we actor/waiters call “lifers.”  There’s no shame in being a career waiter and many of these points of service are very important to the lifer, if obvious and learned a long time ago.  The rest of us though, those who are waiting tables while we pursue a career in the arts, go to school, or were recently laid off from our “real” jobs, just simply shouldn’t be asked to give too much of a fuck about your gravy.  A little bit, sure, in that you ask for gravy and you receive it, but beyond that, you’re deluded.  You’re deluded because you wish that we would give more of a fuck about your gravy, but alas, the proper amount of fuck giving has been reached once you receive your gravy.

Seems harsh, but let’s face facts, Mr. Buschel.  I wonder how many classy, expensive restaurants don’t already abide by every rudimentary rule that you laid out – probably, let’s say – all.  So that leads me to believe you’re talking about all the other burger joints, lunch places, hip spots, wine bars, etc. in the city.  Wherein a lot of the waiters, and it seems like this is the thing that really pisses you off, are not in fact at the end of their life story and have landed in a place where they need to abide by strict guidelines in order to serve assholes like you, but are rather making money to pay rent as they continue on their life’s journey, and are merely doing a good job serving food to people.

The worst thing about Bruce Buschel’s little whiny “I’m a customer so rub my nuts” rant is that he probably didn’t write it for actual restaurant staff.  Unless it was to piss off actors like me, which he’s got some kinda vendetta against (did you actually get beat up by an actor in high school?  What were you – a cheerleader?).  Seems like he actually wrote it to empower other needy childish customers who think they’re owed some kind of royal treatment because you show up at a restaurant.  It’s New York, everyone eats at restaurants.  Even waiter/actors.

So sure, Bruce, your points of service are fine, good, and pretty basic.  I’m sure you’ll be a fabulous dickhead manager one day whom everyone will hate and the kitchen guys will call a colorful nickname like “pandejo.”

So with as little bitterness as possible from years and years of dealing with cocksuckers like yourself, here’s my own fucking list:

One Hundred Things Restaurant Customers Should Never Do (Part One)

1. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re “my boss” and I work for you.  You’re just a guy who wants food and drink, deal with it.  You want power?  Ask for a promotion.

2. Never mention the tip (unless asked).  Don’t even say “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”  Because it’s classless and most of the time, you don’t.

3. Don’t snap, whistle, clap, or yell to get a waiter’s attention.  You got a bad waiter?  Shit happens.  I’m sorry.  A simple hand gesture to an employee would be fine though, they’re not dogs.

4. If you ask me what my favorite thing is or what I like to eat, be prepared that I might be a vegetarian or something and that I’m not you.  If you don’t want to hear about me then don’t ask about me.

5. Don’t dare to leave zero tip unless something happened that was so crazy bad that no one would blame you.  This is New York City.  Let’s be real.

6. Don’t act tough if you’re arguing with a waiter unless you actually think you could fight him in the street.  This is New York City.   Let’s be real.

7. If you’re splitting the check and one pays cash and one pays the difference in credit, make sure you look at the total amount and realize that no tip was taken out of the cash yet.

8. Don’t walk into a restaurant pointing and darting to some table.

9. Don’t try to make insane substitutions.  Most of the time it’s a matter of cost.  You can’t substitute a piece of salmon for fries.

10. When your companion says “No avocado,” don’t chime in and say “I’ll have his avocado.”  It doesn’t work like that.  We’re not on a ration system.  Rather, ask your companion, “Would you mind getting the avocado on the side, actually, so I can have some?”  And we’ll put it on the side.

11.  Never touch a waiter.  No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them. (Borrowed liberally from Buschel’s list).

12. Never interrupt a waiter as he is taking another table’s order.

13. Don’t make light of the fact that you ordered a bottle of wine with a screw cap, it doesn’t mean the wine is inferior quality.  If it comes in a box, that’s a different story.

14. Zinfandel is red.  White Zinfandel is bad.

15. Don’t get weirded-out if a waiter is trying to upsell, that’s their job, it’s what their boss requires them to do.  Just state plainly and proudly that you’re okay with tap water.  Most of the time, so is the waiter when he goes out to eat.

16. If a waiter is at your table, don’t do little hand signals or wave your glass in front of him.  Use your words.  You’re an adult, use your words.

17. If the restaurant doesn’t automatically bring you bread, don’t say “Do we get bread?”  Ask if you may have some bread.  You’re not entitled to bread everywhere you go.  But most places will offer bread upon request.

18. Don’t sit down at a table and then get up and start moving tables and chairs around because you have more people coming or you feel you need more space.  Ask politely and the staff should accommodate as best they can.

19. Know what kind of restaurant you’re in.  If you’re in a diner, expect diner service, if you’re in a dark, hip club expect a model to ignore you.

20. Don’t be a dick.

21. Don’t write about specific restaurant employees online.  That’s really messed up.  Unless you are prepared to fight them (See Thing #6).

