For being lazy and shiftless, stoners can be pretty industrious. Give a dope smoker weed and fire and they’ll find a way to smoke it. Whether it’s coring an apple at right angles, rolling up aluminum foil, or punching holes in a soda can, pot heads will find a vehicle to support their addiction. Unfortunately, the bar business isn’t the same way. You can have a fully stocked bar, but without glasses, you’re screwed. You can’t just pour booze into a customer’s mouth, no matter how much they beg.
Yesterday started off great. My buddy Steve did a good lunch business, which fed into my happy hour. An attractive woman, Liz, came in and asked if we sold cigarettes. We don’t, so I told her where I just bought my pack. (I can’t believe I’m smoking again, either.) She asked if she could bum one. No problem, less for me. She orders a Stella and I give her a smoke. I join her outside. We flirt. Turns out she’s staying at the hotel behind me my apartment. She writes her cell phone number on her card and tells me to call her when I’m off. In three years of bartending, this is a first. To be honest, it’s super flattering, but I don’t expect much from it. I figure if she’s giving me her number at six p.m. knowing I finish work at three a.m., any number of things could happen. Finding another bartender who leaves work before two is at the top of my list of why this tryst won’t take place. Happy hour turned out great. By eight o’ clock, most of the tables were full and there were quite a few people at the bar. This is just the kind of thing we needed after being shut down two weeks prior. Around nine, the bar hits a transition time. It’s usually super slow for a couple of hours, as the happy hour crowd leaves and the drink your face off people are still home getting ready. It was actually steadier than I expected. We got a small pop around eleven and that’s when it happened.
I can’t remember what beer the customer had asked for. It was probably a Stella Artois. When I looked around for an imperial pint glass, there were none. Now this does happen now and again and I invariably turn to Tim and say, “Remember when we used to have glasses? I miss those days.” The Guinness glasses we use are really fragile and break easily, especially in my jittery paws. But we usually run out when we are, how do I say this, busy. And busy we were not. Since my boss was let go, certain jobs may have fallen through the cracks. Ordering glasses could be one of them. I accept this. But what shocked me was when we ran out of rocks (cocktail) glasses. I have no idea how this came about. It’s a long weekend and I know we’ll be slammed Sunday. I don’t know if we can get glasses by then, I’m hoping.
The night worked out great. Although it wasn’t super busy, customers were extremely generous. At about two forty-five I sat down with a cocktail and texted Liz. This may come as a surprise, but she didn’t get back to me. As my manager said, if you’re on the other side of the bar at last call, you’ve got a pretty good chance of taking someone home. If you’re on my side of the bar, you have a better chance of meeting someone, but that one hour is a long time when your quarry is about to pass out in her own vomit. Oh, well. At the end of the day, it is a job. I do it for money. Taking home a woman is merely a benefit, kind of like health insurance or a 401k. I’m going back to work in two hours. I need to take a nap. I’m sure I’ll dream of my bar filled with glasses.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Speech
Politically, I’ve been in the doldrums, as of late. Ever since Obama took off for Hawaii, it seems like the attacks have ratcheted up and the responses haven’t come at all. I feared that the Republican attack machine forced the most riveting candidate in my lifetime to roll over and play dead. Then I heard last night’s speech and all of my concerns of the last few weeks were allayed.
Last night’s speech brought tears to my eyes. First of all, Barack Obama represents the American dream incarnate. While our President for the last eight years brings to mind spoiled, European princes, who eventually become king, Barack Obama, raised by a single mother, symbolizes America’s potential. It was John McCain who painted Obama as an elitist, while McCain supports tax cuts for the elite and can’t recall how many houses he owns. I spoke with a friend this morning who felt that Obama’s speech was short on solutions. Weaning the country off of foreign oil in ten years may sound far fetched to her, but in 1961 President John F. Kennedy promised to put a man on the moon by the end of the decade and he was early, my kind of guy. What I find extraordinary about Barack Obama, the candidate, is that he touches people on an emotional level. As he said last night, and I paraphrase, this election was never about me, it’s about you. Just like J.F.K. inspired a generation by saying, “Ask not what this country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” Obama encourages us to make this country better.
I can’t imagine Obama not getting elected. Our country is ready for radical change. I’ve said that I’d rather be wrong about Obama, than right about McCain. Barack Obama is too smart, too caring, and too inspirational to not get elected. I’m excited about Barack Obama because he stirs in us a sense of pride in our country. He proves that with education, anything in this country is possible. Change is going to come and when we look back, we will remember, it all started with the speech.
Last night’s speech brought tears to my eyes. First of all, Barack Obama represents the American dream incarnate. While our President for the last eight years brings to mind spoiled, European princes, who eventually become king, Barack Obama, raised by a single mother, symbolizes America’s potential. It was John McCain who painted Obama as an elitist, while McCain supports tax cuts for the elite and can’t recall how many houses he owns. I spoke with a friend this morning who felt that Obama’s speech was short on solutions. Weaning the country off of foreign oil in ten years may sound far fetched to her, but in 1961 President John F. Kennedy promised to put a man on the moon by the end of the decade and he was early, my kind of guy. What I find extraordinary about Barack Obama, the candidate, is that he touches people on an emotional level. As he said last night, and I paraphrase, this election was never about me, it’s about you. Just like J.F.K. inspired a generation by saying, “Ask not what this country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” Obama encourages us to make this country better.
I can’t imagine Obama not getting elected. Our country is ready for radical change. I’ve said that I’d rather be wrong about Obama, than right about McCain. Barack Obama is too smart, too caring, and too inspirational to not get elected. I’m excited about Barack Obama because he stirs in us a sense of pride in our country. He proves that with education, anything in this country is possible. Change is going to come and when we look back, we will remember, it all started with the speech.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Best Sandwich Ever
I’ve been to Langer’s a handful of times. It’s downtown, a block off McArthur park, so not exactly in my six block radius. I’m sure when it opened sixty-one years ago it was in a decent neighborhood. Now it’s kind of third world. I had plans last week to make the pilgrimage with my buddy Grant. Our lunch got pushed until this week. This ended up being super lucky for my friend Mike, who is visiting from London.
We got to Langer’s twenty minutes early. With time to kill, we checked out the neighborhood. I’ve never been on the subway in Los Angeles, so we decided to check out the McArthur park stop. You can only go so far into the station without a ticket. I stopped at said point while Mike continued on. I had no desire to get a Rodney Kinged because I couldn’t follow directions. With fifteen minutes to go, Mike wanted to stroll through McArthur park, just to say he’s been there. We entered on Alvarado and 7th. I was immediately assaulted with the stench of urine. I’m not sure how an open space could contain such a strong scent but there it was. Mike wanted to continue on to the lake. I saw a small pile of trash and eviscerated pigeon wings, tasty. There were a handful of people, ducks, and pigeons being fed. I hate pigeons. They are disease filled rats with wings, kind of like Bangkok whores without the wings. I’d had enough. We went to Langer’s, a safe haven in this Central American shit hole.
Walking up to Langer’s you see groups of Caucasians in a sea of Salvadorans. You know where they’re going. You walk in and you immediately smell the pastrami. We sat at a booth near the entrance. Grant was running late, so I got my second cup of coffee of the day and knocked over a glass of water. Never a dull moment with trembly me. Grant showed up and we ordered. Pastrami with cole slaw and Russian dressing for me, the #1, they got #19s, which adds Swiss cheese. The sandwiches finally arrive. I was the only one who had been there before. In a world of hype, this sandwich lives up to and far above it’s billing. I come from a family of exaggerators. Anything great is the best, but this truly is. When I finished my sandwich I got a little sad. I guess I could order another one, but even hedonism must know its limits.
Outside, we struck up a conversation with a father, mother, and son. We all gushed about what we just consumed. Six of us agreed, this is the best sandwich. Even the mom, who isn’t a huge fan of pastrami, said it’s incomparable. I feel lucky that I live in a city where I can find the best of some things. I’m sure there’s better sushi in Japan, but with only a Mazda Gayata at my disposal, I can find some pretty amazing raw fish. New York may have better delis, but Langer’s makes the best sandwich ever.
We got to Langer’s twenty minutes early. With time to kill, we checked out the neighborhood. I’ve never been on the subway in Los Angeles, so we decided to check out the McArthur park stop. You can only go so far into the station without a ticket. I stopped at said point while Mike continued on. I had no desire to get a Rodney Kinged because I couldn’t follow directions. With fifteen minutes to go, Mike wanted to stroll through McArthur park, just to say he’s been there. We entered on Alvarado and 7th. I was immediately assaulted with the stench of urine. I’m not sure how an open space could contain such a strong scent but there it was. Mike wanted to continue on to the lake. I saw a small pile of trash and eviscerated pigeon wings, tasty. There were a handful of people, ducks, and pigeons being fed. I hate pigeons. They are disease filled rats with wings, kind of like Bangkok whores without the wings. I’d had enough. We went to Langer’s, a safe haven in this Central American shit hole.
Walking up to Langer’s you see groups of Caucasians in a sea of Salvadorans. You know where they’re going. You walk in and you immediately smell the pastrami. We sat at a booth near the entrance. Grant was running late, so I got my second cup of coffee of the day and knocked over a glass of water. Never a dull moment with trembly me. Grant showed up and we ordered. Pastrami with cole slaw and Russian dressing for me, the #1, they got #19s, which adds Swiss cheese. The sandwiches finally arrive. I was the only one who had been there before. In a world of hype, this sandwich lives up to and far above it’s billing. I come from a family of exaggerators. Anything great is the best, but this truly is. When I finished my sandwich I got a little sad. I guess I could order another one, but even hedonism must know its limits.
Outside, we struck up a conversation with a father, mother, and son. We all gushed about what we just consumed. Six of us agreed, this is the best sandwich. Even the mom, who isn’t a huge fan of pastrami, said it’s incomparable. I feel lucky that I live in a city where I can find the best of some things. I’m sure there’s better sushi in Japan, but with only a Mazda Gayata at my disposal, I can find some pretty amazing raw fish. New York may have better delis, but Langer’s makes the best sandwich ever.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A Far Shorter Night
Maybe it was because I had a few tasks to do, but the night went quicker. Before Nicole left for the day, she asked me to get something from DirecTV, the department of health, and copy the occupancy sign. Three tasks to fill in eight hours. Where would I find the time? When I went to get the occupancy off the wall, it was no longer there. Two to go. I talked to DirecTV. They faxed me what I needed. I failed to find out any information concerning the health department. My office work was done. I looked at my phone, only eight hours and fifty-three minutes to go.
Last night, our sister bar Main was open for business. Unfortunately, no one but Kimi, Mary Kate and Money Mike seemed to know this fact. If O’ Brien’s was slow, Main was a morgue. The gross sales for the night barely covered two hours of my sorry minimum-wage ass. Yesterday, I failed to mention that on Monday night one of the door guys told me he was giving his two-week notice. He got a job bartending in the valley near his place. I told him that was great and wished him well. There must be something in the door guys’ water because another one came up to me last night. He said, “Do I give my two-week to you or Nicole?” “You can give it to me. I’ll let Nicole know.” Turns out he got a better job, too. Great for him. I texted Nicole. She wrote back asking when his last day is. I asked him. He pondered it, “This weekend.” Still thinking about that two weeks were longer than this weekend, I said, “You mean next weekend?” “No, Saturday.” I asked, “Do you know what a two-week notice is?” “Yeah.” Actually, he doesn’t. For some reason he feels that compressing a fortnight’s warning into five days is mathematically correct. For those keeping score at home, a two-weeks notice does not signify an alert free of time constraints. If you’re gonna quit on Saturday, then say so. Some people.
I killed time standing outside talking to Brandon, the bartender from Main. A few people walked in looking for salsa night. This was something we had a month ago but had to cancel because too few people showed. All I could think was, “Where were you a month ago?” I don’t know why people don’t know salsa night got canceled, but, then again, people continue to call about the Oar House which closed in 2000. Brandon’s lovely sister and her hot friend showed up around 11:30. We went inside Main. The ladies and Brandon had a drink. I told him to shut the place down. We closed at 11:30 with total sales of $19. Thank God for Kimi and Money. At the end of the night, Kevin and I discussed possible avenues for growing our business. Actually, Kevin had the ideas. I just nodded and repeated, “Awesome idea.” I’m definitely management material. We left shortly after two. I don’t know why, but it was a far shorter night.
Last night, our sister bar Main was open for business. Unfortunately, no one but Kimi, Mary Kate and Money Mike seemed to know this fact. If O’ Brien’s was slow, Main was a morgue. The gross sales for the night barely covered two hours of my sorry minimum-wage ass. Yesterday, I failed to mention that on Monday night one of the door guys told me he was giving his two-week notice. He got a job bartending in the valley near his place. I told him that was great and wished him well. There must be something in the door guys’ water because another one came up to me last night. He said, “Do I give my two-week to you or Nicole?” “You can give it to me. I’ll let Nicole know.” Turns out he got a better job, too. Great for him. I texted Nicole. She wrote back asking when his last day is. I asked him. He pondered it, “This weekend.” Still thinking about that two weeks were longer than this weekend, I said, “You mean next weekend?” “No, Saturday.” I asked, “Do you know what a two-week notice is?” “Yeah.” Actually, he doesn’t. For some reason he feels that compressing a fortnight’s warning into five days is mathematically correct. For those keeping score at home, a two-weeks notice does not signify an alert free of time constraints. If you’re gonna quit on Saturday, then say so. Some people.
I killed time standing outside talking to Brandon, the bartender from Main. A few people walked in looking for salsa night. This was something we had a month ago but had to cancel because too few people showed. All I could think was, “Where were you a month ago?” I don’t know why people don’t know salsa night got canceled, but, then again, people continue to call about the Oar House which closed in 2000. Brandon’s lovely sister and her hot friend showed up around 11:30. We went inside Main. The ladies and Brandon had a drink. I told him to shut the place down. We closed at 11:30 with total sales of $19. Thank God for Kimi and Money. At the end of the night, Kevin and I discussed possible avenues for growing our business. Actually, Kevin had the ideas. I just nodded and repeated, “Awesome idea.” I’m definitely management material. We left shortly after two. I don’t know why, but it was a far shorter night.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Longest Night Of My Life
Someone once said, “If you only have a year to live, get a job at O’ Brien’s, because each day seems like a lifetime.” Amen to that. I got to work before my six o’ clock start. I was given keys, a manager’s card, and a few instructions. I brought in a couple of newspapers and a magazine and perched up on a stool. The next three hours flew by like a lead balloon. I conversed with Kimi, sat customers, and bussed a few tables. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” Oh, Shakespeare, never have your words spoke to me so.
