Many poor and black communities are so bereft of services and retail that residents are forced to pay what could be called a "time tax" -- either extra money or loss of personal time -- to access basic services.

The Harbor Patrol has been in operation for just over 25 years. It is completely staffed by volunteers, who work under the supervision of the Police Department’s Special Operations Bureau. The annual cost for operating the program in recent years has been between $28,000 and $32,000 per year – which includes funding for boat maintenance and vessel replacement.

In 2006, the amount budgeted for boat maintenance and vessel replacement alone was $18,753 – more than we received from boating excise tax distribution. In analyzing the situation, the only viable alternatives are either to cut the program immediately, or cut the program at the point where it can no longer be supported with a combination of existing funds and excise tax revenues.

    You know, it just occurred to me that for the most part, I toss salads for a living. Puns and dirty jokes aside, I find it to be pretty sad.
    I don't really know much about our customers. The few that talk to me on the open kitchen treat me more like an exhibit at a museum than a cook, or a person, even.
    "Great job, guys!" proclaims a cheery old man. His hair is grayed and slightly balding, his glasses are small. Nothing about him is distinguishable from the dozens of other old men who came before him. Without even thinking, I smile and wave.
    He's probably the same guy who complained about his Olympia oysters being too small. His ceaser dressing was too salty. Ten ounces of ice cream wasn't enough for his blackberry cobbler.
    Fuck. It's no use, really. I don't claim to be a good cook, not by a long shot. My knowledge of food is jumbled and slim, at best. Instead of trying to teach the server or customer, I go for the faster route: remaking the problem order. To try and teach them, my breath would be wasted. The customer wants food, the server wants tips and I just want them both to get the hell out of the restaurant.
    "Order up!" Oh, great.
    "Table 135 didn't get enough avocado or egg on their Hawaiian Cobb, could I get some more?"
    Sure, it costs us a lot. But I take a handful of each and randomly arrange them on a bread plate.
    "Thanks a bunch!" The server disappears as quickly as he appeared. Hopefully he can appease the customer in time. An offer to the gods.
    But before I have time to be displeased with my job, the timer beeps. Another melting cake. I hope it's for Christine Gregoire again, I'll stab it on purpose.

"We never know the worth of water till the well is dry."

                   - Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia

A few days ago I saw a tour bus pulled over to the side of the road on I5. On the side of the bus was the word "Getaway." I guess it was getting a speeding ticket. I felt sorry for the poor tourists who were have their fantasy vacation to south Puget Sound interrupted by this run in with the law. Then I thought, maybe the cop misunderstood and thought the bus was making a getaway from a crime. Maybe it was!

They would need to be pretty dumb criminals to label their getaway vehicle like that though. I guess I'll never know.