Dodged A Bullet

No, I’m not talking about the Abbot-Kinney Festival. At the end of a monster day on Sunday, Kevin told me he wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could possibly work. In this economy, I figure, one can’t work too much, nor make too much money. Also, I gave Kevin my shift to go to the reunion, so he feels that he owes me. First of all, no one in this world owes me nothing. Second of all, there is no second of all. Coincidentally, on Sunday, Kimi had difficulty navigating the sidewalk outside a 7-11 sending her to the ground. Luckily, her leg took the brunt of the fall and she needed someone to cover happy hour. I offered, she accepted. The funny thing is, I went from almost bartending a ten-hour shift on Monday, to not bartending at all.

I woke up Monday feeling a bit rough. Occasionally, the lack of sleep gets to me. After paying my cable bill and miraculously having my service back up, I figured I would order some food, get high, and watch my stories. I had to get some rest for the monster shift coming up. I was certainly working for Kimi and most likely working for Kevin. I got a call from my boss, Nicole, saying that Amanda was already behind the bar and happy to work Kimi’s happy hour. I wasn’t gonna fight her on it and I’m okay for money, so the shift went to Amanda. Not too much later, Kevin called. He offered me Thursday, instead of Monday. It means I only have one night off this week. At least, I’m making some extra cash.

I got to work and there was a decent crowd. I certainly didn’t feel any regret that I wasn’t behind the bar. I sat outside and read the paper and readied myself for any managerial duties. I ended up hanging out with my boss Nicole and her friend, Karen. The one thing I love about managing is hanging out with people I like. Believe it or not, but this isn’t always the case. Usually, I blow through the bar looking for something to do: bus a table, take an order, delete an item from a check. I do this while avoiding any douche bag who tries to get my attention. It’s a delicate balance I try to strike and when I fail, I end up with some jerk wad talking my ear off.

At about eight, I sat outside with Paul, who’s a regular. Brian, another regular, walked by with a friend from out of town. They joined us, as well as, Karen and Nicole, who returned from dinner. This is when the bar is at its best. Spontaneity is so rare in Los Angeles. In New York, you can leave your shoe box in the morning with the intention of running one errand and not return until late at night. In Los Angeles we’re seen as flakes, but, in actuality, we’re lazy pussies. “Lazy” because no one wants to get in their car and drive and “pussies” because no one wants to say, “No.” Our little spontaneous party went on until around eleven, which means I was more than half way done with my marathon of boredom management.

At the end of the night, I looked at the numbers. It had been slow, which was understandable after an enormous Sunday. Although Kevin was happy with the money he made, I have higher hopes for Thursday night. We’ll see if I dodged a bullet.

Stan The Whore Master

Working for tips, you tend to have a fair amount of cash on hand. Instead of putting my money in the bank and notifying the government of my income, I pay as many bills as I can with cash. I write only two or three checks a month. Since I don’t run out and pay bills when the envelope arrives, I can sometimes forget and get into trouble. Unfortunately, I forgot to pay last month’s cable bill, which led to some problems when I got home this morning.

After a late night with the girls, I got home and didn’t get to bed until five-thirty. I woke up six hours later and my only plan before work was my friend Megan and David’s one year old son’s birthday. It was scheduled for three-thirty. I wasn’t expecting to go hungry, since they always have a fridge full of food, but I wasn’t sure what was on the menu. On the way over, I stopped off at City Bakery at the Brentwood Country Mart to pick up half a dozen of the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had. Since I hadn’t eaten in fifteen hours, I decided to grab a few tacos at Frida’s. The tacos cost two seventy-five each or three for seven bucks. It wasn’t until after I ordered that I saw they had five tacos for ten dollars. As a man with an eating disorder disorder, I binge but forget to purge, I began to rue the fact that I didn’t order more tacos. It’s really not a manner of money, but any self-respecting Garber would maximize value and satiety, even though it can lead to morbid obesity. Hey, it’s fun on the way up. Sitting at my table I spotted three men in their late fifties. They were lounging on a picnic table, one was sitting on top and the other two were stretching their legs on the next bench. Maybe it was the fact that none of them were facing each other, but something looked wrong. I’m sure they were the cool kids in high school back in the twenties, but surrounded by MILFs and kids they looked kind of sleazy. As I walked to my car, I overheard part of their conversation. The one in the white sweats said, “So I went to this Chinese place where you get a massage and a blow job. Stan told me about it. He’s the biggest whore master ever.” One responded, “That’s for sure.” I couldn’t believe it. These men who kind of repulsed me seconds ago were now on my fifty most fascinating people list. Who is this Stan? And how does one become a whore master? I’m guessing it only requires money. I wanted to follow these men to the ends of the earth, but first I had little Jake’s birthday.

