Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 28

Tipping in the News

The subject of tipping sells papers. The mere mention of gratuities – whether it's about how to, why or who should get them – elicits passionate responses from both Che Guevara t-shirt wearing income redistribution guerillas and "Fuck the poor" Ayn Randian lunatics alike. And this debate has been raging for years. If you look at old newspaper clippings you'll find heated rhetoric about tipping as far back as the end of the 19th Century. But two tipping dramas in the media recently caught my eye.

The first story exploded all over the web last week. A waitress in Seattle by the name of Victoria Liss served what she termed a "yuppie scum" couple and got a big fat zero for a tip. But in addition to the lack of gratuity someone wrote on the credit card slip, "P.S. You could stand to loose (sic) a few pounds." Ouch.

Ms. Liss, understandably angry, posted not only a picture of the credit card slip on her Facebook page, but provided the name of the credit card holder – Andrew Meyer. The story spread like the Ebola virus and Ms. Liss later reported she had tracked down Mr. Meyer on the web and soon his picture and information about where he worked and went to school was up on websites like Crushable and The Stranger. Small problem though, Ms. Liss got the wrong Andrew Meyer.



Ms. Liss apologized writing, "I need glasses, I put up the picture of the wrong guy. I'm a douche for that. SO SORRY. Blinded by rage." Crushable took down the page with this lame retraction, "We're sorry, man—hope you didn't get too much hate mail from this mistake!" And Dan Savage over at The Stranger snarked, "In my defense: I didn't finger the guy—he he, finger the guy—I accepted the eye witness/stiffee's ID and blogged and linked. . . And I'm sorry for that—but only for that." So much for journalistic fact-checking! Last I heard, Ms. Liss was so overcome with remorse that she hid in bed for two days. "So sorry to the wrong guy," she wrote, "Everyone please just drop it?"

I hope the Andrew Meyers of the Northwest aren't screwed. I can just see some young woman doing pre-date Google recon on a poor guy with the same name and wrinkling her nose in disgust. Maybe a potential employer will have the same reaction too. Now the pre-guilt ridden Ms. Liss initially had no problems with her Internet expose stating, "We live in a social networking hub, don't shit where you eat." But I take issue with that. What Ms. Liss did was wrong.

I'm on record as being against the lynch mob mentality of the Internet. We all act like assholes from time to time – but we do not deserve to have our transgressions blasted all over the blogosphere. I've written a blog and books about being a waiter and I never identified an obnoxious customer or bad tipper by name. My thinking was that just describing the bad behavior was sufficient. Worked pretty well for me actually. Don't get me wrong. The zero tip and offending weight loss advice was insulting in the extreme. Ms. Liss deserved to be pissed. If she had just Facebooked the check without any identifying information, that would have been a good and illuminating story. But she went overboard. For example, how did she know that the man actually wrote the message on the check? It could have been his female dining companion. How many of us let our significant other sign our name on credit card slips? Liss should have thought before she hit "send."

I suffered greater insults during my time in restaurant serfdom. I got called fat, that I "sounded too gay," and even had things thrown at me. It sucked. So I can sympathize with Ms. Liss' feelings. Whoever wrote that comment is another example of the entitled, narcissistic and over inflated self-esteem junkies who patronize restaurants and make waiting a living hell. Now some might think Ms. Liss' use of the Internet will discourage such offenses in the future. They won't. People like that don't care. They never will. But let me be on record saying that whoever wrote that fat comment is a miserable asshole.

The second story comes from San Francisco. It seems some local waiters want to make the standard restaurant tip 25 percent. Currently the standard tip for dining out is between 15-20 percent. Of course blogs like the Huffington Post were all over this. BBC radio even called me today to comment. So what do I think?

I don't think 25 percent should become the standard tip. I'd keep the current system. Now I'd love to see all waiters get 20 percent every time. They work hard for their money and often have to contend with jerks like Ms. Liss encountered. But the economy sucks. People are eating out less and/or ordering less expensive items. Customers are still tipping in the 15-20 percent range, but their smaller checks are yielding less tip income that in days past. That means waiters have to work longer hours for the same amount of money. As I described in my book Keep the Change, most people do not tip to reward the quality of service. They tip for psychological reasons like fear, guilt, empathy or acting out a personality disorder. But raising the tip standard today is like raising taxes on the middle class during the recession. If you ate 100 bucks worth of food at a Manhattan eatery and tipped 20 percent, after you factor in the sales tax, you're looking at shelling out $128.90. If that tip were 25 percent, the bill would come to $133.00.

Now some people might say, "Hey, it's only four bucks difference." True. That figure will never bother rich people. But for average struggling middle class folks who sees dining out as a treat, upping the tip norm might become a deterrent to eating out. Remember the old waiter saying, "If you can't afford to tip, you can't afford to eat out?" They might just do that! And that will hurt every waiter and every restaurant. So lets keep the percentages as they are. Besides, the IRS will only take more anyway. But if you feel like you must tip 25 percent? Then God bless you.

And you know what would be better than increasing the tip rate? Helping restaurant workers have access to affordable health insurance! How about that!!!!!!

