Author's Commentary on "Salad Daze"

Since this blog is sponsored by Norton Critical Editions, I am under contractual obligation to provide commentary for any and all creative work I post.  The following are my own comments on my recently posted dramatic piece “Salad Daze.”

First of all, you got me.  You’ve suspected me all along,  haven’t you?  I’ve got aspirations to be something other than a Japanese restaurant and I like to dabble with a little serious writing from time to time.  My background, as you might have guessed, is in playwriting, but I also have aspirations to write for the screen (I’ve got a notebook full  of screenplay ideas if I could only find the time to write them--I only I could dumb them down enough to make them palatable to Hollywood, ha ha).  Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my little creative venture.  I was kind of embarrassed to even share it with you, but putting your work out there is something every artist has to do sooner or later.  What good does it do hidden away in some drawer (or in some secret folder on a hard drive)?

“Salad Days” was an idea I had kicking about my head ever since I had the misfortune of sheltering the Blowhard and his party from the elements on the night they dined inside of me.  It is not complete in and of itself, but the middle territory of a much larger work, which follows the Blowhard and his companions throughout the entire course of their dining experience.  The second act of the play hinges upon a reveal that further illustrates our understanding of the character of Blowhard, namely that his chosen profession is that of lawyer.  Like all good endings, it should be surprising yet inevitable.  I think that many will, in reading the casual manner in which this information is imparted by the Unfortunately Complected Woman, experience the moment of “a-ha,” and then perhaps think to themselves I knew it all along.

To hear the Blowhard speak in his nasal, weasel-like, measured tones, as if he is the very voice of reason, would be the first clue that he is a lawyer (this is why, in casting “Salad Daze,” choosing an actor with the ability to convey the marrow-deep repulsiveness of the Blowhard is of the utmost importance).  It is the type of speech that if the listener should fall into the trap of listening to the music rather than the words, he or she would be in grave danger of swallowing whole any quantity of manure that the Blowhard is capable of producing.  If you talk loud and long enough and with enough conviction in your voice, people are going to believe you.  (Let me save myself from a barrage of complaints by saying that yes, of course, there are good lawyers out there.  The Blowhard, however, is not one of them.)  This manner of speaking seems to be something that is explicitly taught in law school.  If I might make a small suggestion to universities across the country: if you are going to outright teach lawyers-to-be to speak in a certain manner, you might want to see to it that the outcome of this instruction is less grating.

I dare say that a lawyer so obsessed with the work of Larry David is dangerous and would be an obstruction to the very process of dispensing justice.  With the Blowhard in a court of law, a murder trial might quickly devolve into a nonsense discussion of a Cobb Salad or a loaf of marble rye.  Perhaps the Blowhard would even go so far to fabricate evidence for comic effect, since it is obvious to any and all that his true calling is comedy and this whole lawyer thing is simply his way of marking time until he is discovered (because, god knows, we certainly need two Larry David’s in the entertainment business).

The flaws in the Blowhard’s reasoning border on mental illness.  Is he actually so dense that he sees a restaurant as a singular entity--something akin to a colony of ants--rather than a group of individuals working for more or less their own means?  Does he think that the server pledges blind allegiance to the owner?  Is a server’s greatest dream nothing more than to make his boss rich?  If that is the Blowhard’s belief, he is sorely mistaken.  It is not always in a server’s best interest to keep a customer happy.  The Blowhard and his party, with the exception of the young woman, conducted themselves like swine.  An intelligent server, not wishing increase the likelihood of repeated bad behavior by rewarding it with friendliness or good service, will cut his losses and eat a bad tip in the hope that certain individuals will be unhappy with the experience and never return.  If a server sees things otherwise, he needs to reevaluate his relationship with trifling amounts of money.  In all honesty, Blowhard, a server could give a toss about your happiness if you are a pig.  And you, Blowhard, are a pig.

Perhaps the real sickness lies in the Blowhard’s estimation of what is required in the name of good service.  If a server can get in trouble, or, say, lose his job for serving alcohol after closing, why would you expect him to bend the rules for you?  Oh, yes, we have forgotten about your heroic exploits with the salad, for which you lost your job.  Well, listen, Richie Rich not everyone is so ready to cast their job aside (especially in times when unemployment is hovering around the ten percent mark).  Maybe things were different in your youth when you had a summer job as a busboy--a job that if you had lost would not put you in any real danger.  A server is not likely to put his or her livelihood on the line in order to please a man in a tacky shirt.  We’re sorry if your server stopped at the line of providing good service and didn’t actually risk being fired in order to get you another beer--ESPECIALLY WHEN HE OFFERED TO GET YOU ONE FIVE MINUTES EARLIER FOR LAST CALL AND YOU DECLINED.

