Because of this, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback. Thank you all for the suggestions. They’ve been duly noted.

People are all about talk in our generation…especially in our American evangelical setting. There’s bible studies every day of the week, conferences, lectures, books…you want to hear someone talk about God or if you want to read about God, Western civilization’s got something for you.

I don’t think God gives two shits about our talking any longer.

I see couples who are friends of mine who say they grow closer to one another through things like daily bible studies and devotions together, but when it’s time to get up early in the morning and paint a house or build a wheelchair ramp or plant a garden or do some service, they’re too tired from talking until four in the morning the night before with “the one God has set aside for them.”

I call bullshit.

How about basing your faith in action? How about founding your relationship on something like going every day for an hour of tutoring at a local elementary school? Not to say seeking Truth (with a capital T, but we’ll get into that later) through studying/discussing/struggling with/debating the Word is a bad thing…but when it’s the only thing you do, what kind of fruit are you bearing?

We’re a generation that does a lot of talking and if we followed it up with just as much action, we’d be doing so much more to build up the communities around us.

And as cheesy and “Christian” as it sounds, the kingdom is advancing, and we need to be a part of that advancement. People need Jesus, but they need a roof too. People need to read the Gospels, but they need food. People need to obey the laws of Moses but they need a hug and a bike and a dollar.

Our generation needs to get it out of their fucking head that simply accepting Jesus into their life is the last step. That He’s going to make everything all flowers and dewdrops. Jesus is going to make things hard. Really hard. Really frickin’ hard. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the same line peddled to me: “I’ve never been happier than when I was a Christian.” Then you’re not a fucking Christian. You’re not sacrificing yourself to the fullest to love those around you.

There’s women in my life I could lust after. My finances are going to the shitter and stealing some food would make things a hell of a lot easier. I could probably get away with it too. I could probably cheat on my girlfriend too and boy would that night be awesome. Before Jesus, I could have done all of these things and it would have made me feel oh-so-much happier.

Not anymore. He’s going to put stuff in front of us that make us weep and wail but He’s going to give us ample opportunity to grow as a result of the perseverance that comes from accomplishing it. And He’s going to give us a never-ending fountain of strength and energy and encouragement to draw from to walk down those paths.

He’s going to be a lamp unto our feet, He’s not going to be a moving sidewalk and do all the work for us.

Sadly, it’s the people farthest removed from the Church who are showing some of the best examples of Love (again, capital L). And if Christ is Love, then what does that say about us as Christians? It says we’re looking in the wrong direction.

We can learn a lot if we just get over this fear of being “tainted” by the secular community. Frankly, I want to get tainted. I think our American evangelical, Michael W. Smith-loving, fake-smiling, stab-you-in-the-back generation could stand to get a little tainted.

When you’re tainted you start yourself on a pathway of realization. You start to understand. You not only see what people are dealing with, you live through it.

I’m a man of action. Want to read a book. Read the epistle of James. Read about how James states over and over and motherfucking over how we’re supposed to be putting our fucking faith to the test through action. Love, love, love, rinse, repeat. It’s that simple, people.

And it doesn’t have to be service on Saturday morning. There’s a friend of mine who hates waking up early. He likes poker. He’s an excellent gambler and cards are his forte. He goes to the poker room every week, plays for a few hours, makes a few hundred dollars profit and donates it all to a shelter in Texas for women who are victims of domestic abuse.

Does he call himself a Christian? No. But he’s advancing the kingdom of God better than any of my friends who do identify themselves as one.

Love,
Ryan

Listen up, you stuck-up, douchey windbags under the age of 18 who enter MY restaurant and frickin’ DEMAND that I treat you with the respect and admiration I would treat the frickin’ Queen of England:

If you want to get treated like adults, ACT. LIKE. ADULTS.

The other night, I had a party of eight teenagers come in. They all wanted sushi, but since we didn’t have any dining tables big enough for eight people (they usually sit three, maximum four), we sat them at a larger table intended for grill use. Because they said they wanted sushi (and not chef-cooked grill food) we obliged. As soon as they frickin’ sat down, some of them decided they wanted a chef (who is only there to cook grilled food) to cook some of their meals.

Me: “Sorry, guys. We can’t do that. We only have three chefs on tonight. You guys said you wanted sushi. If you’d like some grill food, it’ll be an hour and a half or so before a chef can come out here.”
Birthday Girl: “Well, it’s my birthday and I feel entitled to a chef coming out and cooking my food.”

I actually cringe as I remember it to write it down.

