Hey guys! Hey everybody! Boy, it's good to be back. Let's start with feelings.

Right now I am feeling:

Embarrassed: Embarrassed because I just set a hot dog bun on fire. I think that it was good idea to toast the bun in the pan, and I think it was a good idea to set the pan over medium heat---I don't have all night, after all---but I think I might have gone wrong when I left my busily toasting bun unattended for upwards of ten minutes. This situation has the potential to get more embarrassing if the fire alarm should go off. I have opened a couple of windows. I have prepared a brief, apologetic speech* in case the alarm wakes everybody up. I have spent some time monitoring the bluish cloud of smoke hovering at the kitchen ceiling. I don't know what else to do, except to record here in this public forum that I am embarrassed.

Irked: Irked because I just mangled my replacement bun. The flaming bun was inedible, no question, but I'm not sure that I've done better here. It didn't tear evenly when I tried to open it up, and now the thinner half is torn in two and wetly disintegrating where it comes in contact with the hot dog itself. I'm going to push through, because I am hungry, but let it be noted in the register that I am irked.

Triumphant: Triumphant because I beat the other valets at poker tonight. I am not a poker veteran, but I have watched a good deal of it on television, and I know what I'm about. Late in the game, I found myself heads-up against another valet, a poker veteran. He figured I was a lightweight and that he could scare me off with an aggressive bluff, but I showed him! I fucked him! Make no mistake about it: I fucked him right there in the garage. "Come on!" I screamed, and the other valets said, "Easy there, Tom, it's a friendly game," and I pointed with both hands at the sky and said, "I am triumphant."



* Oh my God, Kevin, Drew, I'm so sorry, you guys. It's just that I was sitting out here in the living room with the computer, and I was checking my email, and I didn't have any, except for Andy's email about roommates, and then I checked facebook, but there wasn't anything, because of course facebook alerts me via email whenever anything happens, so I checked McSweeney's and the Onion really quickly, but they're both doing a best-of, sampler-type thing this week, so I checked my email again, and of course there was nothing again, and then I just kind of stared at the loveseat for a really long time, because like things have been really tough lately, you know, and not just with email, and the next thing I knew I could smell smoke, and I ran into the kitchen, and there was my hot dog bun, my dinner, which I'd been looking forward to for literally hours, because what else is there to look forward to, there it was, smoking, with little licks of flame flickering at its edges, and I thought, I can't even do this right, I can't even toast a hot dog bun, and then I thought, God, maybe it would be better if the whole house burned down, but hey, listen, I'm really sorry that I woke you guys up. I know you're really busy with like your writing and your music. Oh my God, I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, I'm so---I'm so sorry.

Very excited to be alive.

Spent most of today at home, doing dishes, writing letters, and blazing like a bonfire. Work this evening. Still waiting to hear whether a van will be available. May have to meet on site. Job's in the Mission. On a scale from one to ten, I would rate my excitement at about a two.

Last night we worked a Junior League function hosted by the Sharon Heights Country Club in Menlo Park. The Junior League, I have been told, is a conservative women's organization. One woman, predicting that I'd have to stay late, told me, "They're rich socialites; they drink, they talk, they get started late, they forget where they are." She said everything but that last part.

Many of the Junior League women seemed very nice. Some of them nearly ran me over, and one of them was a total dick, but generally speaking they were delightful. Meaning that they laughed when I made funnies. But they tipped very poorly. We averaged less than a dollar a car. Which is---we've discussed this---very bad, indeed. We had a lot of new valets, though; maybe they were pocketing tips.

Anyway, excited to be alive, as I said, excited to be blogging again. Having some minor motivational issues these days, but that's hardly an issue that a nice root-vegetable stew can't fix! For Christ's sake!

Before I sign off, I would like to note that I think it's really neat when people ride motorcycles loud enough to set off car alarms. I think that's a lot of fun, and if I had the opportunity, I probably wouldn't give them a stern talking-to about their responsibilities to the community they live in.

