Yesterday, Hunter S. Thompson silenced his poison pen by way of gunshot. Drug-addled, armed and inconsolably pissed, his immersive brand of journalism is exactly what this media driven, overblown world of policy needs more of. In tribute, take a bottle of rum and a .357, swathe yourself in a burning American flag and recite any appropriate F. Scott Fitzgerald quote. HST will be missed.
That said, Welcome to Day One.
Orientation was made up of lines and lists. While I managed all of the lines in the proper order, on the lists I did not fare as well. "Spell the last name again," was a common phrase. By way of response I was given a gentle shake of the head, a riffling through the list and told to go visit someone else that might know who I am. Apparently these are craftsmen without time or inclination for paperwork. I was just one of the long line of new recruits shuffling between stations that had no record of our existence. I'm guessing they somewhere have record of my $46,000 debt, however. Eventually, I was a able to convince the right person I was in the right place at the right time and with all the right papers.
For the effort I received an introduction to a half dozen administrators, a half dozen chef instructors, and a 30 pound box. Contents: 3 pairs of houndstooth check pants, size large, yet still 6 inches too long; 5 small chef caps, size too big; 5 white aprins; 5 neckercheifs with no instruction on how they might be worn; 24 side towels of a variety I gave up on at home a few months ago (I'll be replacing those immediately with much more effective bar towels). My chef jackets - gleaming white, name stiched on the right breast - I'd received a few weeks ago.
Not feeling like an asshole in the uniform took a few minutes. Once I'm surrounded by equally ill fitted assholes, well, then everything ought to be just fine.
That said, Welcome to Day One.
Orientation was made up of lines and lists. While I managed all of the lines in the proper order, on the lists I did not fare as well. "Spell the last name again," was a common phrase. By way of response I was given a gentle shake of the head, a riffling through the list and told to go visit someone else that might know who I am. Apparently these are craftsmen without time or inclination for paperwork. I was just one of the long line of new recruits shuffling between stations that had no record of our existence. I'm guessing they somewhere have record of my $46,000 debt, however. Eventually, I was a able to convince the right person I was in the right place at the right time and with all the right papers.
For the effort I received an introduction to a half dozen administrators, a half dozen chef instructors, and a 30 pound box. Contents: 3 pairs of houndstooth check pants, size large, yet still 6 inches too long; 5 small chef caps, size too big; 5 white aprins; 5 neckercheifs with no instruction on how they might be worn; 24 side towels of a variety I gave up on at home a few months ago (I'll be replacing those immediately with much more effective bar towels). My chef jackets - gleaming white, name stiched on the right breast - I'd received a few weeks ago.
Not feeling like an asshole in the uniform took a few minutes. Once I'm surrounded by equally ill fitted assholes, well, then everything ought to be just fine.
