The alarm clock beep beep beep's it's way into my brain like a white-hot awl around noon. Even half-asleep I have enough sense to know that I'll just hit that big plastic snooze button a zillion times before I wake up. So I shut the little fucker off and make some more Z's, oblivious to any secular concerns. I wake up at 2:50 and work starts at four. It takes me an hour to get there. No problem. I have about 25 minutes (slacker math) to relax, eat an eggo with no syrup and wonder my roommate insists on never buying syrup for his eggos. (I've given up on buying groceries. They always rot from being attention starved.) I collect my stuff, filling my pockets with as many pens as a I can find laying around on the floor and run out the door. (no rhyme intended)

Unlike the TV commercials my roommate fails to persue me shouting, Leggo my eggo! (Sounds like an ancient language. "Give me back my fucking food, you son of a bitch!" in Latin, maybe.)

An hour of riding through the baby corn and I'm at the Riverview, fifteen minutes late. This doesn't seem to bother anyone since we don't really get any tables in the smoking section until about five, so I wouldn't have anything to do, anyway. I bullshit with the other servers for a while and then finally I've got a table, and another and then Friday night sets in and I'm a blur between the kitchen and the patrons with my kung-fu waiting style.

As business quiets down, every other server gets to leave except me. I get the honor of closing that night, which basically means that I don't get any tables, but I stick around just in case someone comes in and I do a lot of extra work for 3.90 per hr.

I sit in the bar and watch it fill up as the dining room empties. It's karaoke night! But, unfortunately, the girl who usually does karaoke is not there. She's taken a day off, apparently. Since she usually goads the people into singing early on by doing it herself,(she's an excellent singer) the manager, who's running the show tonight, has a problem, since he can't sing. (At least, I assume not. It's a hypothesis I'd care not to follow up on.) So he figures I'm getting paid for doing nothing and makes me pick out a song, then another and another, and soon, I've become a professional. That's right, I thought I was a waiter, but now I'm being paid to sing, not by a cheesy record executive with oily hair, quick hands, and evil in his heart, but by the manager of a bar who wants to keep his patrons interested.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I get paid 3.90 an hour to sing Beatles songs with very bad instrumental reproductions. It ain't hard. I don't gotta remember them words none. They got a screen with 'em words on it and I can read sum."

Come closing time, I collect my free beer, sit around for about an hour watching other people sing and ride off into the moonlit night.