design? damn yes . . . design!

I (supposedly) have a degree in Graphic Design.  Not that I care very much, and not that I’ve ever used it in the real world in order to make money.  Going to school kinda takes the stuffing out of you.  There’s the societal pressure to finish; the family pressure; the pressure one puts on one’s self.  There’s the debt you rack up and the lifetime it takes to pay that debt off.  And there’s that big cloud hanging over you once you finish, that now you gotta get out into the real world with that degree and make something of yourself.  Be a success. 

Going to school can also wear you out to the point that the stuff you were all passionate about when you started, kinda turns into a big pain in your side.  You can lose the love you had for something, the joy it gave you, because you’ve just spent years grinding out assignments and projects and taking exams that were forced upon you by professors, and not entirely of your own doing.  That’s sort of what happened to me.  First time around, I went to school for art.  I liked it, I was into it.  What I wasn’t into was actually being at university.  At the time, the only thing I was truly interested in was NOT being at home.  Not the best foundation for a successful stint at college.

Second time around, I was a little older.  And I had this notion that I wanted to do something more . . . substantive than “art”.  I thought I’d go to school for International Relations and Diplomacy, because . . . well, really only because I liked the notion of traveling to distant lands.  I mean, how else was I going to see the world?  The military?  No way.  Becoming a millionaire and transforming myself into a globe-trotting jetsetter?  Not likely.  Well, maybe working in some sort of diplomatic capacity and being sent abroad to liason with folks from afar?  Okay, why not?  I’ll tell you why not.  Because dealing with the minefield that is politics and power and conflict and bullshitting is the LAST thing I’d want to do with my life.  So much for that.

Third time out, it was back to art school.  But this time, for something a little more ‘grounded’ career-wise.  I started graphic design because I had a genuine knack for it.  And it was an interesting time when so much technology was sneaking its way into the art field.  Suddenly, you were spending far more time with a mouse in your hand than with a pencil.   Your paper was your computer screen.  It was up to each artist to embrace or forego the technological tools that were becoming more and more mainstream.  The learning curves were steep at times, and the programs pretty complex.  But there were still opportunities to sketch and paint and work with your hands.  I took writing classes and acting and voice classes.  I took photography and darkroom.  I did a little bit of everything, really.  But by the end, I was sick of it all. 

I was sick of staring at a monitor for hours on end, moving text and photos around by the millimeter.  I was sick of shooting tons of rolls of film with my camera, and then spending hours developing then and printing photo after photo.  I was sick of writing short stories and I was sick of performing on stage.  I guess my imagination needed a time out.  I got my degree, but the last thing I wanted to do was get a job at a Chicago advertising firm and spend my days in a cubicle, helping to design toothpaste ads.  I needed to be out of an office just as much as I needed to be out of a classroom.  So, I set forth to satisfy my longing to travel.  And I began moving around the country, working here and working there, almost always in the service industry.  Because once you learn how to wait tables and bartend, you can pretty much do it anywhere, and at any level.

It has taken quite a few years to get my creative juices flowing again.  I love photography.  I only wish I had more time to shoot, (and lived somewhere a lot more inspiring than Florida).  I love design.  I say I don’t, but I can spend hours moving letters around a page on a screen, and not be the slightest bit bored.  I’ve done little design projects for people I know.  I’m responsible for the photography and design of the website of the restaurant where I work now, and though I used a template, I’m always getting compliments on how nice it looks.  I did the menus and business cards, too.  And I design things for myself whenever the mood strikes.  Those are the projects I like best. 

Case in point:  I ran across a lame, little business card I designed for myself a few years ago.  It was in its early stages, and then I stopped working on it, probably because I’m not that in demand that I need to give out business cards to people I meet.  There was a little logo in the corner of the initials of my given name:  CERW.  It was crude, but for whatever reason, I spent four or five hours on it trying to bring it to the next level.  Not that I needed it for anything.  Just cos.  Next thing you know . . voilà . . . personal logo finished.  And I like it.

So I guess there’s still a designer in me deep down, aching to be set free.  

talkin' like a white guy

At work last night, I walked up to a table of black people . . . a family . . . husband, wife, grandma, and two kids, one a teen-aged girl, and a boy of about 12.  I asked if I could get anyone a drink, and started jotting down the order.  All the while, the grandmother was staring at her menu laughing.  I went around the table until I got to her.  She told me to give her a second to compose herself.  I waited. Finally, she said, "A glass of Merlot."  While I wrote, she asked me to wait so that she could explain the reason for her unabashed merriment.  She said quite calmly that she was looking down at her menu when I first came to the table, and that upon hearing my voice, she was startled to see me standing there.  "You see," she said, "Your voice doesn't match what you look like."

