Ah, what am I doing anyway, here, waiting for work, Bastille Day, what the hell am I doing, with mom old...

I don't even want to write anymore.  Pointless.

And indeed, Bastille Day was a fucker.  Loud singers on Jazz Night, three regulars sitting at the bar, oh, I forgot it was Bastille Day, as I sweat and groan away, and my female co-workers staring me down, "no tastings," what do you think I am a fucking idiot, and "no specials," even though the chef wants to sell the halibut in addition to the soft shell crabs...  Bar full at 6:15, walk-ins, again, oblivious to today is Bastille Day...

And it's a long slog, plates, plates, plates, plates plates plates, down on my knees scraping off the main food residue, stacking them in some order so I won't trip over them...  Everything flying, people standing by the bar mouth, do you have a reservation, L. in the back room, plates of fresh food arriving from downstairs carried by the busboy, where does it all go, barely remembering my own orders, the placid couple at the bar on an early date, enjoying things, telling tales of travel, normal people on a normal date with a normal social life, and they like wine and food, perfectly polite if a little geeky, and I toil on with my ruined life, trying to pay the rent, etc., etc., etc., and this goes on for quite a while, and then finally, worn out, not able to start cleaning up quite yet, getting to chat a bit with the guy who lived in Toulouse for a time, a landscape architect with funny stories of being reduced to being a gardener trimming high rosemary bushes, the oils getting all over him, he ordered a Jurancon Sec, and it turns out he knows a buddy, a professor of landscape architecture, they both went through LSU together, and the three French females, who know the singer, one a teenager, they are sweet, even as late arrivals, and one breaks into little operatic trills way up high, and they sing The Marseilleuse, with perfect French toned harmony in a way I will never hear matched...  The French, a truly polite race, a balm to my withered nerves...  a gayety toward life I seem not to possess.

A restaurant owner, a Trump guy, business man, comes in and presses for a table, pushy, leaves, then comes back, hey Teddy how long for two spots at the bar, I shrug, an hour, I say, (leave me be), and they have to wait for the entree, maybe I didn't fire it soon enough, and I've got two bottles to open, and my coworker is short with me, directing, and I can't hear what she's saying, and me and her and busboy are doing our little dance behind the bar dodging each other and the open dishwasher with its rack out in the way by the bar's opening, in and out, plates arriving, plates clearing, people chatting... and he's standing in the bar mouth, yet again, telling me to cancel the veal scallopini if it hasn't been ordered yet...  Up close, as he rests his hand on the dishwashing machine, he reminds me of someone, his hair close on his head, Mussolini, perhaps...

Back on the home front, anxiety, the tub is draining very slow all of a sudden, and the toilet tank stopper is not sealing well, so the water runs on, and this is a bother too.  I finally lay out the yoga mat in the apartment, with enough room to do a little bit...

I get out to the market, the liquid plumber is only in the largest size, not cheap, so I get vinegar and baking soda to treat the tub's drain, and I take a walk underneath the trees, overlooking the river, and my soul at least feels a bit better and crows under the pines raise up into the tree branches and Kaw back and forth.