The Cream, The Clear and a Broken Cell Phone

<<< Barry Bonds' rookie card.












The long holiday weekend was nothing if not eventful. And not all of it good.

Work, as usual, sucked. Plenty of waiters canceling, showing up late, or not showing up at all.

Sunday I actually had to work a party, which is rare. I spent most of the day running 80-some-odd waiters at a VIP wedding in Oakhurst, next to Deal and Long Brach. At the same time, I had to deal with all the other bullshit that was going on at the other jobs around the Tri-State area.

The shindig, which easily cost mid-six-figures, was at a mansion on the beach. There were about 1,000 guests, and I think 90 percent were Middle Eastern -- though Jews, so I wasn't worried about exploding wedding cakes, though I'm sure my bartenders weren't tipped.

Upon departure from Little Syria, I trekked cross-state to scenic Mount Laurel, to the home of a man Jersey Girl often refers to as "The Professor." Ironic, though, that in my case, when I refer to him in the same way, I mean it, since at one point he was actually my professor during my freshman year of college. And it was he who subsequently hooked me up with the gig at the Courier News.

Anyway, in the nearly 10 years I have known him, I have seen him intoxicated on many, many occasions. But in all that time I have never seen him even close to as drunk and out of control as he was Sunday night. I won't get into the gory details here, but some of you were there, so feel free to support my claim in comment.

Now, perhaps the biggest tragedy to strike during Sunday's craziness was that at some point, me cell phone decided that if I want it to work properly I would no longer be permitted to close it (I have one of those flip-phones). If I close it, it freezes or shuts down, forcing me to open it up and take the battery out, put it back in and then re-boot the phone.

This sucks.

If you know how much I'm on the phone with work, and that I pretty much have to carry it with me everywhere I go, even if it's just to the bathroom for a quick whiz, not being able to close it or put it in my pocket is a major inconvenience. I refuse to pay for a new phone. Let me company pay for it.

Monday was a nice day at my mother's house, as we had a BBQ in honor of mine and my sister's birthday -- they're a week apart (mine is today, 5/31). So that was nice, seeing family and the few friends I was permitted to invite (my mother limited us to four apiece, including spouses and significant others). One of those friends, Levi, who is also my boss, was there, so though I get shitty cell reception at my mom's house, I let him handle most of the calls on a day that also went to shit with latenesses, cancellations, etc.

Thankfully, after the stress of the last three weekends, this weekend is quiet at work, thanks to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot.

We get back to hell on Monday.


Some other news and notes from over the weekend:

Todd may have gotten me the best damn gift I have ever received when he presented me with a karaoke machine this evening. I would like to recognize his girlfriend, whose general idea it was.
But not only that, he also gave me eight karaoke CDs chock full of tremendous tunes, ranging from Guns 'n Roses and Poison to The Steve Miller Band and, yes, even Kelly Clarkson.

A fine, fine job by Mr Todd A.


Lastly, a couple of noteworthy deaths.

Former NFL fullback Craig "Ironhead" Heyward , who played mostly for the Saints, left the building Saturday, succumbing to a recurring brain tumor.

Heyward's death, for me, is sad, not only for his cool nickname, but because Heyward grew up in Passaic, NJ, a place where I spent much of my teenage years and early 20s.

After moving to Hillside from Brooklyn, NY when I was 15, my friend, Sam, who used to live in my old neighborhood before moving to Passaic some years earlier, ended up in my high school in Elizabeth.

Through Sam, I met most of the friends I still had today, who lived in Passaic, too. So when Heyward ended up in the NFL, many of us knew him from the Third-Ward Park.

Another noteable death was that of actor Paul Gleason, who starred, in among other things, Die Hard (as the dickhead cop in charge at the scene), the mysterious Clarence Beeks in the Eddie Murphy/Dan Aykroyd classic "Trading Places," and, most importantly, as Principle Richard "mess with the bulls and you get the horns" Vernon in "The Breakfast Club."

That is all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my stash out of Bender's locker.