The party was good times. Since it had been forty-seven minutes since my last meal, I dove straight into the chips, candy and vegetables with dip. Had I known there would be pizza later, I wouldn’t have touched the vegetables. You live and learn. I saw a friend of mine from high school there who I hadn’t seen since the ten year reunion. She’s now married with a kid. I met her husband who’s a super cool guy. It really makes me happy when I meet a friend’s spouse who I like. Actually, many of my friends have chosen well for themselves. I’d hate to break that streak, so thanks, but I’ll stay on the bench, coach. After shoving a few more slices in to my pockets for the drive to work, I said my goodbyes.

Work was supposed to be pretty crazy with the Abbot-Kinney festival going on. It was busy but nothing that needed too much of my help. After running some food, talking to friends, and making some drinks, I sequestered myself in the office for a marathon session of porn. For those who haven’t kept up, there have been some great strides in the world of bukake. It was a big night at the bar, at least, for those who work for tips. I looked around and realized I was the lowest paid employee in the bar. At least, I had my stories when I got home. Or so I thought.

When I arrived home, I fired up the vaporizer and the T.V. only to find an error message. It said something about an account issue. Even though my delinquent bill wasn’t due until the second of October, those cable bitches ganked my stories. I feel a little weird about calling customer service, irate, at three-thirty in the ayem. I probably sound like every other crystal meth addict who can’t live without MTV 4: Return of the Music Video. The customer service rep assured me that it wasn’t because of my past due bill and that I needed a technician to come out. I agreed, but what would I do without the Amazing Race?

I got up today and paid my bill. When I got home, lo and behold, my cable was up and running. What a fucking coincidence! I don’t know why that New Delhi dip shit couldn’t tell me the truth earlier. In any case, all my stories were there. I’m so glad the Amazing Race is back. It’s always been a dream of mine to take off and travel the world; but now that I’m older, I realize that if I had the money, I’d spend it like my new idol, Stan the whore master.

We Lost

It’s not a competition, but it appears we did lose. We have a sister club next door called Main. We share the same liquor license, health permit, and any one who calls them the phone rings here. They had a massive night and appear to have outsold us. If you include the cover charge, it wasn’t even close. It’s all the more impressive a feat considering we open at eleven-thirty ayem and they opened at eight p.m. I like everyone who works there. I even filled in once when one guy had a sore vagina (back), but I don’t want to work there again.

It was overcast in Santa Monica all day. Usually it burns off, but that wasn’t the case yesterday. I feared the marine layer would mess up my happy hour. I had no idea how right I would be. Driving to work, there was a small festival on Main Street. There was a band playing and people on the street. I had some hope for my shift, but, alas, when I arrived, it was dead. There was a time when I could accept a slow happy hour in the fall. I figured I could at least watch college football. It was hardly a consolation for the money I wasn’t making. Luckily, Phil and Dara came in. She’s a bartender and he’s a chef from Silverlake. I bought them a drink and they took care of me. During a slow shift, it’s nice to get industry people who know how to play the game. As a bartender, I like playing the “game,” but it can get costly. For those who don’t know, the way to play the “game” is, a bartender buys you a drink or many and you throw them some extra money. The “game” can get costly. I over tip my fellow service industry friends any way. If they scratch my back, I give them a full body rub down. For instance, I ate at The Counter a few weeks ago with a friend. We had a couple of burgers and fries and the total couldn’t have been more than twenty-five dollars. I asked for the check and she said, “You win the cool customer award. Your food is on me.” I threw her forty bucks. Why? Cause I’m a shmuck. But as someone who works for tips, I figure it’ll come back to me.

