Host with the most

First of all, I would like to apologize to my thousands of fans across the country for not blogging in a while (Seriously, can just one fucking person click on this…please? #prayerhandsemoji) Okay, back to business.

For those of you who don’t already know, I work as a seating host at a steakhouse a few nights a week. I do this job so that I can write during the day and fund an unlimited amount of american cheese quesadillas. Last night, after clocking out and going home with a ribeye carcass stuffed in my pocket, I went to sleep and entered the magical world of dreams. This dream started out to look a hell of a lot like my real life. So in essence it became a nightmare pretty quick.

The beginning saw me standing at my host podium as a family of four approached.  They asked for a table (no reservation) and I obliged them with a suicidal smile, four menus, and the enthusiasm of Frodo taking the one ring to Mount Doom. The journey to their table began.

I led them through the bar and weaved them past the chefs. We braved our way around the bussing station and fought on past the bathrooms. But once their table on the patio came into sight, it vanished. The resteraunt around us fell away to become a harsh and desolate wilderness. Menus still in hand, I pressed on.

The two kids were the first to die. They froze to death from the severe cold. The ironic part was that I had some crayons in my pocket to keep them busy as they succumbed to frost bite. The parents went next. A pack of wolves caught up to us and showed me that I’m not exactly Liam Neeson from the The Grey. Now alone, I pressed on with my menus to eventually reach the restaurant that resided upon the rainbow laden horizon. I was fired.

I have absolutely no idea what this dream means. Is it a metaphor for my own life? Is this a bad omen from the heathen gods that torment us mortals that toil away in the purgatory of the serving industry? Who the fuck knows. A side note – I gave my two weeks notice today. Stay tuned.



Martha…Call Me

I remember my mom watching her on the television when I was a kid. I had forgotten about her. But then I saw a commercial for Martha and Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party on VH1 and I was reminded of her omniscient presence.

Martha Stewart. When was the last time you took a good hard look at the woman who taught you’re mother, and perhaps even grandmother, about wrapping a turkey in puff pastry or staking tomato plants with old Yves Saint Laurent leg stockings. It seems the domestic goddess of yesteryear is currently on the back burner, being served as a second course to a group of lifestyle mavens that have collectively suckled her pioneering nipple only to bite it hard and make own milk for themselves (Exhibit A – Gwyneth Paltrow).

You may find it weird that I, a 23 year old straight male, is writing a blog post about Martha Stewart. You would be right. It is totally weird. But during my daily doldrums of asking myself the wonderful question of, “what the fuck am I going to actually do with my life?” I decided to turn to the woman who answered that very question everyday  through a menagerie of mediums spanning from television to print. Her answers came in the form of color schemes, party themes, crafting ideas, and recipes, but they all spoke to the common core of offering a sense of purpose and meaning disguised in the guise of a simple task that often aimed for the very heights of perfection.

I am not looking for a delicious battle tested recipe for fresh Sunday morning beignets. I am not interested in learning how to paint a portrait of myself in glitter. What I am interested in is the woman herself – the teacher behind the lesson – and I must say, she is quite inspiring, intriguing, and damn right exhilarating.

No, I did not have a one-on-one exclusive sit down with Martha Stewart at her estate in Bedford. We did not sit in her chicken coop, pluck eggs, and watch her champion show dogs hump under mistletoe. What I did do, is watch her old interviews on Youtube with everyone from Charlie Rose to Morley Safer on 60 Minutes. I even watched a sit-down interview with her and Giuliana Rancic for god’s sake. If you’re wondering wether or not they are worth the watch, let me tell you, they are. Stewart is a force.

Sure, she was born white, relatively privileged, beautiful, and had brains to match, but she was and still is the epitome of a unique combination of hard-work, passion, unrelenting ambition, and an infectious ball busting drive. It is not so much what she says, but the look and feel of her that comes through the interviews. You can see just by watching her that she had zero doubt of her own greatness, capabilities, and destiny for success. It is perhaps this quality that I found most inspiring. It seems she needed nobody’s encouraging belief but her own to fuel her way through the mountains of bullshit and propel her from model, to stockbroker, to caterer, and to the eventual household name that we all now know her to be. All of this of course culminated (i.e. cratered) into a new identity of convicted felon. But her triumphant and unrelenting rise from those YSL and puff pastry laden ashes is an even bigger reason to take a second look at the woman who roasted Justin Bieber.