Out of Reach

I have to get to Sirius Radio in Manhattan to do an interview for the Martha Stewart Channel. For me, the best way to travel to Midtown is by bus. It's not a good idea to go on the air stressed out after slaloming through insane New York traffic. In my opinion, New Yorkers are among the nation's worst drivers. Its not that they don't know how to drive. Its just that they ignore the rules of the road. I once saw a guy do a u-turn on Broadway to snag a parking spot. The fact that an ambulance was careening down the street didn't seem to faze him. The last place you want to have a heart attack is in Manhattan.

Since the weather's suddenly turned cool, I put on a black pullover to complement my jeans and black shoes, grab my keys and start walking to the bus stop. As I round the corner my pulse quickens – the bus is early. So I break into a run and cover the two blocks to the stop in record time. As the passengers are piling onto the bus I catch my breath and fumble for fare money. As I'm doing so I see a pair of glasses sitting on top of a newspaper. Next to it is a saran wrapped bundle of chocolate chip cookies.

"Someone forgot their stuff," I say to a passenger climbing onto the bus.

"Those were here when I got here," he says. "Can you believe someone forgot that kind of stuff?"

The glasses are styled for a man and look prescription and expensive. The cookies look homemade. But there's no time to do anything about it. I have to get to the studio on time. I leave the lonely looking belongings behind and get on the bus. But as I settle down in my seat I can't help but wonder, why did this person leave those things behind? What's the story here?

My first thought is that the man was probably talking on his cell phone or playing with a computer whatsis and just plain forgot. I read somewhere that all the texting, web surfing and smart phoning we do is wrecking our attention spans. We've offloaded our long-term memories onto data servers and our mind just can't keep up with the megabytes of information we get bombed with everyday. No wonder thousands of motorists are injured or killed every year because they're jabbering into their latest and greatest cell phones.

Or did the man forget his belongings because he was suffering from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that life throws at all of us? Maybe his kid is failing in school, his mom's sick or he got bad news from the doctor. Maybe his retirement portfolio is tanking or he's living in a house worth less than he paid for it. In these tough economic times he could be worried about losing his job. Or maybe the man doesn't have a job. He could be one of those unemployed guys who hides the fact he got laid off by going though the pantomime of a daily commute. I've met a few guys like that. They go into the city and set up an office in Starbucks. Maybe my unknown man can ill afford to lose those spectacles.

But what about the man's cookies? Maybe he does have a job and there's a party at his office; for someone's birthday or to congratulate the birth of a child. I can only think that his wife whipped up the chocolate chips as his contribution. Why not just buy something? Maybe the couple is watching their dollars and cents. But then again, nothing says love like homemade baked goods. I hope the man's fellow cubicle dwellers are worth the effort. Then again, they might be angling for his job, smiling and smiling at him in the hallway, but still villains.

But I'm putting my money on a broken heart. This guy could have been dumped or is facing a nasty divorce. A couple of years ago I ended a relationship with a girl and it fucked my short-term memory for months. I lost my keys, misplaced my wallet, forgot appointments and what day of the week it was. I even left my iPhone in a restaurant. I thought I was going crazy. My memory eventually returned, but I know I could've done what Bus Stop Guy just did. Loneliness maims the mind and soul.

As my bus rattles down the street, I look to see if anyone's running back to the bus stop, praying his stuff will still be there. I hope so. People will steal anything. My neighbor has the ski rack ripped off his car roof in the middle of the night. But even if he retrieves his stuff, if the guy has a job, he'll be late for work. Maybe that'll be the straw the breaks the camel's back and his boss will shit can him in favor of a kid who'll work longer hours for less money. A deep dark pit may be opening up my forgetful man's stomach right now. We live in uncertain times and everyone is feeling the heat.

My bus plows though the Lincoln Tunnel and we pull into the Port Authority Terminal. When we come to a stop, several people leap out of their seats and rush to the exit, cutting several people off. That burns my onion. One guy, a business looking type, unwittingly clocks an old lady with his briefcase. I leap out of my seat and, just before he can smack her again, grab his bag. That earns me a pissed off look. But the guy doesn't say anything. Maybe's he's just preoccupied too.

Just before I get off the bus I check my pockets. Yep, all my stuff's still there. I take the escalator down, head over to the Eighth Avenue exit and hop into a cab. As I watch the people outside my scratched window flow by, I wonder how many of them are present in the here and now. Am I? Sometimes we get so wrapped up inside our heads that the little things that make life worth living pass us by. And there's no data server or gadget to help us with that.

I go up to the studio, slip on my headphones and the engineer does a sound check. I'm on in a minute. But just before the host gives me my cue, I think about that man's glasses and cookies. It makes me sad. I'll never know what happened or what Bus Stop Guy's about. It will be forever out of my reach. And that's what drives me crazy sometimes. I passed a thousand people on the ride over here and I'll never know what makes them tick. It makes me feel small.

The light goes on and I start talking into the mike. Hundreds of thousands people have read and heard my story over the years. But now the only story that concerns me is the one I will never know.

September 11th

It's nine in the morning on September 11, 2001. I've gotten up early to take my girlfriend to a job interview on 67th Street in New York. I'm not happy about this. Rush hour in Manhattan's always a bitch so, as Allie is in the bathroom putting the finishing touches on her makeup, I turn on the television to get the traffic report. Maybe I'll get lucky and the going in the Lincoln Tunnel will be free and easy.