Thank God happy hour ended. In honor of my meager earnings, I took an extra long break. I didn’t mean to, but my boss made me. Great work if you can find it. The night picked up nicely. We had a great band, Paul Chesney. He always brings a good crowd. My manager, Gator came over and told it was crazy next door. Some guy threw up on the bar. Another girl decided to kick off her shoes and hit the dance floor where she proceeded to trip the light fantastic on some glass. Needless to say, she cut her foot. I understand there was a trail of blood from the dance floor to the sidewalk. An ambulance was called but she left before it arrived. Something about not having insurance. (I hope that octogenarian and the pit bull with the lipstick win, then we’ll all have health insurance.) Luckily, we do. Clubs tend to attract a higher number of douche bags, but on our side we had some great customers. This guy Kevin from New York would include me in every round he bought and was a great tipper, too. At one point he bought a round of Jaeger bombs. I don’t get these kids and their Jaeger bombs. You might as well drop a turd in a glass of syrup and caffeine and drink it. We have a Jaegermester machine in our bar. It holds, dispenses, and chills three bottles. Guys see the machine, buy a bunch of shots, then start punching each other in the throat. It’s good times.

We didn’t finish work until close to three. After work, one of my favorite customers Mark the chef/owner of La Vecchia brought us ice cream samples. Dawn, Kimi, Mary-Kate and I mowed down all of them, giggled, then did each other’s hair. I swear I’m not gay. I got up and ran the reports for both my bar and Main. The numbers don’t lie. They outsold us. It was a great night, but we lost.

Shift Change

In the uproariously, funny film, The Ref, Kevin Spacey says to his mother, who the family all lives in fear of, we’re gonna buy you a cross and any time you feel unappreciated you can nail yourself to it. On most nights at eight-thirty, I know how she feels. In the few times when I come on at eight-thirty as the second or third bartender, I eat dinner before, I arrive early, and I tell who ever is on, “You do what you have to do, I’ll watch the bar.” I wish all my colleagues behaved the same way.

I love working happy hour. Although it’s a big space with a lot of ground to cover, I am responsible for serving everyone who walks in the door. When eight-thirty comes and my co-workers show up, all I want to do is close out my tabs and take a break. I feel that any customer who comes to the bar should be taken care of by one of my newly clocked in colleagues. Friday night it wasn’t an issue but there are times when everyone who just came on is talking to one another, while I’m still serving customers. What pretty much always happens is everyone congregates at one end of the bar where servers and bartenders converse. While I’m trying to go in and out of the bar and work, a love-in blocks my path. One of the ironies of this is that two of my beloved co-workers live a couple blocks from one another, have sleep overs, and, essentially, share a brain, but somehow seem to only talk to each other after they clock in. In fact, it’s something about clocking in that employees who don’t even like each other will find something to talk about in lieu of work.

During my break, I happened upon one of the door men making out with a customer. Now the bar is a funny place. While a few people go out to have a beverage and deep-fried food, a few people go out to get laid. The bar is ground zero for that. Customers and employees, alike, have sex on the brain. I find that macking on a drunk customer, at your post, looks unprofessional, but it’s also part of where we work. (For full disclosure, I’ve made out with customers before, one was even a girl.) At a bar, “professional” can be a subjective term. Last year, in order to get out of jury duty, I got a mohawk. When I walked in to work, my boss said, “That’s severe!” I figured working in a bar my hair wouldn’t be a problem, but perhaps my boss found my mohawk unprofessional. For the record, I never got called for jury duty. Was the mohawk good luck? I got another mohawk in August and we got shut down my first shift, so it’s anyone’s guess.