I decided to try out my new manager’s card to check on sales. The idea is I slide it through the register, paper prints out, I tear it off and read it. It makes me look like I’m in charge, even though I have no idea what any of it means. Well there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is when I went to slide my card nothing happened. The good news is that at least it gave me something to do. After receiving instructions on creating another card, I was ready for a new milestone: dinner. Since I’ve grown to hate our spring mix lettuce, but dig the other ingredients in our shrimp salad, I decided to substitute the spring mix for romaine and shrimp for chicken and have it tossed in balsamic. MMMMMMMMMFree food. That and minimum wage are my only compensation, so far. Not to mention limitless power, which you really can’t put a price on. Unfortunately, the cook chose not to read the ticket and gave me a Caeser salad substitute balsamic. I know, I know, I should’ve had him killed right then and there, but I’m trying to take a kinder gentler approach. After I had INS take him away in manacles and shipped back to Mexico (who knew he was born in Gardena), I had the other cook make it right. Trembling with fear before my omnipotence, he handed me the new salad. How was it? Let’s just say if anyone knows of two decent cooks, or trained monkeys who can operate a deep fryer, and an attorney who can get me acquitted for filing my nails with a chef’s knife while the second cook ran into it forty-six times, I’d be much obliged.
Luckily, a couple of well wishers, Monique and Brian, came in for some beverages and fries. They wanted to see my leadership in action. Boy, were they in for a treat. I was asked many questions by Adam, the musical act last night. My friends remarked how well I shrugged at each and every question. I’m kidding. I’m not a shrugger, I’m a texter. I got all the answers which went something like, “No. No. Are you serious?” and last but not least, “You’re supposed to bring your own fucking microphone stand!” My colleague Kevin came in at the end of the night and reminded me, “Be careful what you wish for.” I just wanted to help out the business that I love. How was I supposed to know it would turn into the longest night of my life.
I decided to try out my new manager’s card to check on sales. The idea is I slide it through the register, paper prints out, I tear it off and read it. It makes me look like I’m in charge, even though I have no idea what any of it means. Well there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is when I went to slide my card nothing happened. The good news is that at least it gave me something to do. After receiving instructions on creating another card, I was ready for a new milestone: dinner. Since I’ve grown to hate our spring mix lettuce, but dig the other ingredients in our shrimp salad, I decided to substitute the spring mix for romaine and shrimp for chicken and have it tossed in balsamic. MMMMMMMMMFree food. That and minimum wage are my only compensation, so far. Not to mention limitless power, which you really can’t put a price on. Unfortunately, the cook chose not to read the ticket and gave me a Caeser salad substitute balsamic. I know, I know, I should’ve had him killed right then and there, but I’m trying to take a kinder gentler approach. After I had INS take him away in manacles and shipped back to Mexico (who knew he was born in Gardena), I had the other cook make it right. Trembling with fear before my omnipotence, he handed me the new salad. How was it? Let’s just say if anyone knows of two decent cooks, or trained monkeys who can operate a deep fryer, and an attorney who can get me acquitted for filing my nails with a chef’s knife while the second cook ran into it forty-six times, I’d be much obliged.
Luckily, a couple of well wishers, Monique and Brian, came in for some beverages and fries. They wanted to see my leadership in action. Boy, were they in for a treat. I was asked many questions by Adam, the musical act last night. My friends remarked how well I shrugged at each and every question. I’m kidding. I’m not a shrugger, I’m a texter. I got all the answers which went something like, “No. No. Are you serious?” and last but not least, “You’re supposed to bring your own fucking microphone stand!” My colleague Kevin came in at the end of the night and reminded me, “Be careful what you wish for.” I just wanted to help out the business that I love. How was I supposed to know it would turn into the longest night of my life.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Wish Me Luck
After a good Friday night, I was a little concerned about Saturday. There was a ninety person party from two to four. Of course, I start at four-thirty. I’m happy the bar is doing business, but I want my taste. I got to bed at about four that morning and was woken up by some outboard motor the hotel behind me was running at eight. That’s not enough sleep for me. After the meeting the plan was to go home and nap. The best laid plans often go astray. No matter how hard I furrowed my brow, sleep did not come. I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.
I got to work and the party was winding down. I figured it would be a slow happy hour, then the pub crawl showed up. About fifty people arrived at the end of a crawl. They all had their necklaces with the order of pubs and specials that were offered. For our bar, they were told we had discounted Sierra Nevada and $4 specialty shots. We haven’t had Sierra Nevada in eighteen months, which gives you some idea how wrong the organizers were about our specials. When one woman insisted that she receive a $4 specialty shot, I told her, “It’s gonna have a lot of orange juice and cranberry if you want it.” She responded, “You’re a douche!” Oh, I get it. You come into my place of business, drunk, telling me how much things cost because it says so on some printed card around your neck, and I’m the douche? She’s lucky I got that four hours of sleep the night before or I would’ve buried my size 13 in her ass. Around seven-thirty my former boss came in. I confronted him about what I heard him say concerning my role in his being fired. His response was, “I don’t know what your talking about.” I said, “I guess we’re cool then.” I understand alcohol can impair one’s memory. Happy hour turned out great. The rest of the night was a bit soft. I guess I can thank the Santa Monica Police Department for that. They chose to put a drunk stop on Main St. a block north of my bar. Nothing like killing local business when there’s a recession.
Kevin’s brother is in town, so I worked for Kevin last night. I was especially touched when he sent me a text saying, “Harvelle’s at 9. Renee’s for Ghosts of Electricity after?” I responded, “I’m working for you, you cunt!” I guess it was nice to be invited. The night was brutally slow. I took to counting tumbleweed as it rolled down Main St. The one advantage of a slow Sunday night is that it’s usually industry people who come in and they are monster tippers. Last night was no exception. Now the fun commences.
Tonight begins my power trip. Tonight I am the manager. Tonight I will fire someone right off the bat, just to show who’s in charge. I might even clean house. Fire everyone. Then they will know I’m not just some guy who offered to help and is now a minimum wage manager. I am all powerful. Actually, there will only be six people working so I can’t really fire anyone. My job is to help out where ever I can. I’ll be working with Kimi so I’ll try and help her make as much cash as possible, so she can fund her tequila fueled Sundays and real life bumper cars. I should be alright, as long as nothing too serious happens, like I don’t know...the health department showing up. Wish me luck.
I got to work and the party was winding down. I figured it would be a slow happy hour, then the pub crawl showed up. About fifty people arrived at the end of a crawl. They all had their necklaces with the order of pubs and specials that were offered. For our bar, they were told we had discounted Sierra Nevada and $4 specialty shots. We haven’t had Sierra Nevada in eighteen months, which gives you some idea how wrong the organizers were about our specials. When one woman insisted that she receive a $4 specialty shot, I told her, “It’s gonna have a lot of orange juice and cranberry if you want it.” She responded, “You’re a douche!” Oh, I get it. You come into my place of business, drunk, telling me how much things cost because it says so on some printed card around your neck, and I’m the douche? She’s lucky I got that four hours of sleep the night before or I would’ve buried my size 13 in her ass. Around seven-thirty my former boss came in. I confronted him about what I heard him say concerning my role in his being fired. His response was, “I don’t know what your talking about.” I said, “I guess we’re cool then.” I understand alcohol can impair one’s memory. Happy hour turned out great. The rest of the night was a bit soft. I guess I can thank the Santa Monica Police Department for that. They chose to put a drunk stop on Main St. a block north of my bar. Nothing like killing local business when there’s a recession.
Kevin’s brother is in town, so I worked for Kevin last night. I was especially touched when he sent me a text saying, “Harvelle’s at 9. Renee’s for Ghosts of Electricity after?” I responded, “I’m working for you, you cunt!” I guess it was nice to be invited. The night was brutally slow. I took to counting tumbleweed as it rolled down Main St. The one advantage of a slow Sunday night is that it’s usually industry people who come in and they are monster tippers. Last night was no exception. Now the fun commences.
Tonight begins my power trip. Tonight I am the manager. Tonight I will fire someone right off the bat, just to show who’s in charge. I might even clean house. Fire everyone. Then they will know I’m not just some guy who offered to help and is now a minimum wage manager. I am all powerful. Actually, there will only be six people working so I can’t really fire anyone. My job is to help out where ever I can. I’ll be working with Kimi so I’ll try and help her make as much cash as possible, so she can fund her tequila fueled Sundays and real life bumper cars. I should be alright, as long as nothing too serious happens, like I don’t know...the health department showing up. Wish me luck.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Not The Same As The Old Boss
It’s been a crazy few days. Thursday, Tim and I were having lunch at Nichol’s in the Marina. Nichol’s is a coffee shop that makes great food. They seem to do everything well. (What a novel concept.) Tim and I were discussing what was gonna happen with our place of employ when I got a call from a co-worker. The news shocked me.
My boss, part owner in the bar, was to be relieved of overseeing operations. Actually, I think it was, “Gregg got fired.” Semantics. After lunch, I swung by the bar. I asked Gregg how he was and he answered, “I guess I’m looking for a job.” It was the end of an era. I had known Gregg since I started going to O’ Brien’s ten years ago. I was at his wedding. Back in the salad days, on Sundays he would cook for about a dozen of us to try out new menu items. It was like a family dinner. Gregg had a pretty adversarial relationship with most employees. “Most” isn’t a strong enough word, perhaps all but a couple is more succinct, generous but succinct. He was of the opinion that a boss must be feared. I’ve never studied leadership but I feel you probably would rather an employee who would take a bullet for you, rather than put two in your chest. I’d known him long enough that I wasn’t afraid of him. We got along great. When others bad mouthed him, and that was many and often, I tended to have his back, a position which got harder and harder to maintain. That’s why it hurt me to hear that in a state of drunken blame-sharing the other night, he mentioned that I had played a role in his getting fired. I heard through the grapevine that I called one of the other owners on Tuesday when we didn’t pass inspection.
For the record, I did not. I was probably one of the few who didn’t. And, if I had, is that a problem? Why shouldn’t the two other partners be notified that their business is closed? Is it a secret? In any case, a meeting was called for this morning. The other day I offered to help out in any way possible. I figured I would go in weekday mornings for a couple months to open up and receive food and beverage orders. Since the ordering takes place during the day, my new general manager will be working then, while I’ll be working her nights, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I’m happy to do it, but being one of the few in the bar business who is a morning person, my obsessive-compulsive morning gym schedule will be put on hold.
Like everything, this will be a learning experience. I presume I’ll be compensated financially, but I’m still doing the job without any promises of it. In lieu of pay, I’ve been given a title, assistant manager. I’m sure that’ll be downgraded to assistant to the manager. I love my job and my bar and am happy to make it the best it can be. I guess some would call me a bar intern, but I like to say meet the new boss, not the same as the old boss.
My boss, part owner in the bar, was to be relieved of overseeing operations. Actually, I think it was, “Gregg got fired.” Semantics. After lunch, I swung by the bar. I asked Gregg how he was and he answered, “I guess I’m looking for a job.” It was the end of an era. I had known Gregg since I started going to O’ Brien’s ten years ago. I was at his wedding. Back in the salad days, on Sundays he would cook for about a dozen of us to try out new menu items. It was like a family dinner. Gregg had a pretty adversarial relationship with most employees. “Most” isn’t a strong enough word, perhaps all but a couple is more succinct, generous but succinct. He was of the opinion that a boss must be feared. I’ve never studied leadership but I feel you probably would rather an employee who would take a bullet for you, rather than put two in your chest. I’d known him long enough that I wasn’t afraid of him. We got along great. When others bad mouthed him, and that was many and often, I tended to have his back, a position which got harder and harder to maintain. That’s why it hurt me to hear that in a state of drunken blame-sharing the other night, he mentioned that I had played a role in his getting fired. I heard through the grapevine that I called one of the other owners on Tuesday when we didn’t pass inspection.
For the record, I did not. I was probably one of the few who didn’t. And, if I had, is that a problem? Why shouldn’t the two other partners be notified that their business is closed? Is it a secret? In any case, a meeting was called for this morning. The other day I offered to help out in any way possible. I figured I would go in weekday mornings for a couple months to open up and receive food and beverage orders. Since the ordering takes place during the day, my new general manager will be working then, while I’ll be working her nights, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I’m happy to do it, but being one of the few in the bar business who is a morning person, my obsessive-compulsive morning gym schedule will be put on hold.
Like everything, this will be a learning experience. I presume I’ll be compensated financially, but I’m still doing the job without any promises of it. In lieu of pay, I’ve been given a title, assistant manager. I’m sure that’ll be downgraded to assistant to the manager. I love my job and my bar and am happy to make it the best it can be. I guess some would call me a bar intern, but I like to say meet the new boss, not the same as the old boss.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Sacred Cows
(This was gonna be the title of my “Is Anything Sacred” post. Good thing I googled it first. I didn’t expect to be able to use this title so soon.) Last night I fifth wheeled it with some friends. We went to Don Antonio’s on Pico. I really dig that place. The issue is there’s only a couple things I like: nachos and the super burrito. Neither of them are healthy, but after a couple of margaritas I decided that nachos have no flour; and, therefore, are the healthy alternative.
Conversation was pretty lively. At one point, the topic of kids came up. One of my friends made the argument that people who can’t afford children shouldn’t have them. She asked why does she have to support poor families who insist on reproducing. Her point of view really touched a nerve with a dad at the table, because, unfortunately, we live in a city where even the upper-middle class struggles to provide for their kids. Voices were raised, in fact, there was actual screaming going on. Other tables were looking at us. Nothing like a funcomfortable Thursday night to end my weekend. I understand why people get so upset about this. First of all, some people, money or not, can’t have kids. Also, as our esteemed president said, “Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.” What a fucking wizard! When it comes to children and family, there really is no rational discussion. For some, having kids is a biological imperative. This is something I could not convey to my friend.
Everyone eventually calmed down and the subject was changed. It’s said that you should never discuss religion or politics. I find these are the only two subjects that are interesting. I’m with two couples. What are they gonna tell me? That they banged their significant other? Like I give a shit about their stale sexcapades. Religion and politics can get people riled up, but the topic of kids becomes holy ground. I grew up wanting to have kids, but the older I get the less interest I have. I love my friends’ kids, but when they start crying, I get to leave. One of my shortcomings is that I’m lazy. If I’m too shiftless to wash my car, where will I find the desire to raise a kid...for the rest of my life. (That and I shoot blanks.) I find the topic of children to be an untouchable one. I guess what I’m asking readers, are there other sacred cows?