Perhaps what you really like is to manipulate people, to flex whatever scrap of power you may have at any given moment.  Well, now that I’ve turned down the beer for last call, let’s see if I can’t get another beer out of the server.  If he brings it, he’s a good dude, he knows I’m cool and that it wouldn’t hurt to bend the rules for me.  I’m just like Larry David, after all, and who doesn’t like Larry David?  If he doesn’t bend to my will, I’ll have to break out the big guns--at any rate I’ll get to impress my son’s date with that great salad story that I haven’t told since, well, since the last time I had a bad experience in a restaurant.  There’s no way I can possibly lose this one.  I’m a lawyer, after all, a silver-tongued voice of reason to whom all weaker minds must succumb.

These are the respectable members of our society?  Thanks, Blowhard.  I think I’m starting to like Larry David less.

The Blowhard Part II: Salad Daze

This is the second entry in a series dedicated to a particularly loathsome customer known as The Blowhard.  The stage is set, the act is about to begin.  Come along.  I've saved you a front-row seat for a little drama I like to call . . .

SALAD DAZE

by The Restaurant


CAST OF CHARACTERS

SERVER, a handsome, level-headed young man never prone to fits of anger.

BLOWHARD, a pompous ass in a remarkably distasteful bowling shirt with a modified argyle design.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN, an aging woman with skin like cottage cheese, the wife or significant other of the Blowhard.

TURD, the grubby, college-aged, dim bulb son of the Blowhard.

YOUNG WOMAN, a polite, reasonably attractive young woman who has somehow become entangled with the Blowhard’s band of miscreants.  The date or girlfriend of the Turd.

***

SETTING, the dining room of a Japanese restaurant.  It is near closing time.  The cloth napkins stand firmly on the empty tables.  Candles flicker in the elegant atmosphere.

With the bulk of the propaganda painting himself to be every bit a brilliant as Larry David behind him, the Blowhard and company have begun to eat the sushi that the server has recently set on the table.  The diners begin to tear into the sushi with the abandon of starved hogs at a freshly-slopped trough

SERVER:  Does everybody have everything they need at the moment?

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  Yes.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN (mouth full of food):  Uh-huh.

SERVER:  We're about to close in a few minutes, so I wanted to make sure I couldn't get you anything else tonight.  More sushi, another drink, dessert . . . anything at all.

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  Uh.  I think were all right.

SERVER:  Then I can't get you anything for last call?

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  No.

The feast continues, the likes of which to witness would cause one an immediate loss of appetite.  Five minutes pass.  The server moves to and fro about the room, performing his closing duties.

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  Excuse me.  Can we get another beer?

SERVER:  I’m sorry.  We’re closed.

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  Really?  So you can’t get me another beer?

SERVER:  No, I’m afraid not.

BLOWHARD (mouth full of food):  Is it against the rules or something?

SERVER (actually not sure about the rules or laws, but entirely sure that he is fed up with the Blowhard and his loathsome party):  I can’t serve alcohol after we close.

BLOWHARD:  Huh.  That’s strange.  I’ve owned several restaurants and I’ve never . . .

The server begins to set up the table behind the Blowhard and company.  He is able to overhear their continued conversation.

TURD:  Wow, dad.  What are you going to do?

BLOWHARD:  What can you do?   Why let the little things get to you?  I once heard a very wise man say something to this effect.  Don’t sweat the small stuff.  You go to bed, you wake up, and tomorrow’s another day.  I’m not going to let one little beer ruin everything.

TURD: Gee, dad.

BLOWHARD:  It seems to me it’s a matter of hospitality.  You’re in business to keep people happy, are you not?  If a customer wants a beer, you bring him a beer.  Rules be damned.  This reminds me of a story that takes place years ago, when I was working as a busboy for a local country club.  We had hard, fast rules against serving anything after the kitchen closed.  But there was one customer who wanted a salad.  I couldn’t get him this salad, I told him.  My hands were tied.  But I could see a look in the man’s eyes.  It was like he really wanted this salad.  I’ve never seen a man want a salad so bad in all my life.  Not before, not since.  So you know what I did?

All member of the Blowhard’s party wait with bated breath.

