My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.


If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
Industry Studies: Mise en Place

Industry Studies: Mise en Place

All my friends are heathens, take it slow
— twenty one pilots

You ever walk up to a family, bout' five adults deep with two elderly - dare I say, lizardly - and four kids - dare I say, mini cunts - and have a brief lapse in judgement as to where you are?  The host had just told you about your nine top.  You were in the midst of a very enlightening conversation on the expo line as to why table 5 can suck the chef's dick.  No need for details; they probably just wanted arugula instead of butter leaf.  Maybe even have the fried chicken special be grilled instead.  Ugh.  But at that moment, you've been sat and you must remove yourself from the circle jerk of furious anger like a dead phone that's only really reached 17% power.  But, but, there's more shit to talk.  I'm still incensed!  So instead of wrapping up your more important conversation and returning to character, you strut back out onto the floor with balls swinging.  You got that sauce.  That heat.  That bravado.  You, fucked up.

Bev naps in place.  Smile adorned.  "What's up mu'fuckas?"  Shit...that, that wasn't what was suppose to be said.  Like...at all.  And there's kids.  Four of them?  I'm fucked.  I'm so fucked.  All the free dessert's in the world aren't fixing this one.  Maybe they didn't hear me...

...you forgot where you were.  And they heard you.  Talk about an ice bath back to reality.  Grandpa is downing his nitrate pills.  Grandma can't vocalize whether she wants sweetener, or not.  She does, let's be real.  The pink kind.  One of those kids already broke out sobbing.  Dad's red.  Mom didn't want to go to this restaurant in the first place, so you just fed the fuck out of that fire & might have been the last nail in the coffin when it came to that marriage in general.  One of the kids laughed.  That kid will be applying here in 12 years.  Better not charge them for that ice tea...

Can't wait to talk about this shit in the back.  Can you believe it?  17% tip?  Guess I'll just fucking starve, it's cool.


You in?  Preach.  Don't get sidetracked.  I'm goin' in; welcome to the server side station, expo line, host stand, kitchen & the awkward bathroom encounters.  Everything is in it's place for this basic-bitch tale of a shift.  Bout' to spit a series of fucks about some real industry shit.  Back to the hardcore.

...scratch that record...

Picture this, I’m a bag of dicks
Put me to your lips, I am sick
I will punch a baby bear in it’s shit
— El-P

Most annoying question in the industry?  I'll let you take a minute to ponder over every single thing you've ever told a member of the industry before I give this one away.  I'm that girlfriend right now that already knows what the fuck you did, but am patiently waiting with an eyebrow raised for you to reaffirm me.  In the mean time, I'd like to explain to you why some questions are irritating and others aren't.  First of all, I'm literally serving you.  I have not already designed this entire experience, you are about to embark upon, around you.  Did not build the architecture.  Did not design the menu.  Did not cook the food.  I am purely representing what this restaurant has to offer while peppering in my adorable personality.  My job is to not stumble over my fucking words and to know the details of what I'm bringing you.  If I'm having a good day, it's also to connect with you and make you feel like I give half a fuck.  Everything else is left foot, right foot, pick things up - and sometimes if I'm overachieving, I'll tell you the fucking soup special.  I'm joking if I've served you and you like me.  I care about you.  Really...

...awkward.  So anyways, I'm not the owner.  I may know certain details, but it's not in my best interest, nor is it in yours, to know what the fuck is going on behind the curtain.  And you're not cracking The Da Vinci Code by shouting out that we're cheap by not offering a burger on happy hour.  Look harlot, if you seriously left the hostel for a dollar fifty off deal and you didn't find it here, that's on you for not doing your due diligent research...

what else?

So like I was saying...the question that makes my balls tingle in the worst of ways?

"Why?"

The fuck you mean, why?  For the same reason that anything outside of your control simply, is.  On a much grander scale, this is really just a microcosm example of an individual devoid of etiquette and common sense; someone existing in a vacuum of self indulgence & ignorance where all other elements have been ripped out.  That's the nastiest part of being human.  Having all of the ability to understand, and not doing so.  Hold on, taking a shot to this one.

All I'm saying essentially, is that people can be fucking assholes.  I hate being asked why by guests.  You pull this sort of shit when buying your Fuckboí flavored Doritos?  Your coupon didn't apply to said flavor, and you want to know why at that very moment like the CEO of Doritos is running your shit across that scanner?  Are you that individual that holds up the self-checkout line with three items feeling like you were jewed (calm down, I've said worse) out of twelve cents?  I'll throw a fucking quarter at you if it gets your indignant ass moving.  Is it jewed, or jew'd?  Is it capitalized?  I don't want to be insensitive, I want to get this right.

