"Only through dedicated work does a man fulfill himself..."--William S. Carlson
Check the date on my last post and it will appear that I have not written in nearly a month, but nothing could be further from the truth. As a matter of fact I have written thousands of words ranging from restaurant happenings to global analysis--they remain in the draft section of this thing because the entries seem too truly representative of the person I really am.
As I read these hidden exhortations I picture them posted next to an 8 X 10 glossy of my [locally] very recognizable puss--for some reason these still-cloistered words are not nearly as anonymous as previous entries--they are filled to the brim with "me" and are as recognizable [as being my words] as the above-referenced picture of my face.
I am going to post them soon anyway, mainly because none of the consequences resulting from any potential discovery could be any worse for me than than a mild annoyance. One luxury of being both rich and deathly tired is that even the most public firing imaginable would still be a relief.
Much of this pending writing is borne of the fact that I am beginning to wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. I love what I do most of the time, and this restaurant is absolutely the centerpiece of my existence--I say that proudly rather than morosely or with resentment. However, the eleven years I have been here have passed in the blink of an eye--Christ, every year in August I still start to get nervous because I am worried about two-a-day football practices starting back up and I haven't been subjected to that hell in over TWENTY YEARS.
On the bright side I suppose this means I am young at heart, or at the very least blissfully unware that I am aging. My concern starts to brew on many different levels as I begin to contemplate my end--I don't want to be one of those guys who comes home one day[or one early morning, in my case], drops his briefcase on the kitchen table, loosens his tie, and drops dead with nothing to show for his existence but a pile of money and a few thousand bottles of undrunk wine waiting to be willed to distant relatives. I am starting to wonder about what I am missing. I am also starting to wonder about the pending state of the world and our country--selfishly becoming concerned about what environment will await me when and if I do finally decide to kick back and relax. Like many Americans [though probably for reasons diametrically opposed to many of them] I am extremely frustrated right now with the greater picture of our world.
So get ready for a different view of the Last One Home.
Check the date on my last post and it will appear that I have not written in nearly a month, but nothing could be further from the truth. As a matter of fact I have written thousands of words ranging from restaurant happenings to global analysis--they remain in the draft section of this thing because the entries seem too truly representative of the person I really am.
As I read these hidden exhortations I picture them posted next to an 8 X 10 glossy of my [locally] very recognizable puss--for some reason these still-cloistered words are not nearly as anonymous as previous entries--they are filled to the brim with "me" and are as recognizable [as being my words] as the above-referenced picture of my face.
I am going to post them soon anyway, mainly because none of the consequences resulting from any potential discovery could be any worse for me than than a mild annoyance. One luxury of being both rich and deathly tired is that even the most public firing imaginable would still be a relief.
Much of this pending writing is borne of the fact that I am beginning to wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. I love what I do most of the time, and this restaurant is absolutely the centerpiece of my existence--I say that proudly rather than morosely or with resentment. However, the eleven years I have been here have passed in the blink of an eye--Christ, every year in August I still start to get nervous because I am worried about two-a-day football practices starting back up and I haven't been subjected to that hell in over TWENTY YEARS.
On the bright side I suppose this means I am young at heart, or at the very least blissfully unware that I am aging. My concern starts to brew on many different levels as I begin to contemplate my end--I don't want to be one of those guys who comes home one day[or one early morning, in my case], drops his briefcase on the kitchen table, loosens his tie, and drops dead with nothing to show for his existence but a pile of money and a few thousand bottles of undrunk wine waiting to be willed to distant relatives. I am starting to wonder about what I am missing. I am also starting to wonder about the pending state of the world and our country--selfishly becoming concerned about what environment will await me when and if I do finally decide to kick back and relax. Like many Americans [though probably for reasons diametrically opposed to many of them] I am extremely frustrated right now with the greater picture of our world.
So get ready for a different view of the Last One Home.
posted by last one home at 7:41 PM
3 Comments:
Good to hear your voice - I've been checking Blues every week for new posts...looking forward to more.
~Jonathan
LOH, I'll take any new post you care to give. I know what you mean by the drafts piling up, and you certainly put more thought into your posts than moi.
Funny, that last line almost seems like a warning ;)
Still love all your stuff. Let it all hang out. You are awesome. Give 'em all the finger, post it and kick back, you deserve it and can afford it. You rock!! Bob
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