The night started out super slow and hearing the band I had grave concerns. Turned out they were the opening act. The next band that came on were great and we ended up getting slammed. The money, while very good, isn’t what it was a year or two ago. It was pointed out to me that with a crowd like that last year, we would’ve made twenty percent more. With the economy the way it is, I’m just grateful for a busy night. From what I understand, when the economy is bad only a couple industries buck the trend: film and “our thing.”

I really like the people I work with. For those who haven’t been employed in food and beverage, there’s a real bond created. You get this us (employees) against them (customers) mentality. Alas, when the shift change happens, I sometimes feel it’s just me. Does anyone really care? No. From now on, when I have a problem, I’ll just nail myself to the cross during shift change.

Great Expectations

I understand it’s some sort of book. Never read it. Not important. Since my five-day weekend has been cut to two, I really have to plan my free time. The big question is how many films can I see in two days. Not many films out right now look very good. My Dad told me to see Burn After Reading. Here’s a film whose trailer looks terrible to me, but I figured for once in my life I would listen to my Dad. Guess what? I liked it. It had some serious tonal issues, especially in the beginning but the film did get better as it went on. Also, I was high as a kite and cracked up several times, which is I all I really want from a comedy, or life for that matter.

Expectations have been a big theme this week. When I order a bloody Mary and it says it’s garnished with either garden fresh vegetables or a blue cheese stuffed olive, then that’s what I expect. You give me just a lime, or not even that, and I’ll break my foot off in your ass. There was a time in my life when I gave up on expectations. I chose not to have expectations of my friends; therefore, I would never be disappointed. Someone pointed out that’s no way to live and they were right. I was doing not only myself a disservice, but, more importantly, my friends a disservice, too. One thing about expectations is that unless they’re communicated, they’re of little use. For instance, I’m always early, which in Los Angeles is as rare as a fourteen year old virgin. (Go ahead and judge me, but Isn’t that what myspace is for?) Instead of communicating that I would appreciate a call if one knows they’re going to be late, I usually yell, “Is your time more valuable than mine?” This usually leads to a few minutes of uncomfortableness and doesn’t solve the problem. Work expectations are a funny thing. Since I’ve become a manager, I’ve learned that a person getting paid and having a job title, like I don’t know, Door Man, doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ll always be by the door. I’m kind of shocked by that. For example, if I see someone drifting away from their post, towards an attractive woman, in order to “hit that,” I have to explain, “After you clock in, it’s best that you stand by the door and card people, because bartenders won’t check I.D.s as often if we know there’s a door man on.” Oh, yeah, and it’s your fucking job, so do it with pride. I guess that’s where I’m most often shocked about the state of the union. I remember one day years ago, I had a few errands to run. In a seemingly impossible way, every person I dealt with got more and more stupid, until I came upon a sales associate playing with his own feces. (That’s what I get for going to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.) I asked a friend, “Are people really that dumb or are my expectations too high?” I received a one word answer, “Yes.”

They say that children love structure. They may fight rules or curfews but that’s their job. I’m getting the drift that employees are the same way. There are some bosses whose motto is, “Give them enough rope and they will hang themselves.” I don’t want to be that guy. I want to be that guy that says this is what I expect from you and if you can’t do it, then go fuck yourself, or, maybe a more professional corollary, or I’ll find someone who can. Getting a drink made the right way, people showing up on time, employees doing their job, are these great expectations?

Speed Dating

My day started off at the DMV or as I like to call it, “The Great Equalizer.” I try and avoid it like the plague, but since I lost my wallet a couple weeks ago, while high, of course; I had to make the pilgrimage. The first rule of the DMV is to make an appointment, which I did. I walked in and it resembled a lower-middle class refugee camp. It was filled with semi-employed people sitting in plastic chairs looking like extras from Schindler’s List. I gave my name and reason for my visit and I was given paperwork to fill out. I rarely use my license but I do remember a magnetic strip on the back. What I don’t understand is, why do I have to fill out information which the government already has? (Stupid government, maybe I will vote for the white haired dude who can’t use a computer and chose a hockey mom who only recently traveled outside of North America, as his second in command.) My number was called. I was informed that since my license expires in March, I could take the test now and just renew it. A test? But I hadn’t studied. I took it anyway. Guess what? I aced it. Thank God for that MFA from UCLA and the sixty large in debt that came with it.