***There have been some major changes at my bar. We have a meeting tomorrow at 11 ayem. I’ll keep you posted.
Conversation was pretty lively. At one point, the topic of kids came up. One of my friends made the argument that people who can’t afford children shouldn’t have them. She asked why does she have to support poor families who insist on reproducing. Her point of view really touched a nerve with a dad at the table, because, unfortunately, we live in a city where even the upper-middle class struggles to provide for their kids. Voices were raised, in fact, there was actual screaming going on. Other tables were looking at us. Nothing like a funcomfortable Thursday night to end my weekend. I understand why people get so upset about this. First of all, some people, money or not, can’t have kids. Also, as our esteemed president said, “Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.” What a fucking wizard! When it comes to children and family, there really is no rational discussion. For some, having kids is a biological imperative. This is something I could not convey to my friend.
Everyone eventually calmed down and the subject was changed. It’s said that you should never discuss religion or politics. I find these are the only two subjects that are interesting. I’m with two couples. What are they gonna tell me? That they banged their significant other? Like I give a shit about their stale sexcapades. Religion and politics can get people riled up, but the topic of kids becomes holy ground. I grew up wanting to have kids, but the older I get the less interest I have. I love my friends’ kids, but when they start crying, I get to leave. One of my shortcomings is that I’m lazy. If I’m too shiftless to wash my car, where will I find the desire to raise a kid...for the rest of my life. (That and I shoot blanks.) I find the topic of children to be an untouchable one. I guess what I’m asking readers, are there other sacred cows?
***There have been some major changes at my bar. We have a meeting tomorrow at 11 ayem. I’ll keep you posted.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Full Bars
I got my first cell phone in 1997, when some of my co-workers were barely in their teens. My first carrier was LA Cellular. I can’t remember how the cell service was, but they got bought out by AT&T and I know their coverage sucked ass. It was something I accepted, shitty cell phone service. This was especially problematic in my apartment. Any call would be dropped when I entered the garage and I wouldn’t get a bar until I was in a one foot radius in my living room. I figured I just lived in a dead zone. That was until my former neighbor Sarah walked by my front door, gabbing on her cell phone. I flew out of my apartment and asked her about her carrier. She had Verizon.
I left for SE Asia in June of 2004. I cancelled my service with AT&T before I left. Seriously, who needs a cell phone when you’re banging 1000 baht whores? I really miss those days. But I digress. When I got back I signed up with Verizon Wireless. It was the best. With the exception of a couple of blocks on San Vicente, I got perfect reception everywhere, including my apartment. Any time there was a problem, it got fixed. The downside to this superior cell and customer service was cost. I was paying over $100 for 900 minutes, a handful of texts, and internet. Since I was downsizing, I decided that I didn’t need to spend $1200 a year on a cell phone; and, since Sprint used the same technology, maybe it would be just as good. A friend of mine showed me the Sprint SERO plan. They offered 1250 minutes, unlimited texts, and unlimited internet for $50. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I got a Palm Treo 750p for $250 and that was that. I was now a Sprint customer. Unfortunately, Sprint is not Verizon. First of all, their customer service is super ghetto. For example, when I got my first bill, it appeared that they charged me too much for my phone. After spending eons with customer service, one of them asked me, “How am I supposed to know where you got yo phone?” I replied, “I got it from you, Sprint. Doesn’t it say that somewhere on your computer? You are a business who tracks inventory, right?” I wait for the day that Google buys them out. Second, reception in my place wasn’t very good. But a couple weeks ago, I read about the Airave.
The Airave jacks into your broadband and expands coverage. It costs $5 a month, a small price to pay for reception; although, I wonder why the fuck I have to pay extra for cell phone reception. I went to the Sprint store and bought the last one. I figured I would walk in, grab it, pay, and go. No way. This is Sprint. It took over an hour. Part of this was waiting for help, 20 minutes, but once they set the box in front of me, it took my salesperson over a half hour phone call just to be able to charge me the $100 for the device. I’ve got to say, it was a small price. I brought the thing home and plugged it in. It took about 45 minutes to get up to speed, but now I’ve got great reception in my place. 100 bucks for the unit and 5 bucks a month is worth every penny, because now when I make a call from my place, I have full bars.
I left for SE Asia in June of 2004. I cancelled my service with AT&T before I left. Seriously, who needs a cell phone when you’re banging 1000 baht whores? I really miss those days. But I digress. When I got back I signed up with Verizon Wireless. It was the best. With the exception of a couple of blocks on San Vicente, I got perfect reception everywhere, including my apartment. Any time there was a problem, it got fixed. The downside to this superior cell and customer service was cost. I was paying over $100 for 900 minutes, a handful of texts, and internet. Since I was downsizing, I decided that I didn’t need to spend $1200 a year on a cell phone; and, since Sprint used the same technology, maybe it would be just as good. A friend of mine showed me the Sprint SERO plan. They offered 1250 minutes, unlimited texts, and unlimited internet for $50. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I got a Palm Treo 750p for $250 and that was that. I was now a Sprint customer. Unfortunately, Sprint is not Verizon. First of all, their customer service is super ghetto. For example, when I got my first bill, it appeared that they charged me too much for my phone. After spending eons with customer service, one of them asked me, “How am I supposed to know where you got yo phone?” I replied, “I got it from you, Sprint. Doesn’t it say that somewhere on your computer? You are a business who tracks inventory, right?” I wait for the day that Google buys them out. Second, reception in my place wasn’t very good. But a couple weeks ago, I read about the Airave.
The Airave jacks into your broadband and expands coverage. It costs $5 a month, a small price to pay for reception; although, I wonder why the fuck I have to pay extra for cell phone reception. I went to the Sprint store and bought the last one. I figured I would walk in, grab it, pay, and go. No way. This is Sprint. It took over an hour. Part of this was waiting for help, 20 minutes, but once they set the box in front of me, it took my salesperson over a half hour phone call just to be able to charge me the $100 for the device. I’ve got to say, it was a small price. I brought the thing home and plugged it in. It took about 45 minutes to get up to speed, but now I’ve got great reception in my place. 100 bucks for the unit and 5 bucks a month is worth every penny, because now when I make a call from my place, I have full bars.
Where Credit Is Due
If there is one reason we are open, it is due to our managers Nicole Barnes and Rick “Gator” Lee. Most everyone pitched in, but these two were there way before we arrived and left long after we did. I can’t say that about all non-hourly employees. When I talk about leading by example, this is what I mean. Neither of them are owners, nor do they receive overtime. They did it because it’s their job. I’m not doing this to kiss ass. I’m just giving credit where credit is due.
Finally
I got the text this morning. We are open. According to the inspector we are the cleanest bar in the region. We received a “B.” I’m curious what grade the second cleanest bar got. Actually, we get averaged down from our original score. They’re supposed to come back in a week to give a fresh grade. Personally, I’d rather have the “B” and never see them again. Because if they come back and find evidence of rats, we are, how do I say this, Fucked!
Do we still have rodents? I can’t answer that for fear of losing my job. Let’s just say if we did still have a vermin problem, will something be done about it? I don’t know. I’d like to believe the owners of my bar would throw some money at the problem. Maybe hire an exterminator, I believe that’s what they’re called in the biz. I guess we’ll find out the competence level of our fearless leader. If we get shut down again, for a long period of time, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m just happy I get to go back to work on Friday, finally.
Do we still have rodents? I can’t answer that for fear of losing my job. Let’s just say if we did still have a vermin problem, will something be done about it? I don’t know. I’d like to believe the owners of my bar would throw some money at the problem. Maybe hire an exterminator, I believe that’s what they’re called in the biz. I guess we’ll find out the competence level of our fearless leader. If we get shut down again, for a long period of time, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m just happy I get to go back to work on Friday, finally.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Is Nothing Sacred?
After finding out the status of my bar, I picked up a couple of things at the farmer’s market. One was Holy Guacamoly. This guacamole is amazing. While writing about my employment woes, I drowned myself in this green tub of heaven. Although I’m trying to get down to skydiving weight, on Wednesdays I have a standing date with a pound of the green goddess, damn future plans. In fact, I had a man date with my friend Mike. We smoked a bowl (I needed to up my appetite) and went to P.F. Chang’s. The food was good. The waiter dropped the check with the fortune cookies and since I was done, I reached for mine.
I find fortune cookies to be like astrology, not in the way that only single women seem to guide their lives by it, but it’s an irrational message which we can cling to. People can be funny about fortune cookies. My friend Steve used to add “in bed” to the end of each one. It would go something like, “The hard times will begin to fade, joy will take their place...in bed.” Any time I hear someone say that it reminds me of him. I’ve never been one to believe in fortunes but I’ve saved a few in my time. In fact, there was a while where I believed that people should grab their own fortune cookie and that was the only way the fortune would be their own. My Dad caught onto this and would grab all of them, shuffle them around, then pass them out. Luckily, I had an excellent therapist to talk me off that ledge. After stonily shoveling my lunch, I grabbed for my fortune cookie. Actually, I can’t stand these flour based fortune wrappers. They suck. I just wanted the fortune. What I read blew my mind.
“It would be good to treat yourself to dessert.”
Really? Really? I’ve already chosen to dine at this corporate hell hole, can’t the hard sell stop? I understand a waiter trying to up sell you. Bartenders do it all the time. For instance, I would ask for a vodka cranberry. The bartender would say, “Would you like to make it Grey Goose?” “Why? Because I can taste the difference between Gilby’s and Grey Goose through the cranberry syrup, you up selling fuck?” I’m smooth with sales people, but this is a piece of paper. There is no one to yell at. I chose the closest person, a bus boy. After my spit filled tirade, he pointed to the plate and replied, “Still working?” Plus, it’s my fortune. Is there nothing holy in this world? I’m trying to get down to skydiving weight. (Guacamole is good fat.) I’ll have trouble going back to P.F. Changs, because they feel that fortune cookies are just shills for their dessert tray, but readers I ask you, is nothing sacred?
I find fortune cookies to be like astrology, not in the way that only single women seem to guide their lives by it, but it’s an irrational message which we can cling to. People can be funny about fortune cookies. My friend Steve used to add “in bed” to the end of each one. It would go something like, “The hard times will begin to fade, joy will take their place...in bed.” Any time I hear someone say that it reminds me of him. I’ve never been one to believe in fortunes but I’ve saved a few in my time. In fact, there was a while where I believed that people should grab their own fortune cookie and that was the only way the fortune would be their own. My Dad caught onto this and would grab all of them, shuffle them around, then pass them out. Luckily, I had an excellent therapist to talk me off that ledge. After stonily shoveling my lunch, I grabbed for my fortune cookie. Actually, I can’t stand these flour based fortune wrappers. They suck. I just wanted the fortune. What I read blew my mind.
“It would be good to treat yourself to dessert.”
Really? Really? I’ve already chosen to dine at this corporate hell hole, can’t the hard sell stop? I understand a waiter trying to up sell you. Bartenders do it all the time. For instance, I would ask for a vodka cranberry. The bartender would say, “Would you like to make it Grey Goose?” “Why? Because I can taste the difference between Gilby’s and Grey Goose through the cranberry syrup, you up selling fuck?” I’m smooth with sales people, but this is a piece of paper. There is no one to yell at. I chose the closest person, a bus boy. After my spit filled tirade, he pointed to the plate and replied, “Still working?” Plus, it’s my fortune. Is there nothing holy in this world? I’m trying to get down to skydiving weight. (Guacamole is good fat.) I’ll have trouble going back to P.F. Changs, because they feel that fortune cookies are just shills for their dessert tray, but readers I ask you, is nothing sacred?
INSANITY
The caps lock is a funny button. I know a handful of people who use it indiscriminately. Yesterday, I went with Kimi to see Vicky Christina Barcelona, a film which I abhorred. Sitting through these long winded scenes with characters I cared nothing for, talking like they were in a play, I decided to check my e-mail. I received an one from my Father, which was written with the caps lock button down. Now, he’s not the only one who does this. I only reference him because after we finished watching ninety-seven minutes of vapid, pretentiousness, I brought it up to Kimi. She mentioned that in her writing (Kimi’s in her 20’s so I guess it’s all texting) she will occasionally use the caps lock to set off a word. From that conversation, if I could only see into the future then I would’ve have known that there would be one word that I would capitalize all throughout my blog: INSANITY!
Why do I use the caps lock for this word on this day? Yes, you guessed it. We failed our third inspection. My bar is still closed. Knowing one’s shortcomings is a very important quality for a leader. Now I’m no leader (at least not professionally), but one of my shortcomings is that I’m a bit of a slob. What do I do about this? In college, I wallowed in it. I never threw out my newspapers. I just left them strewn across the floor. Friends referred to my place as the bird cage. As I got older and tired of living a slovenly life, I hired someone to clean my place. Because we all know, it’s hard to bang chicks when you’ve got newspapers covering every inch of your floor. Trust me, I’ve tried. Now a rodent problem isn’t something you can clean away. There is an entire industry devoted to eradicating these pests. I can’t tell you if there are still rats at my place of work, but what I can tell you is there are signs of these varmints. There are professionals whose job it is to clean these places top to bottom. What I’ve learned over these last few days is throwing A 38 year old Jew at the problem isn’t the solution.
The definition of INSANITY is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. Having non-professionals clean the bar hasn’t worked so far. From the moment we were shut down, perhaps months earlier, a professional exterminator and cleaning crew should’ve been brought in. We are now looking at our sixth day of closure. All I can do is pray we open on Friday. It’s funny how vermin infestation can a make me, an non-religious agnostic, pray. All I want to do is go to work: make some money, get people drunk, help ugly people get laid. That’s my job. You know the drill. We must pass inspection tomorrow because I can’t take any more of this INSANITY!
***INSANITY was not the original title of this piece. I changed it because I love my job. Can anyone out there guess the original title?
Why do I use the caps lock for this word on this day? Yes, you guessed it. We failed our third inspection. My bar is still closed. Knowing one’s shortcomings is a very important quality for a leader. Now I’m no leader (at least not professionally), but one of my shortcomings is that I’m a bit of a slob. What do I do about this? In college, I wallowed in it. I never threw out my newspapers. I just left them strewn across the floor. Friends referred to my place as the bird cage. As I got older and tired of living a slovenly life, I hired someone to clean my place. Because we all know, it’s hard to bang chicks when you’ve got newspapers covering every inch of your floor. Trust me, I’ve tried. Now a rodent problem isn’t something you can clean away. There is an entire industry devoted to eradicating these pests. I can’t tell you if there are still rats at my place of work, but what I can tell you is there are signs of these varmints. There are professionals whose job it is to clean these places top to bottom. What I’ve learned over these last few days is throwing A 38 year old Jew at the problem isn’t the solution.
The definition of INSANITY is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. Having non-professionals clean the bar hasn’t worked so far. From the moment we were shut down, perhaps months earlier, a professional exterminator and cleaning crew should’ve been brought in. We are now looking at our sixth day of closure. All I can do is pray we open on Friday. It’s funny how vermin infestation can a make me, an non-religious agnostic, pray. All I want to do is go to work: make some money, get people drunk, help ugly people get laid. That’s my job. You know the drill. We must pass inspection tomorrow because I can’t take any more of this INSANITY!
