Zen and the Art of Washing Dishes

The strong chemical smell of detergent and sanitizer is carried into the air from the steam of the scorching hot sink where grease goes to die. A cacophony of laughs, insults, and profanities ring out from the small space where cooks dirty more plates for you to wash. The arrival of the bus pan means another plunge of your hand into the mystery liquid collected from all of the cups and leftover food on the plates of the last half hour’s patrons. Olive oil, parmesan, Pepsi and marinara mix to form a substance that can only be removed by extremely hot, high pressure water.
If you’ve ever enjoyed a nice dinner in a low lit restaurant where people are afraid of talking too loudly then this is where your plate ends up. It’s a stark contrast of the room you enjoyed the meal in, often separated by a single swinging door where cooks and servers collide with food in hand.
A couple of months ago, I took a second job as a dishwasher at a local family owned restaurant. This also coincided with my decision to look deeper into Buddhism, mindfulness and in turn, my own self. Having only a history of working in retail and cutting grass, I had little knowledge of what I was getting myself into.
As someone who overthinks every aspect of their day to day life and being neurotic off the charts; the idea of the Buddhist way of life caught my attention hard. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go through the world as an entity of pure love emitting gratitude and understanding? The promise of being able to turn the volume down in my own mind and apply the concepts to everyday life had me hooked. I began reading Buddhist texts and resumed my daily meditation practice from the previous year.
At the same time, at least four days a week I would show up to the stuffy, cramped kitchen and wash load after load of dishes. It turns out that having seven hours everyday where you stare into water containing leftovers from a local’s chicken parm will really test your mindfulness chops.
I found that after the new had worn off the job after a couple of weeks that it allowed for way too much time to think than I ever needed in the first place. Once the task was handed over from the active learning part of my brain to the autopilot part, I found myself in some trouble.
I began ruminating and deeply analyzing every part of the things I was learning and reading. At some points, I truly felt as if I was losing my grip on reality. In these moments I would try to remind myself of some of the main lessons I had learnt thus far. “‘You are not your thoughts’, ‘All that really matters is now be present’, ‘Follow your breath'” I would recite to my own mind. Eventually these things all muddled together and I truly felt lost. I thought about how much sense these teachings meant to me and got very frustrated when I seemed to not be able to apply them for myself.
Then, at the climax of my neurosis, I convinced myself that the only true way to be a practicing Buddhist is to live in a monastery. How could I possibly apply these ideas to modern life with social media and the need to make money to buy things I don’t need? I felt as if all of these were truly incompatible with daily life in modern society. No matter what I sought out, I couldn’t shake these thoughts. Being raised in a fundamentalist Southern Christian household might have contributed some to this but I could find nothing to attach my identity to Buddhism or being a ‘spiritual’ person. Simply being mindful and aware of things didn’t seem enough. I mean shouldn’t I have to shave my head every morning and wear saffron robes to truly live by these teachings?
At times I would have a sense of clarity. Thinking of the story of the Buddha as a man could give me some relief. The Buddha was just a dude who really sought out peace and found a way to achieve it and teach it to others when you boil it down to its most basic elements. He wasn’t the human manifestation of God like Jesus, or part of a pantheon of other entities like in Hinduism (not that these are negative things in any way). On the same note, the Buddha wasn’t a ‘Buddhist’ and Jesus wasn’t necessarily a ‘Christian’. They were both just people who had some good ideas to help live life and taught them. The people who came after them were the ones who applied the labels and weird rules to complicate the matter.
Then a partial realization hit me, maybe my problem was labels. I had spent my young adulthood identifying as a Christian by default without really ever putting too much thought into why. Everyone around me identified the same way and it was an easy mold to fall into since it was assumed. But now in my early twenties looking for new thoughts and experiences to grow as a person, I was trying to attach a label to everything to help the identification process. What is it about my mind that will not allow me to just accept knowledge without first attaching a label and adopting it into my identity? I have spent time looking into multiple religions and think they all have strong lessons to offer to life but I cannot seem to take the lessons at face value for what they are. I feel like I must first fully adopt and identify myself with the teachings before I can learn from them. I am still not sure what it is about my mind that makes me feel this way. Maybe it is conditioning from childhood or a circuit firing in the wrong way up there in my head.
I came across a quote from the Dalai Lama, it goes: “Don’t use Buddhism to become a better Buddhist. Use Buddhism to become a better whatever you already are”. I think my answer lies somewhere in that sentiment. I feel like I have begun to scratch the surface off of the answer deep underneath. The whole point of the Buddhist mindfulness teaching as I see it is to just apply awareness and compassion to everyday life and try not to attach to things and overcomplicate too much. That makes perfect sense to me. I have to find a way to put my Ego in the backseat and just practice.

