Mark this day -- and mark it well

It's July 14, which means two things: One, it's Bastille Day (vive la France!); and two, it's the day the first episode of Committed made it's way, kicking and screaming, onto the World Wide Web.

It hardly seems as if a year has gone by. It's been a busy one for sure, filled with ups and downs and related twists and turns. Of course, the year has hardly gone according to plan; schedules have been rearranged, writer's block has shown it's ugly head a time or two (dozen), and the story has evolved with time. But, when one is putting up a first draft of a novel for the entire world to see, plans necessarily must change.

But now we're in the home stretch. There are probably ten to twelve episodes left in to write for the story (and yes, I know Episode 32 is already overdue), then I will collect them all, edit them into a manuscript, and start harassing publishers.

But until then, I'll keep delving into the lives of Tal and Liv Hooper, Toby, and The Collective. There's lots of fun still to come, and I hope you'll join me for it. If you haven't read Committed yet, I encourage you to do so. If you are one of the few and the proud who has, I offer you my sincere thanks. Knowing that someone reads and enjoys my work is what keeps me writing.

So, happy birthday, Committed. It's been one heck of a year.

True customer tales (Part I)

Working as a bartender gives a person a unique view of the human condition. I get to see all kinds of people come through the Pork Palace, from hurried businessmen having a cocktail before a business dinner to families picking up food for a reunion and many more. Some of these customers I have already classified (see "Customers: A Scientific Breakdown"), but others... well, others require their own descriptions. This is one such story.

It was late one Wednesday night at the Pork Palace. It had been a busy night; I was tired and ready to get home. We had been closed for about half an hour, and my manager and I were watching part of a UAB basketball game on TV while I attended to my closing duties. We were engaged in some kind of chitchat when the front door opened and a customer walked in.

He was a heavyset man, bald, probably in his mid-fifties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and business attire. I recognized him and stifled a groan. I couldn't remember his name, but he was a customer I couldn't forget.

Along with my regular customers and the people who I will never see again, there is a group of customers I like to call "Irregular regulars". These are the folks who come in very occasionally, but enough so that I remember their faces. What often jogs my memory for these customers is some unique quality particular to them: something unique about their job, they left me a huge tip, something like that.

This man, I silently recalled as he started towards the bar, was a pain in the ass. High maintenance, boorish, overbearing, crappy tipper. Iwas glad we were closed and I wouldn't have to deal with him for more than 30 seconds or so.

"Gimme a salad with catfish on it and blue cheese dressing," he demanded as he pulled out a barstool, making it creak as he plopped his girth onto it.

Of course, this is something we don't even have on the menu. I smiled my best tight-lipped server smile at him. This would be enjoyable.

"I am so very sorry, sir," I said politely, with a hint of satisfaction in my voice. "We closed half an hour ago."

"Hmph," he grunted unhappily. "So whatcha got left in the kitchen?"

I glanced through the expo window. Tyree and the rest of the kitchen staff were busy mopping and scrubbing, getting the restaurant ready for the next day's business. All the food had already been put away. I put on the smile again.

"It looks like they've already broken everything down," I said. "Sorry." I turned my attention back to my side work, expecting the man to accept his defeat and head back into the night, or at least to Waffle House.

I was wrong.

"Well, since you're closed, I guess there's no way I can get a drink, huh."

No way you're getting anything from me at this point, you ass, I thought to myself. I shook my head. "No, sorry. I've already closed out my cash drawer, so I can't ring anything up. We closed at nine, you know."

The man sat for a minute, pondering his options, and then looked at the flatscreen TV above the bar. UAB was still hanging in there. The man decided he would hang as well.

"Well, I'll just sit here and watch the rest of the game," he said, and settled back onto the stool, making it creak again.

I don't think there was any way I could mask my surprise -- or disdain -- at this point. I felt like Seth and Amy doing "Weekend Update" on SNL: Really?!?!? You mean to tell me -- after I've told you we are closed, after I tell you we're not serving any food, after I kindly let you know that I can't serve you any drinks -- you're going to sit and watch a basketball game?

I shake my head and get on with my work. Sweeping, mopping, wiping, with him staring stone-faced at the television. After about 15 minutes, I finish everything I can do behind the bar and move around to the front where I start putting the barstools up. I start at the far end of the bar, hoping he'll get the hint. He doesn't, not until I slam the next-to-last stool atop the bar next to him.

"Well, I guess I'll head out," he says nonchalantly. I don't reply. My polite server smile has been replaced with barely-masked hostility. He walks out the door and I shake my head, then put up the last stool. It's still warm from his fat ass.

My manager walks up to the bar. "What was up with that? I can't believe anybody would do that."

"It takes all kinds," I say. "There goes a man who is used to getting whatever he wants. And tonight, he didn't. Pissed him off, too."

I turn off the lights in the beer coolers, clock out, and walk out the door, still amazed at the chutzpah of the man. He may have no social skills or thoughts for others, but I have to admit he's got big brass balls. I'd never have the nerve to do what he did that night, and months later, I'm still amazed by his self-importance and sense of entitlement.

So this is for you, nameless customer whom I will never forget. Check the door when you come into a restaurant. Most of them have their hours posted there. If it's after closing -- or five minutes until -- go home, or go somewhere that's open later. You'll get better service, and you won't have smartass bartenders writing snarky blog posts about you months later.

The best day of my life

I posted a status update on facebook this morning that stated I was "looking forward to the best day of my life."