***INSANITY was not the original title of this piece. I changed it because I love my job. Can anyone out there guess the original title?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Will We Open?
I didn’t expect to be outside O’ Brien’s today when the health inspector showed up. All I had planned today was a man date with Tim. After the gym, I figured I would kill time before Tim got up at the crack of noon, so I went to run a couple of errands. First stop was Venice Alternative Healing Collective. Daddy needed a new sack of weed. I know it’s for insomnia but sometimes I use it escape the reality that I may not be working on Friday. Can you blame me?
V.A.H.C. is the coolest place. Super nice guys work there and they’re always playing excellent music. I hooked up. Next stop, G.N.C., I needed to re-up on my protein powder. Man cannot live on fat and carbs alone, believe me, I‘ve tried. I got a text message from Kimi that the health department had not shown up for their 10 ayem appointment. Lucky for her, she was called in to work at 11. It was now 11:15. I called her to open the back door. She came out and I told her we were getting coffee. “Let me ask my Dad,” she said. “Bull shit!” I trailed behind her and told my boss, “Kimi and I are getting coffee. You want anything?” He mumbled, “No.” (That’s how you debate!) As we were walking out, I noticed how clean the bar looked. There was no way we weren’t gonna pass. We hung out at the Novel Cafe drinking coffee and venting. Venting seems to be a common theme with my colleagues and me. It was around 12:30 when Tim and I spoke. As I was telling him that the health inspector hadn’t shown up, there she was walking to her car right in front of us. I flew out of my chair to hear the news.
You know how they say, “No news is good news.”? I understand why. She explained that she found rat droppings in several places. Turns out one of them was where I cleaned. I’m just glad mine wasn’t the only place they were found. She explained that rat and mice shit hardens within an hour and that she found a shiny one. I tried to tell her it was mine, but she was having none of it. I felt bad that an area I cleaned was an offender. But I figure someone should’ve checked my work, right? We were supposed to check every nook and cranny. I didn’t realize the never used floor safe recessed into the ground was either. I can’t say whether we still have rats or not. What I can say is that where she found evidence, the droppings were buried under dust. Who knows? Should there have been a professional cleaning crew hired? Probably. I figure there has to be some former health inspector who knows exactly what they are looking for and all but guarantees you’ll pass. Again, if I ran the universe, everything would work out fine. Each day closed affects not only the bottom line of our business, but my friends’ livelihoods, as well. Our next inspection is tomorrow. The big question is, “Will we open?”
V.A.H.C. is the coolest place. Super nice guys work there and they’re always playing excellent music. I hooked up. Next stop, G.N.C., I needed to re-up on my protein powder. Man cannot live on fat and carbs alone, believe me, I‘ve tried. I got a text message from Kimi that the health department had not shown up for their 10 ayem appointment. Lucky for her, she was called in to work at 11. It was now 11:15. I called her to open the back door. She came out and I told her we were getting coffee. “Let me ask my Dad,” she said. “Bull shit!” I trailed behind her and told my boss, “Kimi and I are getting coffee. You want anything?” He mumbled, “No.” (That’s how you debate!) As we were walking out, I noticed how clean the bar looked. There was no way we weren’t gonna pass. We hung out at the Novel Cafe drinking coffee and venting. Venting seems to be a common theme with my colleagues and me. It was around 12:30 when Tim and I spoke. As I was telling him that the health inspector hadn’t shown up, there she was walking to her car right in front of us. I flew out of my chair to hear the news.
You know how they say, “No news is good news.”? I understand why. She explained that she found rat droppings in several places. Turns out one of them was where I cleaned. I’m just glad mine wasn’t the only place they were found. She explained that rat and mice shit hardens within an hour and that she found a shiny one. I tried to tell her it was mine, but she was having none of it. I felt bad that an area I cleaned was an offender. But I figure someone should’ve checked my work, right? We were supposed to check every nook and cranny. I didn’t realize the never used floor safe recessed into the ground was either. I can’t say whether we still have rats or not. What I can say is that where she found evidence, the droppings were buried under dust. Who knows? Should there have been a professional cleaning crew hired? Probably. I figure there has to be some former health inspector who knows exactly what they are looking for and all but guarantees you’ll pass. Again, if I ran the universe, everything would work out fine. Each day closed affects not only the bottom line of our business, but my friends’ livelihoods, as well. Our next inspection is tomorrow. The big question is, “Will we open?”
Monday, August 18, 2008
More Cleaning
My FUBAR weekend, turned into a long FUBAR weekend. I went to Vert this morning to get down to skydiving weight. Since I don’t have a locker there, I put my stuff in my backpack. After working out, I went home and wrote. I couldn’t figure out what to do, but I made the mistake of looking for my phone. There were two text messages. The second one, listed first, was from Mary-Kate asking if I was going in. I didn’t have to look at the second text. It was from my manager asking us to come and help clean.
For those who are keeping score at home, I’m the guy with the inch of dirt on my car and a housekeeper who comes in every two weeks. So when I’m called in on my day off to clean a clean bar, I get a little confused. I picked up Kimi at CVS, where she was getting all of us gloves. We vented to each other on how this entire experience was fucked up beyond all recognition. A friend of mine used to say, “If I created the universe, everything would work out just fine.” I feel that way right now. This is my first bartending job. I guess the way it works is, if you get shut down, everyone comes in and cleans. If this is how it works, then perhaps a schedule should have been made, as opposed to last minute text messages telling us we need to come in or the bar will cease to exist. Kimi and I arrived to find Aoife and Nicole cleaning. The last time I saw my boss, he left us cleaning on Saturday. I guess he mumbled something about going to Home Depot. As far as I know, he never came back. I haven’t heard a word from my other boss who is running a bar in Arizona. There’s not so much a lead by example at my workplace. There was good news and bad news. The good news was that pest control was there. The bad news is that they probably should have been there two days earlier. Turns out, we were there cleaning up rat shit. We cleaned pretty much the entire bar on Saturday, but since we hadn’t patched up all the holes in the building, rats could still come in. FUBAR. As far as I know, no one clocked in. We all worked for free, including my bar back who drove in from Santa Ana. I figure at the least we would get fed. No such luck. When I work, I am well compensated. I put in a couple of years before I got my schedule. I’m alright for money, even though, I’m taking a hit, but I have co-workers who will have trouble making rent because of this.
I’m not here to point fingers. We’ve had a problem for a while. What was done about it? Glue traps. They worked. In fact, a rat was found in one while we were cleaning the other day. This was a job for professionals. Well the professionals finally came in, unfortunately, a day late and a dollar short. We’re supposed to be inspected tomorrow at 10 ayem, with the hopes of opening soon thereafter. I don’t expect to be compensated for the time I’ve put in this weekend. It would be nice if my boss took us out to lunch, if only to say, “Thank you.” I’m not gonna hold my breath. I’m just happy if I don’t have to come in on another of my days off to do more cleaning.
For those who are keeping score at home, I’m the guy with the inch of dirt on my car and a housekeeper who comes in every two weeks. So when I’m called in on my day off to clean a clean bar, I get a little confused. I picked up Kimi at CVS, where she was getting all of us gloves. We vented to each other on how this entire experience was fucked up beyond all recognition. A friend of mine used to say, “If I created the universe, everything would work out just fine.” I feel that way right now. This is my first bartending job. I guess the way it works is, if you get shut down, everyone comes in and cleans. If this is how it works, then perhaps a schedule should have been made, as opposed to last minute text messages telling us we need to come in or the bar will cease to exist. Kimi and I arrived to find Aoife and Nicole cleaning. The last time I saw my boss, he left us cleaning on Saturday. I guess he mumbled something about going to Home Depot. As far as I know, he never came back. I haven’t heard a word from my other boss who is running a bar in Arizona. There’s not so much a lead by example at my workplace. There was good news and bad news. The good news was that pest control was there. The bad news is that they probably should have been there two days earlier. Turns out, we were there cleaning up rat shit. We cleaned pretty much the entire bar on Saturday, but since we hadn’t patched up all the holes in the building, rats could still come in. FUBAR. As far as I know, no one clocked in. We all worked for free, including my bar back who drove in from Santa Ana. I figure at the least we would get fed. No such luck. When I work, I am well compensated. I put in a couple of years before I got my schedule. I’m alright for money, even though, I’m taking a hit, but I have co-workers who will have trouble making rent because of this.
I’m not here to point fingers. We’ve had a problem for a while. What was done about it? Glue traps. They worked. In fact, a rat was found in one while we were cleaning the other day. This was a job for professionals. Well the professionals finally came in, unfortunately, a day late and a dollar short. We’re supposed to be inspected tomorrow at 10 ayem, with the hopes of opening soon thereafter. I don’t expect to be compensated for the time I’ve put in this weekend. It would be nice if my boss took us out to lunch, if only to say, “Thank you.” I’m not gonna hold my breath. I’m just happy if I don’t have to come in on another of my days off to do more cleaning.
236 Pounds
I got up early Sunday morning. Normally, I sleep as late as possible, but two things got me up: 1) rodents (wasn’t up late cause my bar is closed,) and 2) skydiving. I was pretty excited that Red Bull had offered to take our bar to Perris Valley for this trip. I got up, showered, and hopped on my bike to get breakfast. They always say to have a big breakfast every morning, and I had no idea if there would be food there, so I had an omelet and hash browns. I was ready to dive.
For the first time, since I don’t know when, I wasn’t the first to arrive. Kimi shouted that from across the street. It’s nice to know my colleagues do show up early for things, even if it’s not work. We hopped in the party bus, which was complete with a disco lights, a plasma screen, and stripper pole. Everybody crammed in the back. I got tired of cramming and took my Sunday New York Times Crossword to the front where I stretched out. I had a few empty boxes left when we pulled in to the skydiving center. We were greeted by Eli, a member of the Red Bull skydiving team. He rolled up on his BMX bike. He’s a super sweet guy, who rarely seemed to get off that little bike. We waited outside the skydiving school. It was getting pretty hot in the shade. Occasionally, skydivers would come in for landings. This made all of my friends feel much better about our odds. I explained that for every one who landed safely increased our odds of not. No one likes a statistician at a skydiving event. We divided up into groups of four. We had to write our names on a roster and whether we wanted a video of our “jump.” (I consider it a fall.) The video cost $115. Most everyone signed up for it. I did not. When asked, “Why?” I told them, “Because I’m cheap.” I don’t consider myself cheap, but $115 bucks for something I’ll watch once. No, thanks. We finally got into jump school. I lead the charge down the hall. First stop was the weigh in. I hopped on the scale: 237 pounds. The woman checking us in said, “230 pounds is the maximum for a tandem jump.” Never fear. I took my keys, cell phone, and wallet out of my cargo shorts. I figured my cell phone must weigh at least 12 pounds. I hopped back on. 236 pounds. I couldn’t go skydiving. I gathered my stuff and walked down the narrow hallway. With my head hanging low, I passed my friends and co-workers. The woman at the front desk said I had two choices. “Throw up?” I asked. “Yes. Or number 2,” she replied.
Now I work out almost every day. I’ve been eating well lately. In fact, had I known there would be a weigh in; I would’ve watched what I had eaten the night before when I ate my friends Mary and Julie out of their daughter’s private school tuition, not eaten a big breakfast, and worn lighter clothes. I got on the scale Saturday morning, naked mind you, at 229 pounds. At the gym today, in my shoes I weighed 231. Our representative from Red Bull told us that they notified our owner of the weight issue. Oh, wait. You mean the owner who sucks on a Powers bottle like a teet? Of course, now it all makes sense. Eli comes over to me and tells me he’s seen people make the weight. I told him I’m not going bulimic so I can jump out of a plane. Everyone was telling me to go take a shit. After last night’s meal, I had already had my morning constitutional and didn’t think I could push out an average sized baby. But I grabbed a cigarette, none the less. It didn’t help. I walked to the bathroom and thought about throwing up. It wasn’t gonna happen. I went to the bar and grabbed a beer, Amstel Light, of course; although, I’m not sure why I chose a “light” beer at this point. I sat down and read the paper. My friends came out from their weigh in. Again I was told by everyone to “just go and take a shit.” I replied, “I’ve taken a few six pounders in my time, but I don’t feel one coming on now.” By the way, everyone told me the scale was five or six pounds off.
My friends went and did their thing. I read the paper, the entire Sunday New York Times. I was gonna do this wind tunnel thing which simulates skydiving, once everyone was done. I was disappointed but not too upset, or so I thought. I saw my girlfriends come in, running up to one another, hugging, jumping with glee. I could even hear them scream through the double paned glass. It wasn’t until Tim came in from his jump that I realized how much I had been stewing. I asked how it was. He said, “You didn’t miss much.” Really? “It was the most amazing experience of my life.” I was so happy for him, but now I started to get pissed. This weekend was totally FUBAR. Not only was I unable to earn a living, but I rode out an hour and a half to sit in a bar and read the paper, while my friends were having life changing experiences. At this point, I decided against the wind tunnel. It seemed like a pathetic consolation at this point. (It’s kind of like having the chance to fuck Angelina Jolie, but you’re too heavy, so you get to poke a blow-up doll, not the same.) Don’t worry, it gets worse.
A cookie was my consolation. I decided to get high for the ride home and thank God I did. We got in the bus and a football game was about to start on the big screen. Awesome! I’ll be high in a few minutes and I’ll watch some ball. Uh, uh. Charlotte, our Red Bull rep, asked who wanted to put their skydiving dvd in first. Instead of football, I sat through about a dozen of my friends’ skydiving videos. Trust me. These videos are all the same except for two things: 1) the person in it, and 2) the song being played (the latter not so true since I heard U2’s “Beautiful Day” more than once.) It’s a good thing I was high, because this own personal hell I was in was truly hilarious. At one point, I said to Tim, “If I have to hear one more time on the plane the videographer saying, ‘We’re not even half way up, yet.’ I’m gonna scream.” I heard it six more times after that. Although I did notice something in the fourth dvd which I hadn’t noticed before. It was a bumper sticker, which read, “Farting Prohibited.” Now there’s some modulation in story telling.
My manager did get me back for my post yesterday. She asked if I was going to someone’s birthday party that night. I told her, “Probably not.” She yelled, “Don’t worry, Garber. There’s not a weight limit for that.” An end to a perfect weekend. We got back. A few of us were still really high and hung out on the street, trying to figure out where to go. We ended up heading home. I got on my bike and pedaled back to my place. I decided that I would go skydiving. It’ll cost me a few hundred bucks and a few hours of driving, but I’m gonna do it. I want to find out if this experience is as life altering as they say. And believe, you, me, I will not weigh 236 pounds.
