The day after my Thanksgiving in Hell I quit that ridiculous job and said goodbye to the pompous owner, to boring and fruitless evening shifts and to two of my new friends Camille and Chris. It was no victory for me. Whatever mild relief I may have felt by ditching the bad restaurant gig was quickly overshadowed by the familiar question, “What next, man?”

My holidays had already been scrapped to make way for a dizzying season in high-end food service. It was too late to go home because I could not find a sitter for Petey and I was not about to leave him alone with some strange person in my house. It was not so much the person I was concerned with as much as it was Petey himself; Petey has issues and believe me it will make for a great story some other time, but for now and the sake of my point I was stranded in Palm Springs for Xmas.

I did not mind being with Petey, I love that dog, I minded not being at home. That really was the worst part; this would be my first Xmas EVER that I did not wake up with my family and it was really making me miserable. Bah Humbug was starting to be my theme and response to anything festive and holiday oriented.

My sister called to ask what she should get my Mom for her birthday, which is the 2ndof January. I told her that perhaps I should come home and surprise her. We agreed that that would be the best idea since Xmas had really upset her. I told ma that I had to work New Year’s Day and I would not be able to make it home. Unfortunately the quality of the surprise was increased dramatically the more depressed she became.

I employed my brother and family to tape the event and keep ma occupied so I could get in the house quietly and surprise the hell out of her. Much to my dismay she was not feeling well when I came home and looked as if she had bet hit with a rhino tranq. She looked at me through a haze, but in a second it registered and well you can see the rest.

On the final evening of a not-so-recent trip to Boston I was treated to an evening of laughs with old friends and arguments with new assholes.

The friend I was visiting ditched me for a date that night so I made plans with her roommate, Mikala, also an old pal of mine. We met after her shift at the restaurant and sat outside making our plans. A small man walked by and instead of blatantly ignoring him I nodded a congenial, “Hello” in his direction. Something about his eyes suggested that my choice may have been a poor one and I immediately returned to the discussion at hand.

Mikala and I ended up two blocks down at Sister Sorel, a favorite of the locals here both gay and straight. As we sat enjoying our nightcaps I noticed that the guy who had struck my defenses earlier was sitting just two stools over. To make matters worse, the bartender mixed up our orders. I was caught off guard as I looked to see which lucky guy received the smashing India pale ale. It was him. Eye contact was achieved a second time and I would soon be wishing I had stayed with the Irish stout.

I turned to Mikala and asked if he was staring our way.

She replied with a quiet “Yes.”

Great.

Mikala visited the WC and in her three minute absence I managed to involve myself in a slight altercation with a woman that felt justified using the word “fag” in a derogatory fashion. When I refused to call her a dyke to “even the score” she proceeded to try her case to every gay man in the bar seeking any sort of validation for her ridiculous opinion and behavior. Not surprisingly, the small, staring man had befriended the group of people belonging to the poor word choice lesbian and I knew it was prime time for a switch of venues.

We continued to another local hotspot, Stella, which has more space and a less offensive crowd. Just as we were getting settled the entourage we left behind at Sister Sorel staggered in the door. I can’t be certain, but it did seem like Mikala and I were the subject of many hushed discussions between members of the hostile posse. We kept our distance in hopes of salvaging what was left of the evening.

As the night progressed and the liquid courage flowed I narrowly escaped several attempts by the small, staring man to engage me directly. Unfortunately, there is only so much you can pull off with fake mobile call tactics and he finally caught me off guard.

Standing on his tip toes he slurred into my ear “What difference do you find with the people of Boston and the people of the rest of the US?” I took a deep breath and looked down at him long enough to say “Sometimes they can be very annoying.”

He grimaced in defeat and returned to the growing group of drunken patrons. Glancing in their direction I took notice that the self-proclaimed “dyke” was making out with some guy and eating something from another restaurant’s take-away container with her fingers.