But when I turn on the news I see a picture of one of the Twin Towers smoking. The newscaster says a plane crashed into it. Must be a small plane, I think to myself. The hole in the building doesn't look that big. My first reaction is that some dolt flying a Piper Cub out of Teterboro Airport fucked up royally.

"Well," I call out to Allie. "You can forget your job interview."

"Why?" she says, coming out of the bathroom.

"A plane hit one of the Twin Towers."

"What? Are you serious?"

"That's going to make traffic in New York one giant clusterfuck. There's no way I'm driving into that."

"Is the fire bad?" Allie says.

"I don't know. But I feel sorry for the firemen. They're going have to lug a ton of equipment up a lot of stairs."

Allie and I stand in the living room and watch the news reports. The anchor is saying it must have been a small plane that hit the building. Everyone is calm. It's just an accident. A plane once hit the Empire State building, they say. They'll fix the damage.

Then another plane comes out of nowhere and smashes into the other tower. Off camera a woman screams. As I watch the fireball and debris explode out of the other side of the building I'm dumbstruck. What are the odds of two accidents like this happening at the same time? Then a tremendous sense of fear hollows out my stomach. This is no accident.

"We're under attack!" I shout. "Holy shit! We're under attack!"

"What are you talking about?" Allie says.

"No way this is two accidents!" I say. Then it hits me. "Oh my God! All those people! There are tens of thousands of people in there!" As I watch the horror on television, I realize that countless people are dying.

"Lets go!" I say, grabbing my keys. "Let's go!"

"Where!" Allie shouts. "Where are we going!"

"To the river," I say. "We have to see this."

"Why?"

"This is like Pearl Harbor. We have to see this. This is history." The moment I say those words, I know the world has been forever changed.

We get into my car and race toward the river. I live over the hill from Edgewater, NJ so the Hudson isn't far away. As we go over the hill into Cliffside Park, the Twin Towers rise into view. They look like two giant cigarettes burning. I gave up smoking a month ago. Now I really, really want one.

Cars have stopped into the middle of the road. The drivers are standing on the street, staring in disbelief at the disaster unfolding before their eyes. A cop is watching too. He's so out of it, he doesn't notice when a distracted driver hits one of the stopped cars.

I weave my car through the onlookers and head into Edgewater. There's a boardwalk by the river that runs alongside a shopping complex. When we pull into the lot, for some inexplicable reason, I want coffee. So Allie and I walk into Starbucks and get some. As I'm paying, I don't notice the person who swipes my Ray-Ban sunglasses, which I left on the counter. They cost 200 bucks, but I don't care. Coffee in hand, Allie and I walk to the river.

To my surprise, the boardwalk is almost empty. The few people that are there are peering at the disaster though those telescopic viewfinders that cost a quarter. Usually people use them to marvel at the Manhattan skyline. Today, they're being used to watch that skyline being destroyed.

'Look up there!' a man shouts. "It's another plane!" A woman screams.

I look up and see a fighter plane streak towards the burning towers. The dispassionate part of my mind registers the make of the aircraft, an F-15 Eagle. That's an air superiority fighter, designed to intercept and destroy enemy planes. They're bringing in air support, I think to myself. There might be other planes out there.

"They hit Washington too!" a man with a transistor radio says. "They hit Washington!"

"What did they hit?" another person says. "The White House?"

The man presses his ear to the radio. "I think the Pentagon got it. They're saying its terrorists."

I feel like throwing up and put down my coffee. We're at war. Someone's trying to kill us. What if another plane comes? The fighter will shoot it down. Maybe falling debris will kill us. It's a simple calculation really. The fighter will shoot a plane down over us instead of risking it hit the more densely populated city.

At this point Allie is sobbing. I put my arm around her and watch the Towers burn. I can only see one tower clearly. Smoke partially hides the other one. Then, after a few minutes, I suddenly notice I can't see that tower at all.

"It fell!" the man with the radio shouts. "The whole goddamn building collapsed!

"Are you sure?' I say, my mind refusing to accept what happened. "There's a lot of smoke. It's hard to see."

"The guy on the radio says it fell!"

A cloud of dust spills out of Manhattan and moves over the Hudson's waters like a pyroclastic flow. Now I'm really frightened. What if the terrorists had chemical or biological agents on the plane?

"Lets get the hell out of here," I say to Allie. But she's gone catatonic so I have to drag her to the car. When we get near home, I realize I'm hungry. So I pull into a diner and Allie and I order breakfast. As I'm eating my bacon and eggs, one of the waitresses starts crying hysterically.

"The other tower fell!" she wails. "My niece is in there!"

I don't know what to do. So I pay the bill and we walk outside. There's a supermarket across the street so I suggest we go and buy some supplies. "Things might get crazy," I say to Allie. "We should get some food." She reluctantly agrees.

The supermarket, far from being a mob scene of Armageddon fearing shoppers, is calm. After we pick up a few items we go to the cashier to pay for them. Four cops walk into the store. "We need all the water you have," one of them says. "We're taking it." No one argues with them.