For the first time, since I don’t know when, I wasn’t the first to arrive. Kimi shouted that from across the street. It’s nice to know my colleagues do show up early for things, even if it’s not work. We hopped in the party bus, which was complete with a disco lights, a plasma screen, and stripper pole. Everybody crammed in the back. I got tired of cramming and took my Sunday New York Times Crossword to the front where I stretched out. I had a few empty boxes left when we pulled in to the skydiving center. We were greeted by Eli, a member of the Red Bull skydiving team. He rolled up on his BMX bike. He’s a super sweet guy, who rarely seemed to get off that little bike. We waited outside the skydiving school. It was getting pretty hot in the shade. Occasionally, skydivers would come in for landings. This made all of my friends feel much better about our odds. I explained that for every one who landed safely increased our odds of not. No one likes a statistician at a skydiving event. We divided up into groups of four. We had to write our names on a roster and whether we wanted a video of our “jump.” (I consider it a fall.) The video cost $115. Most everyone signed up for it. I did not. When asked, “Why?” I told them, “Because I’m cheap.” I don’t consider myself cheap, but $115 bucks for something I’ll watch once. No, thanks. We finally got into jump school. I lead the charge down the hall. First stop was the weigh in. I hopped on the scale: 237 pounds. The woman checking us in said, “230 pounds is the maximum for a tandem jump.” Never fear. I took my keys, cell phone, and wallet out of my cargo shorts. I figured my cell phone must weigh at least 12 pounds. I hopped back on. 236 pounds. I couldn’t go skydiving. I gathered my stuff and walked down the narrow hallway. With my head hanging low, I passed my friends and co-workers. The woman at the front desk said I had two choices. “Throw up?” I asked. “Yes. Or number 2,” she replied.
Now I work out almost every day. I’ve been eating well lately. In fact, had I known there would be a weigh in; I would’ve watched what I had eaten the night before when I ate my friends Mary and Julie out of their daughter’s private school tuition, not eaten a big breakfast, and worn lighter clothes. I got on the scale Saturday morning, naked mind you, at 229 pounds. At the gym today, in my shoes I weighed 231. Our representative from Red Bull told us that they notified our owner of the weight issue. Oh, wait. You mean the owner who sucks on a Powers bottle like a teet? Of course, now it all makes sense. Eli comes over to me and tells me he’s seen people make the weight. I told him I’m not going bulimic so I can jump out of a plane. Everyone was telling me to go take a shit. After last night’s meal, I had already had my morning constitutional and didn’t think I could push out an average sized baby. But I grabbed a cigarette, none the less. It didn’t help. I walked to the bathroom and thought about throwing up. It wasn’t gonna happen. I went to the bar and grabbed a beer, Amstel Light, of course; although, I’m not sure why I chose a “light” beer at this point. I sat down and read the paper. My friends came out from their weigh in. Again I was told by everyone to “just go and take a shit.” I replied, “I’ve taken a few six pounders in my time, but I don’t feel one coming on now.” By the way, everyone told me the scale was five or six pounds off.
My friends went and did their thing. I read the paper, the entire Sunday New York Times. I was gonna do this wind tunnel thing which simulates skydiving, once everyone was done. I was disappointed but not too upset, or so I thought. I saw my girlfriends come in, running up to one another, hugging, jumping with glee. I could even hear them scream through the double paned glass. It wasn’t until Tim came in from his jump that I realized how much I had been stewing. I asked how it was. He said, “You didn’t miss much.” Really? “It was the most amazing experience of my life.” I was so happy for him, but now I started to get pissed. This weekend was totally FUBAR. Not only was I unable to earn a living, but I rode out an hour and a half to sit in a bar and read the paper, while my friends were having life changing experiences. At this point, I decided against the wind tunnel. It seemed like a pathetic consolation at this point. (It’s kind of like having the chance to fuck Angelina Jolie, but you’re too heavy, so you get to poke a blow-up doll, not the same.) Don’t worry, it gets worse.
A cookie was my consolation. I decided to get high for the ride home and thank God I did. We got in the bus and a football game was about to start on the big screen. Awesome! I’ll be high in a few minutes and I’ll watch some ball. Uh, uh. Charlotte, our Red Bull rep, asked who wanted to put their skydiving dvd in first. Instead of football, I sat through about a dozen of my friends’ skydiving videos. Trust me. These videos are all the same except for two things: 1) the person in it, and 2) the song being played (the latter not so true since I heard U2’s “Beautiful Day” more than once.) It’s a good thing I was high, because this own personal hell I was in was truly hilarious. At one point, I said to Tim, “If I have to hear one more time on the plane the videographer saying, ‘We’re not even half way up, yet.’ I’m gonna scream.” I heard it six more times after that. Although I did notice something in the fourth dvd which I hadn’t noticed before. It was a bumper sticker, which read, “Farting Prohibited.” Now there’s some modulation in story telling.
My manager did get me back for my post yesterday. She asked if I was going to someone’s birthday party that night. I told her, “Probably not.” She yelled, “Don’t worry, Garber. There’s not a weight limit for that.” An end to a perfect weekend. We got back. A few of us were still really high and hung out on the street, trying to figure out where to go. We ended up heading home. I got on my bike and pedaled back to my place. I decided that I would go skydiving. It’ll cost me a few hundred bucks and a few hours of driving, but I’m gonna do it. I want to find out if this experience is as life altering as they say. And believe, you, me, I will not weigh 236 pounds.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
If You Don't Come In On Saturday, Don't Bother Coming In On Sunday
I don’t recall where I first heard that joke. I really appreciate how it pokes fun at the obsessive nature of American employment and the sadistic ways of middle management. It’s a joke I’ve always liked. At least, I used to think it was a joke.
After writing my previous post hung over, I was starving. I decided I would hop in the car and go get breakfast. I was immediately reminded of a joke one of my bosses always said at the end of the night, “If you’re driving, don’t forget: take the car.” Woops. I left my car at work last night. I walked down to get it. My hangover grew stronger by the block. I ended up at Gilbert’s on Pico. I don’t know why Mexican breakfast is such a great hangover cure. Maybe it’s the chips and salsa, or perhaps it’s the eggs, refried beans, and chilaquiles: food that requires so little chewing, it just slides down your throat. I made it home for a nap; although, I’m not sure if I slept or not. What is it about being drunk or hungover that whatever place you lay your head becomes the hottest spot on the planet? I talked to my colleague, Tim, who told me he spoke to my boss about going in to help clean up. What? We got shut down because they found rat shit. How much cleaning could we do to get rid of rats? No, I’m getting high and going to the movies. I was feeling no pain when I sat down to watch Bottle Shock. I had some problems with the film, but by the end it moved me. During the opening scene, my phone rang, it was my manager. I ignored it. I received a text, which said that everyone had to come in to clean up asap. If we didn’t show up, our sky diving trip the next day, Sunday, would be canceled. Let me back track, a few weeks ago Red Bull offered to take our bar sky diving. I was concerned that I would be getting up early after working all night the night before. Rats changed that. I wrote back that I had just sat down to see a movie. Even if my place of work had not been shut down for running a habitrail that dispenses Guinness, I didn’t have to be at work for three hours. The response I got was would I rather see a movie or have a bar to come back to, my help was needed. So what she was saying was that the fate of this bar depended on it being cleaned by a guy with an inch of dirt on his car and a housekeeper. This business has far greater problems than I could solve with some soap and a Brillo pad. I asked her if she wanted me to come to work high. Thank God for the weed. She told me to come in at 4:30. Now I could focus on the film. I’d only missed a couple of minutes. I believe it was about wine.
When I got out of the film, I had a message from my friend Julie about going to Rustic Canyon for dinner. I didn’t know if I could make it by 6:45, because I had to go to work and clean. When I got to work it wasn’t bad at all. We listened to music and cleaned off the back bar. After working there three years, there was so much dust on the bar, I had no idea that the wood beneath it was brown. You learn something new everyday. I ended up making it to dinner which was spectacular. I got there early and had a fresh strawberry and Prosecco drink. It was amazing, so refreshing. I asked for a spoon to scrape the rest of the strawberries out of the glass. I moved on to a cherry Prosecco beverage. (By the way, Rustic Canyon is a wine bar, no booze. This is why I’m drinking Prosecco and fresh fruit. I just didn’t want you to think that I was that kind of Miata driver.) I expected it to be chock full of cherries. When I was handed a glass of Prosecco with a cherry in it, I was bummed to say the least. My dates, Mary and Julie arrived. We ordered soft shell crab, which reminded me of Krispy Kreme without the sweetness, butter lettuce salad, beet salad, and mussels. I moved onto a Bellini. Turns out Rustic Canyon owns a peach tree in Fresno, where the bartender drives up every once in a while and picks them. We are bartenders cut from different cloth. I had a rack of lamb, Mary got the burger with crazy, delicious fries, and Julie got a goat cheese lasagna which they serve in a cauldron. It was all excellent. I’m not even a fan of goat cheese and I cracked the cauldron scraping off the last bits. Now I’m home watching the Olympics. I still can’t figure out what NBC means when it says “Live” in the top right corner. I believe it means that at some point the event was live somewhere. I woke up with a hangover and am going to bed stuffed. In between I was reminded of the joke, “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother coming in on Sunday.”
After writing my previous post hung over, I was starving. I decided I would hop in the car and go get breakfast. I was immediately reminded of a joke one of my bosses always said at the end of the night, “If you’re driving, don’t forget: take the car.” Woops. I left my car at work last night. I walked down to get it. My hangover grew stronger by the block. I ended up at Gilbert’s on Pico. I don’t know why Mexican breakfast is such a great hangover cure. Maybe it’s the chips and salsa, or perhaps it’s the eggs, refried beans, and chilaquiles: food that requires so little chewing, it just slides down your throat. I made it home for a nap; although, I’m not sure if I slept or not. What is it about being drunk or hungover that whatever place you lay your head becomes the hottest spot on the planet? I talked to my colleague, Tim, who told me he spoke to my boss about going in to help clean up. What? We got shut down because they found rat shit. How much cleaning could we do to get rid of rats? No, I’m getting high and going to the movies. I was feeling no pain when I sat down to watch Bottle Shock. I had some problems with the film, but by the end it moved me. During the opening scene, my phone rang, it was my manager. I ignored it. I received a text, which said that everyone had to come in to clean up asap. If we didn’t show up, our sky diving trip the next day, Sunday, would be canceled. Let me back track, a few weeks ago Red Bull offered to take our bar sky diving. I was concerned that I would be getting up early after working all night the night before. Rats changed that. I wrote back that I had just sat down to see a movie. Even if my place of work had not been shut down for running a habitrail that dispenses Guinness, I didn’t have to be at work for three hours. The response I got was would I rather see a movie or have a bar to come back to, my help was needed. So what she was saying was that the fate of this bar depended on it being cleaned by a guy with an inch of dirt on his car and a housekeeper. This business has far greater problems than I could solve with some soap and a Brillo pad. I asked her if she wanted me to come to work high. Thank God for the weed. She told me to come in at 4:30. Now I could focus on the film. I’d only missed a couple of minutes. I believe it was about wine.
When I got out of the film, I had a message from my friend Julie about going to Rustic Canyon for dinner. I didn’t know if I could make it by 6:45, because I had to go to work and clean. When I got to work it wasn’t bad at all. We listened to music and cleaned off the back bar. After working there three years, there was so much dust on the bar, I had no idea that the wood beneath it was brown. You learn something new everyday. I ended up making it to dinner which was spectacular. I got there early and had a fresh strawberry and Prosecco drink. It was amazing, so refreshing. I asked for a spoon to scrape the rest of the strawberries out of the glass. I moved on to a cherry Prosecco beverage. (By the way, Rustic Canyon is a wine bar, no booze. This is why I’m drinking Prosecco and fresh fruit. I just didn’t want you to think that I was that kind of Miata driver.) I expected it to be chock full of cherries. When I was handed a glass of Prosecco with a cherry in it, I was bummed to say the least. My dates, Mary and Julie arrived. We ordered soft shell crab, which reminded me of Krispy Kreme without the sweetness, butter lettuce salad, beet salad, and mussels. I moved onto a Bellini. Turns out Rustic Canyon owns a peach tree in Fresno, where the bartender drives up every once in a while and picks them. We are bartenders cut from different cloth. I had a rack of lamb, Mary got the burger with crazy, delicious fries, and Julie got a goat cheese lasagna which they serve in a cauldron. It was all excellent. I’m not even a fan of goat cheese and I cracked the cauldron scraping off the last bits. Now I’m home watching the Olympics. I still can’t figure out what NBC means when it says “Live” in the top right corner. I believe it means that at some point the event was live somewhere. I woke up with a hangover and am going to bed stuffed. In between I was reminded of the joke, “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother coming in on Sunday.”
Rats!
I don’t mean it in the expletive form, like: Darn, Shoot, or Golly. I mean it like: Fuck, vermin infestation and harborage! The shift started out strange enough. This woman walked in, Carmel, actual name. She claimed that she needed to be picked up. I reached for her like I was going to pick her up off the ground. That was the end of our honeymoon. She asked me to make a call for her, which I did. No answer. She told me to dial another number. Still no answer. I offered to call her a cab. She refused. Two minutes later she asked me to call again. I felt this woman was rather pushy for someone who hadn’t ordered a drink, yet. Customers walked in and I served them. I made the two calls for her again. No answer. Like the last time, I left messages explaining that it was O’ Brien’s on Main St. and Carmel needed to be picked up. She ordered a $3 glass of happy hour cab, put it on a credit card and closed out. A few minutes later, she asked where her credit card was. I opened the check presenter and showed her. Would I call again? No! No more calls. She started to get snippy, that’s when I got up in her grill. Leave. Make the call. Leave. Make the call. Bye, crazy lady. Where are you from? Here. No, you’re not. That’s when she called me a “faggot.” Whoa! Are you calling this Mazda Miata driver, a “faggot”? That’s over the line. Of course, she stiffed me. That’s okay. I had a customer nearby tip me fifteen on twenty out of sympathy. I wish I could say Carmel was the worst part of my night, but then the health department walked in.
The health department always makes my sphincter tighten. It’s like being called to the principal’s office or getting pulled over, not much good can come of it. They were doing their thing, testing the temperature of the water, checking the soda guns, shining flashlights by the beer cooler. That’s funny. I don’t remember that one. The bar got busy. I was serving some friends at the bar and a few tables were eating dinner. That’s when she called me over. This can’t be good. She said, “We have a serious problem. You have vermin infestation. We are going to have to close you down.” I got out my phone. “Let me call my manager,” I said. “It’s done. We talked to the head office. You must close the doors, now.” The irony is that the doors must be closed at all times. It’s health department code. At that point, my owner walked in. Thank God, this minimum waged monkey wasn’t going to have to deal with the problem.