22. Don’t make fun of or be turned off by or otherwise care about a waiter who says “ya’ll,” or “you guys,” or “no problem.”  There are thousands of waiters in the city from all over the world, we’re all gonna have different ways of talking.

23. Look around at your surroundings.  When it’s busy, please try to understand that a lot of waiters have O.T.S.  Other Table Syndrome.

24. Never, ever order water with a “bunch of lemons and sugar.”  Especially when the place sells lemonade.  Ever.

25. Understand that not all restaurants do “seat numbers,” so sometimes people have to ask who got what.  Most nice restaurants do, but otherwise, deal with it.

26. Don’t ignore the waiter.  It doesn’t make you more powerful or superior to anyone.

27. Don’t ask how something on the menu is and then judge the waiter’s response.  Take it at face value.  If he says “good,” don’t say “Ahhhh, you don’t seem too convincing.”  Shut up and order something.

28. Don’t be sleazy to young female waiters.

29. If you’re visiting from Europe or Japan, read a guidebook or google “tipping at restaurants in America.”

30. If the waiter puts down a regular and a decaf coffee for you and your companion and you ask “Are you sure this is decaf?” and he says “Yes,” don’t ask how he knows. Like the waitress on Seinfeld said, “You couldn’t possibly understand the intricacies of my job.”

31. If a restaurant doesn’t have a certain thing, there’s nothing the waiter can do to make it appear.

32.   At the end of the night, or around 4pm, a lot of times waiters are set to leave work and continue on with their lives – sure, not your problem.  However, if you are paying a check, give your credit card, get it back, and sign it – you can stay there talking as long as you want, but just please for the love of God sign your check so the waiter can go home and kiss his girlfriend.

33. A lot of times, your waiter will be sipping red wine out of a coffee mug while at work.  You got a problem with that?  You try working in a restaurant.

34. Realize that waiters are sometimes terrific problem solvers.  But we can’t solve the problem if you’re too busy being dramatic about something that went wrong. (This isn’t an audition). (Fuck you Bruce Buschel).

35. If you can’t afford to tip 20% tip, don’t go out to eat, or go to more inexpensive places.  If you’re just a bad tipper, don’t expect the best service in the world when you come back.

36. There’s nothing wrong with making fun of yourself if you’re being high-maintenance, it lets the waiter know you know that he knows and unless the waiter’s a dick, it’s probably fine.

37. If your waiter greets you and asks, “How are you doing?” don’t say “Iced Tea.”  That’s not an answer to that question.

38. Don’t be pessimistic and phrase questions like, “Is the salad really gigantic or is it a little dinky salad?”  Maybe it’s just the right size, asshole, ever think of that?

39. Don’t order items that are not on the menu.  If you can’t read that’s fine, just ask questions politely and we’ll give you answers.

40. Don’t be a dick.

41. Just because you don’t understand what a menu item is, don’t make fun of it, you’re probably only making fun of yourself.

42. Don’t tell a waiter to smile.  It’s not your place.  I’m at work.  Do you smile constantly at work?

43. If your waiter greets you and asks, “Would you like something to drink?” don’t say, “I’m waiting for someone.”  That’s not an answer to that question.

44. If a restaurant is busy or at a peak time, they are not going to sit two people at a table for four.  Deal with it.

45. Overused jokes are fine, but just so you know, here’s one: Upon finishing everything on your plate, “I hated it, obviously.”

46. If you want another tea bag it costs money.  Sorry.

47. Don’t assume you’re smarter than the waiter just cause you work some office job.  Perhaps you’re just more willing to compromise.

48.  If you’re on your cell phone at my table, I’m just gonna let you finish up that conversation before I take your order.

49. If your waiter greets you and asks, “How are you doing?” don’t immediately get quiet and look down at the menu.  That’s not an answer to that question.

50. Don’t go out to eat with Bruce Buschel.  He seems like a total cockbag.

What I Learned from Guy Ritchie and the Gypsies

•October 24, 2009 • Leave a Comment

esmeraldaIn a recent article in Esquire magazine about Guy Ritchie and his badass ways, the hard-living director says that gypsies will steal from you but they will also teach you valuable lessons.

I think I get that.  Actually it’s one of those things that at first seems simple, then complicated in its morality, then only really comes to light when a gypsy steals from you.

His example was that a gypsy will break into your home and steal something, but along the way teach you a valuable lesson that your home shouldn’t be so easy to break into.  Or something like that.

In New York City, we got a lot of gypsies.  They come in all varieties here, as does everything in New York, but they will definitely steal from you.  And as every New Yorker knows, they teach you quickly how to protect yourself from thievery or trickery.

Of course, the two teenage Brooklyn hoodrats who pulled a gun on me and took my phone and money don’t get a pass for teaching me not to walk down dark empty streets at night.  Because when a firearm is present, they lose their cute little gypsy status and turn into future convicts (or cops).

