Mmmbop makes me run faster

 I love Charleston. People come from not only all over the Lower 48, but the world to see our Colonial styled houses and cobble stone side streets by way of one of our carriages drawn by our very weak boweled horses. For any readers not familiar with the downtown area, the main shopping strip is King St. between Calhoun St. and Queen St. It's a little over half a mile of clothing stores, cool places to eat and an Apple Store. Year round, the foot traffic is heavy and the street itself is hardly wide enough for the two lanes it bolsters, making a wait at every light. The sidewalks are made of large, uneven flat stones that look like they were placed in the same fashion you waste time flicking a deck of cards at a cup. Watching the girls who decided to keep their heels on try to walk home after a night out on these stones is perhaps one of my favorite pastimes. Wobbling like a newborn fawn, trying to keep up with "Alexis" or "Madison" they look like they're walking on chopsticks.

"She's got it, she's got it! Wait....wait.... DOWN GOES FRAZIER!"

Why then, would this stretch be one of the most popular places to jog? Without fail, if you stand anywhere on this part of King St you will see runner after runner jog by in their brand new, neon color coordinated outfits and matching shoes. There's a part of me that wants to give anyone respect who can run in July at 4PM. In South Carolina. But, the other part of me, the part that likes to make fun of everything that moves, finds it ironic that these runners find it necessary to run here.

As a runner myself, this idea sounds like a nightmare. When I run, or attempt to, the last thing I want is to be around people who are going to judge me on everything they see, kinda like I do. Top that off with a narrow street full of drivers from Ohio and Texas who are only used to sharing the road with white tail deer and the occasional opossum and uneven, chopped up stones for a running surface and it's starting to sound like something out of Dante's Inferno.

My only conclusion is that runners who choose to brave all of these perils have one, non-fitness oriented goal in mind; to be seen. Why else would you run down King St? There are miles and miles of smooth streets with little to no traffic that provide the exact same opportunity to fight off dad's genetic gift of heart disease or sweat out last night's bad decision to mix a copious amount of PBR and "Ok just one more fireball shot." Just ask me, I know all the good side streets to run on that are as far away from people as possible that could see my stride and what looks like someone getting shot with a taser gun and stumping their toe at the same time. Plus, I'm usually singing word for word some upbeat song that keeps my mind off how much I want to quit, like......Hanson's "Mmmbop."

Say what you will, once you get past the embarrassment of the fact that you know every single word, that song will shave at least 45 seconds off your mile time.

Ok, maybe not for this guy.


I guess if I spent $80 on a pair of shorts at Lululemon then I would want to show them off too, and, as ridiculous as it may seem to run down King St. at least these people are running. They could be in a coffee shop, hipster watching and writing in a blog while housing cup after cup of iced tea, so kudos, or whatever.

The Jane Goodall of Hipsters

I have found the hipster nest.

In the process of moving earlier this month, I've yet to get my ridiculously overpriced cable and internet hooked up, which has forced me to frequent the variety of small coffee shops and cafes located on almost every corner here in downtown Charleston. Typically, I'm a slave to my brands, therefore 9 times out of 10 I go to Starbucks on lower King, however, today I chose a more local spot. I'll refrain from using names, but a clue might say it's on a street that rhymes with Shmarket.

I love nature. I was raised practically in the middle of the woods, off a county road, down a quarter-mile dirt "driveway." I have always enjoyed the perks of living so far away from civilization, such as hunting, fishing, camping, but probably most of all, I enjoy being around wildlife you can only see once you're out there. Just taking a quiet walk into a thicket, and being silent will provide you opportunities to see local wildlife in their natural habitat, doing whatever "wildlife" does. Now I live in the middle of one of America's oldest cities, and a pure bread pedigree dog being taken for a "walk" in a stroller is about all the wildlife I get to see.

 Then there were Hipsters.

Hipsters are my new wildlife. I like to watch them in their natural habitat. I like to watch them do whatever hipsters do. I like to see the crazy outfits they come up with, and how each one of them expresses how unique they are, exactly like each of their friends do. Sometimes I go places where they congregate and,  like today, instead of doing whatever I originally planned to do, I watch them like I'm Jane Goodall in the Congo. I am by no way passing judgement on the way anyone dresses or lives their life. Yes I am. This is my blog.

