As a former waitress and bartender, I felt this. Your way of writing about the not so mediocre past is effective and engaging. Because those little moments lead to the big ones, and I felt like I was in your diary. Thanks for sharing. 🖤
I worked in a few restaurants in Sydney Australia as a hapless youth in the 1960s, and this essay/chapter reminds me of one called ‘The Hungry Horse’ run by a Cuban emigre who hid a baseball bat behind the counter, with which to batter ‘assassins’ from the homeland. Escalope of veal was served in at least five ways, distinguished by a spectrum of acid sauces in all colours of the rainbow. Not to mention the prawn cocktails, straight from the freezer and frozen solid. The ‘wine list’ involved a dash across the road to The Windsor Castle pub for a bottle of tooth-rotting, tongue blackening plonk, delivered breathlessly to the table.
I enjoy your writing so
much. I have had my moments over many decades. Nothing compares to your extraordinary experiences, and courage in the face of much adversity.
“The Deterioration Of An Entire Generation Through The Evaporation Of Free Thought Condensation (2011)
It all starts with anger, frustration
Then your thoughts are captivated by the blaring TV station,
It's channel 25,
It’s the 5 o'clock news,
So let the nice-looking man manipulate your views
With his 50-cent smile and his million-dollar suit…”
—- I didn’t mind catching a glimpse of the first spark in your dark stories, even though you reduced the act of sharing such sparks to a lame Substack pitch effort to hook readers. We’re all hookers in here.
I'm not sure if this is a veiled insult or a great compliment.
"... even though you reduced the act of sharing such sparks to a lame Substack pitch effort to hook readers." I don't know what this means, honestly. I shared the poem because it's bad, and it's funny, and it shows the reader how I wrote at the time.
Complement intended… I might have misread the comment that followed this poem in your original post… but, I like seeing the evolution of an artist. The point I was attempting to make (too late at night to be clear) is this:
If any person picks up a pen with an intention to draft art out of words at any age, they might fall into the trap of harsh-self critique once our skills have developed beyond that earlier intention. What strikes me as MOST important is that the voice of the person’s soul has such a strong sense of language, that is innate and so compelling that they feel the need to write. The piece you included in your chapter was deep and brave and worthier than your older-evolved writer-self might be able to see. That’s normal. We all are our toughest critics— it comes with being an artist.
I am cheering on that early writer in you that made those poems come onto the page despite the harsh attitude your voice was forced to tolerate- the berating tone of your father. I cringe to hear that kind of abuse- and it sounds like you had to endure much more than words. But your voice is that of a true writer. Honor thy self! Keep writing. Stop judging your efforts. What ever your soul needs to spit out, send it!
Sorry for being unclear. I shouldn’t engage in Substack when I’m tired, but I like reading others’ works at the end of the day. I’ll learn from this.
No worries at all, friend! Thanks for clarifying, I was indeed confused.
"But your voice is that of a true writer. Honor thy self! Keep writing. Stop judging your efforts. What ever your soul needs to spit out, send it!"
Firstly, thank you. This really means a great deal to me. And I get the sentiment, but the only way to become better is to judge yourself harshly, to hurt yourself, hurt your own feelings, cut the bullshit, and move forward.
Also, people always say "Keep writing!"
It's unnecessary. The only way I'll ever stop is a bullet to the head. Or a fully loaded spike to my right median cubital. (The left one is collapsed.)
Yes… I’m a full-blooded hypocrite— so crippled by my own self-judgement that it has taken a year and a half of hypnotherapy to start to break down the curse of my own ancestor who raised his talented kids saying “it’s a cruel world and you’ll never amount to anything in it.” Such utter rot. As long as we keep striving — we never accept the lie that we lose if we try. I’m a believer in the wisdom that says “gonna make it if we try—“
As long as we keep after that elusive goal of self improvement… we don’t need that loaded gun. My philosophy is that you can’t not get better at something you love to do.
Cheers, mate— of course you’ll keep writing. You’re a righter of wrongs— blessings to you.
Words which come to me: Jaded Magic. Narcissistic, halfway vulnerable halfway house of the damned. You want to feel sorry for the main, but he doesn't actually feel sorry for himself. He's making it in the world, enjoying himself, taking the fast road down to a happy grave. But will he pull up? Does he want to? Perhaps he is ... and this is his novel in the works. Either way, he'll make you a nice drink, and inspire you to give him the decent tip
I’m just going to keep it simple. This is the best thing (outside of poetry) that I’ve read all week. Your talent and style (from your writing to your reading) is impeccable.
those fucking endless appetizers - I recall some of my worst nights cocktail waitressing counting exact change people left for drinks, still makes me pissed.
