The Impotent Satyr

"Get a load of this fuckin' amateur."

By all means, ignore us: We sidewalk-dwellers who sit and stand in the cold while the seagulls hurl insults from atop Ben Moore's. Do you think we are enjoying our Saturday morning by being at the mercy of the chilled breeze, only smelling the food being cooked and served inside and never going in, ourselves? Do you think me a vagabond? This is big brain Olympia-style attire, traveler. I don't know where you come from, but here in Olympia, on 4th ave, and just at this specific restaurant, we are expected—no, demanded—to write down our Olympia names (River, Forest, Moon Unit, Ranger, Sunshine) on the notepad adjacent to New Moon's entrance, along with the size of our group, and wait in line like everyone else. And during that waiting period, we must ogle newcomers. And when you newbies do arrive, we shan't inform you of the process. You must make your bed and sleep in it here in the capital city.





And do you honestly think that I and other locals haven't tried what you've just failed at? Do you believe that we have not attempted to barge our way in and claim an empty table? Because we have! We, too, have ignored the instructions on the glass door, waded through the small, busy establishment, and sat down before an empty, unwiped table littered with crumbs and dirty dishes. We, too, have flipped through and commented on half of the scribblings on the pages of the recycled paper booklet resting next to the jam and ketchup squirt bottles. We, too, have asked for a hot mug of coffee...and we, too, have been asked to return outside, write down our name and party size on the provided notepad, and wait patiently until we are called.





So, travelers, while your attempt is futile, your struggle somewhat embarrassing, your effort is also relatable and memorable and oh so very Olympian. Welcome to the coop.