Allie and I manage to get home. By this time she's almost uncommunicative. When I turn the news back on I hear the newscaster urging people to donate blood. I'm edgy and angry. I need to do something. Then my phone rings. It's Marc, one of the waiters at The Bistro.

"What's happening?" I say.

"I want to go home," Marc says. 'I can't be here."

"I have no problem with that," I say. "Just tell Fluvio. I don't think he'll argue about it. There won't be many customers tonight."

"There are people here eating lunch," Marc says. "A couple of ladies laughing like nothing's happening. I want to slap them."

"Everyone handles stress in their own way, Marc. Just hang in there."

After I hang up I grab Allie and get back in the car. I want to donate blood. We fight though an hour of traffic to get to the donation point in Paramus, only to be turned away. They have enough blood they say. Go home.

When we get home I put Allie into bed and she falls into a deep sleep. Part of me feels guilty. I should have never taken her to the river. I should have never dragged her around with me. As she sleeps, I'm glued to the television, watching footage of the planes striking the Towers over and over and over. On some level I know this isn't good for me, that I'm getting traumatized. But I can't look away.

Around nine at night, Allie emerges from the bedroom. "I'm really hungry," she says. "Let's go out and get something to eat. I don't want to cook."

"Sure."

As we walk to my car, I see my neighbor walking up the street. He's covered in soot. Then I remember he worked in the Towers. He's alive. Good. My Dad is working at a school nearby. When I managed to call him, he said he was staying with the children.

Many of their parents couldn't pick them up because of all the craziness. Some of them might be dead. But he was happy to hear that I was all right.

We go back to Edgewater, back to the shopping complex where we watched the first tower fall, and walk into a restaurant whose name that I can't remember. Looking out the window I can see what's left of the Towers burning. Helicopters are all over the place. By now we know that thousands of people have died.

As Allie and I wait for our food in the almost empty restaurant., we hear a couple in the booth behind us arguing. "You have to talk about it," the woman says. "You have to talk about what happened. It's not good to keep it inside."

"I don't want to," the man says.

Allie turns around and says to the man, "She's right. You have to talk about it."

To my surprise, the woman comes over and sits at our table. After a minute the man does too. They're both young – younger than my thirty-three. The man doesn't want to talk, but after a few drinks he starts spilling. He worked in the Towers. He talks about bodies, fear, carnage and people jumping to their deaths. He's seriously in need of help. But so are millions of people. There's nothing really to say to him. But I tell him, "Talk about it whenever you want to. Don't hold it in. That's what will screw you up."

Allie and I eat with the couple we know we'll never see again and even order dessert. As I sip my umpteenth cup of coffee for the day, a chorus of waiters singing "Happy Birthday" rings out. Technically, you can't sing that song in a restaurant – something about royalties and copyright. But the waiters don't give a shit and sing it anyway.

"Stop that singing," a patron yells. "No one's happy today."

"Cut that out!" Allie snaps. "It's not her fault her birthday was today!" The patron shuts up. Allie can be fearsome when she's angry.

When all is said and done, we pay up, say goodbye to the couple and go home. Exhausted, Allie and I fall into bed. As I'm drifting off, I realize that I didn't cry once all day.

But I know the tears will come eventually.

Book Signings

Hey everybody. The paperback edition of Keep the Change is coming out on September 6! I will be doing a couple of book signings in the area. The dates and places are listed below. If you can come, I'd love to meet you.

Have a nice Labor Day Weekend everyone.

Friday September 9th.

7:30 PM

BARNES AND NOBLE

395 Route 3 E

Clifton, NJ 07014

Thursday, September 15th

7:00 PM

WATCHUNG BOOKSELLERS

54 Fairfield St.

Montclair, NJ 07042

Be Prepared

If you live on the East Coast, you're probably aware that a hurricane is headed our way. I don't want to sound like Chicken Little but if we get wacked there's a possibility that we could lose power for several days. My power gets knocked out often whenever my town experiences a bad thunderstorm, so a hurricane is a big deal. Now I'm not a paranoid bunker dwelling survivalist, but I've always appreciated the value of preparedness. So I want to pass along some tips to build an emergency kit in advance of Irene. My advice is to get your supplies today. Especially in NYC. The stores are bad enough on a weekend, so you can imagine what it'll be like if people wait to the last minute to stock up. Remember the two women who slugged it out at Trader Joes? Try and avoid that! So here are my suggestions.

1. Have a flashlight for every person and enough batteries for them. I also have one of those Coleman LED lamps that take D batteries and can provide illumination for 66 hours on the low setting. Sitting in the dark is boring.

2. Top off your gas tank.

3. Have at least 100 dollars in cash in small denominations. The ATMs might go on the fritz and the stores might not be able to take credit cards. And if you don't have money, how can you tip people? ☺

4. Have one gallon of water per person. Don't forget Fido. Have a five-day supply for each person.

5. Charge your cell phone!

6. Have five days worth of food socked away. Chef Boyardee anyone? Don't be squeamish. You'll love the stuff if you're hungry. Cereal is good in a pinch. I'd get some boxed milk and coffee as well. I'm evil if I don't have my coffee. And don't forget Fido has to eat, or he might eat you!

