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alexpgpThe symbol, in the Rome of old, for one thousand.
So begins my one thousandth post to my LiveJournal.
There is, of course, nothing magical about 1,000. If my posts were toy soldiers, they would make up ten ranks of 100, or 20 ranks of 50, or 40 ranks of 25. Other combinations are conceivable, but journal posts are not toy soldiers, and one thousand means nothing more in this context, really, than 360 (which is arguably a much more interesting number).
* * * It took me the better part of yesterday afternoon to take care of what needed to be done, but it eventually got done. I returned home around 6 pm and lay down for a nap. At 8 pm, someone (or something) called my cell phone from Natalie's former work number. The "message" that was left sounded like nothing human; more like the cycling of a mimeograph machine gone crazy.
Lee suggested we go watch the premiere of Queen of the Damned. After having seen a trailer for it before last night's Lord of the Rings, I decided it was not exactly my cup of tea, and said so. In any event, we left for her part of town, to go eat dinner and see what developed.
We got to her neck of the woods around 9 pm. We went into the Benihana on Westheimer and settled down to what was described as a 45 minute wait, which turned out to be less than 10.
Our cook was a young Hispanic man whose nameplate identified him as "Gomez." The previous night, as Lee was telling me of her hopes and fears, she noted that she wanted to pursue an early love of hers - martial arts - but wondered if it were possible to be taken seriously as a teacher in a field that is dominated by people of Asian ancestry. It was her contention that people tended to drift toward instruction offered by Asians, as it offered (in her words) "the authentic experience."
Looking at young chef Gomez, I have to admit, I was a little surprised. Pretty much the entire staff in the place seemed to be of Asian ancestry. How come... ?
I began to wonder about my response to Lee the previous night, to the effect that yes, there are probably a number of people in the world for whom "Asian" would be one of the primary qualifications for teaching martial arts, but such people might best be described (charitably) as "mentally confused," or "immature." If I were to enroll in a martial arts school, I'd want to make sure that the teacher - regardless of sex, race, or prowess - knew how to teach.
(I still remember how a certain young champion's "style" of teaching at a school in Jacksonville intimidated Drew into abandoning tae-kwan-do, so many years ago. At the time, I thought the approach was appropriate. I thought it might toughen Drew up. I was wrong, and stupid, too.)
I decided my surprise with our chef was merely that, and attributed no more significance to it. The young man did a workmanlike job of serving the food, but that was as far as it went. None of us around the table oohhed, or aahhed, or reacted in the way that folks at other tables did.
Our chef did none of the quirky moves that characterize Benihana chefs: juggling food, tapping out rhythmic tattoos with utensils, tossing shakers, creating small volcanos out of sliced onion, flipping discarded shrimp tails into the top of one's chef hat, etc.
Then again, maybe the management figured we weren't the kind of group that would've appreciated such a show. There were eight of us - four parties of two - and we were complete strangers to one another, as distinguished from some of the other tables where everyone obviously knew everyone else, from the sound and look of things.
Looking at our table mates as I consumed my meal, I had the feeling we probably wouldn't have broken out in spontaneous cheering and clapping in response to having a shrimp tail dance the macarena across the hot surface of the grill, or similar antics. Then again, and much more probable, maybe it was just our luck to be seated at Gomez's assigned work table.
Later, when Lee reminded me of what she'd said the night before and how it might apply to chefs in Japanese steak houses, I reminded her of the young Japanese man who cooked for our family at a Benihana on Long Island about five years ago when she, her brother, Galina, and I went out to celebrate my and Galina's 20th wedding anniversary. He tried some of the shtick, but hadn't had enough practice (so it didn't go over well... I seem to recall bits of shrimp scattered all over the place), nor the sense to know when to stop trying.
After dinner, it was getting pretty late. We went back to Lee's apartment, where Dwayne was getting ready to go to the 11:45 pm showing of Queen of the Damned. As it was getting late, I left for Pearland, while Lee got ready to tag along with Dwayne to the movie.