Yes indeed. People suck. Not all, but I can confidently say most. Maybe 96% of the world. You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how they treat service workers.
Your drink mixing skills and knowledge of the accoutrements of bartending, like your writing leave me intrigued. I was a bartender that never evolved past pouring drafts on tap and drinks with two ingredients - I think I see a C. James Desmond Barman Cocktail Book in your future, written in the way you write, real. Great post.
Already wrote it! When COVID hit, I spent the first few weeks writing down everything I knew about bartending and restaurants. It's called "Connor's Cocktail And Bar Book." Definitely needs some revision, though. You've given me a great idea!
Dude, you speak from the heart. All of stories you’ve written all come from one place… the needle . There’s only one catch, you fear no more pain (needle) in no more gain (stories).
You share so much of yourself here without asking anything in return, and it’s not lost on me. The honesty, the grit, the heart—it all comes through. Thank you for that.
As a former waitress and bartender, I felt this. Your way of writing about the not so mediocre past is effective and engaging. Because those little moments lead to the big ones, and I felt like I was in your diary. Thanks for sharing. 🖤
Thank you! I try to write all the things that embarrass me the most. If a sentence makes me nervous, it's probably a good one.
I appreciate your support.
Great writing. Seductively dark.
Luckily, after I thought I was going to gasp, I got to snicker. Love this.
Strippers and ladders, as the great Chuck Palahniuk says.
Thank you, Lewis! Well put. I appreciate your support.
I worked in a few restaurants in Sydney Australia as a hapless youth in the 1960s, and this essay/chapter reminds me of one called ‘The Hungry Horse’ run by a Cuban emigre who hid a baseball bat behind the counter, with which to batter ‘assassins’ from the homeland. Escalope of veal was served in at least five ways, distinguished by a spectrum of acid sauces in all colours of the rainbow. Not to mention the prawn cocktails, straight from the freezer and frozen solid. The ‘wine list’ involved a dash across the road to The Windsor Castle pub for a bottle of tooth-rotting, tongue blackening plonk, delivered breathlessly to the table.
I enjoy your writing so
much. I have had my moments over many decades. Nothing compares to your extraordinary experiences, and courage in the face of much adversity.
Bob
London U.K.
Thank you so much, Bob.
Fuckdays was a rough spot. It gets even rougher.
Stay tuned.
I appreciate your support.
This part:
“The Deterioration Of An Entire Generation Through The Evaporation Of Free Thought Condensation (2011)
It all starts with anger, frustration
Then your thoughts are captivated by the blaring TV station,
It's channel 25,
It’s the 5 o'clock news,
So let the nice-looking man manipulate your views
With his 50-cent smile and his million-dollar suit…”
—- I didn’t mind catching a glimpse of the first spark in your dark stories, even though you reduced the act of sharing such sparks to a lame Substack pitch effort to hook readers. We’re all hookers in here.
And, yeah— we all gotta start somewhere.
Raw and edgy and very real.
It’s going somewhere…
I'm not sure if this is a veiled insult or a great compliment.
"... even though you reduced the act of sharing such sparks to a lame Substack pitch effort to hook readers." I don't know what this means, honestly. I shared the poem because it's bad, and it's funny, and it shows the reader how I wrote at the time.
No lame pitch here.
Thanks for the comment!
Complement intended… I might have misread the comment that followed this poem in your original post… but, I like seeing the evolution of an artist. The point I was attempting to make (too late at night to be clear) is this:
If any person picks up a pen with an intention to draft art out of words at any age, they might fall into the trap of harsh-self critique once our skills have developed beyond that earlier intention. What strikes me as MOST important is that the voice of the person’s soul has such a strong sense of language, that is innate and so compelling that they feel the need to write. The piece you included in your chapter was deep and brave and worthier than your older-evolved writer-self might be able to see. That’s normal. We all are our toughest critics— it comes with being an artist.
I am cheering on that early writer in you that made those poems come onto the page despite the harsh attitude your voice was forced to tolerate- the berating tone of your father. I cringe to hear that kind of abuse- and it sounds like you had to endure much more than words. But your voice is that of a true writer. Honor thy self! Keep writing. Stop judging your efforts. What ever your soul needs to spit out, send it!
Sorry for being unclear. I shouldn’t engage in Substack when I’m tired, but I like reading others’ works at the end of the day. I’ll learn from this.
Thank you.
No worries at all, friend! Thanks for clarifying, I was indeed confused.
"But your voice is that of a true writer. Honor thy self! Keep writing. Stop judging your efforts. What ever your soul needs to spit out, send it!"
Firstly, thank you. This really means a great deal to me. And I get the sentiment, but the only way to become better is to judge yourself harshly, to hurt yourself, hurt your own feelings, cut the bullshit, and move forward.