TURD:  What did you do, dad?

BLOWHARD:  I got him the salad.

Gasps from the Blowhard’s party.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN:  You didn’t.

BLOWHARD:  I did.

TURD:  Wow, dad.  What happened?

BLOWHARD:  I was fired.

Even louder gasps from the Blowhard’s party.

TURD: You were?

BLOWHARD:  Yes I was, Turd.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN:  Well, you obviously didn’t let that stop you from being a successful lawyer . . . And a piss-poor imitation of Larry David to boot.  I mean you’ve nailed the asshole side of the character he created dead on, but you somehow managed to suck every last ounce of funny out of his shtick.

BLOWHARD:  But I got the job back.  The next day.

TURD (amazed):  You did?

BLOWHARD:  Yes, I did, Turd.  The very next day the manager took me into his office and offered me my job back.  On the condition that I was never to serve food after closing again.

TURD: Wow.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN: What did you do?

BLOWHARD:  I took it.  But I said that there’s no way I would stop serving food after closing, that I would do it EVERY NIGHT if the customers wanted it.

Turd guffaws.

TURD (in utter disbelief):  You did?

BLOWHARD:  Absolutely I did.

TURD (clapping in a monkey-like fashion): Dad, you are too much.

BLOWHARD:  Ain’t I though? 

YOUNG WOMAN:  What did your boss say?

BLOWHARD:  He said that he admired my pluck and he was lucky to have a busboy such as myself on board and that the cut of my jib was such that it was sure to take me far in life.

TURD:  Wow.  Like, wow.

BLOWHARD:  Anyway, it all comes back to my original point.  I don’t understand why someone would want to run a business that doesn’t please the customer.  Be it a salad or a beer after closing, if a customer wants it, he should have it.  It’s a matter of hospitality.

The Unfortunately-Complected woman exits.  From offstage a shrill hissy fit can be heard.  Moments later she returns triumphantly carrying one small bottle of Sapporo beer, her face a bumpy rictus of triumph.


BLOWHARD (impressed): Ho, ho.  Look at this.

TURD:  What did you do?

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN:  I complained to the manager.

Victorious, she replenishes the Blowhard’s glass and her own with six ounces each of the most mediocre beer Japan has to offer.

Lights out.

The Blowhard, An American Hero

The Blowhard

I think the first thing that stands out, among the numberless unpleasant qualities of the Blowhard, is that within two minutes of sitting down I could hear him compare himself to Larry David.  The Blowhard and company were late arrivals to the sushi bar.  He was accompanied by a middle-aged woman with a poor complexion and two college-aged kids, a boy and a girl.  I’m not entirely sure, but it seems as if the boy was the son and the girl, unfortunate soul, was dating the boy and forced to endure an evening of dining with this insufferable trio.  Why is it that I think that the young woman may have been an outsider?  First of all, she was the only one among them who had the words “please” and “thank you” in her arsenal.  Secondly, an aside directed at the young lady by the Blowhard himself made me think that she may have been a new initiate to their reprehensible way of life:

“The only time you’ll catch us drinking beer at a sushi bar is if they don’t have any sauvignon blanc.”

Well, Blowhard, I’m sorry you had to slum it.  I hope your delicate palate survived the experience of having as something as pedestrian a beer slosh across you precious tongue--the precious tongue that has no doubt given birth to so many of your Larry-David-style witticisms.  If one is not familiar with the work of Larry David, yet knows the Blowhard, one might assume the following:

Larry David is not at all funny.

Larry David is a pompous windbag.

Larry David is a snob.

Larry David is a bully.

Larry David has a shrewish, hateful wife.

Larry David has a grubby, selfish, dirty son with fat, dwarfish arms and legs and a complete lack of decorum while inside a restaurant.

Now, I must say I am familiar with the work of Larry David--I would even go as far as saying that I think Larry David is great.  He has made me laugh countless times.  The Blowhard, not so.  Let’s take a moment to examine an example of the Blowhard as jokesmith.

BLOWHARD (saddened at the lack of sauvignon blanc on the menu of a Japanese restaurant):  We’ll share a large Sapporro.  And we’ll take four waters.

UNFORTUNATELY-COMPLECTED WOMAN: I’ll take mine without ice.

SERVER:  Sure.

BLOWHARD:  Can I get all ice, no water?

The server attempts to smile, but before appropriate time for a reaction has passed, the Blowhard butts in.