I'm at the tail end of an illness. I had a fever so bad I couldn't sleep unless I pulled the covers up and around my head like a hijab, and I woke up multiple times each night bathed in sweat. But I had dreams so vivid they were almost hallucinations---some of them were nightmarish, but some of them were the rare, otherworldly type that one never wants to wake up from.  I slept so much and dreamed so beautifully that I estimate that I spent more than fifty percent of the past four or five days in the unreal sphere of my own imagination!

One of my favorite parts was when I awoke Sunday morning to find my left arm totally asleep, from the shoulder to the tips of the fingers. I picked it up with my right arm and made it prod my face like a bear paw, and was astounded to find that my hand is large and heavy. I thought that I might still be dreaming, to think that the hand I was bumping against my face was a large, man-type hand, until I realized that I must have large-ish, man-type hands! It really was honestly something of a revelation.

This blog sucks, but then I'm not a professional writer. Nick Hornby, on the other hand, is. Here's an excerpt from one of his "Stuff I've Been Reading" columns in The Believer:

"...his life as a fireman and a hunter and a father and a writer (he did all of those things simultaneously), and though I know next to nothing about the last two occupations...Ah, now, you see, that's precisely it. It's not true that I know next to nothing about the last two occupations, of course. I know a reasonable amount about both of them and I was making a silly little self-deprecating joke. (There I go again. Was it silly? Was it little? Probably not. It was probably a brilliant and important self-deprecating joke.)"

What does the readership think about that? I find it repellent. It makes me cringe. It makes me want to turn away and read something else.

It's really good to be back. Thx for all your support.

T

 What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before?
I totalled someone else's car, covered it up with masking tape, and got away with it! Seriously, here was a car sitting in the middle of the street, literally on fire, literally surrounded by emergency vehicles, and I slapped some tape on it and the guy didn't suspect a thing. "Sir," I said, "There's nothing wrong with your car, but it's in a bit of a tight parking spot. Could you try your hand at getting it out?" "Sure," he says, flattered (that's the key), and I lead him to his flaming wreck of a car and he pushes it away, smirking smugly at me. "Tight spot!" he says. "Some valet!"

Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Awkward! I didn't make any. Busted, I know. Yes, I will make some for next year, promise!

Did anyone close to you give birth?
Did anyone close to me NOT give birth?! God, what a year!

Did anyone close to you die?
Did anyone close to me NOT die? Actually, yes. All of them not died.

What countries did you visit?
America.

What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?
A smoking body.

What dates from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Honestly, I've been disappointed by this year's dates. But there are a few left, and I'm optimistic.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Easiest question on the whole test! Becoming a valet manager! Are you kidding me?

What was your biggest failure?
So many to choose from! Probably overcooking the gazpacho, August 16. The rest of the date was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Did you suffer illness or injury?
No! You mean physical?

What was the best thing you bought?
Frisbee cleats, the mistletoe-scented candle.

Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Everyone I know plus Rex Grossman, whom I feel like I know.

Where did most of your money go?
Rent and burritos.

What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Our one-year anniversary!

What song will always remind you of 2006?
[I was] Walking with the Ghost

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
Sadder!

richer or poorer?
Richer! Marginally and strictly financially speaking!

What do you wish you'd done more of?
Reading, blazing.

What do you wish you'd done less of?
Sleeping.

How will you be spending Christmas?

Did you fall in love in 2006?
Nope!

How many one-night stands?
0

What was your favorite TV program?
Football.

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Nope!

What was the best book you read?

If best=last, I still don't know.

What was your greatest musical discovery?
Of Montreal.

What did you want and get?
Sleep.

What did you want and not get?
Respect, happiness.

What was your favorite film of this year?
Stranger than Fiction.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I was 23, but for the life of me I don't remember what I did.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Sharper features and a quicker wit.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?
Similar to my personal fashion concept for the years 1998-2005.

What kept you sane?
MY ROOMIES!

Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
That's such a good question. Keyshawn Johnson.

Who was the best new person you met?
Scoot-Scoot.

Any regrets?
Yes.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006:
Exercise is important.

Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
Changes!

from "Changes," by David Bowie

Monday, Monday.