Now to wrangle the beast that is my overworking mind and try to stick with the basics. For now all I can do is just sit and breathe.

Life Behind the Retail Counter: Part 1 The Elderly Lady

I thought I’d start this little piece as a sort of cultural examination on the American love affair with retail shopping. Everyone has walked into the polished stores with their overfilled racks at least once in their lives but not near as many have stood on the other end of the register. I come to offer that point of view, enjoy.

As I arrived at work yesterday to clock in five minutes early (those five minutes matter) I was greeted by my coworkers slumped over their phones in the break room. Once the necessary but trivial “How are you”s were over, I fastened on my name badge and began the walk to the service desk, hoping to dodge any needy customers right away (Come on I just got here). Once that perilous journey was completed, I went to find out what my role in the corporate machine would be for the day.  Mine, like most other days, happened to be commandeering the service desk. I felt tempted to go over the PA and announce to my patrons that the captain had boarded ship and takeoff would commence briefly but my daydream was cut short. It looked as if we would be taking off immediately, as an elderly lady stepped up to the counter.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against old people, I love my fair share of the elderly but we all know that when they’re bad, they’re very bad. This particular lady crept to the counter with a slightly hunched back, each movement grinding her physical gears. One couldn’t help but take pity on her physicality until she opened her mouth to speak. She was the type of lady all retail employees hope to finish a shift without encountering, whether they admit it or not. After waiting for her to place all of her items in the specific order she deemed necessary for checkout, I began to scan them and hopefully place them in the bag to her standards. “Three items in without a remark, I must be doing good”, I tell myself right before she proclaims “Oh! I’ve got a return!”. Those five words crush all prior success. As I take a very deep, forceful breath, I flash her my best customer service smile, ensuring her it’s no big deal and that I can just continue the transaction after I complete her return.

That’s when it happened. My eyes scanned the receipt, viewing the items she had purchased, when suddenly they cut to the transaction date: April 13, 2010. APRIL 13, 2010, this woman has had these items for almost five years and is just now deciding that they won’t work for her. The days of sitting in the closet with the occasional cat’s bunting are noticeable. I can’t help but wonder if the card she purchased them with still sits in her receipt cluttered wallet or if it’s already met its end with a pair of scissors and a trashcan. As I take another long drawn deep breath, I prepare to deliver the news. “Ma’am this transaction is from 2010 making it far past our return policy, I won’t be able to give you your money back in it’s original form but I’ll be glad to give it you in the form of in-store credit.” That simple, honest phrase set off a chain of events unlike any I had ever beheld. As the woman released the short amount of air from her lungs in disbelief, she muttered “You’ve go to be kidding me”. A crazed smile almost crept to my face as I realized she was actually questioning why she couldn’t get her money back. This was no joke, she was completely serious.