Some might wonder why I wrote that, especially considering what all is going on in my life these days. Just today, I woke up a tad out of sync with the world, experiencing one of those days where there are lots of little things going on that make you just want to get back into the bed. My sinuses are acting up, giving me a slight headache. My stomach is not happy, likely as a result of the sinus drainage. The weather is blah. My car is immobile at the moment, and I have neither pump nor innertube with which to get my bicycle operating again, so my traveling is limited to whatever is within walking distance. Things are slow at the Pork Palace, so income is always a concern. I've got a to-do list several miles long, not enough hours in the day to do everything I want to get done, and if I stop and think about all my projects at once I'll overwhelm myself and go hide under a rock in the back yard.

So I have reason to be back in bed, sniveling under the covers, killing the day. But I choose not to. Why? A change of perspective. Instead of looking at what's wrong with my life, I recently started looking at what's right. And it helps me get through days like today.

As far as feeling bad physically, I'm taking care of myself -- and starting to feel better. My head is getting back into the game. I have a plan for working on the car; it's taking time, but it won't be long before the old Benz is safely and reliably transporting me all over the place. For now, I really don't need a car during the day. I can walk to work, and I can pick up what I need for my bike when Jean's car is available. As far as finances are concerned, we're working with a monthly budget, I'm picking up extra hours at work when I can, and we'll soon have more money coming in from Jean's yoga teaching and my freelance work. As far as getting everything done, I've finally accepted that it just takes time. It also takes time management, and I get better with that every day. I'm making plans and schedules, and I'm seeing progress in all areas of my life.

Jean and I are discovering a process, which is constantly being refined and updated, with the goal of "All Deluxe, All The Time". It's working, and we can't be happier about it. Life just keeps getting better, and when there is a problem, we're better able to handle it. Not only that, I'm finding the self-discipline to not only work the process, but to trust it as well. When things start looking down -- days like today -- I know that if I keep making baby steps, good things will happen.

My personal process has been ongoing for a number of years now, and it's picked up speed during the past several months. From an eastern philosophical point of view, it could be said that everything I've experienced in my life has brought me to -- and prepared me for -- this moment. And right now, I can't say I can argue.

So, I am looking forward to the best day of my life. That day is today. Because it's the day I have.

An uninvited guest

Most weeknights after I get home from the Pork Palace, sometime around 10 o'clock or maybe even 10:30, you can find Jean and I sitting in comfy chairs on our front porch or the back deck. We like to sit and talk, have a beverage or two, check out the fireflies and enjoy each other's company. We listen to the crickets, chat about whatever happened during the day, and generally just relax and unwind.

It is, in no uncertain terms, a great way to end the day. With our schedules, we don't get to spend a lot of time with each other during the week, so Porch Time is something to which I eagerly look forward.

Such was the case last night. I got home from work, changed out of my uniform, and Jean and I plopped down into out chairs. She sipped on a chardonnay while I nursed a cold Sweetwater 420. The weather was nice, the conversation engrossing. It could not have been more pleasant. Until an uninvited guest popped in.

I picked up my beer from the table on the front porch and popped the bottle in my mouth when I felt an unfamiliar sensation. Lumpy. Slimy. Moving. Three things that the top of your beer bottle should never be.

I quickly popped the beer out of my mouth and found, much to my unbelieving eyes, that a small slug had found its way onto the lip of the bottle -- and into my mouth.

Uck. Serious uck. My stomach did flip-flops and my mind goggled.

I immediately spewed out the beer still in my mouth in a spit-take that would have made the Marx Brothers proud, then stomped around the porch making retching noises for a good 10 minutes or so, while Jean sat in her chair alternately being concerned for my well-being and laughing her butt off.

I was just about to flick the offending gastropod off the bottle when Jean wiped her eyes and looked at me pleadingly. "Oh, don't kill it," she said.

I paused and thought for a moment. In my mind, there was no other being in creation that deserved death more at that point. Not only did the slug invade my personal space, but more tragically, it had ruined three-quarters of a bottle of my favorite beer. I was ready to get salt, sulphuric acid, a blowtorch and some high explosives -- anything to repay the perpetrator in a manner befitting the horrid offense.

But I didn't. With a shrug, I carefully shook the slug off the bottle and into the front garden, where it could continue it's life of slime without interfering with my porch time.

After all, who am I to kill a slug that likes the same beer that I do?

B-I-N-G-O!

I've know for years that gambling, especially sports gambling, was big in Alabama. Now it looks like electronic bingo is giving it a run for the money -- but legally, and without any effective regulation or enforcement.

The Birmingham News published a special report on this rapidly-growing phenomenon on Sunday. News staff writers Kim Chandler, Charles J. Dean and Kent Faulk created a series of articles for the report. They did a great job focusing on the problems the state faces because of the lack of regulation. They described how the industry works, the major players, and how local communities are bring affected by the games. Other articles focused on the rift between Gov. Bob Riley and Attorney General Troy King over how the law regarding gambling should be interpreted, how the gambling industry lobbies politicans in Alabama, and how the Creek tribe in wants to bring actual slot machines and table games to their operations.

So it looks like the state has a choice: Either declare it all illegal and shut it all down (and they can't do it all; the Creeks can do as they wish on their lands for the most part), or regulate and tax the industry. With the current economic climate, it would seem that the choice is clear. Maybe Alabama can tolerate a little sin so it can pay its debts.

Stubbing it out after 25 years

With all the other positive change happening in my life, I've decided to make another: After more than 25 years, I've decided it's time to quit smoking.

The reasons for my decision are many, but the main one is this -- it's just time to do it. I've tried quitting a number of times before (with varying rates of success, but obviously never entirely successful) but I think why it never stuck before is because I was always quitting for someone else, and not for myself.

Now, however, I'm doing it for me because I want to, and not because someone is badgering me into it. I'm doing my research (looking at alternative and holistic cessation methods rather than popping pills) and I have a quit date set of August 4.

With luck, determination, hard work and self-control, perhaps R.J. Reynolds will have one less customer because I decided to quit and not because death took me off their mailing list.