Lizard people love asking why.  Lizard people will frequent your establishment five days out of the week just to have their fucking scales ruffled.  If you haven't kept up with previous industry articles by the way, lizard people are old, appearingly white obnoxious individuals that rule the world behind elaborate synthetic, sometimes actual, human skin suits & Coachella level hologram devices.  They love that shit though.  Why am I being charged for a rocks pour?  Why don't you have unsalted pretzels?  Why can't you un-marinate the chicken?  Why no sweet potato fries?  Why is your patio so hot?  Why can't you turn down the music?  I can actually turn the music down.  I just don't want to.  Why can't you suck my Homosapien cock?  I think it's what keeps them so heavily motivated with world domination; by every week dominating my intolerance.  I'd C' ya next Tuesday, but that's my day off.  Heh.  Cunt.

what else?

But, I know deep down that there is a very real possibility I run across you come Tuesday.  Won't be because of work.  Won't be the happenstance of running into you in public, because please believe that I'm an expert at recognizing and dodging you fucks in the grocery store like a dead-beat dad in a roomful of baby mamas.  Watch me juke, dodge, drive, shift & stutter step around a fucking restaurant regular like I'm playing for the max contract.  All the way past the condiment isle.  I'll see yo' ass before you see me, Brood de la Rumsfeld & sweet, sweet reminders of why I hate work.  It's not you!  It's me.  Really.

No.  I'll see you in my fucking nightmares.  Because industry nightmares are the slow twist of the knife that mind-fucks you long after exiting your shift.  They'll leave you tired and weakened for that tomorrow grind.  Scrambling amongst sheets pleading insanity, because there is no fucking possibility that there are tables of disgruntled assholes around your bed - surroundings seem iffy, but let's be honest when saying your state of mind is probably influenced...does that bitch need a refill...why's the table moving further away...why the fuck is my nightstand next to table seven...tell that kid to put my hamper down...why'd I point to my closet when that lizard asked me where the bathroom was...

...no, you're experiencing a work nightmare.  Because your soul wasn't skull-fucked enough earlier.  You thought you clocked out...no, no.  No, sweetie.  You fucked up and forgot someone's side of ketchup.  And while you didn't remember it that shift, your subconscious has kept those thoughts swirling around that dome of yours just so that you could wake up a week later doused in a cold sweat knowing you fucked up.  And you're fucked up.  And your shift tomorrow can fuck off.  And after showing up the next day and hearing the chairs descend and the door extend, you know that the guests can fuc...

The motherfucking Svengali
Mob boss got body in the XL Denali
With the Mossberg shotty
Got a full box of shells and a ransom note
That ain’t gun powder out on my dash (that’s coke)
— Everlast

Being in the weeds is merely a distinct realization of panic; where you know shit can & is going wrong while your world briefly ends.  The train's running out of track.  You're experiencing black ice on the ridge.  The red dot is upon your forehead, and I'm not talking shitty tippers.  See, one of the secrets to being in the industry is being able to multi-task & think two steps ahead.  As soon as you're existing in the moment, you've already fucked up. There is a distinct formula to avoid being in the weeds, and those that don't follow end up being the servers bitched about on Yelp - a fate I wish upon no one.

You gotta' constantly be thinking ahead to what actions are urgent, and what can go wrong in order to narrowly eliminate the potential for such a reality to transpire.  Three old white ladies ordered a custom pizza that ended up being $48.00.  Plus tax bruh.  You may want to run that order by them a few times, with different phrasing each time, letting them know that their choices will directly correlate with their bill at the very end.  Table 21's ice tea ain't low enough to give a fuck.  Cuz' if I hear a fucking peep of irritation out of Betty White once I drop this check at the end, I'll be livid.  And it may still happen.  But doing your due diligence alieves any guilty conscious.  Otherwise, it's on you for not fully explaining - albeit obvious - details to these apparently starving & illiterate corpses.  Keep your knife & board clean, homie.  It's the best you can do. 

Now get a fresh ice tea over to 21 before they come up with a reason to jew...Jew...before, before they gyp you.  Gypsies.  The middle road in racial-driven cheapness that no one gives a fuck about.

Where it goes bad is when you don't pay attention to detail.  When you don't have your head on a swivel looking for things that can go wrong.  Bryan Heinemann taught me this shit.  He also told myself and others to work smarter, not harder.  Yeah, cliché in a sense, but not when this dude broke it down.  He taught me to make my rounds (going around the restaurant and like, working) in loops.  Greet that table, get the other tables order, check on three other tables, pre-bus the one that is closest to being done, and offer some fat bitch dessert.  Wait, you don't want desert?  Really?  Huh.  Anyways.  Rinse and repeat.  You will inevitably end up in the weeds no matter how good you are, because there are too many elements out of our control.  But you can 9/10 times be a fucking savage on the rotation.  And as for those 1/10 moments...well, gentleman and ladies, it has been a privilege playing with you tonight.

