Thanksgiving at work had been a real joy so far. Bad manners, cheap guests and disappointment abounded and it was far from over. The owner of the hotel came in with a party of six. The staff were nervous right away because he can be very demanding and a bit rude. I had no fear and welcomed the challenge. It didn’t matter that half of his party, on arrival of the first course, demanded something else. Why should it irk me that the menu was ignored and the food rejected after it had been prepped and served? It was my job to serve and I was determined to do so, and well.

Worry not, we can stop everything. Ignore the other 200 patrons enjoying their fixed menu fare so we can make YOU your fucking iceberg wedge you ungrateful, tacky, prick! The owner requested that his favorite wines be served, a 1986 Chateau Haut Brion; a top of the line Bordeaux that we sell for the modest price of $540. The white was a Louis Latour Montrachet; one of the finest white Burgundies ever for the same price. It kills me when someone with good taste has no manners to match. It has been told to me by several upper management persons that this restaurant is nothing to him except a place for his ungrateful, demanding tennis club friends to hang out and belittle the staff. How nice for them that they have a place to go to feel good. So glad we are here for them.

There was some controversy over the location of the second bottle of Bordeaux when the bill came. The owner had been knocking them back like Pellegrino.

I calmly explained that the first bottle had finished well before the second course and since both were on the table I saw no need to interrupt him with a useless question like “Shall I open the second bottle?” when it was clearly there for consumption not decoration. He spoke to me like I was the first participant in an underprivileged youth work exchange program. Let me just say that condescension from such a pretentious dolt is a real boost. It very nearly made up for missing the holiday with my mom.

The bill came to a little over two large. He left me two Ben Franklins and change. The staff were pooling our tips that day so he didn’t just fuck me – he fucked his entire team. People that gave up their holiday to serve sub par food to a bunch of arrogant, entitled, thankless bastards and for what? Ten percent? A party of six at IHOP has 18% added to the bill.

I was a little bummed, but glad to see early on what kind of man I was working for. I was also very glad that while I was decanting the bottle of Bordeaux I saved enough for a huge glass that I shared with the servers through the night. Now that’s what I call holiday spirit!

I hope that your Thanksgiving was full of laughs and that you spent it with people close to you… or at least your experience was as trauma free as possible.

On the great day of thanks I worked a long shift at a new restaurant. Not new to to the world; in fact, rather established, but new to me anyway. It has been around since the 50’s and its claim to fame is that Marilyn Monroe and similar used to frequent the hotel and its many pools and guest rooms. Evidently not much has happened since.

Picture it, Thanksgiving Day 2007. I kept the phones off and the curtains drawn in a seriously reclusive way. I watched the entire third season “Six Feet Under” to further punctuate my mood. If I had to spend the evening with people who were not my family then I was going to have the morning all to myself my way. Sadly my self-imposed solitary was over all too soon and work beckoned.

There were some 500 reservations spread out between noon and eight. Every piece of available real estate suitable as a serving surface was used as a table. If we could seat somebody on it, it was a chair. We brought in outside staff from the banquet division to help with the back work, like polishing silverware, clearing tables and running food. One poor sod had the job of polishing the silverware. For six hours this man stood next to the dish tank and polished everything that came through. He never saw anything but the rag and the flatware for the entire time.

I waited on 21 people in three separate parties and had far too much time on my hands. The work was mostly for the back waiters. I felt bad, there was nothing for me to do but take orders and when you have a set menu any chimp could rise to that task. When the orders came out they were so fast I barely had time to put the proper silver down. The food was prepared ages before so everything was simply warmed or grilled and plated with the easy things like mashed something, bland vegetables and whatsit sauce.

About half way through the shift I noticed a happy table of gays with a child in a neighboring section. Everyone in the party looked happy to be there with one notable exception. He was clearly a guest of the unconventional family; uncomfortable and probably praying for a natural disaster to bring the evening to an early close. To ease his tension he decided to assert some control over the situation. I’m sure you’ve all seen this before, the moose-in-Tiffany’s type complaining to the staff in a vain attempt to appear sophisticated when in fact they end up looking more moose-esque than ever. It’s painful to witness because you have to be embarrassed FOR them. And the irony of the chump making a fuss and complaining on THANKSGIVING was almost too much to bear. The other fellows in the party must have felt the same for their next round of drinks were all straight up.

Believe me, I was not at all pleased with the reality that I would be unable to join my family for Thanksgiving for the first time ever. It just so happens that the new people get last licks when it comes to the schedule and there was nothing to be done. Certainly I wasn’t going to make a public spectacle of myself or undermine the happiness of others. There will be other days, fun days, my sort of days. And I won’t wait a full year again before I take a moment to give thanks because I am indeed very thankful and appreciative… most of the time.

Normally I would not be found out drinking on a Wednesday night, but I had guests and the venue promised strippers in addition to an underwear contest. You may find it surprising that the strippers are what interested me the most. Upon arriving with my posse I took notice of a tall, hairy, somewhat plump looking man flailing himself around the torso of an older gentleman with a vacant expression on his face. I naturally assumed this toad was one of the strippers. As I turned around to return home for an episode of “Sex and the City” and a frozen pizza, my friend assured me that this was one of the contestants getting a “jump” on the event. He explained that the winner is chosen by the reaction of the audience so it pays to gain a fan base before the contest begins.