I stood there during an awkward moment of silence, before excusing myself from the table in order to get their drinks.  And I rolled my eyes as I stood in front of the computer placing their order because, in truth, it's been a while since someone has ridiculed my speaking voice . . . to my face.  I got that shit all the time when I was growing up.  I went to a Prep school in Chicago, and there were black kids there of a certain ilk who would call me "Oreo" and say I was black but talked 'white'.   Even when I was at college, I had black kids preaching to me all the time how I had to be more 'black' or get in touch with my roots.  That I was living in self-hatred (cos I didn't like rap music, I guess.  Or cos I sat with a mixed crew of kids, not just the ones who were dark like I was).  I must say, this shit used to bug the daylights outta me, especially since I was always one of those quiet, 'live and let live' type of people.  I never got on a soapbox to tell anyone how they should behave or whom they should rub shoulders with.

There's also the poignant fact that I was (and still am, as far as I know) Latino.  I was born in Puerto Rico, my family is from Puerto Rico, Spanish is my first language.  I came to the States when I was 10, and my mother, a staunch educator, was determined that her children not speak English with the same accent that she did.  We went to Catholic school, my brother and I, and we were taught from an early age how to speak proper American English.  The irony was that our perfect English ostracized us from the other little Latino kids we came across . . . the ones with the thick accents.  But that was the history of our education in this country.  Yet all the education in the world was never going to lighten our skin.  It was what it was.

As an adult, I've less of that cultural bullshit to deal with, probably because I just don't associate with ignorant people.  I choose not to.  That doesn't mean I'm immune to it.  Just living in Florida for the better part of 10 years has been hysterical.  You hear things you couldn't make up yourself, and in 'professional' settings, too!  I've had restaurant managers ask me things like, "How did you get a name like 'Carlos'?  Isn't that a Spanish name?"  I've shown up at an interview and had the manager say, "I was expecting a little Mexican dude."  Truly.  At an interview.  Maybe they thought they were being funny, I don't know.  But as a big city guy, I just sit there quietly and remind myself that the state of Florida is basically just a glorified trailer park.  "You voted for that Obama, didn't ya?"

Last night's table was just a little reminder of how, when we least expect it, someone is quick to judge you based on something as seemingly innocuous as the timber of your voice, or the name you were given at birth, much less the color of your skin.  I suppose it's really not all that surprising if you think about it.  In United States, we're professionals at pigeon-holing the next guy.

But it's not every day any more that someone laughs at me . . . for talkin' like a white guy.

cooooolllll . . .

I've always had this idea that once I have a bar of my very own, the 'uniform' will be whatever I want it to be at that moment in time.  I don't envision having my employees walking around in polo shirts with a logo on them that says "Carlos's Bar".  No way.  I'm never naming a place after myself.  And I'm never having anyone wear polos.

Me being kindof swanky, and wanting a (neighborhood) bar that will offer stuff that no other bar around will have, naturally, I want to stand out a little.  Years ago, I had this idea that I would have my employees walking around in t-shirts of their own making.  Each t-shirt would be an original design.  Or there would be some poignant fact about the individual wearing the shirt.  A fact which would surprise and unnerve every customer reading the shirt.  This idea stemmed from the fact that I have met such interesting, diverse, intelligent and talented people in the service industry.  People with talents, abilities and gifts that no customer would be able to glean from watching them make a cocktail or serve a meal.

It is generally understood that people in the service industry are in it because they can't find a "real" job.  Obviously, my beliefs run contrary to this notion.  While it is true that I have worked with some real nutjobs over the years, I have also worked with people with Masters degrees, ex-military, artists, entrepreneurs, moms, dads, and those who viewed service as a second career not to be scoffed at.  I've worked alongside people raising children, people in stable homes and relationships, people saving money to jump-start their dreams . . . AWESOME people of every shape and size, from countless countries, and from every background.

These people are often taken for granted in a nightclub, bar or restaurant.  They are looked down upon by patrons, or dismissed as being less than extraordinary simply because they chose to be in the service industry.  I thought it would be a real head-spinner to have my staff wearing t-shirts of their own making, espousing their own talents.  The hot cocktail waitress looking thoroughly unapproachable could wear a t-shirt saying, "Mother of two."  The muscley stud shaking martinis behind the bar could be wearing one saying, "Degree in dentistry." The Latino barback taking out the trash could have one saying, "Boss."  I think that would be totally cool on so many levels.  And it would fuck with my customers, which I also like.