There are probably a hell of a lot more politically correct and certainly more relevant role models to have in this day and age. But I have to say, in my opinion, if more young men like me took life lessons from Martha Stewart we may not only learn to live like her, but also learn to live like real men in the first place. Martha, if you’re ever looking for a new personal assistant, I’ll be your bag boy any day of the week.


How about epic romances?

Her name is Emily. She is best friends with my little sister Anna and will be her roommate during their junior year of college next semester. Naturally, I felt an urge to fuck that up entirely.

We met when we both arrived at the hospital due to my sister guzzling down a trey full of shots that contained a whole carny act of alcohol. Don’t worry, Anna ended up being just fine. A few hours of blacked out sleep with a barf bag strapped to her face was all that was needed. I owe my little sis a muffin basket actually, for it was during this time that I got to know Emily. Ah, a silver lining.

She isn’t the type I would normally go for. Emily, it seems, is smart and sane. But nevertheless, I am intrigued by her talent at busting my balls. So, by the end of the night, I looked Emily dead in the eye and pronounced, “I am going to take you out.” This received the reply of a simple soul crushing, “No, you’re not.” Naturally, I got her number anyway. These are our daily conversations for you’re enjoyment…

Me: So when should I pick you up?

Emily: Omg…

Me: So Wednesday at 6:30?

Emily: Dang it, I have to go read to orphans then.

Me: I got em a book on tape. They’re fine. 

Emily: Wait…it was actually a silent auction at the women’s club, my bad. 

Me: One of my friends is a lesbian mute auctioneer. She’s got it covered. 

Emily: I don’t think you know what the women’s club is…

Me: Neither does my friend, but she’s very excited to attend. 

Me: Even better idea: Why don’t I come with you and have you show me what it is? Problem solved. 

Emily: Sorry bud, members only. 

Me: Where do I sign up?

Emily: You don’t. Aren’t you like 23?

Me: Yes ma’am. 

Emily: I’m 20. Don’t you think that’s like a little too Anna Nicole Smith.

Me: Nah. Last I checked, 23 wasn’t the new 99. I don’t have any money but I am wheelchair and wrinkle free so that’s a plus. 

EMILY: Awesome. 


Me: So what kind of flowers do you like?

Emily: Dead ones. 

Me: See, this is why we belong together. 

Emily: That’s a little morbid. 

Me: I joined the women’s club today. What time should I pick you up for the silent auction?

Emily: I already have a date. I’m taking your friend, the lesbian mute auctioneer. She’s very excited to attend. 

Me: Damnit. 


Me: So do you like Italian food?

Emily: I’m anorexic.

Me: Unfortunate…

Me (Again): Well I’m actually a chef. I could cook you dinner and bring it to you if you won’t let me take you out. 

Emily: Aren’t you the one who didn’t have any food besides stale wheat thins?

Me: Yeah…but I made those wheat thins myself and they are delicious. 

Emily: Oh really?

Me: Yeah. Go on Yelp. I’m rated five stars. Kina a big deal…


Me: You give in to me yet?

Emily: Do I really seems so easily swayed?

Me: No. But I think i’ve at least earned a shot right?

(I proceeded to try and call her. She ignored my call…so i left her a voicemail)

Emily: My grandma leaves me voicemails begging me to call her all the time. Who cares. 

Me: Your grandma is ging to love me. She will definitely approve of me when we meet at our wedding. 

Emily: I doubt that. She’s a bitch. 

Me: A trait you’ve inherited. But it’s what I love about you. 

Emily: Fuck you. 

Me: So Saturday at 6:30?


Me: So what you up to? Probably thinking of me…

Emily: Can’t say that’s the case. 

Me: You should really try calling me back sometime. We’d have great conversations. 

Emily: That sounds like five minutes of my life I’ll never get back. 

Me: More like an amazing moment you won’t want to end. 

Me (Again): Are you always this stubborn? Or do I just bring it out in you?

Emily: Can’t a woman stand her ground anymore without being questioned?

Me: I like it. I respect it. But how much ground do you need? You should really make some room for me to stand right next to ya.

Emily: I prefer to lone wolf it. 

Me: That was you? I thought I heard a howl…


Me: So did you dream about me last night?

Emily: Have you considered playing hard to get?

Me: Nah, with you that’d get me nowhere. I’m going for it. Charming right?

Emily: It’s something. 


Me: I heard a wolf howl…did you try calling me?

Emily: No. 


Me: You a movie fan?

Emily: No. I prefer long novels with such advanced and complex diction that they need to be read alone…in solitude. 

Me: How about I write you a story about our first date and you can read that?

Emily: I’m not really into tragedies…or horror…or science fiction. 

Me: How about epic romances?