Let me see if I can paint a picture here.

When I walk in, the guy behind the counter has an extra small t-shirt on with some band name I've never heard of and an extra large conductor hat. Yes. A conductor hat, like the pin striped, small billed hat old coal-burning locomotive conductors wore. He hasn't shaved in at least a few months. Everything on the menu is organic and extremely overpriced. I order "Uh, regular tea? On ice? Do ya'll have that?" He tries to upsell my order with all kinds or organic goat milk and some other weird sugar extract I've never heard of. When I decline and pay he thanks me with "Thank you brother." I pick a safe spot in the corner next to what looks to be one of "my people," a guy, we'll name Jo, in a polo that's a brand I recognize, shorts that fit and weather appropriate footwear.

As I survey the room, I notice a long table in the center of the shop filled with 7 or 8 mid 20's having a serious, almost heated conversation. I open my computer and put in my headphones and like in most coffee shops, instantly become invisible. I usually play some music to tune out any distracting noise, but not today. Today I'm hipster watching.

There's one hipster, I'll call....Asher. Probably 5'9, maybe 135 lbs, clean cut haircut and a 5 month beard, he has a white button up that is at least 2 sizes too small, sleeves rolled up and tail tucked into khaki pants his legs are screaming to get out of. They are rolled up to the knee. He has heavy wool socks on and what appear to be full ankle coverage hiking boots. In mid July. In Charleston, South Carolina. Elevation above sea level. 18 inches. Accessories are minimum but he does have Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses.

To his right is a young lady who we'll name Harmony, who has bleached denim shorts that are higher on her torso than they are long on her legs. She has tucked into them a denim button up short sleeve, buttoned to the top button and bright red suspenders. Her dreadlocks are somewhat tucked into a round, flat brimmed straw hat gentlemen in the 1920's used to wear. She has a piercing in her lip, nose, eyebrow, and from what I could count, thirteen between both ears and Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses. Something red and flashy catches my eye from outside. It's a motorcycle. No. It's a motorcycle with a damn sidecar. Like, a real motorcycle with a sidecar, that you see in old movies and where else...I don't know, the circus? Off hops what has to be the most extreme type of hipster. The lion of the hipster world. The head honcho..... The Well Funded Hipster.

He, let's say....Blaze, takes off his matching red helmet to show hair to his shoulders and of course, a solid 6 month beard. The helmet is one of those full coverage ones, because safety and good health are very important to hipsters, save the cowboy killer Marlboro Red he lights up outside to prepare his pallet for the delectable organic tea journey he's about to embark on. After "brother" thanks him at the counter, he proceeds to give each and every patron apparently waiting for him at the table at least a 10 second hug.

Stop right now and count to ten.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

That's how long each and every hug was. If I wasn't creeped out by that, the cheek and forehead kisses he gave both male and female friends alike pretty much did it. He had a v-neck t-shirt on and I swear the V went to his belly button, painted on skinny jeans and you guessed it, heavy thick socks and hiking boots. Unlaced. If you drive a motorcycle with a damn sidecar you're not going to stop being hip whenever you get dressed, and from the looks of it, that happened last weekend.

I can't help but watch them. I'm so excited that I've happened upon this "pot-o' hipster" so close to my apartment. I can't keep my discovery to myself.

 The conversation is heating up. There are printed up handouts being passed around. I can't help but listen in, though it wouldn't necessarily be called ease dropping as this shop is small and they're getting loud. I was expecting them to be talking about some political issue, rejecting the mainstream materialism Wal-mart is destroying America with or some dope new poetry reading lounge. I was wrong and had to look down to hide my ear to ear smile when I heard why.

