The best thing about drinking beer in the shower is that it doesn't matter if you spill.

Today at work I slit my wrist. No, not a suicide attempt. I just work a job with lots of sharp things around that happen to frequently find their way to my flesh. It sucks.

For those of you not in "The Know", I am Josh Johnson; Blogosphere pioneer by night, cook at an east-coast pub during the day. And this pub, I'm convinced, is the nexus of the universe. "This place is like herpes," a coworker said, "Because once you've experienced it, you're irreparably scarred for the rest of your life. There is no cure. It's just with you. Always." It's a good analogy, but I'd personally call it less of an STD, and more of a severely dysfunctional family.

There's "dad", the richest (And oldest) of the two owners, who makes up for his lack of self-esteem by yelling at his employees for no reason and marrying a woman half his age. Then there's "mom", the other owner, an older jewish man who tries to kiss you on the cheek (If you're lucky) whenever he's drinking. And he's always drinking. It's why he bought into a pub in the first place.

There's a bunch of other characters in this inner-city soap opera. Half the people on staff are medicated at all times, and the other half just should be. I could tell you all kinds of stories, and later I will. I'm actually kinda-sorta-working on a book on it, though it'll probably be scrapped and just fed into the blogger here, because I feel that making any feature-length publication on true life kitchen stories would just feel too much like ripping off Anthony Bourdain.

On an unrelated note: If you took the grapes of wraith and left them out in the sun, would they eventually turn into the raisins of discontent? Seriously... This question has been bothering me for days now... I can't sleep... Or eat... Or masturbate... And I gotta tell you, that's not good for anyone...