Loose Cans

I was all raring to go, really. But yesterday, we did a brace of extension exercises, the first involving your clutching wrists with a partner, spreading your legs into a split and being hauled forward, and the second being, very simply, your partner’s lifting your leg as high as it will go (satisfyingly high, in my case). The pain in my groin set in almost immediately afterward, continued unabated through my shift yesterday, and remains as lively this morning as it ever was. Also there were these sadistic partner push-ups right after the extension thing, where you had to slap hands with your partner on every push-up. I’d go later tonight, only I’m otherwise engaged, dinner with the Parelesim, Ross-Rieders and Herr Doktor Frisch. I’ve no real objection to playing through pain, so long as I can bitch and moan about it, but I’d rather not pull anything unnecessarily. Trying not to do everything all at once. Jesus Christ, I’m in pain.

Last night at work was slow. One of my favorite customers, Frank, showed up, which was pleasant. On the other hand, Dick, the aptly named, passive-aggressive regular also showed, but then again, he’s there every night. Glass of rosé and a Niçoise salad, extra anchovies (that or a burger so tailored to his specifications that there is actually a button on the system just for him). Finds something, anything to bitch about in the salad (last night the tuna looked more medium than medium-rare). Dick’s a nosepicker. Sits at service bar, shoves his finger way on up there and goes nostril-spelunking. Gets testy as anything if anyone sits near him, and God forbid they should speak to him. One guy not only sat next to him, but proceeded to look over at the salad, declare it appetizing and order it, sans anchovies. His name was Jerome and he tipped me $25 and a comment card that said “Sam: Wonderful!” As Dick is leaving, he turns to Jerome and in the most puerile, derisive tone, goes, “You know, Niçoise salad’s not that good for you.”

What?

“You don’t know what’s in that lettuce. And the tuna? Full of mercury.”

And off he goes, leaving Jerome and I utterly baffled. He’s generally contemptuous towards anyone who threatens his monopoly on our attention (which he rather absurdly believes himself entitled to). I don’t mind contempt, really, so long as it’s correctly oriented. But Dick’s just a dick.

We closed earlyish, 11:30. Pierre, my adorable little GM, charmingly French as a baguette garni de petites cervelles d’agneaux, showed me how one of our most popular whites by the glass, the Corsican, had to be decanted twice, not because it was aged (2002), but because the vigneron who produced it, Antoine Aréna, had had the brilliant if confusing idea to inject the bottle with gas, compressing the wine. It’s apparently impotable if undecanted--this is according to Pierre; I can’t taste the difference. The closing waiter, Mark, also stayed on. We then moved on to try the Anjou, which is the only white in which I’ve ever detected a real scent of any kind, to say nothing of taste. I’ve nothing against white, really, enjoying a nice vin gris (“it’s not me, it’s the vin gris”) as much as anyone, it’s just I’ve never been able to taste much in it. But this anjou, all Chenin Blanc, was honeyed as Morgan’s Spiced or the Macallan. I smell honey easily, I suppose. Fruit I cannot smell (I also cannot tell if a juice has gone off, which is a problem). It was weird, whiffs of marshmallows and mothballs. We also tried a Savoie, from just left of Alsace, which was more of a light spring breeze than anything. Pierre went into rhapsodies over the delights of a Savoie with a proper fondue de fromage after a chilly day of skiing. He’s so cute; whenever he gets excited, he peppers his breathless, bouncing, broken English with pellets of French. I conducted a brief tutorial in Scotch; I’m their resident expert, which is to say, the little I know trumps the less they know. We finally left at one and I headed over to the Dead Poet. Mike joined in short order. All in all, a pleasant evening. Wondering what I shall do with myself this afternoon. I am in too much pain to sojourn too far from the house. Sadie rented Go West, a Jack Nicholson movie. That should kill some time.

I'd always wanted to, and I figured what better time than now. Martial arts always struck me, no surprise, as parallel to dance. Only I finally realized that where martial arts are humane, respectful, innovative and empowering, dance classes, ballet in particular, are a largely rote struggle against mediocrity, and categorically inhumane. Granted, ballet (what little I have left after such a long hiatus) has positioned me well for this new project: extension, speed, balance (shot to hell) and so on. I like it a lot. It’s so much less onerous and unpleasant than ballet. A little encouragement goes a long way. They’re so close, too. The class is highly regimented, organized in manner similar to the barre, center, cross-the-room structure of the ballet class. Both end with bows, though tae kwon do starts with them, too (the the flags and then to the teacher). Barked French is replaced with barked Korean. There’s choreography, too, only these are traditional sequences, not ones concocted on the spot. It’s more about inhabiting and understanding the moves than being able to assimilate choreography on the spot (a practice I always associated with sight-singing, a largely useless art). It’s also murderous. Ten times more slaughtering than any ballet class ever was. I came home from the first class closer to dead than I’d been since Scottsdale. Constant motion, none of the downtime you get in the dance studio. To say nothing of the stress of impact. Whaling on that bag takes it out of you. But it’s awesome. Gets me back into shape, tell you what.

Hey, it’s raining.

So I know I’ve been silent for a while. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been busy, or because the last remaining readers actually live in this house. I’ve also been away a lot on weekends. Last weekend we were in Kansas City for some nuptials, the first full-on Christian ceremony I can remember with any sharpness (my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Attanasio, invited us all to hers, and to this day I refuse to accept her name change, Shickler). Bells, whistles, hammer, tongs. Some party. It was the wedding of our friend Jenny Rebecca to her beau, one Andrew Walker. JR is a singer, so the musical offerings were brilliant, save for the use of Britten’s setting of that wonderful speech from the end of Midsummer:

Now until the break of day
Through this house each fairy stray...
To the best bride bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be,
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate...
Trip away, make no stay
Meet me all by break of day.

Nothing against Britten; my objection is only that it’s too good to be sung. Meet me all by break of day. I get shivers just typing it. The man knew how to manipulate monosyllables.

Anyhow, it was a lovely service, if loaded down with Jesus (a little foreign to me, I must say). The bride wore cowboy boots and the groom wore high-tops. The flower girls were everywhere. Mazel tov to you both.

I can’t believe they fucking went and did it. Holy shit!