"Meat is the enemy! All living, breathing beings have a spirit and we have to stop the senseless slaughter of these spirits. If you eat meat, you're a murderer. Seriously guys." -Harmony

That happened. Those words were actually spoken with a deep conviction, and received with slow nods and twists of mustaches as though it were a holy text being read in some sacred temple. They were having some sort of anti all-animal products meeting, to spread awareness and strengthen the movement. I had to admire their passion. They were serious about their cause and were exploring ways to demonstrate their disdain for the consumption of animal products. Picketing Harris Teeter, Crosbys Seafood and even taking a field trip out to some beef farm in upstate SC were put up for discussion. No real plans were nailed down, because the conversation quickly moved from how horrible meat is for your digestive system and then to Asher, Blaze and Harmony each "one-upping" each other with recycling techniques and the dedication to a world free of commercial materialism.

I couldn't take much more so I turned my music up and continued with my work. All that talk about how horrible meat was made me want to eat something , something full of commercial grade beef. And cheese. I immediately walked home, got in my gas guzzling SUV and drove to Wendy's. Did you know they will put as many patties on a cheeseburger as you want? Seriously, if you say, "Give me a #3 (which has 3 all American beef patties) and put 7 extra patties on there" they'll do it! I believe my spirit animal is an Angus beef cow. The 2178 calories (actual count) were quite delicious and I thought about my hipster friends back at the coffee shop. Who am I to say what is an acceptable style of dress  or length of facial hair? Who am I to say the uneven sidewalks of downtown Charleston don't deserve hiking boots. Who am I to say all animals don't really have spirits? My cheeseburger with 10 beef patties had something a little extra in it that made me feel pretty special. Maybe it was a spirit, maybe it was just the MSG, either way, I was glad I could enjoy it as freely and as passionately as my friends could refuse it.

 I hope I cross paths with my hipster friends again soon. I love a good iced tea while I observe the species interact in their natural habitat. Maybe I'll get to experience another sighting. Maybe, like Jane, I'll gain their trust and be accepted into the group. Guess I'll be in the market for some new shoes and reading up on how to be a hipster.

Splenda

Splenda.

Even though working in the food and beverage (industry), a churched up way of saying "I wait tables" requires no formal education, it probably has the highest percentage of formally educated people. And even though a majority of the people who wait tables are formally educated, it doesn't always mean they are cut out for the type of work. Customer service requires a smooth tongue and a level of tact that can only be learned from multiple trials by fire. Trials by fire like the Winston Salem witch trials by fire.  Not everyone can handle multiple tables of hungry, cranky, demanding people who demand a million different things and need you to run in a million different directions all while you stay cool, calm and collected and smiling like bringing them more Splenda for their unsweet tea that has 3 lemon wedges, not two, is the ONLY thing you would rather be doing.

Billy went to Clemson. He was a biological science major and wanted to work with the South Carolina Aquarium. He landed an internship there, which is what brought him to Charleston. He's as sharp as a tac and one of the nicest guys I know, one of those genuinely nice guys that when they ask how you're doing, they actually want to hear about it. He always has a word of encouragement and a helping hand to offer. He started at our pseudo-posh restaurant as a bac-wait, which is a glorified bus boy, and quickly made it to the big show of splitting checks in Aloha and hunting down those damn yellow packets of Splenda. The thing is, when dealing with "people" you have to have pretty tough skin. In reality, there are some people who just refuse to be happy. They are miserable and in turn, make everyone around them miserable. You have to know how to wrangle these people like the late Steve Irwin used to handle a cobra, because, if you aren't careful, a 4-top can go from bad to the 7th realm of Dante's Inferno, fast.

Billy was in a great mood at the beginning of the shift. He tossed me a Red Bull as he walked in and showed me a picture of his big date he had later that week that he had met on the Clemson Alumni booze cruise in the harbor. He asked where he should take her, and was wondering about Cyprus.

Billy: "Have you ever been there? I hear it's really good."
Me: "Take her to The Belle."
Billy: "What's that?"
Me: "Never mind. Get some Splenda when you come back upstairs."

Obviously my suggestion was in jest, however it paints a picture of Billy's baby bunny like naivety. He came back with some Splenda and at the gun, we were off. Our hosts, all young beautiful college girls, have the job of escorting each guest to their table, handing them menus and hopefully, spreading the arrivals throughout the sections to give us, the pit crew, time to respond accordingly. However, if you could somehow militarize the collective intellect of our hostesses, all enemies of the State would...probably.....do whatever they wanted.