7. A camp stove is nice, especially if you have an electric stove! You can pick these up for cheap.

8. First aid kit. You might want to have some Tylenol and stuff around as well. Ladies, get those feminine hygiene products!

9. Condoms, lube and assorted toys. You're gonna be stuck in your house. Might as well have some fun.

10. Battery operated or hand cranked radio. Your iPod might die.

11. Valium for people going though Internet/video game/Facebook withdrawal.

12. Can opener! Better than opening that Chef Boyardee with your teeth.

13. Get your medications refilled. Especially psych meds. You know who you are.

14. Utility knife.

15. Duct tape. Million and one uses.

16. Trash bags. Use them with duct tape to seal up a window.

17. Candles and matches. Get all romantic. (But be very careful with them!)

18. If you smoke and drink well, stock up. Call your dealer.

19. If you live in a flood zone, have a plan to get out of Dodge. Call your Mom if you have to crash on her couch.

20. A "Go Bag" with food, water, change of clothes and all your important documents should be prepped and ready to go if you got to head for the hills.

21. Deck of cards. You can use food in lieu of cash for betting. Or get kinky. Strip poker can be fun. It's up to you.

22. TP, TP, TP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

23. Before the storm hits, take a shower. When you're done, fill up your tub with water. Sounds crazy but, if you live in a high rise, you might not be able to flush your toilet. Why live in stink – especially if you're eating Chef Boyardee?

Sounds like a lot. But even if Irene totally misses us and makes fools out of the doomsaying weatherman, it's good to have this stuff around anyway. Hey, we had an earthquake! This isn't an exhaustive list. And if you can't get or don't have these things, at least get the essentials – batteries, flashlights, food, condoms mind altering substances and water.

Be safe!

Sending Food Back

My girlfriend Isabel and I are eating at P.F. Chang's and we've run into a problem. The waiter got the order wrong.

"This isn't sweet and sour pork," Isabel says, pushing her entrée around the plate. "It's sweet and sour chicken."

"You sure?" I say. Slightly offended that I've questioned her gustatory senses, Isabel spears a forkful of the stuff and offers it to me. "What do you think?"

After masticating the food thoughtfully I say, "Yep. It's the original white meat."

"I'm so disappointed," she pouts. "It's not what I wanted."

When you're spending your hard-earned money at a restaurant, getting the wrong food or a screwed up order is a bummer. Yet, when a restaurant churns out thousands of meals a week, the odds are good that either the waiter or the kitchen will mess up at some point. But no matter whose fault it is, you the customer have the right to send the food back. But many of you don't. Why? You're afraid of being punished.

Fear of sputum is one reason. Worrying about embarrassment, making a fuss or wait staff opprobrium is another. For the most part, these fears are groundless. Restaurants won't stay in business long if its discovered that the servers are adding bodily fluids to the daily specials or making the customers feel like shit. (Though I've been guilty of the later.) Its not about sending the food back or not. It's about HOW you send it back. Here's a list of things you should not do. (And yes, all these things have actually happened to me.)

1. Don't say things like, "How hard is it to take an order? Are you stupid? No wonder you're just a waiter."

2. Don't call the server an asshole, insult their maternal lineage or say, "I'll get you fired."

3. Don't demand that all the other guests' food be sent back to the kitchen until their friend's error has been fixed. Almost no kitchen will do it. The chefs aren't going to whip up a new batch of entrées for everybody. They'll stick the food in the oven to keep warm which dries it out. Now nobody's happy.

4. Don't storm out. That could be construed as theft of service.

5. Screaming at the top of your lungs is impolite. And it may give you a stroke.

6. Do not go into the kitchen and start yelling at the men with knives. If you need me to explain why, then I can't help you.

7. Don't demand that everybody at the table should eat for free. Ain't gonna happen.

8. Don't burst into tears and say things like, "You've ruined my entire weekend." You're just announcing to the dining room that you're off your meds.

9. Don't eat half your food before you register your complaint.

10. Don't throw the food at the waiter. That's assault.

Here's what you should do and what you should expect.

1. Call the waiter over the moment you realize something's wrong.

2. Politely but firmly explain why you're dissatisfied. (Wrong food, undercooked, over cooked, tastes weird.)

3. Say you want your food replaced.

4. You can ask for the same item or a different one. If you wanted something that takes a long time to cook like a well-done steak or risotto, I'd suggest getting something that takes less time to cook so you're not waiting forever. If you do want the aforementioned items, realize that it will take time.

5. While you're waiting for your food the restaurant should send out an appetizer gratis to tide you over. It sucks being the only person at a table not eating.

6. Don't personalize the issue. It was a mistake.

7. The waiter should keep you informed about how long it will take to fix the situation. If the waiter hides from you, which happens with inexperienced, coked out or socially maladjusted wait staff, get the manager.

8. A free drink should be forthcoming. When I was a waiter I learned that altering a diner's consciousness usually tamped down any bad feelings.