And whatever teenage hoodrats stole my laptop and CD’s the night I moved into my old apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (at that time this particular block was still pre-yoga studio and present-Crown Fried Chicken), I guess maybe they taught me a lesson.  Namely, get a dead bolt, from day one.  And, if you’re a bunch of dumb white kids in your 20’s moving into a somewhat dodgy neighborhood, don’t broadcast it to the world and then all leave for hours to go out drinking.  Are they gypsies…eh, I still might reserve gypsy status for less dangerous criminals.

But this morning, fresh after reading Guy Ritchie’s gypsy philosophy, I bought my coffee from a true Jersey City Gypsy.  Having very limited options in Jersey City as to where I can stumble to at 8:30 in the morning for a good cup of coffee, I finally noticed that this Cuban restaurant, La Conguita, serves breakfast.

I have lived in Jersey City for only a few months now and I’m still discovering the nuances.  One “nuance” is that there is a definite class struggle here between longtime residents, mostly blue-collar and thick-accented, and recent transplants from Manhattan or Brooklyn of the “Oh-my-God-I-love-brunch-they-have-the-best-hummus” variety.  Being a poor actor/waiter whose family is originally from about ten minutes from here in North Bergen, I don’t personally see myself involved in that struggle.  But because of the way I look, it’s not really up to me.  And let’s face it, I do love brunch and hummus.

So when I finally found someplace that was open and served coffee to go, I walked in and ordered a large black coffee.  The little punk behind the counter mumbled “three dollars” and then took my five-dollar bill.  At first, I didn’t think he said “$3.00.”  I thought I must have heard him wrong.  But when he brought back $2 in change and then slunk back over to other customers at the bar, I realized I had been charged $3 for what was obviously cheap coffee.  The sign on the board says “$1 Espresso,” which would lead me to believe that they don’t actually charge $3 for a regular cup of coffee.  At that point I could have called him back over and argued with him, but instead I decided to leave.  I really just wanted to get back home, not haggle with the guy at the Cuban restaurant over a dollar or two.

So clearly I occasionally am going to be dragged into this class struggle that is going on in downtown Jersey City, no matter how poor I actually am.  This guy profiled me and figured he could get away with charging me $3 for a big cup of shitastic coffee.  And in his gypsy defense, he could.  So I could be angry at being taken advantage of.  But I remembered what Guy Ritchie said about the gypsies.  They’ll steal from you, but they’ll teach you valuable lessons.

So what lesson did this young splotchy-bearded Jersey punk gypsy actually teach me?  When there’s a struggle going on around you, know what side you appear to be on and watch out for sneak attacks?  Be mindful of what is happening when exchanging money for goods and services?  Or maybe, in New York City and the surrounding areas anyway, don’t be afraid to be an obnoxious jerk when necessary, no one else is.

Thanks Jersey City Gypsies.  And thank you, Guy Ritchie.

What’s in Wyoming?

•October 13, 2009 • Leave a Comment

About a month ago I had the pleasure of traveling to Wyoming, my girlfriend’s homeland, for a week’s vacation-slash-wedding.  Before leaving New York City, some of the looks I got when I told people I was going to Wyoming were that of pity, sometimes outright disgust, at the very least confusion.

Of course, I can appreciate a general disconnect from Middle America.  We still hold them accountable for the 2004 Presidential election after all.  But despite knowing little about Wyoming, as many people in New York do, I started to grow a little annoyed at people’s reaction to my getting out of New York for a week and going somewhere new.  That “what’d you-lose a bet?” look.  The cynical New Yorker look that maintains superiority over all other parts of the country.

Make no mistake, I love New York City.  But come on.  There’s a whole world out there.

The day before I left, my former boss, who is from Queens, gave it to me the worst.  “Wyoming?!  What’s in Wyoming?!”

What’s in Wyoming.

Like I said, my boss is from Queens.  I don’t know who out there has ever been to Queens.  But for those that have, I’ll say it again.  My boss is from Queens.  Queens is basically like one big apartment building in between Long Island and Manhattan.  No offense to you Queens people out there, but I’m just saying.  “What’s in Wyoming?”  What’s in Queens?  Queens!

Wyoming is unlike anywhere I’ve been.  If you ever get a chance to explore that part of the country I highly recommend it.  From the first mountain I saw, the question echoed in my head.  From the first time I looked around and saw nothing but land and sky, not another human being for miles, the question echoed in my head.  I saw animals I had only previously seen in books.  I saw Native American drawings on the sides of mountains.  I ate food cooked over an open fire out in the woods.  I saw more stars than I had ever seen before.  I saw waterfalls, I hiked up mountains, I swam in a huge lake surrounded by sky-scraping mountains, I swam in a natural mineral hot springs pool, I met amazing people who are connected to the land around them, I even had a Native American vision (sobriety status withheld).  “What’s in Wyoming?”

Despite being a New Yorker, I’ve never felt so small.  So to answer the question, here’s just a pictorial sample.

BigHorn SheepBigHorn SheepSinks Canyon FishHell's Half AcreHell's Half AcreHell's Half AcreHot Springs PoolLander HillsPopo AgiePopo Agie RiverSage ChickenSinks Canyonwyoming skyThermopolisThermopolisTrain 1Train