Me: “Well, like I said, there’s nothing I can do.”
Birthday Girl: “Well, can we at least get some drinks? Alcoholic drinks?”
Me: “Well, can I at least get some ID’s?” Over 21 ID’s?”
Birthday Girl: “We don’t have them with us.”
Me: “Would you like Coke or Sprite then?”
Birthday Girl: “This is the worst 18th-birthday ever!”
Me: “How many 18th-birthdays have you had?”

This went on for a few more minutes until they got the picture that I wasn’t going to just roll over like those pansies at Applebee’s down the street. When they got the message I wasn’t some doormat waiter, the girl went to go complain to my manager, April, about my “bad” service.

April: “Those girls said you rolled your eyes at them.”
Me: “They asked for drinks and didn’t have an ID on them. They also felt they were ‘entitled’ to a chef because it was their 18th birthday or something.”
April: “Yea, when the girl came up and started complaining, I think I rolled my eyes too. That’s probably what set her off.”

I don’t understand where kids…frickin’ kids…got the idea in their head that they were entitled to anything. What do you contribute to society? A healthy dose of “Laguna Beach” viewership? Sorry, I think we could all do without that.

I’ve been a server for a little over a year now. Sadly, my last day wasn’t much different from the other couple of hundred I’ve worked.

Except for the fact that I started taking a shot every twenty minutes starting on my first table at 4:34pm, mind you (thanks Jessica L. from California). Oh, and thanks Marybeth for driving me to and from work in the event that I blacked out on my last day and needed a ride home.

Because of the alcohol in my system, around 6pm (six shots in) I feigned gay at my fifth table (thank you, FulMinty…I also tried your “jazz hands” and “spirit fingers” suggestions).

It was right around this time that my boss April saw what I was doing with the vodka and used phrases like “oh, hell no” and “put that back in your fucking car”. What are you gonna do, fire me, April?

Before my buzz wore off, (thanks to Katrina Troy) I sad the word “meow” a good forty-nine times at a table before I gave them their check. (Number fifty was “Have a great night meow.”)

After that, things got a little busy and my head started to hurt. A lot. I suppose that’s what happens after a dozen shots over the course of three or so hours. A big thanks goes out to an unnamed co-worker who got me shots to keep me a little buzzed and stave off the headache until I was off work.

From there on out, I stopped taking shots and started just taking in the whole night. This was gonna be my last night at the only job I’ve ever looked forward to going to some nights. For the most part there are some very decent people that work there and I have incredibly fond memories of that place.

These are the people that have Volleyball Mondays on the beach. These are the managers that will understand when you’re not “feeling well” on a Sunday morning. They are also the managers that will understand if you’re truly sick, get over-stressed on finals week or have an unexpected date with a girl you’ve been fawning over for months and just now worked up the courage to ask out and she unexpectedly said yes.

These are also the people that will hold special places in my heart. Each and every one of them. I could write stories for days about each of them and every single one would be a riot.

Maybe I’ll write a book some day. Hopefully it’ll be better than this garbage.

See y’all in a month. I’ve got plenty of stories on the backburner. And with more time to write them, they’ll be better than ever.

If you’re ever in St. Augustine, Florida, drop me an email and I’ll take you for sushi. It’s the place between Hooters and Johnny Carinos on 312.

P.S. While I’m in North Carolina with my band, you’re more than welcome to share your stories and experiences in the restaurant industry on my Myspace or Facebook.

Have a nice rest of the night. Meow.

At my restaurant, our manager April encourages us to ask the customer if we or the chef did something wrong if we receive an incredibly low tip or are stiffed. And I’m not talking 5%-low…I’m talking 2 dollars on a $100 tab.

Most of the time, the family feigns ignorance and thinks that the tip is included. Other times, they think they left an extra 20 and promptly drop a Jackson to rectify the problem. Very rarely is the family upset with something the restaurant did.

Last week a family of five orders up over $100 worth of food and then leaves $103 in tip book and says, “Keep the change.”

They stay a few extra minutes so I take this opportunity to ask if anything was wrong. In truth, I’ve only asked a customer about the tip two or three times.

So I walk up to the table with a smile on my face and not a trace of frustration in my voice.

Me: “Hey, guys. Was there anything wrong with the chef or my service tonight?”
Father: “No, why?”
Me: “Oh…well…just because you left me a little less than 3 dollars on over a $100 tab.”
Father: “Oh. That.”
Me: “Yea.”
Father: “We’re just cheap.”

At least they were honest. I can’t imagine coming to a mid- to high-priced restaurant with your family of five if you’re “cheap” though. You can order 100 dollars worth of food (complete with appetizers and drinks from the bar) yet stiff the server. Doesn’t make much sense to me.