9. The waiter should apologize – no matter if the error was his or the kitchen's fault.

10. The entrée that got screwed up should be free. If not, at least your dessert should be on the house. Lots of restaurants will say giving out free stuff is against their policy. Why? Usually because there's a corporate dictum, manager or owner that's penny-wise but pound-foolish. If a restaurant refuses to make good, vote with your feet.

Sometimes, however, the screw up is the customer's fault. I can't tell you how many times a person on a diet let their id unconsciously order Fettuccini Alfredo when they thought they were ordering a salad. Despite the fact I always repeated the order to a customer, most diners would scream to high heaven that I fucked up. Bottom line? Pay attention when you're ordering. Don't be talking on your cell phone, texting, French kissing, jabbering about business or giving hand jobs under the table . Focus. And if you messed up, admit it. Very often the restaurant will try and make things right.

Of course I followed my own advice when explaining our situation in P.F. Chang's. Sadly, however, the restaurant didn't holdup their end of the bargain Here's how.

1. No free drink. I was told it was against their policy. Annoying. That just told me the rules are more important to P.F. Chang's than the customer.

2. The waiter admitted his mistake, but the kitchen took its sweet time to fix it.

3. No free app. Isabel and I finished my Mongolian Beef until her order came out.

4. We were charged for the sweet and sour pork.

5. We paid for our desserts.

To be fair, the manager came over to apologize. She offered us a free entrée to take home. That was nice, but what good does that do us? We ate already. In the end we she gave us two free desserts – but we had to wait ten minutes to get them. Not cool. I understand P.F. Chang's has rules, but they need to revise them.

Of course I paid for everything and tipped the waiter twenty percent, probably because I've been in that waiter's shoes myself. And, in the end, Isabel and I had a nice time. That's because we didn't freak out over the situation and made the best of it. Will I go to P.F. Chang's again? Probably. They've always given me good service and I'm willing to bet this experience was an aberration. Besides, I'll always give restaurant two or three chances before I excommunicate them.

Bottom line. Don't be afraid to send your food back. You work hard for your money. And in a recession where many of us are going out to eat less, it is the restaurants that bend over backwards to make their customers happy who will survive.

The Bad Mother

I don't recommend many books on this site, but I highly recommend you read The Bad Mother by Nancy Rommelmann.

From Amazon: "A first novel by the award-winning journalist Nancy Rommelmann, The Bad Mother is set among Hollywood's transient population of street kids….Hollywood is hard on everyone, from aspiring actors and actresses to those on the way back down, but it is particularly indifferent to the children who ghost along the boulevard, unseen by the tourists squatting over Marilyn Monroe's hand prints in front of Grauman's Chinese. As Rommelmann explains, "Hollywood herself is the bad mother of the title."

I read this powerful book in one night and couldn't sleep for hours afterwards. The Bad Mother is a gripping and heartrending tale about broken people clinging to the hardest edges of life. With sharp and unsentimental prose, Rommelmann shows us a world that shouldn't exist, but does. I'll never forget reading it. You won't either.

Public Cruxifiction

Last night my girlfriend (I haven't decided on her nom de blog yet.) and I were watching Anderson Cooper when we saw something that cracked us up – train lady!

If you're not aware of this story, a young woman had a meltdown after a train conductor asked her to stop using profanity while talking on her cell phone. The whole thing was caught on video by a passenger with a cell phone camera. Now the actual video is supposed to be fifteen minutes long, but only two minutes have been shown on sites like Gawker. And it's pretty damning. The young woman tells the conductor, "Excuse me, do you know what schools I've been to and how well-educated I am?" And that's what pissed people off. Like educated people don't act like idiots. Please. As one Internet wag stated. "Just look at Congress."

This incident happened about a month ago. After the video went viral, the young woman tried to engage to services of a PR firm to help rehabilitate her image. That was dumb. She should have let the Internet hoopla die down, as it always does, or just get out in front of things and say, "I was a raging idiot that day. I apologize for my crazy behavior." I think that would have gone a long way towards ending her troubles. But when Anderson Cooper rips you a new one on national TV, that's bad.

I will admit I took voyeuristic glee in watching that video. "What a dipshit," I said to my girlfriend. " Who cares how educated she is?" And when the video shows the woman asking for her money back and for the conductor to "stop the train," I was annoyed by her entitled attitude. After chuckling about the whole affair we went to bed. But when I woke up the next day, I felt guilt tugging at my conscience.

Every single one of us, especially me, has acted like a complete an utter asshole. That's part of parcel of being human. None of us is a saint. And now, with the Internet, every stupid thing we do has the potential to become a worldwide Internet phenomenon. And that's a very bad thing. As I read through the comments on various websites, I was alarmed to see that the young woman was accused of racism and called a "cunt." Someone even wrote that the young woman is in danger of losing her job. People love watching the misery of others. I'm guilty of it too. But ask yourself, if it were you, would you want your stupidity blasted all over the world? Do you want to be publicly crucified? I think not. As the Golden Rule says, "Treat others as you would want them to treat you." And I think videotaping people freaking and putting it on You Tube is a bad thing. When billions of people have the potential to say horrible things about you with relative anonymity and impunity, we've got a problem.