I was forced to repeat myself at least three times before pointing out the store’s return policy listed at the bottom of her receipt. Her eyes almost smudged against her spectacles as they strained, putting all of their effort into turning blurred blackness into legible words. Still, after multiple explanations and assisted reading of the companies policy, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I once again reinforced the policy, her frailty seemed to fade a bit and she proceeded to bang the counter and announce “I’m 90 years old, is this how you treat your elders?”. I strongly fought the urge to scoff her idea that age overrules legal policy. Turning quickly, I called my manager to the front, where the problem was quickly resolved. To prevent any further drama, my manager allowed her to get cash back. I stood looking into the opened cash drawer in defeat. This woman borrowed a tactic used by humans on the polar opposite side of the age spectrum to get her way. Thus proving once again, the customer is always right…

Once I gave the ridiculously earned money back to the lady, she regained her weak stature and innocent appearance. Finishing her transaction, I stuck her receipt in the bag and told her to have a nice day with heavy sarcasm. She simply smiled, winked, gave a nod of approval and scooted out the door.

(This story is heavily dramatized in several areas but is drawn from a VERY similar situation. I hope you enjoyed.)

Gun Nuts Shooting Themselves in the Foot


Like most passionate reactions I feel, this one came from a Facebook post shared by one of my friends. When I saw this photo, I was amazed that someone who tried to create a clever analogy was killing their own argument without realizing it. A smile crept onto my face when I realized I could counter this so effectively.

Coming from the uber conservative, opinionated south, I am bombarded with ignorant ideals everyday. One becomes numb to it after years without relent, but every now and then a post such as the one above is so bad that I can’t help myself. We all know the south loves guns of all kinds and they’re willing to fight if you try to take them away. I remember being in middle school hearing people say how Obama was going to “take all our guns away” and “he can try if he wants but they’ll have to go through me”. Yes, these are actual statements one hears daily in the rural south.

The photo above tries to be clever and use different types of pencils as a metaphor for different gun types. What the author of the post didn’t realize is that the image very well proves that high capacity assault rifle (i.e. mechanical pencils) are totally unnecessary. Everyone agrees that a standard wooden number two pencil will put words onto paper just like a mechanical pencil will. There’s no denying it. Where the arguments will start is about the “efficiency” of the mechanical pencils. Sure, the mechanical pencil will hold more lead and you don’t have to distract the whole classroom with a sharpener but it still writes just the same as a standard pencil.

Now let’s transfer this back to the guns. A perfectly legal pistol will stop an aggressor or threat just as efficiently as an assault rifle in almost every scenario. People use the excuse of self defense on assault rifles because they see them as toys and no one wants their toys taken away.

The fact of the matter is that assault rifles being readily available to the public has obviously shown itself to be detrimental. Assault rifles are for soldiers and war. Even the very name of the gun shows this: “Assault (verb) – to make a physical attack on.” They aren’t called “civilian defense rifles” for a reason.

Being southern, I have an appreciation for guns. I do think they are fascinating machines and they are fun to shoot. I think everyone has their inner Rambo moments when they just want to blow stuff up (not humans hopefully). No guns are toys and tweaked versions of the rifles issued to soldiers definitely aren’t. Fun shouldn’t come at the expense of human life and it rarely is in other situations.

I almost can admire the effort put into the image above but the lack of thought about a counter argument takes it away. The image is perfect for the ignorant bigot-type who wants a clever metaphor for their cause. They ALMOST had it… almost. I can even see the smile they made when thinking how clever it was to refer to a mechanical pencil as having a “large capacity of led.” (It’s graphite, but nice try again.)

A sincere thank you goes out to the author for further weakening the cause.

Remembering The King of Gonzo: 10 years later


Ten years ago today, one of the most unique, badass humans of all time chose to end his own life. Hunter S. Thompson lived harder than anyone and sadly extinguished his own flame. As a Sophomore in high school, a kid who felt different and strange discovered a powerful man who encouraged living life till it burst at the seams. I’m that kid and Hunter S. Thompson was the man. Never in my life had I ever seen anything like him. Booze fueled, with cigarette dangling from his lip, Thompson left an astounding first impression on anyone who read his work.

As a 16 year old living in the years when I thought I was wild, I was totally blown away by this mysterious entity that wrote incredible stories and did ungodly amounts of drugs without a second thought. HST became my idol, someone to look to as both a writer and adventurer.

