It’s 8am and I am standing in front of my two Bakers Pride Pizza ovens. These little puppies put out 125,000 BTU apiece….I think. Not sure what that all means except that every time I hit my forearm on the door it leaves a nasty burn. I’ve done it so much I am ready to call them tribal markings and when folks ask what tribe, I’ll begin my diatribe on the dying tribe of the Hang Over Pirates. He, he, he.
Had a great night’s sleep, feeling great, my pozitoodinal force is very, very strong today….even the evil one, Gollum, can’t fuck with me today.
Another Saturday morning in paradise. Pitas to make, pasta to cook, onions to saute I have a laundry list of tasks that need to get done before we open in 3 hours. Ah, the restaurant life for me. Having done this for almost 3 years me thinks I am ready for the pirate life. Shit I almost forgot to go beat my meat.
Huh? No not that meat you sick fucks. I gotta go beat my chicken. No not choke my chicken, beat my chicken. You see we make our own chicken Parmesan. To accomplish this I need to take beautifully plump fresh chicken boobies and pound the crap outta them so that I get a nice uniform piece of chicken boobie that I can then dredge in our secret flour, seasoning and egg recipe.
This is the side of the restaurant biz that no one wants to know about, however without it, the rest of the show don’t happen.
It’s now 10:30am. Everyone showed up on time today. Say hallelujah! Sweet Jebus! Pita’s just came outta the oven and are cooling prior to cutting them. The pasta’s have been cooked and portioned and all that’s left to do is caramelize the onions….ah, I love the smell of onions caramelizing in the morning….
Someone said something the other day that’s been sitting in my brain like that McD’s Quarter pound thingee in your belly. They asked me if this, being a restaurant owner, was something I wanted to be growing up.
Hmmm, I said to myself, I am not sure I ever thought of what I wanted to be. Never gave it two shits of thought. There are some folks who are so determined to be something that they miss out on life and never enjoy the be part. I guess I thought that I was just always going to be me. Regardless of the situation. Whether I was living on the streets or in a mansion with millions I was pretty confident I’d always simply be me. Love it or leave it, that’s who I am.
Then the I thought more about the growing up part and replied with a one word answer, “die.”
“What,” they asked incredulously.
“Die. When I think I have grown up, I want to die,” I replied.
I don’t ever want to grow up. Let me change that statement – I will never grow up. I’ll continue to operate as I always have – with a reasoning mind of a 16 yr old male trapped in a body that continues to age quite quickly.
There’s a great line from a Little Feat song, “Old Folks Boogie,” that goes:
“When you mind makes a promise that your body can’t fill.”
Boy oh boy, ain’t that true. You try drinking a good portion of a bottle of Patron at my age and let’s see how you feel in the am. Twenty years ago I might have gotten up and finished the bottle. Today I put it away – out of sight for a month then take my antacid, aspirin, mr. puff puff and take a 4 hour and dream about being a Pirate. I always dream about pirates after a bender. I have no idea why, but that’s why I call them my Hang over Pirates.
The Hang over Pirates were around a long time before Johnny Depp infiltrated the Pirate ranks with his Keith Richardsesque swagger and banter. Damn him to hell. Before him my dreams were filled with bald headed pirates with skulls “macramed” into their flowing beards. Now, they’ve been replaced by a bunch of Pirates who’d be better off in a banana republic brochure or worst yet, GQ.
DAMN HIM TO HELL!
What you’ve never dreamed about being a Pirate? Ah, you ain’t dreamed until you sailed the North Atlantic in the cozy confines of a plush pirate ship, complete with amenities that would make the QE 2 look like a damn tuna boat. Hey its, my dream, it ain’t reality, so if I want a Pirate ship with gourmet food, a closet full of synaptic provocateurs and an endless supply of McNeil’s ESB so be it. If you don’t like it dream about your own pirate ship.
Man, a minute ago I was standing in front of my pizza ovens and now I am fighting with imaginary readers about their ideal pirate ship…..phew…..time to get outta this place…..
Aye laddie, cast off the psychological main and set sail for the inner workings of your brain…..now that would be cool…..a neurological pirate…..sailing the synaptic high C’s…..i feel anutter story a foot…..