Just look at young girls who have naked pictures taken of them by a shitty boyfriends and blasted all over their high school and the world. If some guy did that to my daughter I'd want to shove that cell phone up his ass. Some fathers would beat him. I'm not advocating violence, mind you, but I understand the impulse. And look at that poor college boy that committed suicide after some of his classmates filmed him in a sexual act with another man and outed him online. When these things happen they are met with outrage. But when an average person's bad day in shown on You Tube, many of those same people will line up to nail them to the cross. I'm not defending this young woman's comments. But I am defending her right to not have a brief slice of her life screw up the rest of it. And if train lady killed herself over this mess we'd all be taking a long look in the mirror.

Besides, we have more important things to worry about. Police officers are now starting to arrest people who videotape their activities. That is supremely fucked up. Like police state fucked up. Cops are allowed to have a bad day, but not in the performance of their duties. When they use their authority improperly the public has a right to see it. That's what we should be getting upset about. Anderson Cooper needs to focus on that like a laser beam. Keep them honest buddy. "Train Lady" is a waste of time.

And Keith Oberrman singled out train lady for his "worst person in the world" segment! Are you kidding me? That Serbian general who slaughtered thousands of men and boys in front of their mothers, wives and daughters is a "worst person in the world." We've got a debt crisis, wars without end, vets killing themselves and bankers who tanked the world economy. And you're wasting time on a powerless woman? Speak to power. Go after people who can fight back. You've done it before Keith.

That woman was a dope. But so are we. Shame on the guy who took the video. Shame on the websites that showed it and the news people who gloated over it. Shame on me. Shame on all of us.

Fairground

It's Wednesday evening and I'm at the Meadowlands State Fair next to Giants Stadium. Its "cheap night" and the thirty-dollar unlimited ride pass had been slashed to eighteen bucks. As a result the place is mobbed. But I don't mind.

When I came here last year I was astounded to see how well behaved everyone was. Despite the size and socio-economic diversity of the crowd, not a single person started trouble, at least while I was there. There was no cutting in line, no fights and little if any cursing. People were just there to spend time with their kids, ride the rides and stuff themselves with fat soaked cardiac numbing greasy treats. The fair made me proud to be a New Jerseyite. And this year, as my girlfriend and I weave through the crowds, the same civil behavior seems to be holding fast.

"Isn't this great?" I say to my girlfriend. "Everyone is nice. No pushing. No shoving."

"Just compare and contrast this to events in New York," she says. "I've seen people duke it out over a picnic spot at a Central Park concert."

"Remember when Pacino did Merchant of Venice?" I say. "Some people were so arrogant that they paid people to wait for them to get them free tickets. Entitlement gone haywire."

"And the pushing and shoving to get into a restaurant or a club."

"Or jockeying for seats at Whole Foods. Guy yelled at me once there."

"Manhattan has that kind of energy," my girlfriend says. "Makes it the greatest city in the world, but also a tough place to live."

Then I wave my hands. "No mas. I don't want to talk about people behaving badly. I'm having a nice zen moment here. Let's just enjoy the fair."

After eating some zeppole, my girlfriend and I head over to the Space Coaster. It's my favorite ride in the place. Designed to hit you with negative gees from every direction, it's a stomach churner. Maybe I should have passed on the zeppole.

Since the Space Coaster is so awesome, the line to get on it is long. That's okay. That will give my stomach a chance to settle. But then, as we wait on line, someone just has to go and fuck up my zen.

A girl in her late teens slips into the queue and joins her boyfriend near the entrance to the ride. I know what's happening. The boy was holding a place for her so she could ride another ride and hop on this one without waiting. But the ride operator immediately sees this and tells her she has to wait on line like everybody else.

"But my boyfriend is here," she whines.

"Don't care," the carny says. "Get on the back of the line."

Then the boyfriend starts getting into it with the carny. He doesn't yell, but he acts indignant and gesticulates wildly. As he does so I notice his girlfriend watching him with a spoiled brat pout.

"Rules the rules, man," the carny says.

"That's not fair," the boyfriend, says, his voice rising.

"Hey man," says a bystander. "Be cool bro."

"But…"

"Not worth it brother."

Then a loud voice booms, "What the hell is going on here?" Turning to the source of the noise, I see a fat man in a white polo shirt standing near the edge of the line. I don't know who he is, but I know what he is. Years of waiting tables taught me to recognize arrogant, entitled assholes instantly.

"Why won't you let them on the ride?" the man yells

"The guy can go on the ride," the carny says. "Girl's got to go to the back."

"What the fuck?" the man says loudly. "Her boyfriend was holding her place in line."

"Don't work that way, mister."

"What the hell is your problem?" the man yells back. Now the carny is pissed.

"This is my ride!" he says. "I'm in charge here! Girl has to go to the back of the line. No exceptions."

"What the fuck do you mean 'I'm in charge?'" The man says. "What the hell are you in charge of?"

My blood boils. Judging from the watch on his hand, I figure fat guy is wealthy. He probably isn't used to hearing no, especially from a guy he obviously thinks is his social inferior. As my breathing quickens, posttraumatic flashbacks from my restaurant days spark though my brain. But, to my satisfaction, the girl and her paramour walk out of the line.

"Asshole!" the man yells. "Look what you did."

"Watch you mouth," someone in the crowd says.