Also, people always say "Keep writing!"
It's unnecessary. The only way I'll ever stop is a bullet to the head. Or a fully loaded spike to my right median cubital. (The left one is collapsed.)
Other than that, the bastards will never stop me.
Love ya, Morpho!
I’m working on elevating my own clarity— thanks for calling me out there.
No worries at all, friend.
Yes… I’m a full-blooded hypocrite— so crippled by my own self-judgement that it has taken a year and a half of hypnotherapy to start to break down the curse of my own ancestor who raised his talented kids saying “it’s a cruel world and you’ll never amount to anything in it.” Such utter rot. As long as we keep striving — we never accept the lie that we lose if we try. I’m a believer in the wisdom that says “gonna make it if we try—“
As long as we keep after that elusive goal of self improvement… we don’t need that loaded gun. My philosophy is that you can’t not get better at something you love to do.
Cheers, mate— of course you’ll keep writing. You’re a righter of wrongs— blessings to you.
I have so much love for you, brother. Hope you know that. Comments like yours make me think, change my perspective, which is exactly what I want.
The first lesson my father taught me was: "Life sucks, then you die."
Words which come to me: Jaded Magic. Narcissistic, halfway vulnerable halfway house of the damned. You want to feel sorry for the main, but he doesn't actually feel sorry for himself. He's making it in the world, enjoying himself, taking the fast road down to a happy grave. But will he pull up? Does he want to? Perhaps he is ... and this is his novel in the works. Either way, he'll make you a nice drink, and inspire you to give him the decent tip
The main is me! These stories are non-fiction, my friend. VILE SELF PORTRAITS is fiction, but THE BARMAN is all me, all Connor.
Regardless, I appreciate your kind words and support.
Means the world.
And then some.
And I'm glad you don't feel sorry. I never wanted this to be a woe-is-me piece—the opposite.
Just the raw, unfettered truth.
“Shit brown eyes” 😂😂 Another fantastic read after another grueling Saturday brunch shift
Comments like these tell me I'm on the right track. I write for you and everyone like you.
Those still at war, still in the trenches.
Cheers, friend.
I’m just going to keep it simple. This is the best thing (outside of poetry) that I’ve read all week. Your talent and style (from your writing to your reading) is impeccable.
Thanks for making me smile, Sylvia.
To quote the great Aaron Weiss of mewithoutYou:
"And then thought it rather strange
To see me smile, as I don't --
I don't do too much smiling these days"
(mewithoutYou. “Silencer.” [A→B] Life, Tooth & Nail Records, 2002.)
When I read your stuff I think of people I know and knew and places I’ve been and known. You are among the best conversationalists I’ve never met.
Such kind words, MaryBeth. I appreciate your support, always.
those fucking endless appetizers - I recall some of my worst nights cocktail waitressing counting exact change people left for drinks, still makes me pissed.
Yes indeed. People suck. Not all, but I can confidently say most. Maybe 96% of the world. You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how they treat service workers.
Completely agree.
Hot damn. I am IN it.
Thank you, Sandolore. Apologies I missed this comment.
Part two next week! Stay tuned.
Your drink mixing skills and knowledge of the accoutrements of bartending, like your writing leave me intrigued. I was a bartender that never evolved past pouring drafts on tap and drinks with two ingredients - I think I see a C. James Desmond Barman Cocktail Book in your future, written in the way you write, real. Great post.
Already wrote it! When COVID hit, I spent the first few weeks writing down everything I knew about bartending and restaurants. It's called "Connor's Cocktail And Bar Book." Definitely needs some revision, though. You've given me a great idea!
Thank you, Victoria.
Dude, you speak from the heart. All of stories you’ve written all come from one place… the needle . There’s only one catch, you fear no more pain (needle) in no more gain (stories).
I do my very best, Yolanda. I know no other way.
Thank you so much for these kind words.
Chotchkie’s, solid gold! Can’t wait for more 🖤
Thank you so much, Rosie (or rosie, whatever you prefer)!
A great reference to a great movie.
But Chotchkie's is actually based on the real TGI Fuckdays. The flair, the cheery bullshit atmosphere. That's what it was like.
But more dilapidated.
I certainly remember the dilapidated “charm” of the TGI’s in all its sticky glory.
Oh, the memories.
I 🧡 u.
I love you, too, Stella!
The images you paint are brushed with the best kind of paint. The best stuff comes from empirical experience like yours. Thanks.
Of course, Russell. Thank you so much, brother. Comments like these keep me going.
You share so much of yourself here without asking anything in return, and it’s not lost on me. The honesty, the grit, the heart—it all comes through. Thank you for that.
Thank you, Chrissy. I do what I can. Your support is invaluable to me.