In the end, I thought, as I drove home, Gomez did a better job than that kid on Long Island.
Cheers...
So begins my one thousandth post to my LiveJournal.
There is, of course, nothing magical about 1,000. If my posts were toy soldiers, they would make up ten ranks of 100, or 20 ranks of 50, or 40 ranks of 25. Other combinations are conceivable, but journal posts are not toy soldiers, and one thousand means nothing more in this context, really, than 360 (which is arguably a much more interesting number).
Lee suggested we go watch the premiere of Queen of the Damned. After having seen a trailer for it before last night's Lord of the Rings, I decided it was not exactly my cup of tea, and said so. In any event, we left for her part of town, to go eat dinner and see what developed.
We got to her neck of the woods around 9 pm. We went into the Benihana on Westheimer and settled down to what was described as a 45 minute wait, which turned out to be less than 10.
Our cook was a young Hispanic man whose nameplate identified him as "Gomez." The previous night, as Lee was telling me of her hopes and fears, she noted that she wanted to pursue an early love of hers - martial arts - but wondered if it were possible to be taken seriously as a teacher in a field that is dominated by people of Asian ancestry. It was her contention that people tended to drift toward instruction offered by Asians, as it offered (in her words) "the authentic experience."
Looking at young chef Gomez, I have to admit, I was a little surprised. Pretty much the entire staff in the place seemed to be of Asian ancestry. How come... ?
I began to wonder about my response to Lee the previous night, to the effect that yes, there are probably a number of people in the world for whom "Asian" would be one of the primary qualifications for teaching martial arts, but such people might best be described (charitably) as "mentally confused," or "immature." If I were to enroll in a martial arts school, I'd want to make sure that the teacher - regardless of sex, race, or prowess - knew how to teach.
(I still remember how a certain young champion's "style" of teaching at a school in Jacksonville intimidated Drew into abandoning tae-kwan-do, so many years ago. At the time, I thought the approach was appropriate. I thought it might toughen Drew up. I was wrong, and stupid, too.)
I decided my surprise with our chef was merely that, and attributed no more significance to it. The young man did a workmanlike job of serving the food, but that was as far as it went. None of us around the table oohhed, or aahhed, or reacted in the way that folks at other tables did.
Our chef did none of the quirky moves that characterize Benihana chefs: juggling food, tapping out rhythmic tattoos with utensils, tossing shakers, creating small volcanos out of sliced onion, flipping discarded shrimp tails into the top of one's chef hat, etc.
Then again, maybe the management figured we weren't the kind of group that would've appreciated such a show. There were eight of us - four parties of two - and we were complete strangers to one another, as distinguished from some of the other tables where everyone obviously knew everyone else, from the sound and look of things.
Looking at our table mates as I consumed my meal, I had the feeling we probably wouldn't have broken out in spontaneous cheering and clapping in response to having a shrimp tail dance the macarena across the hot surface of the grill, or similar antics. Then again, and much more probable, maybe it was just our luck to be seated at Gomez's assigned work table.
Later, when Lee reminded me of what she'd said the night before and how it might apply to chefs in Japanese steak houses, I reminded her of the young Japanese man who cooked for our family at a Benihana on Long Island about five years ago when she, her brother, Galina, and I went out to celebrate my and Galina's 20th wedding anniversary. He tried some of the shtick, but hadn't had enough practice (so it didn't go over well... I seem to recall bits of shrimp scattered all over the place), nor the sense to know when to stop trying.
After dinner, it was getting pretty late. We went back to Lee's apartment, where Dwayne was getting ready to go to the 11:45 pm showing of Queen of the Damned. As it was getting late, I left for Pearland, while Lee got ready to tag along with Dwayne to the movie.
In the end, I thought, as I drove home, Gomez did a better job than that kid on Long Island.
Cheers...