For those who live outside of a real city: Boston, New York, Chicago, where rats walk the streets next to pedestrians, I have to tell you, there are rats everywhere. Rats are nocturnal, which means after the bar closes, they run around like the bar is a habitrail. These were bold vermin. They started coming out while there were customers around. Like the time, a customer at the bar said to my colleague, “Do you guys have a pet gerbil?” “Excuse me?” “A pet gerbil. I just saw it run by.” “Oh, yes, that’s Jerry, O’ Brien’s pet gerbil.” Some people can think on their feet. I would’ve said, “It’s a rat, dummy, next beer is on me.” Turns out the health department found rat shit through out the bar. Thank God for that crack cleaning crew tapping draft beers at 7:30 in the morning. I found out that we would be closed until Monday, when we would have a hearing. No big deal. I ONLY WORK FRIDAY AND SATURDAY! Guess I won’t be making my nut this week. The last customer left around eight p.m. So what did I do? I drank.
When my co-workers are too afraid of my boss to pour a drink. I get behind the bar. “What about Gregg?” “Shut up and drink!” Unfortunately, I missed my dinner break. First lesson in drinking: eat something first. No, Ketel One does not a meal make. Again, I wish that was the worst part of my night. Alas, I smoked a cigarette. Several, mind you. It had been since February 12th. Oh, well, rehab is for quitters. I hung out with my owner and managers, discussing what comes next. For a business that’s been climbing out of a hole from redoing the club next door, the writer’s strike, and a bad economy, this forty grand in lost revenue is a big hit. What can you do? Drink.
I met my cohorts at the Irish pub up the street. I walked in with my boss and who’s the first person I see? The last woman I dated with her new boyfriend. Yes, the hits just keep coming. I went over to say, “Hi.” You see the last time I saw her she came into my bar with her new dude. (If you want to read about it, go to July archives, “Shitting Where I Eat.”) She was hurt by that post and we talked about it. Hey, I just call em’ like I see em’. We wished each other well. It was actually good to talk to her and air it all out. I went back to the O’ Brien’s corner of the oval bar. The bar got super busy and I was pretty hammered. I poured myself into a cab. I got to bed at around two and because of the booze I was up at seven. Sorry to say, but the buzz isn’t worth the lack of sleep. Give me weed any day. That doesn’t disturb my sleep, it perfects it.
Now I have tonight off. I don’t know what to do with myself. Normally, I’d be making money. Not tonight. And it’s all because of those fucking rats!
The health department always makes my sphincter tighten. It’s like being called to the principal’s office or getting pulled over, not much good can come of it. They were doing their thing, testing the temperature of the water, checking the soda guns, shining flashlights by the beer cooler. That’s funny. I don’t remember that one. The bar got busy. I was serving some friends at the bar and a few tables were eating dinner. That’s when she called me over. This can’t be good. She said, “We have a serious problem. You have vermin infestation. We are going to have to close you down.” I got out my phone. “Let me call my manager,” I said. “It’s done. We talked to the head office. You must close the doors, now.” The irony is that the doors must be closed at all times. It’s health department code. At that point, my owner walked in. Thank God, this minimum waged monkey wasn’t going to have to deal with the problem.
For those who live outside of a real city: Boston, New York, Chicago, where rats walk the streets next to pedestrians, I have to tell you, there are rats everywhere. Rats are nocturnal, which means after the bar closes, they run around like the bar is a habitrail. These were bold vermin. They started coming out while there were customers around. Like the time, a customer at the bar said to my colleague, “Do you guys have a pet gerbil?” “Excuse me?” “A pet gerbil. I just saw it run by.” “Oh, yes, that’s Jerry, O’ Brien’s pet gerbil.” Some people can think on their feet. I would’ve said, “It’s a rat, dummy, next beer is on me.” Turns out the health department found rat shit through out the bar. Thank God for that crack cleaning crew tapping draft beers at 7:30 in the morning. I found out that we would be closed until Monday, when we would have a hearing. No big deal. I ONLY WORK FRIDAY AND SATURDAY! Guess I won’t be making my nut this week. The last customer left around eight p.m. So what did I do? I drank.
When my co-workers are too afraid of my boss to pour a drink. I get behind the bar. “What about Gregg?” “Shut up and drink!” Unfortunately, I missed my dinner break. First lesson in drinking: eat something first. No, Ketel One does not a meal make. Again, I wish that was the worst part of my night. Alas, I smoked a cigarette. Several, mind you. It had been since February 12th. Oh, well, rehab is for quitters. I hung out with my owner and managers, discussing what comes next. For a business that’s been climbing out of a hole from redoing the club next door, the writer’s strike, and a bad economy, this forty grand in lost revenue is a big hit. What can you do? Drink.
I met my cohorts at the Irish pub up the street. I walked in with my boss and who’s the first person I see? The last woman I dated with her new boyfriend. Yes, the hits just keep coming. I went over to say, “Hi.” You see the last time I saw her she came into my bar with her new dude. (If you want to read about it, go to July archives, “Shitting Where I Eat.”) She was hurt by that post and we talked about it. Hey, I just call em’ like I see em’. We wished each other well. It was actually good to talk to her and air it all out. I went back to the O’ Brien’s corner of the oval bar. The bar got super busy and I was pretty hammered. I poured myself into a cab. I got to bed at around two and because of the booze I was up at seven. Sorry to say, but the buzz isn’t worth the lack of sleep. Give me weed any day. That doesn’t disturb my sleep, it perfects it.
Now I have tonight off. I don’t know what to do with myself. Normally, I’d be making money. Not tonight. And it’s all because of those fucking rats!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Fair Play
It’s something my Irish friends used to say when we played soccer. I was never too sure what it meant. One time Eoghin tackled Finn (names changed to protect the Welsh) dislocating his knee to somewhere in Venice. Eoghin apologized, “I just slipped, like.” Finn accepted it with “Fair play, buy.” They also said, “unlucky” quite a bit which for me translated into lacking potential. For instance, when a player would shoot the ball and it would just go ten yards to the right of the goal. They would say, “Unlucky, Seamus.” I’d think, “Seamus just sucks.” In any case, with the Olympics under way the idea of “fair play” seems to come up during the Women’s Gymnastics. (If they’re pre-pubescent, is it still considered “Women’s”?)
When the Chinese team came out for the first time, no amount of glitter could hide the fact that these tots were probably still suckling a teet prior to competition. Listen, China, just because these tweeners wear big girl underpants doesn’t mean they’re of legal driving age in this country. I’ve done extensive research concerning the issue. Check out my source material. (Link here.)
Personally, I don’t understand why there’s an age minimum to compete in the Olympics. I figure it’s country versus country. As long as they’re Chinese, they should be able to compete for Team China, whether they’re sixty or six. With that said, there is a rule, and rules is rules. (I know there’s a rule for smoking marijuana in public, to which I say, “Suck it.”) But this is athletic competition, and once one team starts breaking the rules, then others have to break them just to compete. This is why I’m against steroid use in professional sports. It lowers the bar for everyone. Until someone can tell me why there’s a rule that female gymnasts must be sixteen (I don’t know the rules for men’s or other sports), then I’m against it, but since there is a rule, then China should adhere to it. That is fair play.
When the Chinese team came out for the first time, no amount of glitter could hide the fact that these tots were probably still suckling a teet prior to competition. Listen, China, just because these tweeners wear big girl underpants doesn’t mean they’re of legal driving age in this country. I’ve done extensive research concerning the issue. Check out my source material. (Link here.)
Personally, I don’t understand why there’s an age minimum to compete in the Olympics. I figure it’s country versus country. As long as they’re Chinese, they should be able to compete for Team China, whether they’re sixty or six. With that said, there is a rule, and rules is rules. (I know there’s a rule for smoking marijuana in public, to which I say, “Suck it.”) But this is athletic competition, and once one team starts breaking the rules, then others have to break them just to compete. This is why I’m against steroid use in professional sports. It lowers the bar for everyone. Until someone can tell me why there’s a rule that female gymnasts must be sixteen (I don’t know the rules for men’s or other sports), then I’m against it, but since there is a rule, then China should adhere to it. That is fair play.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Mary Carillo
Who is this dude? She appears to be some sort of reporter for NBC sports. I can’t imagine how many hours of Olympic events NBC has to distill into four hours of TV, but do we really need a young Bea Arthur with the voice of Lou Rawls showing us how the Chinese insist on harming an animal for every meal? No, I don’t need to see archery, shooting, or BMX, but isn’t there enough hours of competition that we don’t have to listen to this Ent? I just watched a piece where this sequoia traipsed through China trying goose lips, hot pot with cow stomach, and deep fried scorpion to name a few dishes. The worst part is this Sears tower came off as a hick. I’d rather watch a beer drinking, dope smoking, New Yorker like Anthony Bourdain leading me on a culinary travelogue. NBC, will you please put this Boeing back in the hangar? And unless Bob Costas will report from her lap, I don’t want to see her. Personally, I’d rather watch China play basketball. That Yao Ming, he’s the Chinese Mary Carillo.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Elevator
I live in a rent controlled apartment. I love where I live and I rarely complain. I don’t complain that the pool out front only receives seven minutes of sun light a day. I don’t complain when I have to replace my carpet after fourteen years. (I was upset that the carpet guys wouldn’t shake out the couple ounces of weed that probably fell in over the years.) And I don’t complain about the elevator that takes forever. Now the mother fuckers who abuse the elevator, I’ve got a problem with them.
I used to take the stairs, back in my mid to late twenties. But now that I’m getting on in age, I’m a big fan of the elevator. The problem is that it takes so long that I don’t know if someone’s holding it, or it just takes forever to move. I happen to reside on the third of three floors. Being on the top floor, I can make all the noise I want and only disturb others. Sweet! Being on the top floor, I also feel entitled to the elevator. I’m not as bad as my morbidly obese neighbor, who can’t go to work if the elevator is out. She can’t take the stairs, so I guess she calls in fat. I, on the other hand, have no problem taking the stairs and often do, but when I get in at the bottom and someone presses “1,” I get a little pissed. For instance, yesterday I returned from a nutritious lunch at Real Food Daily. (You must try the avocado and bark salad.) I got in the elevator in the garage and the building’s handy man joins me. He presses “1.” Lazy cunt! Then my septuagenarian building manager shuffles over. He presses “2.” I can accept his two-floor trip, mostly because this guy is Methuselah’s uncle. I, of course, press “3.” After what seems like an eternity, we arrive at the first floor. My manager accidentally gets off, then realizes he wanted to go to the second floor shuffles back on. Long story short, in the time I could’ve taken two shits and a nap, I finally arrive at my floor, pissed off, obviously; but, something happened this morning that made me realize I should probably take the stairs.
I’m at the gym, waiting for my spinning class, reading the paper. Actually, I’m just checking out chicks but the newspaper hides my erection. In truth, I only need a pamphlet to cover my manhood but who wants to be the creepy guy always reading a pamphlet in front of his crotch. So I look over my paper and see a dude with only his left arm. I’m thinking, “Good for him. Working out with only one arm.” It wasn’t until he hopped past me and up the stairs that I realized he was missing his right arm and leg. This guy shunned the elevator to hop up the stairs to work out. I’ve got all my limbs and get irate when I have to share a slow elevator. (That’s when I got mad at this dude for making me feel bad about my laziness. I’ll push his ass over and see how he feels.) In reality, this guy blew my mind. From now on, I’m gonna try and take the stairs, and shun the elevator.
I used to take the stairs, back in my mid to late twenties. But now that I’m getting on in age, I’m a big fan of the elevator. The problem is that it takes so long that I don’t know if someone’s holding it, or it just takes forever to move. I happen to reside on the third of three floors. Being on the top floor, I can make all the noise I want and only disturb others. Sweet! Being on the top floor, I also feel entitled to the elevator. I’m not as bad as my morbidly obese neighbor, who can’t go to work if the elevator is out. She can’t take the stairs, so I guess she calls in fat. I, on the other hand, have no problem taking the stairs and often do, but when I get in at the bottom and someone presses “1,” I get a little pissed. For instance, yesterday I returned from a nutritious lunch at Real Food Daily. (You must try the avocado and bark salad.) I got in the elevator in the garage and the building’s handy man joins me. He presses “1.” Lazy cunt! Then my septuagenarian building manager shuffles over. He presses “2.” I can accept his two-floor trip, mostly because this guy is Methuselah’s uncle. I, of course, press “3.” After what seems like an eternity, we arrive at the first floor. My manager accidentally gets off, then realizes he wanted to go to the second floor shuffles back on. Long story short, in the time I could’ve taken two shits and a nap, I finally arrive at my floor, pissed off, obviously; but, something happened this morning that made me realize I should probably take the stairs.
I’m at the gym, waiting for my spinning class, reading the paper. Actually, I’m just checking out chicks but the newspaper hides my erection. In truth, I only need a pamphlet to cover my manhood but who wants to be the creepy guy always reading a pamphlet in front of his crotch. So I look over my paper and see a dude with only his left arm. I’m thinking, “Good for him. Working out with only one arm.” It wasn’t until he hopped past me and up the stairs that I realized he was missing his right arm and leg. This guy shunned the elevator to hop up the stairs to work out. I’ve got all my limbs and get irate when I have to share a slow elevator. (That’s when I got mad at this dude for making me feel bad about my laziness. I’ll push his ass over and see how he feels.) In reality, this guy blew my mind. From now on, I’m gonna try and take the stairs, and shun the elevator.
Georgia On My Mind
Now I don’t know shit about shit, but I get the feeling we’re not getting the whole story on the Russian invasion of Georgia. Why do I get this feeling? Because I saw our President tell a version of it during the Olympics. I feel so much better knowing that the leader of the free world is in Beijing hanging out with NBA stars and Amazonian volleyball players, while our economy is in the shitter.
From what I understand, there are two republics in Georgia, who identify with Russia and have a desire to break away. These two republics are Abkhazia and South Ossetia. South Ossetia tried to break away in 1991 but Georgia’s leaders put the kibosh on that. According to the New York Times, “The regions are internationally unrecognized but gained de facto independence from Georgia after wars in the 1990s. The regions settled into a tenuous peace monitored by Russian peacekeepers.” (Link here.) When the Georgian military looked like it was going to take the capital of South Ossetia, the Russians moved it. I’m not saying that Russia is justified in what they are doing. In fact, I feel that they are wrong in regards to their overwhelming response. My question is why do we, the U.S., support a break away republic like Kosovo, but when Russia supports a break away republic, they’re wrong? Like I said in the beginning, I don’t know shit about shit. I don’t have the answers. I just want to know who’s asking the questions, because I’ve got Georgia on my mind.
