Last Thursday I was working, as usual, as a host at a restaurant in Murray Hill. One of my co-workers, a waitress from NJ, came up to my hosting podium (or my "cave" as the bar tender calls it. He tells me to go back to my "cave" when I prematurely ask for Jameson before my shift ends)holding her fancy sidekick, flippy, ultra-tech shit of a cell phone, frantically punching buttons at a speed I surmise to be quicker than her keyboarding skills. She just stands there until suddenly,the clicking noise stops. Then she looks at me and very genuinely asks in her heavy NJ accent that often blesses me with not being able to understand what she is saying, "How do you spell regardless?"
"Regardless?" I just wanted to make sure that she knew how stupid she actually was.
She nods, affirming her stupidity and making my night, so I continue, "r-e-g-a-r-d-l-e-s-s."
"Wait. r-e-g-u-r?"
"No. R-e-g-A-r..."
"R-e-g-a-u-r-d."
And then very slowly I tell her again, "r-e-g-a-r-d-l-e-s-s."
She nods and walks away.
(Now, when I apply for a position at publishing houses in a few months I will be able to honestly say that I have editorial experience.)
There was one time when I was driving from Des Moines to Chicago by myself in 2004 and I had stopped somewhere in Eastern Iowa to fill up on gas. Inside, I was waiting for my change from some clerk, when the other clerk walks up to the one who is helping me and asks her, "How do you spell pencil?"
"Oh, ummmm..."
I kept quiet. I just nudged my open palm a little in silent demand for my money and walked out of the store. I thought they could use something to grapple with to pass their shift away. I imagine that gas station got very few customers; so actually I was being quite generous, not to mention, obviously humble.
Last night I had a dream that the Spice Girls agreed to add me to their pop group as the sixth Spice Girl: "Kitschy Spice." God, sometimes my dreams kill me. So yeah, Kitschy Spice is super kitschy, you know, like has plastic Lisa Frank folders hanging all over her shit and wears ten foot pumps covered in British flag decals and has a gold tooth and all that kind of crap. I was disappointed when I woke up.
Oh and I am busying myself with reading the series of "graphic shorts" called "Optic Nerve" by Adrian Tomine. (the image of it is at the top) Medicine for my soul.
He has also been on the cover of the New Yorker...