"Yeah, there are children here!" another voice calls out.

"This guy's in charge of what?" the man says with an arrogant smirk on his face. "Give me a break." It's time for me to do something.

I look at the man and when our eyes meet I blast him with my thousand-yard stare, causing the man to flinch and look away. But when he looks back I'm still staring at him, channeling an image of what he'd look like in the zeppole fryer into his soul. The man's face turns red and he walks away. Maybe he's ashamed. I hope so.

"Must be from Manhattan," my girlfriend says.

"Could be," I say. "But when I was at the Bistro I dealt with people like him three times a day." My girlfriend shudders.

Before you accuse me of class warfare, I have always maintained that money does not make people jerks. Poor people are jerks too. Being an asshole is equal opportunity. But in commercial settings wealthy jerks always feel entitled to what they want, when they want it. And they'll step on people to get it. Think of the people paying others to wait for them on line. That's the difference. Fat Guy will put his daughter into therapy if he doesn't change his ways.

Luckily for me, the Space Coaster expunges my angry feelings and replaces them with little boy glee. I've always loved rides. The scarier the better. Besides, it's fun to listen to your girlfriend scream like a banshee. And for the rest of the night, peace reigns at the fair.

At closing time, stuffed full and happy, my girlfriend and I head for the exit. But we have to take a leak and walk over to the restroom. There are two bathroom attendants outside the entrances with a tip jar in front of them.

"You have a dollar?" I ask my girlfriend.

"No."

I fish a bill out of my pocket. "You'll need this."

"Oh yes, mighty guru."

I go inside and, just as I let my urine start to flow, the guy next to me says, "I can't believe these people want a tip. What? I have to pay to pee? This place has taken enough money out of me."

"A huge part of their income is tips," I say. "Sometimes all of it."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Jesus."

After I do the shake and wash my hands I head out the door. To my delight the guy I spoke to drops a dollar into the attendant's basket. I drop in a dollar too.

"Thank you, sir," the attendant says. "You have a nice evening."

"You too, sir."

As I walk to my car I have a big smile on my face. Another convert. And, despite jerks like that fat guy, the folks in New Jersey are still basically good. Maybe people can learn a lesson from us.

Moving Man

This weekend, after six years of fairly uneventful cohabitation, my roommate moved out. So while everybody else was enjoying a splendid Fourth of July weekend, I was hauling dressers, bookshelves, electronic equipment and an unwieldy mattress up three flights of stairs. When roomie moved into my place back in 2005 he was like an urban monk, with only a suitcase of clothes and a computer to his name. I gave him a bed. But if you stay in one place long enough, possessions have tendency to start multiplying like rabbits. When I awoke the next day to sore muscles and a twitchy knee, I wished my roommate had maintained his former ascetic lifestyle. But all things change.

Making coffee on Tuesday morning, I watch as Buster, my joint custody dog, sniffs around my roommate's old room, looking for him. Buster has been though four apartments, three jobs, two books and four girlfriends. But he'll roll with the change. He always does. And when my girlfriend moves in with her Boston Terrier next month they'll be even more change – the place will get a feminine touch. I'm glad. My Odd Couple bachelor pad was getting kind of lame. But, as a concession to Buster, we've decided to keep my ancient and ratty lounge chair in the bedroom. That's Buster's favorite place to sleep. I didn't want to inflict one change too many. As I sip my coffee I look around the apartment. It's emptier now, but full of the promise of years to come. Then my cell phone breaks into my reflective mood. It's my ex-roommate.

"Can you do me a favor?" he asks.

"Sure."

"I'm having a sofa delivered to my apartment," he says. "But I can't get out of work to let the movers in. Could you do it?"

"Sure. But you got to tip the guys."

"How much?"

I do a calculation in my head. "One piece, two guys? Ten bucks."

"Okay," he says. "I'll leave the money on my bedroom dresser."

A few hours later, with the keys to my roommate's new apartment in hand, I meet the furniture guys in the parking lot.

"Man, it's hot," one of the deliverymen, a young fellow wearing a sweat soaked blue bandana says. "Who knew it was going to be this hot?"

"It gets even better," I say. "You've got to haul this thing up three flights of stairs." The deliveryman looks stricken, but the guys are professionals and get the sofa up into the apartment in five minutes.

"Where do ya want it?" the second delivery guy, says.

"Against the right wall," I say. When they're done I inspect the couch for damage, find none and sign an invoice testifying to that fact.

"Okay, sir," the delivery guy with the bandana says as he picks the packing materials littering the floor. "We'll be out of here in a sec."

"Hang on," I say. I walk into the bedroom. I hope roomie remembered to leave the tip. I went out of the house without any money. Even though he knows I spent many years living on gratuities, roomie's a bit of a tipping neophyte. I don't think he's even read my books. But there, on his dresser, is a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

"Here you go guys," I say, handing over the money. "Job well done."

The second deliveryman's face brightens. "Thanks, man," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "We really appreciate it. Very cool."

After the men leave I look around my old roommate's new apartment. It is quiet but also filled with promise. And as I lock the door behind me I can't help but smile. Twenty bucks?

You have learned well, roomie. You have learned well.