Tripping the Light Blogtasticposted by Jazz at 2/10/2005 05:07:00 PM
NOTE: YOU ARE VIEWING AN ARCHIVED POST AT RUNNING SCARED'S OLD BLOG. PLEASE VISIT THE NEW BLOG HERE.
Doug Petch asks some troubling questions about who should profit from blog aggregators who syphon off the work of other bloggers?
Stop reading this crap and go read a book. Poetic Leanings has a damned fine list of reading material. I feel a small swelling of pride to say that I've already been through nearly half of it. Some of you, I imagine, could top that.
Martinis, cigarettes and hookers. I really can't say any more.
If you want to know what the hell I'm on about there, go ask Prophet or Madman. It's all his fault.
Adam and Steve. Red Hair, Black Leather explains what I don't have the heart to go into today.
If Satan banged Eartha Kitt, what would the offspring look like? Shakespeare's Sister shows you. (Warning... do not view directly before or after a meal.)
No weekly roundup of posts would be complete without a visit to Waiter Rant. This week, we see the pain that can come to somebody for being a poor tipper.
"Hello, The Bistro, how may I help you?" I chirp brightly.A story like that makes me feel all warm inside. I was able to get a good table on 48 hours notice at one of the only two top end eateries around here for Valentines weekend. Then again, I've never tipped a waiter 6.8% unless it was my first time at a place so truly awful in service that I knew I was never coming back and was trying to send a message.
"I want to make a reservation for February 14th," a slightly accented voice demands.
"Let me just get over to that day sir," I say turning to the reservation computer.
"That's Valentine's day," the voice huffs. No shit Einstein.
"What time would you like to make the reservation.?" I ask.
"Seven o'clock. I want a window table for two."
Since most guys make Valentine's Day plans at the last minute we have plenty of open tables.
"And your name, sir?"
Zamir, Zamir, hmmmmm. I flip through my mental Rolodex of bad tippers. Ah, here we are.
Five months ago, Dr. Zamir left me $12 on a $175 check - 6.8%. I remember him. My memory is long. My patience for justice - infinite.
Time to bring the pain.
"I'm sorry Dr. Zamir, my first available table is at 9 o'clock." I offer sweetly.
"9 o'clock?" Zamir sputters, "that's way too late!"
"It is Valentine's Day and those slots filled up early," I lie.
"Can't you do something for me?" he begs.
"I'm so sorry sir."