...fat bitches and nonsense, you say...

Don't approach me with your thinly veiled insecurities.  Don't tell me you were going to do a salad, but are deviating from the path of personal normality tonight with a dish of steak, potatoes and bread smothered in gravy that just so unfortunately comes with kale.  Not buying it, lady.  You were never going to go for the salad!  The poor old fuck to your side that use to engage in some form of penetration with you, while thinking about the microwaved cantaloupe he fucked two weekends ago, is even shaking his head.  Didn't care for the strawberry lemonade either, I see.  Fair enough.  Doesn't have that hint of incoming diabetes?  Excusez-moi, forgot that I was dealing with the roach villain from the first "Men in Black."  Sugar, water.  Need, mooore...shughar...be right back with that diet Pepsi rolling five refills deep.

Needless to say, the intergalactic roach didn't even touch her kale.  Like, I mean licked the plate the fuck clean around it.  I made at least four passes before finally offering to take the plate.  What can I say?  Felt bad for the kale.  Roach got it's hopes up knowing that she was teetering on the idea of a salad.  Not today, buddy.  Not ever.  Offered up dessert.  Three out of four said no instantly.  Guess which usually healthy individual, I say with a raised eyebrow, had perked ears yet a silent reaction.

Not trying to be mean here.  I only go for the throat when provoked.  When pushed by behavior I find degenerative toward other's happiness.  Lady was a bitch throughout my interaction, most of which wasn't even included in this tirade, but...ahh, fuck the apologies.  Go ahead and be appalled.  Life is about balance, and the only way to balance out illusions of unapologetic hospitality is to go raw upon the worst of surrounding us.  In my intuitions about you, I trust.

get em...

I offer up desserts in the same fashion that McDonalds shit heads ask if you want fries.  By this point, my eyes are glazed over and I'm on autopilot while thinking about more pressing matters.  All I'm looking for is a simple yes, no, or an inquiry about the menu.  Don't hit me with the wishy-washy shit, please.  You either want dessert, don't, or need a co-signers approval before you take out this loan on your guilt.  That's it.  No one ever actually debates this question.  This lady juked me though.  The other three said no, and she remained quiet.  Raised my eyebrow at her.  Pushed the menu closer to her.  Not a peep.  Alright, you had your chance.  I'll get this menu out of your way, and run the payment.  Sure as shit, I come back and roach lady has devoured the innards of her company to make room for her eggs in their hollowed out shells.  Trust me guys - it grosses me out just witnessing it, let alone writing about it.  Anyways, she wants to see a menu and the rest of them are just nodding in agreeance like zombies.  Bitch!  I just, never mind.  We're a far cry away from those initial ponderings of a salad, aren't we.  Guess I'll be right back with that. 

Le vendí polvo a los güeros, están locos los cabrones, son los más cocodrilos del ghetto, (What’d he say?)
Serio pedo con el clavo de yeyo, gringo periquero con el chavo primero. (What the fuck is he talking about?)
Dicen que se llaman la Coka Nostra, saco un ocho, luego piden otra bolsa
Le pone a esa madre hasta que el vato choca. Surtiéndoles es La Cosa Nostra, homie
— Sick Jacken

say what?

My philosophy of service teeters a fine line of atrocity and love; I'm the wrong one to have been put in a place to schmooze.  Vietnam fields of beautiful tropical canopies resting above soiled grounds laden with explosives by the white devil.  Where you think you'd find me given that, au contraire.  I'm in this gorilla warfare way of monetary snatching like Charlie laying in the trees.  I exhibit that less than a fuck given service standard should my philosophy tip into the atrocity range.  Talking a five visit rule.  May have talked about it in previous articles.  Hope I've talked about it in previous articles.  Once this rule has been enacted, I will only walk up to your table five more times.  Don't get slapped with the five visit verdict, is all that I have to say.  Because theoretically, three of those on a normal day are needed just to pay your ass out.  Drop check.  Pick up & run payment.  Drop payment.  That leaves you with two chances to fuck with my world - and I knoooooow that ain't enough.  And belieeeeeve that I revel in this.  Consolidate your asshole tendencies, por-your-favor.  Rest assure that I don't neeeeeed this.  This bullshit.  This misplaced time.  This artificial love loaned out at a one time fee of 20% interest. 

...Suppose your irritations are nothing compared to the rusted blood upon my leaves.

But leaves shed, irritations pass, and blood cycles...

All want something out me
Then they talk about me
Would be lost without me
— Kanye West

Got a little dark there.  My bad.  Too much sauce.  Too many shots.  Pulled too much sense from the wrong sensation.  Too little patience.  Too late of a night.  Too many echo's of the same piano key digging into my consciousness.  Ipso facto, I'll reel it back to a good ol' shit story...