A few more of my Bostonian friends had joined us by the time the persistent and completely pissed small, staring man returned for yet another go with me. His entrance statement this time was “Has anybody heard the new Pink album?” I was done. The time for diplomacy had expired. I hissed into his face, “Yes, my favorite song is the one that goes something like “don’t talk to me, keep your drink and give me the money? I can really relate to that”.

The level of hostility I exhibited cued one of my newly arrived friends to intervene. He sent me to the gents and tried to neutralize the situation with the aid of Mikala. Somehow even after all she had been through she still had faith in the power of kittens, rainbows and bubble gum to make everything better. That didn’t last long. Once the small, staring man thought he could intimidate her with a little close proximity verbal abuse Mikala traded in the sunshine approach from some good old fashioned whoop ass and shut him down pronto. The small, staring man finally departed with a half-assed finger gesture that nearly caused him to lose his balance.

I was happy to see him leave, but most of the night has been tainted and it was nearly closing time anyway. I started to feel bad about my thoughts and actions towards the little man, who meant no harm and probably just wanted to make some new friends albeit in an intrusive and rude manner. I am not usually impatient, but I just didn’t have it in me this time around. I think the encounter with the “lesbian” at Sister Sorel served to strip all of my patience reserves for the night.

I am human first and foremost and deserve to be left alone to enjoy my time by myself or with my friends. I tried to be kind, polite and even used sarcasm to get the message across without hurting or even worse, embarrassing him. We all have our limits and he pushed me to mine. There are people with no social filtering mechanism and when they are inebriated it seems like nothing will get through to them. If he has any recollection of the night at all it will probably be what a raging asshole I was to him. He will gloss over his terrible behavior and label me a jerk for not inviting him into my circle. Perhaps my guilt is somewhat misplaced, but at least I took the time to see the situation from his perspective.

It was my tenth birthday, my first double digit celebration at our summer weekend destination on Catawba Island on Lake Erie. We spent every weekend there and most of our vacations and I hated it. I hated having to pack and then drive two hours, on a good day, to the island. My father had a boat and being the avid fisher family, we spent a lot of time on the water fishing, swimming and just hanging out.

A typical weekend started Friday night arriving pretty tired from the drive and going to bed early. We were awakened really early much to our discomfort and dragged to breakfast. I usually had two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of whole wheat toast with no butter. Then came the hard part, we would drive to the boat and then ma would get the dope ready, Dramamine. She would crush up the bitter white pill in a spoon with “Slice”, a citrus 7-Up concoction that my brother and I grew to despise forever with or without the pill. We were pretty good at being on the water after being drugged and either slept or played games. As we got older we took the rods and began to fish.

There aren’t many fish tales in my background, but I remember winning a Fish Ohio award for a White Bass that I caught with my dad and Uncle Kenny. The fish was 15.5 inches long from tip to tail and the award was for any fish longer than 15”. That fish stayed in our freezer for years to come uneaten and completely whole tucked beneath countless Ziplock baggies of sauce and meatballs.

When it was time to reel ‘em in and head home my brother and I would tear up the remaining sandwiches into small pieces and feed the seagulls that followed us all the way in to the dock. It was there that the carnage began. My father and whoever accompanied us, my Uncle Kenny or Randy, would begin to clean the fish in a precise, professional and bloody way. Meanwhile, ma and usually us kids would go down the street to the local farmers’ stand and get sweet corn on the cob, peaches and tomatoes for the upcoming dinner. Dad would bread the filets and deep fry them to a perfect golden brown. The corn was shucked by me and the sibling. I remember I always took great pride in husking the corn and making sure that every single thread of silk was taken off and the corn’s speckled kernel skin was left shiny and smooth.

We all gathered around the wooden picnic table waiting for the day’s catch to be presented. Soon there was plates of fresh fish fillets with corn on the cob that hours before was still on the stalk. Ma would prepare a salad of fresh tomato wedges, red onion and fresh basil all dressed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. I remember this meal so well I can almost taste it and chances are before I blew out the candles on that zucchini cake, that’s what we had for dinner. My Uncles had places on either side of us and became quite close to us and our parents. We spent a great deal of time with them on and off the island. Their wives and kids soon became our “adopted” cousins and Aunts. On that particular dinner, for my 10th birthday, they were there to help cut, bread, serve and celebrate.

