Greens Fee
Happy St. Patrick's Day! I will celebrate this special day by having a beer and writing a column. However, that's how I strive to celebrate every day, and I forgot it was St. Patrick's Day until I noticed the piano player at the restaurant was playing Irish Lullaby. I then realized that there's nothing in this world that rips your heart out more than a beautiful woman who you can tell has reached the age where she's leaving her youth behind like comfortable shoes that, dammit, are just too worn to wear anymore, playing Irish Lullaby on the piano on St. Patrick's Day in a nearly empty restaurant. I didn't know whether to scream or eat a banana. I put $3 in the tip glass. She said "Thank you," and right there, we had a wordless bond that lasted the whole evening.

So the guy says to me, "Man, reading your stuff about how you can't come up with anything to write is more entertaining than reading what most people write intentionally." Well, pallie, you're in luck tonight. Once again I've stayed out too late and am just forcing myself to do this, because missing two days in a row here would be like converting a rehab center into a crackhouse.

Well, I suppose I could do a public service thing. Yes, let me do that. As a public service to either or both of my faithful readers, I present to you, the Waitress' Guide To Becoming Ben's Girlfriend. I know there are a lot of waitresses out there that would like to be my girlfriend, but time and time again I see that the public school system is failing these people, as they're coming to work woefully unprepared for what in reality is a very complex, delicate system which must be studied, memorized, and internalized, if you (the waitress) are to become the girlfriend of me (Ben). I will do this by example.

Let's take, oh, I don't know, how about...tonight. Very good. There I was, sitting at the bar of the restaurant, enjoying my sweet breads (they really should tell you what this is before you order it, by the way) and -- Wait, I have to digress here a second. Before I get to the Waitress' Guide to Becoming Ben's Girlfriend, I have to present the Restaurant Owner's Guide to Not Making Ben Puke. If you happen to have "sweet breads" (Jesus) on your menu for the evening, don't explain what it is to me by tilting your head back and making cutting motions down the length of your neck while saying, "It comes from this part of the veal." Dude, I'm trying to eat here. First of all, what kind of name is "sweet breads" for this? Am I the only one who didn't know what this was? I suppose "Ripped Out Calf Neck Parts" wouldn't sell as well. When I open my restaurant, I'm going to serve something called "fluffy niceness", and all it's going to be is a big steaming bowl of hog mucus. Sweet breads. Get outta here.

Anyway, back to the Waitress' Guide to Becoming Ben's Girlfriend. There I was, about to order my hog mucus, and she asks me what I'm having for dinner. I start to tilt my head back, and then think better of it, and explain that whatever the owner tells me to eat, I eat. Then all of a sudden, I'm in the middle of a conversation. How was your week, how was mine? Oh, went on vacation, went here, did that, it was great. Yeah, that does sound great, I remember the time that I did this, and went there, and yeah, and stuff, and like, cool. Totally comfortable, and out of nowhere really, and for one fraction of a second, I almost slipped from "looking at her face" into "gazing into her eyes", before remembering that I am a robot sent to observe the humans' primitive culture and gather samples to bring to the mothership. But it was really nice, and eventually she had to pry herself away, as difficult as you can imagine that would be, to check on all of the riff-raff to see if they wanted any other animal parts.

Alright, girls, by this point you're pretty much in love with me as it is. Things have gone really well, and you've actually impressed me to the point where I would give you a second thought. Now, here is the key to becoming my girlfriend: After this initial, wildly successful conversation, never, ever, under any circumstances allowable by physics, should you come near me again.

Actually, you should come near me again, but only if the purpose is to tell me that you just don't care anymore and your life will not be complete until we get hot and sloppy in the canned goods storage locker in the basement. But you won't do that. You never do, do you? Nooooo.

No, never come near me again. Because if you do, and I'm not done chowing down or puking (which usually lasts well into the night, to the point where I'm driving home cursing the darkness because I only have 52 minutes left to get home and write some stupid column for three people), we're gonna look at each other, and I am going to have nothing to say. Nothing. "Hi! Remember like fifteen minutes ago when you were over here and I was talking to you? That was cool, huh? Remember that?" Nothing!

What a sad, sad scene. What you (the waitress) have to realize is that I (Ben) am very good at having no relationship at all with people, and I am very good at having close, emotionally fulfilling relationships with people, but anything in the middle there is a grotesque purgatory from which no happiness escapes.

Oh, god, please don't come over here. Whew, got called to a table. Wait, she's coming back. Somebody hide me in the canned goods. Oh great, she's up to the bar again. "Hey. Mmm! This sure is great neck!" Ladies, you really have to do a better job than this. If it's just too difficult to keep yourself away from the cauldron of magnetism that is myself, an easy way to handle this is to simply quit your job immediately after talking to me. It's really better for everyone involved.

Or carry a tip glass. I will give you $3. It will form a wordless bond that will last the whole evening.