There's no graceful way to shit as a member of the industry.  Cooks will go hours before their brief window opens up - and just take into account how fucking hot it gets back there when it comes to the laws of swamp ass.  If you're considerate, you gauge when each individual BOH member tends to shit just so that you don't interrupt their brief window.  These little gestures go a long way for when you fuck up with them on an order.  Bartenders generally have to keep a presence at the bar given their fishbowl of an environment, or risk leaving their guests feeling abandoned, lost and franticly looking around for help.  Plus, they gotta' watch that well, or risk a server uprising with every ticket.  Fuck em' though, they don't roll silverware.  Support staff like bussers, hosts and expo's know that once they take their foot off the pedal to go piss, we begin deducting money out of their tip outs cuz' they ain't doin' shit, other than taking a shit.  Servers?  Might have the most leeway when it comes to potty time as long as you're caught up.  You can always have someone watch your section, because the nature of the beast dictates that we come and go.  Once I leave your booth, I'm gone.  You as a guest have no clue about the in-between, generally.  But, sometimes glittering opportunities...

...are just pyrite caked in shit.  Case in point.  Table 23 with the sandals saw me leave the stall as they were pissing.  Peripherals angled down toward intruding feet when in desperate need to shit don't lie.  Table 45 on the patio saw me leave the bathroom and were now more than clear as to why I had been gone for the last twelve minutes.  Looking down uncomfortably for being a human that consumes and exudes, I continue my walk of shame back inside.  Checking on table 11, I recognize the shoes of the kid that was banging on the stall door while I was taking a shit.  Fuck that kid.  He doesn't get a refill.  While running food to table 3, I lock eyes with the awkward dude in the pink-striped polo who I'm pretty sure eye-fucked me as I was going into the stall.  Alright mother fuckers, I get it.  You all now know I shit.  The curtains been drawn, and the man that brings you fried fish occasionally shits.  Yeah, I washed my hands.  Chill the fuck out.  Soap n' jazz.  You're all so worried about me being human.  Guess what.  I also probably jacked off before my shift.  I probably fingered my girlfriend the night before.  I wash my asshole, put deodorant on because otherwise I stink, and sure - I pull my phone out while pissing.  In fact, I scrolled through at least a seven hour timespan on my Facebook while existing in a realm of fecal matter just minutes before.  Look, I still handle your debit card at the end of the day.  What kind of degenerate scripture violating filth exists upon that fucking card when in comparison, my time spent with you actually has mandates on cleanliness.  As far as I'm concerned, you're just free-balling through life up until this moment.  You're not taking any health code classes in order to come in here and complain that we don't have boneless wings.  I should be more worried about your freak ass, how bow' dat'?

The worst?  Something I never thought would enter my realm of existence until a few days ago.  The restaurant owner trying to talk to you when you're on the verge of an asshole apocalypse.  Straight up, who the fuck talks to people when they're in the bathroom.  Unless you're soliciting freaky sex, you have no reason to be striking up convo.  I thought that was an understood rule.  No.  I usually try to sneak pass this dude on the rare chance I encounter him in the restroom.  Do one of those head-down looking to the right sprints straight to the stall.  Was caught slippin' this time purely due to the voracious nature of this gut rumbling.  Not trying to be gross, but...come on, you've been here.  Anyways, the owner fucking saw me as he was pissing in the urinal.  Fuck.  FUCK.

Johnny don't wanna sit in the stall no mo'...

Props if you understood that reference.  I'll get off this Kendrick kick eventually, I swear.  The point I'm trying to make is that my supreme restaurant commander apparently likes to talk to people while they defecate.  Or piss.  Or cum.  Or die.  I don't know, I just know that out of the last four examples, I experienced three of them.  How was last night?  Oh, well, it's in last nights e-mail.  Was slow.  Slow enough to shit comfortably.  Oh, how do I think the weekend will be?  Well, it'll start with me shitting myself apparently.  Like as in, my tables will all of a sudden wonder where the fuck did their server go as I position myself in a way that doesn't get shit on the seat of my car as I swerve in traffic in search of pants/boxers/self-esteem/life goals replacements.  Outside of that, the restaurant will probably be dead.  Like my soul right now.  As I struggle with this reality.  You're still pissing.  Oh sweet Jesus.  Ok.  How has life been?  How has life been. Do you always do this?  This some sort of sick, malicious game of yours? 

And as I stood there awkwardly shitting myself, gazing at the toilet as if it were some sort of distant desert mirage, my life flashed before my eyes.  Shades of that old comedy bit from Sam Kinison about the homosexual necrophiliacs in the morgue and how life just keeps fucking you even after you die.  That was me.  I was the shit stained corpse.  And the industry was the ever malevolent dick.

A Beautifully Misunderstood World:  Part II

A Beautifully Misunderstood World: Part II

Chonky Fire

Chonky Fire