A second t-shirt idea came to be many years ago, when I was still fairly young and 'cool.'  I've worked at some 'cool' places.  I've worked for some cool people.  I've worked for people who thought they were a lot 'cooler' than they actually were.  And GOD KNOWS, I've served a bazillion customers in my lifetime who thought they were infinitely more cool than I ever was or ever could be.  Here's the deal.  I'M ACTUALLY COOL.  I mean, sometimes I think to myself that I'm "past it".  And I certainly wouldn't claim to be the coolest dude on earth.   Hell, I don't want to be.  But in truth, every day I come across people that are nowhere near as cool as I am.  And though I say all the time that I'm "too OLD to be cool," well . . . that's not really true.  I've still got it.

Cool is temporary, though.  Cool is relative.  Cool is really not all that much to hang your hat on at the end of the day.  But since bars are always striving to be cool, to be the next great thing, to be hip, current, in the moment . . . and since ultimately, I want to own a bar, I thought that 'cool' would be a great part of our tag line.  So the front of our t-shirts would have the bar's name.  Who knows what I'd call my bar, but for the sake of this post, we'll call it "Superbar."  The front of the t-shirt would read, "Superbar"  with a logo or whatnot.  And on the back?  Every time an employee would turn his back to grab a glass or a beer, you'd see this on the back of his shirt:

"We're cool.  But we're not that cool."

precision is my middle name

So, the other day one of my regular customers asked me (in all seriousness) if I was "ex-military".  Of course, I immediately replied, "Nope, far from it!"  I didn't give it much thought at the time, except to wonder what could have made anyone think I'd spent any time in the armed forces.

I mean, I'm so totally un-military.  I'm not very good at taking orders.  I don't like uniforms.  I've never even held a gun, much less fired one.  And what's more, I have absolutely NO desire to fire a gun, or shoot at anyone, or potentially kill someone.  Add to that, the fact that I went to art school, which is probably the antithesis of military.

But then I thought about how I go about doing my job.  I'm very exact.  I like things done a certain way.  There is a precision about how I like my tables set, and how I make my drinks.  I like consistency, I like everything in its place.  Silverware perfectly aligned, salt and pepper shakers with the labels facing forward.  When I open a bottle of wine, after I pour for the guests, I set the bottle with the label facing the host, and the cork tucked next to the base of the bottle.  When I put a bottle of beer in front of someone, the label is facing the guest, even the label on a specific glass.  I fold a guest's napkin if they leave the table to smoke or go to the bathroom.  I crumb tables at every opportunity, and replace used silverware after every course.

Naturally, I do all of this (and more) because it's just how I do my job.  I can't say I even give it much thought.  It's my job, and there's a certain expectation that I have of myself, and that my customers have of me.

I get a lot of guests requesting me at my restaurant.  Sometimes, it surprises me how many people actually want me to wait on them.  Even here in Cape Coral, which is full of old, old people.  I never thought that my 'shtick" would go over well here.  I have a certain humor that not everyone gets.  But a lot of these old folks LOVE me (and I don't say that to be vain).  Maybe they like my sarcasm; maybe my certain brand of charm.  And maybe they really like my "military" precision, too!

reviewed!

At the restaurant where I work, when we drop the check presenter at a table, we usually include a little card from tripadvisor which tells the guest that they can go to the tripadvisor website and write a review of the restaurant.  Mostly, I never comment on the card unless a customer asks me what it's for or what to do.

Lots of our customers are on holiday, or they are part-time residents, and they use tripadvisor a lot on their travels.  Lots of people say they never even knew about us until they read about us on tripadvisor.  We are a fairly new restaurant, so we are still relatively unknown.  Still, we are usually ranked in the top #5 in the area.

We also get a lot of old people in our restaurant, a lot of whom don't really navigate the internet, or go onto websites to read restaurant reviews.  So the idea of them taking the tripadvisor card is pretty silly.  Still, some of them do make an effort.  We've had people take the card, handwrite a review, and mail it back to us via post, with the tripadvisor card included.  Or we've had people write their actual review on the card itself, and leave it on the table or hand it to us on the way out.

I find something very quaint about those efforts, even though they aren't quite what was initially intended.  This card was handed to me by a very lovely table the other evening, and it prompted me to write this.  Not because it was about me, but because I thought it (and the entire group at the table) was so cute.