Emesis
I am caught in one of the few situations that exist wherein I consider it a detriment to be Californian. Southern, specifically.
Were I from a more mundane locale, such as Idaho or Montana... or one of those other brown states... I would no doubt have a much clearer conscience on what I must do or, perhaps, might even have no choice to make, lest the region of my origin prove to be answer in itself. Of course, were I from somewhere else, I may not be in this predicament to begin with... but I extrapolate without exposition.
The Mrs. and I took a trip to Santa Catalina island this weekend, three days all told, and it was a great time. The fact that an island community lies just off our coast and yet is so often overlooked for more exotic destinations is something of a sin in itself, but we were there for the first day of the flying fish, we went shopping and rowed kayaks... we did many wonderful, touristy things.
We even... sampled the food.
Now, anyone who really knows me will understand that I am, by knack and by nature, a garbage compactor. I am not picky when it comes to the food I eat. Saturday night, we happened to have dinner at an Italian joint on the island called Villa Porto Fino. I had the King Crab "Special," which (despite what the epithet promised) ended up costing 45 dollars. Jesus. Add drinks, appetizers, and the Mrs.' meal, and you have the makings of a fairly expensive dinner (think me cheap if you wish, but I find that rather fucking expensive).
So we ate, we paid, we went back to the room, and around 2 a.m. I woke up feeling wretched and proceeded, for the next day or so, to vomit and shit all over the beautiful island of Catalina. To such an extent, in fact, that I was made to go to the damn hospital. On. The. Island.
Food poisoning. I don't believe I've ever had it before, and I don't want to ever have it again, but that isn't the point. The point is, were I to eat at a Chili's or an Outback, I would expect the possibility of being poisoned. That's fine. But when I go to a nice restaurant where my very eyes are plucked out for payment of their delicious meats, I expect not to shit out of my mouth for the following 24 hours, you know? Call it professionalism, call it customer service, I would like it if the management of finer dining establishments could find it in their hearts not to attempt to kill me.
I remember at one point in particular, sitting in a toilet stall on the pier, feeling my body shaking and faltering, wracked with a cold sweat, I thought, "When they find people who died suddenly and without warning, is this what their last few minutes consist of? Pulling a Kyle's Dad on the Green Pier and expecting to pass out at any moment, wondering about the thoughts of those that came before you?" Luckily, the Mrs. was there to put me in a cab to the emergency room, otherwise I likely would have continued in my denial and conga-lined my way into a sandy pit that after choking on my own vomit or drowning in my own liquid feces would become my grave.
So, my point is this. I obviously feel we should be compensated for the meal, but the fact of the matter is that we missed out on that day's activites (which represented a significant investment), and I was unable to go to work today due to the illness (which, while not significant, still represented money that should be mine) and neither of these considerations should be too unreasonable to ask of the restaurant... but then there's the question of my statehood.
Being Californian, and of my own generation, I have this sense of entitlement, and I'd hate to make trouble for the restaurant past what they legitimately owe me. I worry how much of what I think they owe me is fair and just, and how much is my Californian side trying to get me to sue the pants off of them. "Sue the pants off" being itself a phrase that I would never use, I wouldn't think, and yet when it comes time to talk about suing, that's the one that comes out. It's in our civil animus. We all hear the beating song of the lawsuit, "Serve them... serve them... serve them..."
At any rate, I'll be calling them today to begin negotiations... now that I think I know the extent of what they've cost me by serving me tainted meats... so we'll see how it goes.
Other than this little hitch, however, the weekend was pretty cool, and I now have a bee-line on a new hat that must be mine. Have a real one, chill-doggos!
Chill-doggos?
Were I from a more mundane locale, such as Idaho or Montana... or one of those other brown states... I would no doubt have a much clearer conscience on what I must do or, perhaps, might even have no choice to make, lest the region of my origin prove to be answer in itself. Of course, were I from somewhere else, I may not be in this predicament to begin with... but I extrapolate without exposition.
The Mrs. and I took a trip to Santa Catalina island this weekend, three days all told, and it was a great time. The fact that an island community lies just off our coast and yet is so often overlooked for more exotic destinations is something of a sin in itself, but we were there for the first day of the flying fish, we went shopping and rowed kayaks... we did many wonderful, touristy things.
We even... sampled the food.
Now, anyone who really knows me will understand that I am, by knack and by nature, a garbage compactor. I am not picky when it comes to the food I eat. Saturday night, we happened to have dinner at an Italian joint on the island called Villa Porto Fino. I had the King Crab "Special," which (despite what the epithet promised) ended up costing 45 dollars. Jesus. Add drinks, appetizers, and the Mrs.' meal, and you have the makings of a fairly expensive dinner (think me cheap if you wish, but I find that rather fucking expensive).
So we ate, we paid, we went back to the room, and around 2 a.m. I woke up feeling wretched and proceeded, for the next day or so, to vomit and shit all over the beautiful island of Catalina. To such an extent, in fact, that I was made to go to the damn hospital. On. The. Island.
Food poisoning. I don't believe I've ever had it before, and I don't want to ever have it again, but that isn't the point. The point is, were I to eat at a Chili's or an Outback, I would expect the possibility of being poisoned. That's fine. But when I go to a nice restaurant where my very eyes are plucked out for payment of their delicious meats, I expect not to shit out of my mouth for the following 24 hours, you know? Call it professionalism, call it customer service, I would like it if the management of finer dining establishments could find it in their hearts not to attempt to kill me.
I remember at one point in particular, sitting in a toilet stall on the pier, feeling my body shaking and faltering, wracked with a cold sweat, I thought, "When they find people who died suddenly and without warning, is this what their last few minutes consist of? Pulling a Kyle's Dad on the Green Pier and expecting to pass out at any moment, wondering about the thoughts of those that came before you?" Luckily, the Mrs. was there to put me in a cab to the emergency room, otherwise I likely would have continued in my denial and conga-lined my way into a sandy pit that after choking on my own vomit or drowning in my own liquid feces would become my grave.
So, my point is this. I obviously feel we should be compensated for the meal, but the fact of the matter is that we missed out on that day's activites (which represented a significant investment), and I was unable to go to work today due to the illness (which, while not significant, still represented money that should be mine) and neither of these considerations should be too unreasonable to ask of the restaurant... but then there's the question of my statehood.
Being Californian, and of my own generation, I have this sense of entitlement, and I'd hate to make trouble for the restaurant past what they legitimately owe me. I worry how much of what I think they owe me is fair and just, and how much is my Californian side trying to get me to sue the pants off of them. "Sue the pants off" being itself a phrase that I would never use, I wouldn't think, and yet when it comes time to talk about suing, that's the one that comes out. It's in our civil animus. We all hear the beating song of the lawsuit, "Serve them... serve them... serve them..."
At any rate, I'll be calling them today to begin negotiations... now that I think I know the extent of what they've cost me by serving me tainted meats... so we'll see how it goes.
Other than this little hitch, however, the weekend was pretty cool, and I now have a bee-line on a new hat that must be mine. Have a real one, chill-doggos!
Chill-doggos?
posted by DeadLanguage at 2:40 PM
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