BLOWHARD (straightfaced, with a hint of anger):  It was a joke.  It was a joke.

No one laughs.

Ah, yes.  Comedy, thy name is Blowhard.  I guess we can safely assume that he is not like Larry David in the sense that he brings laughter to the world.  Rather, he is like Larry David the character, played by Larry David the comedian, every interaction he takes part in inspires anger.  In Curb Your Enthusiasm, this tension is diffused over and over by comic beats.  In real life, it just builds.  The Blowhard is funny only in his own mind.  His self-righteousness is the ultimate funny-killer . . . A joke from his lips couldn’t do anything but sink.

If I may indulge in a bit of analysis, there is a difference between the type of manner comedy of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and some dude who goes around being an asshole and causes conflict simply for the sake of causing conflict.  In Curb Your Enthusiasm, it’s often Larry David’s attempts to be all inclusive and nice that backfire and get him in hot water.  In The Blowhard Show, the Blowhard is a pompous, unfunny jerk and people dislike him.  There is no punchline, no levity, no pathos.  Larry David is lovable and in the end he pays for all of his social blunders.  He is divested of his power and his anger and it is funny.  He is forced to suck it up or shrug it off.  That’s why we like him.  Blowhard, on the other hand, is a vain, pompous windbag who in the blink of an eye can launch into a long speech designed to instruct his family (and apparently his son has absorbed the teachings well because he is a pig of the vilest stripe).  Yes, Blowhard, I can see the comparison between you, a nobody asshole with a bad tan, and Larry David, a man who’s influence on the world of comedy cannot be measured.

The only way in which the Blowhard has outperformed anyone associated with Seinfeld is in that he somehow manages to dress worse than anybody who has ever appeared in a Larry David venture.  No small feat, considering this roster includes the likes of Jerry Seinfeld himself.  In the nineties these crimes against fashion garnered more than a few snickers (What was the alternative?  Did you want to see Jerry trade in his puffy white sneakers and denim shirt for a pair of Doc Marten’s and a flannel?  Certainly not.)  The Blowhard, for his night on the town, at some point had gone to the closet and voluntarily (VOLUNTARILY!) selected a green bowling shirt with a modified argyle pattern running down the left and right of the buttons.  I wonder if somehow the blowhard had happened upon a yard sale held by Tom Arnold or maybe the dude from Smashmouth in order to score such a fine article of clothing.  Now that I think about it, I think Jeff Garlin may have worn the same shirt in the episode where he admitted to Larry that he had a masturbation fantasy about Larry’s wife.  Appropriate, since the Blowhard has a masturbation fantasy about being Larry David.  It all comes full circle . . .

Before the drinks are on the table, the Blowhard begins talking about the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm that revolves around a Cobb Salad.  This aired in 2001, I believe, and, to my recollection, is far from being the strongest episode in the series.  This episode, I overheard, was recommended by a friend who apparently also saw some Larry David-like qualities in the Blowhard.  Way to be on the cutting edge of entertainment, rehashing an episode of a sitcom that aired nearly a decade ago.  Blowhard, I’ve got a hot tip for you.  You really ought to check out a show called Welcome Back Kotter.  I can already see it--next time he goes out he’ll be comparing himself to Gabe Kaplan.  I can’t make any Gabe Kaplan jokes here because I was never desperate enough to watch that trash.  Well, maybe the Blowhard will grow out his mustache and start picking out his hair . . . But I somehow doubt that he’ll ever gain the good sense to pitch that lame bowling shirt.
   
For the benefit of the young lady, the Blowhard launches into a long-winded description of the episode, as if he had lived it himself.  The crater-faced harpy at his side chuckled, “It’s so true.  It’s just like what happened.”  What?  Wait.  You mean to tell me they’re saying that this, or something incredibly similar, actually happened to the Blowhard?  Did he get into an argument with someone who claimed to be a descendent of the person who invented the Cobb salad?  The odds of this happening are so slim, dare I say nonexistent, that I can only imagine the liberties that this clown has taken with the story.  Even if we give the Blowhard the benefit of the doubt and assume that even a micron of his story is true--what an incredibly trivial thing to blow out of proportion.  A salad argument!  We shall see, dear readers, that there is nothing too trivial for the Blowhard, and that salads, in fact, are an area of specialization for the Blowhard on his quest to misguidedly follow the lead of his comic hero.
 
I can see that this entry is going to run long, so I'll break it up into a few parts.  Stay tuned for the continuing saga.