BIG NIGHT OUT: Went downtown last night to see Dishwasher Pete talk about his life washing, and his new book and exacting dishwasher demomgraphics. Kinda fascinating, kinda awkward. Got a handshake and a chance to tell him how much was inspired by him, and, how much I loathed myself when I was washing.

For the record, I hated that train the most, Fred. Seriously. Even with my most stoic gameface on, the thought of washing/being trainlocked for the next 30 hours over the course of a couple days could just about bring me to tears. That shit sucked. I pined for a better life each minute. The first hour of the day was the absolute worst. Fake greetings and half-ass motivational should pats. I wanted to kill.

Special thanks go out to my fucking Walkman. You saved my life. Carefully-crafted cassette tapes with strategic, spirit-lifting mixes. Hats off go to the managers who’d turn a blind eye to my policy infractions. The rule was that boomboxes or walkmans just flat out weren’t allowed. Well, if you fuckers only knew. If that pit could talk. I rocked all summer long. As soon as the top brass would board the train at a stop, I’d stow my unit away in a dry place somewhere undisclosed in my dishpit. And when we’d start moving, free of “the man,” well, I’d resume my rocking. Those tunes saved my life up there.

And for the record again, I’ll just claim it right now: Tyler, my pit was cleaner than yers, more organized and was run with an iron fist. Facts are stubborn things, brother.

All I ever asked for was calm in the pit, and respect for my space, and my little plan for organizing stacks of dishes. The “hand off” of a drity dish was a crucial moment that could make or break the flow of the night. A couple servers got into it, and man, I loved them for it. Things were safer, I could knock out stacks of dishes quicker, and, well, there was a little order in a chaotic little space. Thank you to all who had the grace to scrape a dish, place it where it was supposed to go and go back out to the battle. I cherished you.

And, some acidic sentiment: For every server who haphazardly threw dishes into my zone, with no finesse or respect of my pitiful little world, well, we hope you are suffering through some shit-ass lunch rush right now, in bad shoes and a starched white shirt. (We type this with a big toothy smile.)

Here’s my list of top-notch servers:

01. Darren “Woody Hummel, you never let the bastards get you down.
02. Phillipe
03. Stu
04. Pam Pam
05. Mark from Park City who sang those Dr. Suess tunes

On the shitlist:

01. Fred Green…snarling, sweating and wearing two left shoes.
02. Montie…just slow down for a split second, please.
03. David Brust…you smarmy fucker.

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From a thermonuclear J down south, comes a pile of old “cards of business.” Pretty amazing.

And while yer at it, here’s some stamps too, with a nod to fellow philatelist Oswald down in the City of Angels.

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