This was back when I had good hair, and I might have been thankful for it. Should have been. This was in the early 90s. Still had good skin, like that was enough, during that baleful time of cultural tide pooling. Filthy fucking sea life grows amok in that clammy littoral precipitation. I was a waiter in an asshole restaurant on Carson Street.
'Asshole?' you ask. "How can a restaurant be an asshole?" some may interrogate. I submit a response. This joint was a dive and a failure among more popular bistros on Carson, was poorly run, and was making me look like a fool. And I wasn't earning shit there. Just up the street, there was a much more popular restaurant, with better food, better interior design, and all the waiters had the Euro-trash look. It was, and may still be, haven't seen anyone doing it lately, an expensive, time consuming and brutally elitist look requiring ultra trendy hair care, which I never went in for. Didn't matter, though, because I had thick curly hair, which is wrong, all wrong, for the type of hair style that was in at the time. It was best to have thick straight hair, razor cut on one temple and grown into a precision mobile flap of hair on the other. It should move with you in a sassy way, especially when you make a dramatic turn of your long, linear northern european head. I'm weaselly looking, now and then, and my hair, then, was completely useless for the look of the day, the Euro-trash.
I suffered economically and socially for not being able to do the Euro-trash look. I still hold animosity towards that postmodern time and place, and toward certain individuals I'm too civilized to mention here. The ostracism for not measuring up was worse than getting cremated.
'Asshole?' you ask. "How can a restaurant be an asshole?" some may interrogate. I submit a response. This joint was a dive and a failure among more popular bistros on Carson, was poorly run, and was making me look like a fool. And I wasn't earning shit there. Just up the street, there was a much more popular restaurant, with better food, better interior design, and all the waiters had the Euro-trash look. It was, and may still be, haven't seen anyone doing it lately, an expensive, time consuming and brutally elitist look requiring ultra trendy hair care, which I never went in for. Didn't matter, though, because I had thick curly hair, which is wrong, all wrong, for the type of hair style that was in at the time. It was best to have thick straight hair, razor cut on one temple and grown into a precision mobile flap of hair on the other. It should move with you in a sassy way, especially when you make a dramatic turn of your long, linear northern european head. I'm weaselly looking, now and then, and my hair, then, was completely useless for the look of the day, the Euro-trash.
I suffered economically and socially for not being able to do the Euro-trash look. I still hold animosity towards that postmodern time and place, and toward certain individuals I'm too civilized to mention here. The ostracism for not measuring up was worse than getting cremated.
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