Lessons learned

These past 8 days have been quite a roller-coaster ride for me. Starting last Saturday night, I have been head-butted in the face (without provocation by a complete stranger outside a bar in Georgetown); have been mistaken for Ethan Hawk (this is the second time this has happened, remarkably); was involved in a bike-on-longboard accident which resulted in either a bruised nerve in my elbow, or hairline fracture, or both; was involved in a car-on-deer accident which was hands down the scariest ordeal of my life (car pulled a 180-degree spin and crossed 4 lanes of highway, only to stop in the northbound lanes [we were heading south] hard against the guardrail, narrowly keeping us from presumably rolling down a 20-foot hill into a lake); and gashed upon my foot at a time and unplace which remain unknown.

Yeesh, I am almost out of breath just typing all of that.

So yeah, as you can see, I have been a little preoccupied with staying alive and have been unable to spend much thought time in front of my new best friend - my computer.

While all of these lessons seem to suggest a wide-array of meanings and shed many different rays of light on my life at present, one moment in particular has stuck out in my mind. It occurred this past Wednesday early in the afternoon, a little over twelve hours beyond the aforementioned bike accident.

I was at work (which is bartending at a local restaurant), and having a heck of a day as I battled the pain of an arm I was not able to even straighten and the gloomy realization that in my current situation, I was not exactly covered under any health insurance plan. I had been attempting feverishly to contact my mother all morning (Mom knows all, right?), and had no luck at all in doing so.

In my crippled state, I had opted out of taking any tables. However, out of a boredom that grew quicker than our nation's economic plight, I decided to take one or two tables and maybe make an extra ten dollars in tips on an otherwise-profitless day.

The second table I sat was a pair of elderly women, likely in their 60's. I figured this to be an easy wait, assuming two waters or unsweetened iced teas (or one of each), and either a pair of salads or maybe the tuna melt.

I was dead on with the drinks (two waters, with lemon), but turned out to be a glutton for punishment with the food orders. Arguably my most difficult customer to date, she insisted upon an item from our old menu, which, included food items that did not even exist in the kitchen anymore. I did my best to accommodate her substitutions, as she read them from a copy of our take-out menu that was graffitied with her desired ingregients pre-visit. She was, to say the least, hell-bent on receiving the extinct sandwich.

Ultimately, I screwed up one thing (cheddar and mozzerella sound the same, right?) and feared the worst. Following our earlier exchange, noting especially the disappointment and disgust in her tone of voice, I expect nothing short of an impromptu baptism, courtesy of her cup of ice water near the edge of the table. While she was sure to point out my error, she accepted my apology in a seemingly sincere fashion and turned her attention to the bastard sandwich on her plate.

I turned and visited the kitchen, intent on conveying my frustrations to the kitchen staff, all too aware that they would come across no where near as forceful as they should, with my limited arsenal of Spanish-speaking abilities to blame. No one was present, so instead I prepared another makeshift ice pack and saran-wrapped it once again to my ailing elbow. Maybe she will feel sympathy toward my misfortune and tip me a little better than I was likely to get at this point?

Returning to the table, I awaited the final prognosis on the sandwich. Surprisingly, the woman was actually enjoying the sammy (portobella mushrooms, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, roasted red peppers, no mayo, side of feta vinaigrette dressing). In addition, she asked me what the problem was with the elbow.

As it turns out (and these are the cliffnote's here), the woman is a retired longtime worker at the local free clinic. She prompted me to seek hospital attention, and so I was forced to divulge my insurance predicament. In turn, she wrote down a private number to the local free clinic and told me who to ask for, and to use her as a reference. She then explained how the clinic works, what I had to do to apply, where it was, etc.

In a moment, my worst customer ever became the catalyst I needed to respark my faith in the human race. We are not all as selfish, miserable, greedy, vindictive, disgusting and altogether whack as mass media translates us to be. Diamonds in the rough do exist, and, with any luck, will manage to shine bright and redefine the thought to instead read, "Rough spot on a diamond."

So that's my little story for today. Go do something outwardly good today. Maybe someone will blog about it.

Hakeem ain't got nothin on this

Writer's block, while not exactly a tangible object in the world, might very well be one of the most annoying and debilitating things. Ever.

It's a truly remarkable circumstance, if you really think about it. (Note: In case it is not obvious, I have had ample time to think about it, as I have been a sufferer of it for some time now.) Whether you are a poet, journalist, novelist, copy-writer for corporate websites, restaurant menu creator, or any kind of 'writer', you are presumably familiar with this little demon and have cursed its name loudly at some point along the way.

What's remarkable, however, is that this 'block' is as much of a proponent for equal-opportunity as the EEOC. As long as your craft requires any amount of thought as a precursor to creation, then you, my friend, are a likely target. Why depress, frighten, anger, and belittle one group when you can take them all down?

It's almost unfair, really. When's the last time you heard of a soccer player who just spontaneously forgot how to run and kick a ball? Or how often do you hear of an accountant who suddenly cannot remember how to use a calculator? It just doesn't appear to happen. (Well, maybe the latter does.)

Why are writer's so susceptible to losing focus, and, ultimately feeling worthless and good for producing nothing better than some chicken-scratch on a piece of paper that is better off benefiting the recycling process more than anything else (that is, assuming that said piece of paper actually makes it to a recycling bin, and is not crumbled up and sent immediately to a trashcan overflowing with presumable other failed attempts, or worse, used for kindling in the fireplace.)

I know 'They' say the pen is mightier than the sword.... But in all honesty, I feel very confident I could make better use with a sword blindfolded and armless than I could with a pen mid-writer's block.

But maybe I'm just a pessimist.


(Final note regarding title of this post: Hakeem Olajuwon is the leading all-time shot blocker in the NBA.)