There are two large trees on a windblown hilltop. Under one tree, a man and a woman stand close together, exchanging glances, touching hips, their hands grazing each other's back like tiny horses.

Behind the other tree crouches Chief Detective Lance Briggs, collar turned up against the wind. His cheek against the rough bark, he squints at the couple, then turns away to scribble furiously in a notebook.

Several feet away, First Detective Lucy Grape straddles First Detective Tad Sweetney, who lies face down in the long grass. Rhythmically, she punches his kidneys and whispers in his ear, "Don't scream, Tad. Don't scream. You'll blow our cover."

Very little to report tonight, I'm afraid. We worked over in Berkeley, as I announced yesterday, but I was the lot guy, so I wasn't at the front and I didn't see a single customer. We made something like two dollars a car, but there are no lessons to be gleaned.

Tomorrow I work at the Flood Mansion in Pacific Heights, two doors down from the tea-swilling lowballers that I serviced so effusively yesterday afternoon. I think that I'll be in the front, pressing the perfumed flesh---or offering it tickets, anyway---and I'll be making mental notes all night. Maybe I'll even make some actual physical notes. That would keep them guessing. I have a little leather-bound notebook with a miniature pen that would be just perfect.

That's it for tonight. Today was a roller-coaster, emotionally, but this is just a work journal now, so as much as I'd like to, I can't say a thing.

Oh, I was going to mention: tomorrow night I'm the manager, but I'm being paid my valet rate; the event is some sort of charity deal, so the company may be offering our services at a reduced rate, maybe even for free. Apparently that reduced rate trickles down to me, but there isn't a whole lot that I can do, I don't think. A nice argument for a union. They have valet unions other places. That could be a project.

Thanks to a suggestion from a close personal friend, I've decided to discuss my job instead of myself. I'm a valet, and tonight forward I'll be rating each day's client pool on their tipping and on their general response to my jaunty, half-sarcastic greetings.

Today we valeted a tea party up in Pacific Heights. The tea party was in some way a fundraiser for the ballet (either that or it was a private celebration of the continued existence of ballet as an art form, but I have to think fundraiser) and the guests were all women, certainly upper-class (you might think that everyone we valet for is upper-class, but you'd be wrong---every once in a while, or really every couple jobs, you get a bunch of people who are pleasantly frazzled when they see you there in your stupid bow tie and your stupid blue jacket), and many of them---not all of them, by any means, but many---appeared to be beneficiaries of a certain amount of plastic surgery. One woman, not to get ahead of myself, was far more buoyantly chesty than you'd expect a woman of her age to be. So upper-class, and a certain type of upper-class, the type that pulls up in Jaguar convertibles and asks personal car-related favors on the way out, only to breeze past and leave you standing empty-handed and piqued. But now I really am getting ahead of myself.

We'll start with their response to my greetings. It's difficult to generalize. The first woman seemed almost to be flirting with me, the way she smirked and looked me in the eye a lot, and the way she exited her car towards me, still looking at me, still engaging in the light banter that I engage in day after day after day. That type of careless give-and-take was particularly easy today, at an event as ridiculous as a tea party. Many of the women were pleasantly conscious of the silliness of a valeted tea party, and when I'd say, "Here for the tea party?" they'd offer a subtly Britishized "Yes, how delightful," or laugh and say yes. Other women---and I would call this an important divide if it had coincided with any of the various divides among the women (i.e. plasticized vs. non-plasticized, heavily bejewelled vs. lightly bejewelled, apparently mega-rich vs. apparently sorta rich)---seemed a little annoyed that I seemed to be possibly making a little fun of the idea of a tea party, and they would laughlessly say yes. Some imperious guests hardly gave me a chance to wittily undercut their silly party, so quickly did they start giving me directions about how they'd like their cars handled. In any case, generalization is nearly impossible---I would say that on the whole I was pleased with their responses, except for one devilish woman who didn't bother to pull into the valet zone, who didn't even quite bother to pull all the way into the right-hand lane, and who then, after putzing around for several minutes looking for her personal items in the car (which was still in traffic, me in the street next to it in mortal danger), after then finally tottering out of the car and towards the building, had the gall to race back towards the now departing car, insisting that I stop it, which I did, only so that she could announce that she had decided to park it herself, having seen a spot around the corner. That woman, as far as I'm concerned, should be given a hard time.

