Hateful old passive aggressive Patoola.  Therapy session:  Be wary of self-sabotage, be careful you don't see your successes as betrayal of your mother...  You've found a nice match, a new friend you like spending time with, in age and interest and temperament.  Situations are honestly frustrating you, tension at work from the unfairness of always closing...  Be careful, be wary of the aggressiveness comes out of frustrations, let it out in a beneficial productive way...

No wonder, then...

But I work, have a job, the one I've kept for fifteen years..  It's physical, emotional...

I took a wrong path in life.  I got mixed up, like, in that time of college, and post college...  that's the time you should go do it, but me,  I had my mom to think about, I wasn't quick in making any move, I ended up where I ended up...


So by the end of the week, even as the lovely musicians put on a great show, a whole crowd of people, even as the main guy sings out your praises, as the backbone of the whole place, the guy who makes it, strangely I'm in a strange mood, and as a bartender, working away, getting stuff done, wine tasted so people are happy, jokes, politeness, facial expressions, the whole myriad of give and take, you really do not feel like being in the spotlight, even if you are one of the main actors of the night, a character...  I'm not in revel mode, unfortunately, even though it seems I might project that appearance a little bit better.  Oh, he's speaking of the end of the night, when all musicians come and sing their songs of Babylon's rivers in this town which is new but old at the same time, bubbling, confused, but, the same stuff as ever applies just as always, kings, prophets, tales, jokes, prophecy, mumbo jumbo, tribal war, factions...

Oh, by the end of it all, Saturday through Wednesday night Jazz, closing every night, and some late nights there I'm not proud of maybe, but for the marketing aspect, adding to the known lore of The Dying Gaul as it is experienced and remembered, by the end of it...

I'm feeling, by the end of it, raw.  I feel depressed.  I feel like crying.  I clean up.  Let the hood cleaning crew out the back door with a free Sprite, hard working late night guys, part of a clean working industrial bistrot kitchen...  I eat the few bites of salmon tartar, which is just kind of simple and raw, not as elegant as it is up the street at the sister restaurant, while the busboy man, the man from Mexico, Manu, sweeps up, sighs, goes to take a dump in the men's room as a final comment on the night and all his physical efforts incredible over two floors...  The pig's feet, crusty and boneless are tired by the time I get them out of the over which has stopped heating up properly to 200...

Fuck me, the math, the report, the last paperwork, I'm beat and some low pressure system of manly lonesome funk has come over me.  It's hit my brow, and my shoulders were already drooped a bit from the heavy load...

The workweek ends the same way it starts, with a kind of American cowboy depression the likes of which the Old World, with the exception of Ireland, does not know...  ha ha.   What is there to do now, but get the Uber cab home anonymous, then to go and reflect, and it's hollow, not even a cat to go home to, but, you deal with it.