From what I understand, there are two republics in Georgia, who identify with Russia and have a desire to break away. These two republics are Abkhazia and South Ossetia. South Ossetia tried to break away in 1991 but Georgia’s leaders put the kibosh on that. According to the New York Times, “The regions are internationally unrecognized but gained de facto independence from Georgia after wars in the 1990s. The regions settled into a tenuous peace monitored by Russian peacekeepers.” (Link here.) When the Georgian military looked like it was going to take the capital of South Ossetia, the Russians moved it. I’m not saying that Russia is justified in what they are doing. In fact, I feel that they are wrong in regards to their overwhelming response. My question is why do we, the U.S., support a break away republic like Kosovo, but when Russia supports a break away republic, they’re wrong? Like I said in the beginning, I don’t know shit about shit. I don’t have the answers. I just want to know who’s asking the questions, because I’ve got Georgia on my mind.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Oh, What A Night!
Expecting an 80 person pub crawl and a 40 person party, I was excited for Saturday. You see, Saturdays can be funny on Main Street. Most people run errands, shop, etc. Then they go home and get ready to go out later, so happy hour can turn out to be a bust. Any time I hear of a big group coming through, I get ready to party. I showed up at work only to see the 80 drunken Langers spilling out of the bar. Fuck! The dollar signs in my eyes were quickly replaced with cents. Little did I know the party was just beginning.
I dated a woman who when we had sex while high, she would get close to orgasm, then fearing she missed it, would be pummeled with a far stronger orgasm than she ever expected. Now I know how she feels. Soon there would be a party of 40 people, which was no 80, but a party none the less. Turns out this was a group from Merrill Lynch. One of the guys opened up his credit card, pre-ordered a few hundred dollars worth of food, and let his guests have at it. This was better than any pub crawl could’ve been. These were drinkers who didn’t ask how much a domestic bottle cost. They put away 25 Jaeger bombs, 15 Liquid Cocaines, and quite a few Car Bombs. The total bill was close to $1600. The host generously tipped 20%. Not only was I making money, but it was busy. Running a busy bar by yourself, with the help of a manager and a bar back, is the best. You’re constantly moving. You don’t have time to rest. People are having fun. It’s when I love my job the most. That happy hour I made more than the entire night before. We ended up making great money during the second part of the shift, too. I’m not sure how. It didn’t seem that busy. I did get that one annoying question. “How much is your cheapest beer?” “$5.” “What is it?” “Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite.” She then made a face like I just shat in her Cheerios. I said, “When you’re asking for the cheapest beer, you don’t get to make that face.” “Do you have PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon)?” “No. What’s the difference?” “I’m from Chicago and PBR is great.” “Only $2 separates our cheapest and most expensive beers.” She ended up ordering two Stella Artois. Stella is a Belgium beer. It’s our second most popular after Guinness. The irony is that if you go to Belgium, Stella Artois is like Budweiser. Maybe one day we’ll get the PBR of Belgium. “I’m from Chicago.” Go fuck yourself!
By the way, we had a rule change on Friday. The staff is only allowed one shift drink after work. I understand the reason for the rule. No owner likes to come in the next morning and see dozens of dirty glasses strewn across the bar with fruit flies buzzing around. Since I prefer Ketel One rocks, I filled that mother fucker to the rim. One drink? It’s gonna be a jumbo. I sat back with my colleagues and all I could think of was “Oh, what a night!”
I dated a woman who when we had sex while high, she would get close to orgasm, then fearing she missed it, would be pummeled with a far stronger orgasm than she ever expected. Now I know how she feels. Soon there would be a party of 40 people, which was no 80, but a party none the less. Turns out this was a group from Merrill Lynch. One of the guys opened up his credit card, pre-ordered a few hundred dollars worth of food, and let his guests have at it. This was better than any pub crawl could’ve been. These were drinkers who didn’t ask how much a domestic bottle cost. They put away 25 Jaeger bombs, 15 Liquid Cocaines, and quite a few Car Bombs. The total bill was close to $1600. The host generously tipped 20%. Not only was I making money, but it was busy. Running a busy bar by yourself, with the help of a manager and a bar back, is the best. You’re constantly moving. You don’t have time to rest. People are having fun. It’s when I love my job the most. That happy hour I made more than the entire night before. We ended up making great money during the second part of the shift, too. I’m not sure how. It didn’t seem that busy. I did get that one annoying question. “How much is your cheapest beer?” “$5.” “What is it?” “Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite.” She then made a face like I just shat in her Cheerios. I said, “When you’re asking for the cheapest beer, you don’t get to make that face.” “Do you have PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon)?” “No. What’s the difference?” “I’m from Chicago and PBR is great.” “Only $2 separates our cheapest and most expensive beers.” She ended up ordering two Stella Artois. Stella is a Belgium beer. It’s our second most popular after Guinness. The irony is that if you go to Belgium, Stella Artois is like Budweiser. Maybe one day we’ll get the PBR of Belgium. “I’m from Chicago.” Go fuck yourself!
By the way, we had a rule change on Friday. The staff is only allowed one shift drink after work. I understand the reason for the rule. No owner likes to come in the next morning and see dozens of dirty glasses strewn across the bar with fruit flies buzzing around. Since I prefer Ketel One rocks, I filled that mother fucker to the rim. One drink? It’s gonna be a jumbo. I sat back with my colleagues and all I could think of was “Oh, what a night!”
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Whale
I was concerned about last night. Competing against the most over-hyped olympics would hurt us, wouldn’t it? When the Lakers got butt-raped by the Celtics in the final game of the playoffs, it signaled the end of basketball season, and a dearth of televised sports. (Apologies to all baseball fans, but wake me when it’s over.) But last night we had the Dodgers, Angels, and Raiders on TV. The opening ceremonies were confined to the front and back rooms. Happy hour was busy. I don’t know if it’s the economy, stupid, but it wasn’t as lucrative as the crowd would indicate. Hopefully, this is just a blip.
The night started out really slow. I got into my “sky is falling” mode. Every time I pass by a colleague, I mutter, “What the fuck!” or “This fucking sucks!” Half of my co-workers usually turn to me and say, “Que?” That’s when I saw him. He looked like any other, loudest mother fucker in a room full of loud mother fuckers, douche bag. I didn’t serve him that time, so I don’t know how it started, but a little bit later, I heard the “Woo! Woo!” The Whale was pointing to himself and a friend. Now, normally, I get punitive in these types of situations. I would move on to other customers until the Whale would learn to come correct. Unfortunately, there weren’t other customers to move on to. So here I am standing in front of the Whale, who shouts his order, “Two Amstel Lights, Woo!” I get the beers. “$11.” He hands me a $20 and tells me, “Keep it.” (Nine bucks on two beers. This is my new favorite customer.) He high-fives me and knocks over one of his beers which I replace. You see when you tip like this you become a face in the crowd. I will body surf every customer to hand this guy a shot. Our next encounter the Whale ordered four Stellas and three Red Headed Sluts (Jaegermeister, Peach Schnapps, and cranberry.) I brought the beers which he, of course, knocked one over. He had $60 on the bar, which I picked up to keep dry. He handed me another $100 bill. I put it all in my breast pocket and went to make the shots. I told Kevin, “Dude, the Whale just gave me $160 on four beers and three shots.” “It’s a tip,” he replied. I know that people can be generous, but I’m not in it to take advantage of anyone. I brought the shots to the Whale. I told him, “You gave me way too much money.” He said, “Give me back $40.” “That’s still too much,” I countered. “Give me $40.” That was his final offer. The Whale tipped us $68 on a $52 round. I’ve blown customers for less. Business picked up a bit. Kevin asked, “Where’s the Whale?” I couldn’t hear any “Woos!” so I figured he’d left the state, possibly the country. Then around one ayem, he reappeared. Two Amstel Lights and two vodka cranberries for a grand total of $24. He gave me $40. We high-fived for the last time.
I’m sure I’ll see him again, some day, on the street, passed out, in his own vomit. You live for customers like him. I know there are bars that are filled with Whales. I don’t know what this Bartender Heaven is like, but I’m sure any slow night would lead to depression. I hope tonight is great. If it isn’t I will only think of the Whale.
The night started out really slow. I got into my “sky is falling” mode. Every time I pass by a colleague, I mutter, “What the fuck!” or “This fucking sucks!” Half of my co-workers usually turn to me and say, “Que?” That’s when I saw him. He looked like any other, loudest mother fucker in a room full of loud mother fuckers, douche bag. I didn’t serve him that time, so I don’t know how it started, but a little bit later, I heard the “Woo! Woo!” The Whale was pointing to himself and a friend. Now, normally, I get punitive in these types of situations. I would move on to other customers until the Whale would learn to come correct. Unfortunately, there weren’t other customers to move on to. So here I am standing in front of the Whale, who shouts his order, “Two Amstel Lights, Woo!” I get the beers. “$11.” He hands me a $20 and tells me, “Keep it.” (Nine bucks on two beers. This is my new favorite customer.) He high-fives me and knocks over one of his beers which I replace. You see when you tip like this you become a face in the crowd. I will body surf every customer to hand this guy a shot. Our next encounter the Whale ordered four Stellas and three Red Headed Sluts (Jaegermeister, Peach Schnapps, and cranberry.) I brought the beers which he, of course, knocked one over. He had $60 on the bar, which I picked up to keep dry. He handed me another $100 bill. I put it all in my breast pocket and went to make the shots. I told Kevin, “Dude, the Whale just gave me $160 on four beers and three shots.” “It’s a tip,” he replied. I know that people can be generous, but I’m not in it to take advantage of anyone. I brought the shots to the Whale. I told him, “You gave me way too much money.” He said, “Give me back $40.” “That’s still too much,” I countered. “Give me $40.” That was his final offer. The Whale tipped us $68 on a $52 round. I’ve blown customers for less. Business picked up a bit. Kevin asked, “Where’s the Whale?” I couldn’t hear any “Woos!” so I figured he’d left the state, possibly the country. Then around one ayem, he reappeared. Two Amstel Lights and two vodka cranberries for a grand total of $24. He gave me $40. We high-fived for the last time.
I’m sure I’ll see him again, some day, on the street, passed out, in his own vomit. You live for customers like him. I know there are bars that are filled with Whales. I don’t know what this Bartender Heaven is like, but I’m sure any slow night would lead to depression. I hope tonight is great. If it isn’t I will only think of the Whale.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Profligate Spending
Walking home from Pineapple Express yesterday, a movie which was funny at times but in the end, just alright, my friend Julie and I were discussing when we first got our golden cages, rent controlled apartments. (Julie has since flown her coop.) When she initially moved in to Salandia House, her rent was $525, mine was $635. This was back in 1994. The funny part is that we both had the same thought when we were told about the rent: Can I afford that?
I’ve never been one for budgeting. I was given a cushy job at MGM in 1993 which had a good salary. I lived my life in an Improvisation sort of way. The first rule of improv is to always answer, “yes.” Do you want to go for sushi? Yes. Do you want to go see Soundgarden? Yes. Vegas? Claro! You see I never actually sat down and counted how much I spent. Guess what? It was more than I made. Not a good way to live. I eventually went back to school, giving up my easy paycheck. Now I was on student loans. You want to talk about poverty. After paying my fees, my Stafford loan left me with a couple grand...per quarter. That doesn’t even cover my low rent. I had to go to the private sector. Luckily, interest rates were low. I paid off my middle class slavery, credit card debt, and now I only have to pay Sallie Mae and some other bank. But going back to school changed my extravagant ways. I work hard, pick up shifts, and pay cash.
I do slip now and again, not with the credit card mind you; but, occasionally, when I’m asked to go to Echigo, I throw caution to the wind. Echigo is a sushi bar on Santa Monica, a block west of Bundy, in a mini-mall above a Pizza Hut. It is my favorite sushi place. You can’t order at the bar. They have no California rolls, spicy tuna, or salads of any kind. Toshi just hands you one piece of sushi at a time with the instructions either, “No soy sauce,” or “Soy sauce okay.” The first dish he gives us is albacore sashimi in a balsamic sauce. I actually disdain this. The sauce is way too heavy for the delicate fish. Luckily, this is the only misstep on a path of perfection. The next order is a piece of toro sushi. The rice is hot and the toro is marbled perfectly. It is truly one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth. I can’t remember the order but we had shima aji, bonito, which had the perfect amount of wasabi, kanpachi, topped with yuzu, halibut fin, which my friends had the last two pieces the second go around, and there was more, but I forget. It ends with the piece de resistance, the blue crab hand roll. When it arrives we all give our fake cry, because the omakase is done. (Don’t tell anyone but I shed real tears.) The coolness of the blue crab with the warm rice is a taste sensation. If I walked in and he just kept handing me those, I could die right there. We kept going: salmon, more toro, more blue crab rolls. I ended up spending $110. Was it worth it? Fuck to the yes! I’m sure food does get better, but I’ve never had it. I watch what I spend, but for food this good, I can indulge in some profligate spending.
I’ve never been one for budgeting. I was given a cushy job at MGM in 1993 which had a good salary. I lived my life in an Improvisation sort of way. The first rule of improv is to always answer, “yes.” Do you want to go for sushi? Yes. Do you want to go see Soundgarden? Yes. Vegas? Claro! You see I never actually sat down and counted how much I spent. Guess what? It was more than I made. Not a good way to live. I eventually went back to school, giving up my easy paycheck. Now I was on student loans. You want to talk about poverty. After paying my fees, my Stafford loan left me with a couple grand...per quarter. That doesn’t even cover my low rent. I had to go to the private sector. Luckily, interest rates were low. I paid off my middle class slavery, credit card debt, and now I only have to pay Sallie Mae and some other bank. But going back to school changed my extravagant ways. I work hard, pick up shifts, and pay cash.
I do slip now and again, not with the credit card mind you; but, occasionally, when I’m asked to go to Echigo, I throw caution to the wind. Echigo is a sushi bar on Santa Monica, a block west of Bundy, in a mini-mall above a Pizza Hut. It is my favorite sushi place. You can’t order at the bar. They have no California rolls, spicy tuna, or salads of any kind. Toshi just hands you one piece of sushi at a time with the instructions either, “No soy sauce,” or “Soy sauce okay.” The first dish he gives us is albacore sashimi in a balsamic sauce. I actually disdain this. The sauce is way too heavy for the delicate fish. Luckily, this is the only misstep on a path of perfection. The next order is a piece of toro sushi. The rice is hot and the toro is marbled perfectly. It is truly one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth. I can’t remember the order but we had shima aji, bonito, which had the perfect amount of wasabi, kanpachi, topped with yuzu, halibut fin, which my friends had the last two pieces the second go around, and there was more, but I forget. It ends with the piece de resistance, the blue crab hand roll. When it arrives we all give our fake cry, because the omakase is done. (Don’t tell anyone but I shed real tears.) The coolness of the blue crab with the warm rice is a taste sensation. If I walked in and he just kept handing me those, I could die right there. We kept going: salmon, more toro, more blue crab rolls. I ended up spending $110. Was it worth it? Fuck to the yes! I’m sure food does get better, but I’ve never had it. I watch what I spend, but for food this good, I can indulge in some profligate spending.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
My 100th Post
(Kind of a lame title I know, but as someone who doesn’t acknowledge milestones in age, I might as well point to other plateaus in my life.)