Which brings us to tipping. Tipping was poor. Tipping can be neatly generalized because we can easily derive an average per-car tip. Today we received a total of 70 dollars on something like 40 or 45 cars, which comes to less than two dollars a car. Less than two dollars a car is abysmal. A one-dollar tip is generally taken by valets as a personal insult. A stiff is one thing---with a stiff, you can assume that the person didn't realize that a tip was expected (particularly if the person doesn't seem to be the sort of person who has his/her car valeted on a regular basis)---but a one-dollar tip suggests that the person realized that a tip was expected and then figured that a dollar would be about right. Which it is not. Some women, to be fair, dropped fives on us---and the great tragedy of the depersonalizing processes of generalization and averaging is that these saintly women will be lost in the mathematical shuffle---but that leaves a large collection of ones and stiffs. Many of these women were going to some event later, so we reparked their cars in a garage for them, to which they said, "Oh, great!" and wandered off, apparently oblivious.

So I conclude---based not solely on this event, but on other all-lady, all-wealthy daytime events as well---that well-heeled-lady luncheons and diamond-encrusted-gentlewoman tea parties are okay for exuberant-greeting response, not so okay for tips. Pretty bad for tips, and for general recognition of service, which is the sort of thing that shouldn't bother you but does when you don't have much else to think about.

Tomorrow I'm doing something over in Berkeley, possibly one of the jobs where everyone who pulls up goes, "Valet parking? How delightfully ridiculous!" and you say, "Ha ha, yes, tipping accepted!"

Hello, Everybody!

It's chilly outside, but this large computer is warm on my legs. I am enjoying a quiet evening at home, thinking hard about the issues facing me and listening to trippy music. One of its several downsides is that the very first song---a lot of the songs, sort of---sounds a little like dirty music, so I'm always a little afraid that someone will walk in and say, "Oh, whoa, sorry, I didn't realize that you were---" or, worse, "What the fuck is this?" It's also the kind of music that people might enjoy differently, so if I were to find another fan of this music, that fan might tell me that s/he has always liked to get high and listen to it, or perhaps, much worse, to put it on and then engage in sex acts, whereas I have a long and well documented history of having a horrible day, putting this on to calm myself enough to take a nap, and then ending up leaning over my bed and crying. Not every day, naturally.

Indeed, I'm not leaning over my bed and crying now. I feel warm and calm and sleepy. So I'm going to go to bed, pausing only to thank Sacagawea for her delightful if somewhat strongly worded comment. I'm not totally sure of the etiquette here---maybe you don't have to thank people publicly for their comments, but then I have some free time and a manageable number of comments to respond to, and what's wrong with a personal touch? So there it is. And I'm off.

A convergence: my mother sent me an email that included a quoted anecdote demonstrating the uses of goals. Then,  the very same day, I came upon passages in a Walker Percy book about the uses of goals. Could this be chance? Were the Walker Percy passages in fact satirical? I didn't have time to consider it. I'm an active person, and I respect convergences, so I set some goals for the week.

I do not intend to share my goals. Instead, I intend to applaud myself for having pared down my initial list of goals---some of which were overly ambitious, some of which, I decided upon further consideration, wouldn't really actually improve me---to a more manageable size. My list of goals, which sprawled over several handwritten pages, I can now neatly include here:

Goals

1. Stop falling asleep in front of the TV.

And now I am overcome by sadness.

In today's blog:

1. My Life as a Third Wheel
     a. Drew and Pheeyah bake a cake; I supervise
     b. Drew and Pheeyah playfully debate the point of blogs; I create a blog to prove to Phia on Drew's behalf that
          blogs can be interesting
     c. Drew and Phia plan their afternoon; I work on my blog
2. My Life as a valet
     a. I work a valet job
     b. I meditate on being a valet
     c. I receive a paycheck
3. End of day one.