Old Friends
There's this guy that I have known for about five years, ever since I started my first restaurant job at the Cup and Saucer. His name is Clark and he is a railroad foreman. He's an eccentric and has the foulest mouth God ever gave anyone, including me. He comes in regularly, always ordering the fish special and if he's feeling like it, an apple crostada. He drinks coffee in the winter and ice tea in the summer.
His favourite subject is, of course, pussy, more specifically the one that belongs to the owner of the restaurant. He's imagined her pussy in so many different ways, different hairstyles, tastes and whether or not it has teeth. He's come up with countless schemes that will get him into her pants.
This is all in jest, of course, but he plays a dangerous game when he knows her husband is there, lurking nearby when he'll lean towards me over the bar and say, "You think that since I brought in that blow torch for you fagnasties and pedophiles to make creme brulee that she'll give me some pussy?"
The world is divided into three categories for Clark, pedophiles, fagnasties and Mrs. Goodpussy's. The first is reserved for anyone Clark doesn't like, bosses and rich people. Fagnasties are the rest of us, especially if we're gay and Mrs. Goodpussy's refer to the owner of the restaurant and an interior decorating friend of his.
The man is a legend, basically. I've never met anyone so fascinating, so off the grid. He shows up to the restaurant with filthy hands and proceeds to pour olive oil over his customary mountain of bread and eat it. Yet he spends an average of thirty dollars on dinner and another ten on tip almost every night. When he buys new shirts I can always tell, because I have to cut the tags off from the underarm after he's worn the shirt all day. He tells me if any pedophiles bother me I just have to tell him and he'll take care of the problem.
Clark used to be in the Army, and is a Vietnam vet who was in the shit with people's heads exploding and unforeseen gunfire and intestines spilled all over the ground.
When he came back, his PTSD was so intense that he couldn't function. The Army dealt with it by giving him sixteen electroshock therapy treatments and then a certificate, officially proclaiming the Clark was now ready to re-enter the world as if nothing had happened.
So now he sits at my bar every night, barking to either see me, Monica Lewinsky, or Lori, Lorelei Shugabritches.
And there he sits, the lost child of the United States Army, as mysterious as a scientific anomaly.
Resolutions
So I have made the resolution to stop being afraid of doing things, especially things that will advance my future career/life. The things that I am afraid of doing are insane, listening to phone messages, paying bills, working on projects... Things that I really really enjoy doing are put to the wayside because I am afraid that they are not going to be good enough. I know, right? **Paging Childhood Trauma, please come in Childhood Trauma." I've decided this year that my official resolution for this year is: Fuck it. I am going to make 2009 my bitch.
And now that you all know, I have to do it since it's been posted in the infinite universe of the internet and if I don't do it, everyone will know.
It's going well so far, I actually complete a to do list yesterday and I've lined myself up to hopefully give a lecture at the Infoshop. I'll let you all know when that is and hopefully the movie theater will be up an running before too long.
"Can you please make an announcement that all pedophiles must leave the restaurant by nine p.m.? Thank you."- Clark P. Willis
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