I would give anything to have that back. All that bitching and moaning I did when I was a kid was all because I did not want to go to my family’s weekend getaway on the lake. You really have no idea of what you have until you grow up and find that you dearly miss what is long gone.

My last meal of 2007 was shrimp tempura and it was amazing, but it was my second to last meal of 2007 that deserves mention.

Having missed every blessed holiday of the season due to a job that ended up in the crapper I thought it only fair to surprise Ma Hazzard on her birthday. This meant an ungodly early flight out of LAX on January 1. Thankfully, my webmaster lives in close proximity to the airport and had no conflicting plans to prevent me from crashing at his place and begging a lift.

Boy Wonder suggested we visit a spot he found called “Raw” in Santa Monica. It’s not sushi, but raw cuisine, living foods that are not cooked above a certain temperature and are considered “alive”. I was torn. I had “living food” once before in San Francisco and it did not agree with me or anybody in my party. I suspect it was the coconut soup. I did enjoy the rest of the lunch though and figured what the hell, I will try it again this time avoiding coconut milk or anything that billed itself as a living soup.

The menu was sent to me via e-mail by Boy Wonder due to the extensive list of items. It was a thoughtful and efficient idea, but I wish he had not because we waited for ages to be noticed at our table and I would have liked to have spent that time looking at the menu instead of wondering where the hell our server was. I had to get up twice before we got our first course. This food had better sing and dance because I was hungry and getting annoyed. In my opinion, being a high standing member of the service industry, the first couple of minutes before you approach a table are very important. Chances are the guests are hungry and a minute or 30 seconds to you can and does usually seem like an eternity.

Eventually she came around and we began our experience of the living dinner.

The menu is set up in a suggested order of courses; one of the ideas behind this sort of thing is to eat things in an order that maximizes efficient digestion. This meant dessert first!

First course, THE ORGAZMATRON, a rustic parfait of sorts with a buckwheat crust and creamy avocado finished with nuts, ginger and mint. We were in heaven. Amidst the exhaust fumes of passing vehicles and a seemingly endless onslaught of construction noise there was a party going on in our mouths – and everybody was invited. The Orgazmatron truly lived up to its name!

I had THE SEA WITCH for my mid course and Boy Wonder had the MAKI S&M SPECIAL. I said I was going to avoid living soups, but I love seaweed soup and I saw no mention of coconut milk or anything else ominous. The MAKI S&M SPECIAL was an interesting take on sushi with a Pumpkin Seaweed Walnut Pâté rolled with Avocado, Cucumber, Purple Cabbage & Tomatoes served with a spicy mustard & Nama Shoyu.

My soup was perfect, warm and loaded with ten varieties of seaweed. Meanwhile the “sushi” was really something; the thought and energy that goes into a production like that is worthy of high praise and hard not to enjoy.

We finished with what we thought to be the most intriguing items, the PESTO PIZZA, a deep dish warm “pizza” and a BACON WESTERN DOUBLE “cheeseburger”. The pizza was made with a buckwheat crust topped with a walnut pesto, tomato, Italian herbs, olives, marinated onions & mushrooms. That was mine and let me tell you it was amazing.

Boy Wonder’s “burger”, a Mushroom Nut Burger with Macadamia “Chez”, heirloom ketchup, Fig Mustard and Zucchini fries was arranged open faced and we ate it in pieces with this on that and that on this. So good, the “cheese” was nothing short of a culinary masterpiece.

Dinner was the perfect amount of food, any more would have been gluttonous and uncomfortable. Not a bad price point for what was a creative and difficult dinner to prepare. In my opinion, not cuisine for the every day, but perfect for those special occasions when Pumpkin Ravioli, Cornish Hens and Flourless Chocolate Torte don’t float your boat.