I was watching the unbelievably, hilarious Step-Brothers for the first time, when I got a text from my colleague Kimi asking me to cover an extended happy hour shift for her the next day. She was quite surprised at my one-word reply, “Sure.” You see Kimi is a big “So You Think You Can Dance?” fan, and my boss’s wife got her and her roommates tickets. (I’m guessing this in lieu of giving her good shifts.) I agreed to work because I could always use some extra cash and who am I to stand in the way of my 26 year old associate’s, tweener dream? I showed up at a half-hour early and was showered with gifts of a crossword puzzle book, altoids, and rasperry mint orbit. I know. Puzzles aside there’s a halitosis theme going on here. I wouldn’t say I have bad breath (maybe my friends would), but when you’re working for 10 hours, talking to customers, charming people out of their money, it’s best not to smell like you brushed your teeth with a bar of shit.
Kimi was off like a prom dress to wait with hundreds of dehydrated, pre-pubescent fans and I was to serve five different parties food and drink and have a heart-to-heart with my boss over the next two hours. My expectations of the shift were low. I figured that if I made $100, I’d be happy. I made $145. Not bad for hanging out for 7 hours. But what struck me most about the shift is the poor math skills. In three of my first nine credit card receipts the math was incorrect. It was two of three, but averaged down. In fact, my tenth slip was in error but it was my friend Rob, who I already told about the previous errors, so maybe he was messing with me. I’m guessing math is like spelling. Not everyone is good at it and if you aren’t, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb. But 32 + 11 is not 42, you fucking idiot! I guess they forgot to carry the 5. The way it works in bars is unless we really like you, we choose the total which better suits us. For instance, if you write that your $5 tip on $27 comes to $33, then that’s what you pay. Call it the bad at math tax. Hey, if the state lotteries can take millions from the impoverished, why can’t I take a fucking buck or two from the middle class?
As an aside, I’m coming up on 1000 views in the next few days. Watch out drudgereport.com! If you dig what you read, tell a friend. I appreciate my entire readership, all 12 of you, and thank you for reading my 100th post.
I was watching the unbelievably, hilarious Step-Brothers for the first time, when I got a text from my colleague Kimi asking me to cover an extended happy hour shift for her the next day. She was quite surprised at my one-word reply, “Sure.” You see Kimi is a big “So You Think You Can Dance?” fan, and my boss’s wife got her and her roommates tickets. (I’m guessing this in lieu of giving her good shifts.) I agreed to work because I could always use some extra cash and who am I to stand in the way of my 26 year old associate’s, tweener dream? I showed up at a half-hour early and was showered with gifts of a crossword puzzle book, altoids, and rasperry mint orbit. I know. Puzzles aside there’s a halitosis theme going on here. I wouldn’t say I have bad breath (maybe my friends would), but when you’re working for 10 hours, talking to customers, charming people out of their money, it’s best not to smell like you brushed your teeth with a bar of shit.
Kimi was off like a prom dress to wait with hundreds of dehydrated, pre-pubescent fans and I was to serve five different parties food and drink and have a heart-to-heart with my boss over the next two hours. My expectations of the shift were low. I figured that if I made $100, I’d be happy. I made $145. Not bad for hanging out for 7 hours. But what struck me most about the shift is the poor math skills. In three of my first nine credit card receipts the math was incorrect. It was two of three, but averaged down. In fact, my tenth slip was in error but it was my friend Rob, who I already told about the previous errors, so maybe he was messing with me. I’m guessing math is like spelling. Not everyone is good at it and if you aren’t, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb. But 32 + 11 is not 42, you fucking idiot! I guess they forgot to carry the 5. The way it works in bars is unless we really like you, we choose the total which better suits us. For instance, if you write that your $5 tip on $27 comes to $33, then that’s what you pay. Call it the bad at math tax. Hey, if the state lotteries can take millions from the impoverished, why can’t I take a fucking buck or two from the middle class?
As an aside, I’m coming up on 1000 views in the next few days. Watch out drudgereport.com! If you dig what you read, tell a friend. I appreciate my entire readership, all 12 of you, and thank you for reading my 100th post.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Pidyon Ha' Ben
Leave it to the Jews to come up with a new event. As a not very good Jew, I look at the milestones as B.B.M.S.S. Bris, Bar Mitzvah, and Sitting Shiva. Since the last one takes place when you’re dead, odds are you’re not gonna make it. As for me, I was circumcised but never bar mitzvah’d; hence, I’m not a very good Jew. Now these milestones are sprinkled with holidays. Three are high holidays: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. The first one I’ll check out if my friend Julie is playing some where near by, preferably this side of 26th street. The second one you must fast all day, so that holiday can go fuck itself, and the third one is unknown to me. Remember, I’m not a very good Jew. Then there’s Hanukkah and Passover. The latter is all about freedom from slavery, killing Egyptian first born sons, and eating gefilte fish, which I’m not sure is an actual food as much as fish parts in jelly. (Now if that’s all they had to eat on Yom Kippur, I’d happily fast.) The former is all about food fried in oil. I’m all for latkes and doughnuts, but can’t a brother get some calamari up in this bitch? There’s my Judaism in a nutshell.
Now imagine my shock when I get an evite from my buddy Nate for Pidyon Ha’ Ben. Thank god, Nate puts wikipedia links on all his evites. (Link here.) He’s always thinking of the goyim and me, which is the title of my new album. I click on this link and learn that the firstborn son is redeemed from a Kohen in order to release him from his obligation to serve in the temple. Now as the lone Jew in an Irish pub, I’m occasionally confronted with anti-Semitic comments. It usually occurs when a customer refers to cheapness as “being Jewish.” This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I make sure who ever says it knows the score. So when I read how during the Pidyon Ha’ Ben ceremony, my friend Nate would be able to redeem his son for the low price of 5 silver shekels, I was a little taken aback. I try to over tip my people out of bigotry, but buying your own kid is a tough one to explain. There’s some old testament history to it, some readings out of Exodus and Numbers. My favorite part is that historically a female child is only redeemed for 3 silver shekels. The Kohen spun it by saying girls were more valuable and they made sure families could afford it. Right!
The ceremony was brief. There was a spread of food laid out, which I sprinted ahead of several 8 year olds to be first in line. Hey, I wasn’t there to see my friend buy his own kid. I spoke with a friend who just returned from visiting family in Israel. She wasn’t going to go, because of the cost of flying herself and her two girls. Her father-in-law offered to pay the $4300 for the tickets. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. The day before she left, he wrote her a check for $2000. For some reason, he wasn’t paying for all the tickets. I know that gentiles do these things, too. Don’t they? But as a not very good Jew who finds himself defending his people, why did I have to hear this story on Pidyon Ha’ Ben?
Now imagine my shock when I get an evite from my buddy Nate for Pidyon Ha’ Ben. Thank god, Nate puts wikipedia links on all his evites. (Link here.) He’s always thinking of the goyim and me, which is the title of my new album. I click on this link and learn that the firstborn son is redeemed from a Kohen in order to release him from his obligation to serve in the temple. Now as the lone Jew in an Irish pub, I’m occasionally confronted with anti-Semitic comments. It usually occurs when a customer refers to cheapness as “being Jewish.” This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I make sure who ever says it knows the score. So when I read how during the Pidyon Ha’ Ben ceremony, my friend Nate would be able to redeem his son for the low price of 5 silver shekels, I was a little taken aback. I try to over tip my people out of bigotry, but buying your own kid is a tough one to explain. There’s some old testament history to it, some readings out of Exodus and Numbers. My favorite part is that historically a female child is only redeemed for 3 silver shekels. The Kohen spun it by saying girls were more valuable and they made sure families could afford it. Right!
The ceremony was brief. There was a spread of food laid out, which I sprinted ahead of several 8 year olds to be first in line. Hey, I wasn’t there to see my friend buy his own kid. I spoke with a friend who just returned from visiting family in Israel. She wasn’t going to go, because of the cost of flying herself and her two girls. Her father-in-law offered to pay the $4300 for the tickets. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. The day before she left, he wrote her a check for $2000. For some reason, he wasn’t paying for all the tickets. I know that gentiles do these things, too. Don’t they? But as a not very good Jew who finds himself defending his people, why did I have to hear this story on Pidyon Ha’ Ben?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
It Was the Worst of Times
I have two days a week to cover my nut. After a decent happy hour on Friday night, I was excited for the band that was playing that night. The Dirges are a good, Irish band, who bring in great tippers. At about 9:45, I noticed that they hadn’t shown up. I called my colleague who books the bands. He made some calls to no avail. At 10:30 we realized we were fucked. The sheen of being one of the few live music venues in Santa Monica loses its luster when we have no live music. It could’ve been far worse. There was actually a decent crowd, but aside for booze and a patio to illegally smoke on, there was nothing to keep them there.
If I thought “no live music” Friday was bad, Saturday made me yearn for not having a band. I was excited for the pedal and pound pub crawl to come through at happy hour. It was a nice pop, about 30 people, but they weren’t big drinkers and were pretty feeble tippers. In fact, one woman complained to my bar back about the price of her happy hour beverage. She had left a $.50 tip on her credit card slip and was lucky she didn’t complain to a fluent English speaker, moi. Note to customers, if you’re gonna leave a 6% tip, don’t complain about prices. Also, beer drinkers can afford to be poor tippers, because if we do eventually serve you, your drink will always be the same. Now if you drink cocktails and you stiff me, you may not get served immediately and if you do, you very well could get a weak drink.
Early on in the evening I learned the definition of a douche bag. It was the guy out on a Saturday night with the bluetooth ear piece permanently ensconced in his ear. Not that he received any calls, but this douche bag was ready. I don’t know if this borg-like idiot scared off people or just portended the dead night to come. People in the bar business love guessing why the bar is empty. One cocktail server thought it was because people had to pay rent. I doubt it, because so many people buy on credit. My manager thought people were out of town. I’m sure an equal number of people come to town. In any case, Main street was dead. I don’t know why it happened, but I’m hoping it was just a blip in an otherwise good summer. If last Saturday was the best of times, this weekend was the worst of times.
If I thought “no live music” Friday was bad, Saturday made me yearn for not having a band. I was excited for the pedal and pound pub crawl to come through at happy hour. It was a nice pop, about 30 people, but they weren’t big drinkers and were pretty feeble tippers. In fact, one woman complained to my bar back about the price of her happy hour beverage. She had left a $.50 tip on her credit card slip and was lucky she didn’t complain to a fluent English speaker, moi. Note to customers, if you’re gonna leave a 6% tip, don’t complain about prices. Also, beer drinkers can afford to be poor tippers, because if we do eventually serve you, your drink will always be the same. Now if you drink cocktails and you stiff me, you may not get served immediately and if you do, you very well could get a weak drink.
Early on in the evening I learned the definition of a douche bag. It was the guy out on a Saturday night with the bluetooth ear piece permanently ensconced in his ear. Not that he received any calls, but this douche bag was ready. I don’t know if this borg-like idiot scared off people or just portended the dead night to come. People in the bar business love guessing why the bar is empty. One cocktail server thought it was because people had to pay rent. I doubt it, because so many people buy on credit. My manager thought people were out of town. I’m sure an equal number of people come to town. In any case, Main street was dead. I don’t know why it happened, but I’m hoping it was just a blip in an otherwise good summer. If last Saturday was the best of times, this weekend was the worst of times.
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Spoken Word
(I wanted more Korean food. It was simple as that. So I went to Tofu-Ya on Sawtelle and gorged myself on Bulgogi, which was off the chain. Now I sit on my couch stuffed, with kimchee stains on my white t-shirt, which, incidentally, makes me want to eat more Korean food. I need to call my therapist about this cycle.)
Last night, I went East. But this time I did it like a normal person. Instead of leaving 8 hours before my appointed time, I left 45 minutes. Of course, I hit a shit load of traffic once I got on the freeway, and was late, but that’s beside the point. I went to something called Sit n’ Spin. You can check out the site, but, basically, it’s people reading personal essays. I went because my friend Meredith was reading one of her essays entitled, My Mother-In-Law’s Vagina. Read it. It’s excellent. The night was book ended by Eric Schwartz with Tony Alda playing music. This Eric Schwartz was brilliant, but for some reason I can’t find him on the interweb. Oh, well. There were six people, including Meredith, reading essays. One was hilarious (Eddie Pepitone.) One I really liked (Debbie Jhoon.) Three were clever but not for me. And last but not least, my friend Meredith’s was the best. I remember reading her essay and really digging it, but hearing it spoken took it to another level. It made me question what my blog would sound like read aloud. Don’t worry. It’s not gonna happen. (“I’m not a talker. I’m not a talker.”) What her essay had that the others didn’t was an emotional core. This became far more evident watching her facial expressions and emphasizing different words. It got me thinking about a next step from here. I don’t plan on going on stage, but watching Meredith last night made me realize the power of the spoken word.
Last night, I went East. But this time I did it like a normal person. Instead of leaving 8 hours before my appointed time, I left 45 minutes. Of course, I hit a shit load of traffic once I got on the freeway, and was late, but that’s beside the point. I went to something called Sit n’ Spin. You can check out the site, but, basically, it’s people reading personal essays. I went because my friend Meredith was reading one of her essays entitled, My Mother-In-Law’s Vagina. Read it. It’s excellent. The night was book ended by Eric Schwartz with Tony Alda playing music. This Eric Schwartz was brilliant, but for some reason I can’t find him on the interweb. Oh, well. There were six people, including Meredith, reading essays. One was hilarious (Eddie Pepitone.) One I really liked (Debbie Jhoon.) Three were clever but not for me. And last but not least, my friend Meredith’s was the best. I remember reading her essay and really digging it, but hearing it spoken took it to another level. It made me question what my blog would sound like read aloud. Don’t worry. It’s not gonna happen. (“I’m not a talker. I’m not a talker.”) What her essay had that the others didn’t was an emotional core. This became far more evident watching her facial expressions and emphasizing different words. It got me thinking about a next step from here. I don’t plan on going on stage, but watching Meredith last night made me realize the power of the spoken word.
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