I'm Wearing a Checkered Shirt. It's a Lovely Day for a Checkered Shirt.

It’s summer of 2012 and Greg Ehrlich and I are sitting on the patio of a packed hipster eatery.  I’m probably having eggs benedict.  A few minutes into our man date, my skull’s grazed by a fast-moving metal projectile.

I know how the above sentence reads- sadly, on Manhattan Beach, trust fund money discourages badass, James Bond-style gun play.  Turns out, the cafe’s awning's exploded, sending parts every which way, one of which kisses my cranium and clanks to rest about ten yards down the road.  I'm lucky- being hit squarely in the back of the head, experts tell me, isn't good.  I'm looking forward to a glorious old age involving drooling and non-sensical diatribes, no need ushering in that chapter prematurely.  

The cafe management handles themselves with the utmost grace, apologizing profusely and comping our meal, and Greg and I enjoy a tasty brunch.   We leave a sizable tip.  It’s what you do.  Besides, no one at the restaurant's at fault and I’m fine.  As we get up, some botoxed catastrophe of a woman stops me, baffled and enraged in the kind of way only someone who’s never worked for a living can be.  

“Are you fucking serious?” she moans.  “You left a tip?!  I can’t believe it!”  Her husband, similarly botoxed and tanned in the kind of way only someone who’s never worked for a living can be, doesn't look up from his phone.  

It’s worth noting several bloody mary’s are comped along with our meal and I’m feeling mischievous.  I stare at her for a few seconds and declare, “I’m wearing a checkered shirt.  It's a lovely day for a checkered shirt.”  The look on her face is worth a thousand words, squared.  I walk away.  

The moral of this story?  There isn't one.  Just, please, always tip your server.  And, even if you’re born rich, work.  Do something, anything really.  And, for the love of christ, age gracefully.  You're not fooling anybody, and what's so bad about not being dead?