Poor Billy got quadruple sat, a deuce, two 4-tops and a 5-top. He wasn't just in the weeds, he was in Vietnam 1969 surrounded by Charlie weeds. I wasn't aware of the disaster unfolding with his tables, as we were short a bartender and I was busy with my tables and working on the long list of top shelf mixed drinks, and martinis with "just a touch of vermouth, not too much, but not too dry either, do you understand?"

"Absolutely I understand, you're going to get a cup full of vodka because thats pretty much what a martini is and the addition of vermouth is just to make it look more pretentious, you can't taste it, it's just for show, that'll be $17.00."

I was behind the bar when the wheels came off. Billy was stumbling through all of the modifications on his orders when a walking, chrome domed version of Dr. Xavier stormed up to the computer. (Get it? Because Dr. Xavier, from X-Men, is in a wheelchair. I'm not gonna spoon feed ya here.) He didn't hold back.

"BILLY!"

Picture the dead, awkward silence of the Cantina right after Obi Wan cuts that thug's arm off to rescue Luke in A New Hope. Every employee stopped and looked up. Billy looked like he had shrunk about 3 inches, his eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"It's been 15 minutes and you haven't even gotten our drink order. We've been here many times and this is BY FAR the worst service I have EVER had. You need to get over here and get our order. If you want any semblance of a tip you're going to need to step it up. Now get over here and get our order!"

I was in mid stride to intervene when Xavier turned on his heel and sauntered back to his table. Had I had a light saber, I probably would have carved him up. Billy was shellshocked. The wheels had stopped turning. He was done. I asked him if he was ok and momentarily he regained his composure. I tried to take some of the heat from his other tables for him, to give him a fighting chance of escaping the night with at least part of his soul.

"I've got table 28 and 32, what do you need for Stalin over there? A pistol?"
Billy: "He wants some Splenda for his tea and a Goose martini up, olives, no, a twist, shi@ I don't remember!"
Me: "Deep breaths bud, I've got you. He's getting olives. Get your orders in and we'll go from there."

You could sense evil around the table when you walked by, like the stench from a bog or the cold chill from a haunted house and Billy had that "Please don't make me go over there" look of terror in his eyes every time they needed something.

"Can you run their food to them?"
"Should I drop the check off now or wait?"
"Damn, I didn't ask if they wanted coffee or desserts!"

His confidence was shattered and he was second guessing himself at every turn. At this point we were simply attempting damage control and trying to get the hexed table out of our lives as quickly as possible. We comped a round of drinks for their troubles and I really wanted to play mind games with the them. I wanted to tell Billy to go hide and with presenting the check I would simply explain to them that Billy was in his first week of serving here and "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience but he just found out his entire family died in a house fire, his dog ran away and oh yeah, just yesterday he was just diagnosed with every type of cancer there is, ever, but we took care of your stupid martini because we are SO sorry you had to wait 15 minutes for it," but I didn't do that, because that's not very nice.

The night went on pretty much without incident, but poor Billy was KIA. I could see how upset that guy had made him, and it really got to me. I would like to say that we got our revenge on Dr. Xavier with some devious plan like that scene(watch this video!) from Waiting by destroying his food or putting Visine in his stupid martini, but we didn't, because that's not very nice. We went out to our favorite watering hole after work and I bought him a few cold ones to take the edge off. I went through some of my worst stories of dealing with people like Dr. Xavier and told him thats the name of the game. You win some and you lose some and that night, Scotty chalked one up under a loss but that doesn't mean for the requirements, it can't be a great, lucrative, in between job where you can meet a lot of great people.

As for Dr. Xavier, I hope he doesn't try to pull a stunt like that somewhere that where some maverick server WILL go rogue and violate a dozen health codes on his mashed potatoes. Billy? I'm not worried about Billy. He's already had a few interviews with different aquatic affiliated organizations, and is building up volunteer and intern hours for his resume. He's going to be ok. He's graduated from a bunny to, I don't know, at least a house cat. If nothing else, this in-between job that so many college-plus grads endure to fund their journey to the next step, and hopefully a career will make them capable and confident in dealing with every type of person. I know it will.

Splenda.