I ordered a round for us at the bar and discovered the advertised stripper in my line of sight. He was physically perfect. No fat anywhere, not a blemish or a misplaced hair. I immediately hated him and fantasized that he had an eating disorder or recently had a hump removed, anything to give my insecurities some comfort in the hot glow of his flawless appearance. After five minutes of glaring and internal turmoil I thought it best to ignore him and concentrate on my friends and our evening together. While we sipped our Newcastles I began to draw up my chest workout for the next morning in my head.

The contest began and the announcer looked all of 13. He was appropriately dressed in black, square-cut Calvin Klein’s and nothing else. It must have been his first attempt at using a microphone because he held it so close to his mouth that all of his words blurred into a muffled mess. It was hard not to appreciate his enthusiasm though. Amidst the breaths and sighs he seemed very eager to get the crowd into the show or at least into their underwear.

There were three men of various shapes, sizes and levels of intoxication that lined up on the stage ready for their turn to turn it out for the crotch-starved crowd. The first guy was the scary one that nearly caused my premature departure. He had an ear-to-ear Cheshire cat grin on his face and appeared to be really happy to be on stage. I suspect he took notice of his competition and was already calculating just how he was going to spend his winnings.

The second contestant was the smallest and drunkest by far. He was about 5′5″ and 115 pounds soaking wet. A very, very thin man, the sky blue bikini bottoms he chose as his costume practically drooped on his fragile frame. The poor guy almost lost his balance as he undressed in the spotlight. We’ve all been there, right? Trying so hard to be suave and sexy while making extraordinary effort just to remain vertical? He meandered out of the spotlight following his drunken introductory salute and began to walk away. The announcer politely herded him back to his position next to the Cheshire cat guy who was still appearing confident and poised.

Number three was my favorite and the one who got my vote in any category. He too was very short and very drunk, but not as thin. He reminded me of Jim Henson’s Fraggles; short, pear-shaped with bright yellow hair that was sticking up everywhere. Now this guy had set out to win. As soon as he was announced he strutted on stage in a red baseball cap with his bright yellow tufts pointing East and West. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt in the same tone of red that hung to his knees overlapping a pair of shorts in the same style. To cap his Pacific fashion motif he wore bright red flip-flops. He started to remove his pants midway through a turn on his heels and I was honestly looking forward to seeing what was beneath his shorts. Keeping true to form a bright red thong was revealed – much to my delight. I held up my beer and hollered in enthusiastic approval of his thoughtfulness and dedication to the ensemble.

When it came time for the winner to be decided I got butterflies and a wave of embarrassment swept over me. I was nervous for them. I stood there watching them and realized that I was alone in my shallow pool of shame. They were happy to be there, proud even. Who was I to feel anything but happiness for these guys? If they were enjoying themselves then I should be excited for them. When it came time to cast our “votes”, everybody in the house voted for all the guys in claps, hoots, hollers and cat calls.

Somebody had to win however, and it was, as expected, the Cheshire cat guy from Long Beach, California who, by the way, was named Ed.

I finished my beer and thought of how many times in my life I watched somebody in outlandish dress or manner and felt sorry and embarrassed for them. It dawned on me that the feeling of sympathy and shame stemmed from my own insecurities and internal rubbish. We should be so lucky to have the courage to present ourselves to the world without regard for judgment and scorn. I envy them. They are all winners.

To all of those who have written in with questions, please don’t take offense at the sequence in which I answer. It isn’t personal, I promise. Jade wants to know my favorite holiday and children’s book and why.

I will have to say that my favorite holiday is a toss between Veterans’ Day and New Year’s Day.

There is a lack of appreciation for vets in this country. Soldiers and sailors risked their lives for our nation. It doesn’t matter if they wanted to or not or if I happen to agree with the politics behind the conflicts they endured. They returned home, many of them damaged, traumatized and often scorned by those they fought to protect. I think because of Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day many people have learned the distinction between those that create wars and those that serve in them.

Even as I write this our brothers and sisters are risking their lives fighting a war with a purpose that is at best ambiguous. It is disgusting. They are sent to fight a war kept alive by an administration that has no interest in humanity or life, but for the black blood that flows from the veins of a land not theirs. Blood we wouldn’t have a need for if it weren’t in the interests of that same administration.

Liberation is a wonderful byproduct of war. Profit is not. Regardless of the reasons, the servants of war deserve our respect.

On a much lighter note, I think New Year’s Day is the one day my slate is wiped clean and whatever happened in the 364 days prior doesn’t matter. We all make mistakes and it is a great comfort to know that on January 1st I get a chance to start over and forget about the mistakes I made and the things I wish I could take back. I find it more than comforting to know that I can take what I have learned not to do in the previous year and apply that to the next year in the hopes that I can be a better person.

My favorite children’s book without a doubt growing up was “The Poky Little Puppy”. I read it over and over again and it still sits on my bookshelf at home. Apparently finding your own path and adventures appealed to me from the very beginning. I have to wonder how that puppy influenced my belief in karma…