The concept of Gonzo shattered all formal beliefs I had of what it meant to be an investigative journalist. When I found Hunter Thompson, I found what I wanted to do in my life. None of the questionnaires or career surveys at school had Gonzo Journalism as a choice. The thought of immersing yourself and becoming a part of the subject struck me hard and investigative journalism remains my career choice to this day.

As I looked more deeply into Thompson’s personal life, I discovered that he was dead. He had killed himself at his ranch in Colorado on February 20, 2005. I was angry that I hadn’t discovered him before he died, as if it would make his work different to me. The thought of such a free spirit with such talent taking their own life was something I couldn’t easily digest.

As I’ve sat and thought about the impact he’s had on me, I feel so happy that he lived his full throttle life, but so sad that he chose to end it. He’s yet another sad addition to the list of reasons suicide shouldn’t be ignored.

I doubt any literary figure will ever have the impact Hunter S. Thompson has had on me. Through his stories of crazy adventures, I almost feel like I’ve become friends with him. If he were alive today I would write him and make sure he knew. The beautiful thing is, even ten years after his tragic end, his work is still so impactful to most everyone who reads it.

So everyone raise a glass to the King of Gonzo, the wildest man that ever lived. RIP Hunter S Thompson

Stay weird my friends.


Male Scarves in Alabama: The cause of Rednecks? (Pun Possibly Intended)

Imagine your face when seeing this, then apply it to a normal sized scarf.
Imagine your face when seeing this, then apply it to a normal sized scarf.

I’ve always been a fan of style. Not someone who attends fashion shows and such, but I can appreciate clothes looking good on someone. With that, comes the respect of accessories; scarves being very high on the list of things deemed cool. One thing I’ve noticed in my nineteen years as an Alabamian, is that my fellow citizens rarely have such appreciation and often criticize those who do.

As of this morning, it was 18°F outside with a windchill of 4°F. In other words, it is absolutely freezing outside (by Alabama standards anyways). The mass hysteria that comes with these temperatures leaves our bread aisles empty and most people in their homes, naturally. But for the ones who do venture out of their humble abode, I would honestly give a 5% chance of seeing a small town Alabama male wearing a scarf. They’ll usually just stick to their Carhartt jackets, boots and baseball caps to provide warmth. I have never understood why, If it’s freezing, someone would not want to stay warm and possibly even look cool doing so at the same time?


The issue stems from wanting to look “manly”. People from here will seriously rather freeze and pretend to be warm, than wear a scarf. I don’t exaggerate whatsoever. The times I’ve worn a scarf in public and not received a strange look from someone can be counted on one hand.

The biggest confusion to me comes from seeing photos from the fifties and sixties, of men in suits wearing scarves. Back when men always looked badass and it’s safe to say they were more conservative, they wore scarves. Somewhere between then and now, southern men evolved to resist cold and the scarf became unmanly and shunned. What a shame…

Regardless, I’m gonna keep my neck warm while looking cool (or at least I like to think so) and you guys can keep your red necks (no pun intended) and false warmth for the sake of manhood. You do you, fellow Alabamians.

Lend me your ears (eyes?)

Exposing yourself and your opinions freely to the public can be a terrifying thing. As I type this, I am overcoming a ridiculous fear of judgment and embarrassment. This will be my first blog post on this account which I made a little over a year ago.

As I wearily scroll through my Facebook feed each day to pass the time; I see people who I would have never seen being writers posting their blogs for the world to see. It seems that anyone with a smartphone and an opinion or advice of some sort can now break the chains of character limits on Twitter and attention spans on Facebook, giving their full, unlimited assessments to the public. So why not me too?

I like to think I’m full of great thoughts, as we all do. That being said, there are promises I can make to whoever my audience happens to be.

I will not shove dating advice down your throat with catchy titles. I will not describe the misunderstood life of a sorority girl and I will not make lists telling how the South is unparalleled around the world.

I can promise that I will try my best to write thought provoking pieces without bias (as best as possible). And I’ll even throw in some great quotes and excerpts from incredible literary figures.


– N