I had five hours until I had to be at work, so I grabbed some lunch, then headed home to watch my stories. I put on Heroes, which I feel is going no where, but I watch it anyways. I got a call from Hurricane Cramy, my friends Carrie and Amy, who are in town from Houston. They picked me up and we got a beverage at The Lobster. The Lobster is my favorite place in Los Angeles to get a drink. To be able to sit outside with that view is such a pleasure. My buddy Dave works there and he always takes care of me. We had a couple of beers and a Mojito and the bill came to two cents, literally. I left Dave quarter, which is a twelve-hundred and fifty percent tip for those keeping score at home. Hurricane Cramy dropped me off. I put Heroes back on and proceeded to sleep right through it. Love that show. My friend Liza is still in town so I went to work early and met her for a drink. Great work if you can find it. My bartender Emily pointed me out to a woman who was holding a speed dating event at my bar. Liza, who now makes a living being single, told me that in the dating world there are far more terrific single women than there are mediocre guys. I believe she called it, “The amazing women to douche bag ratio.” She always had a way with words. When I walked her out, she commented that there were far more women than men, ominous.

On my way back in, speed dating was in full effect. I noticed a couple of women sitting alone. I mentioned this to the woman running the event and she said, “If you know any guys who want to speed date...” Hey, I’m on the clock, so I jumped in. Like I said, “great work if you can find it.” The first woman I spoke to was Laura, who’s real cute and from Spain. Since my sister lives in Barcelona, I have an affinity for Spanish women. (Hey, it’s not like I’m gonna kick a girl out of bed because she’s from Andorra.) Laura and I hit it off, but I wasn’t sure if I was gonna use my last roofie on her. The next two women I chatted with were really soft spoken and since I’m quite deaf I can’t tell you much about them. My fourth date was with Colleen. She dragged Laura and three other women to the event. She was good times. The next woman I met was Christiana, who is half Hungarian, half Vietnamese, and one hundred percent babe. She was a friend of Colleen’s and was just there for moral support. The final two of Colleen’s friends were Veronica, who hated the event, but was gonna check off all the dudes just to see which ones picked her. She was a lot of fun. The other friend was Megan, who had a few pops before the event and was concerned she was slurring. For the record, she was not and she had a great laugh. The other two women were Allison and Annaka. They came together, too, also great women. It appears that speed dating is like a women’s restroom, it’s not cool to go alone. The five women: Colleen, Christiana, Laura, Veronica, and Megan hung out at the bar. Turns out they all picked me. I dragged them next door to Main where we were having Rebel Yell, 80s night. We had some food, shots, and danced. Some numbers were exchanged, paella was promised, a good time was had by all.

A friend commented to me that she and her partner feel that I got my mohawk because I don’t want to meet women. I corrected her. I smoke weed and watch T.V. because I don’t want to meet women. The truth is I meet women all the time. I’m a fucking bartender. I just happen to be lazy and not big on making choices. In a perfect world, the right woman will just fall on my dick. For now, the gravitational pull of my vaporizer and high definition television is strong, but maybe I’ll get off the couch and go back to speed dating.

Reprehensible

It’s a pretty strong word to describe service, but as one who takes pride in serving my customers, I have certain expectations when I go out. If serving is your job, why not do it to the best of your ability? I don’t know why this is such a novel concept. I don’t always go the extra mile. For instance, I had a customer come in with her dog. She sat down on the patio next to a WATER BOWL FOR DOGS. She asked me for water, I pointed at the bowl. She seemed a little put out, but seriously, dogs chow on each other’s assholes, I’m sure hers could drink from an hour old bowl of water. But I digress. I had brunch at Anisette Brasserie on Sunday; and, while the food was great, the service was horrible.

My friend Carrie came into town from Houston. You wouldn’t guess she was from H-Town until she busts out with “Golly!” When she told she was coming in on Sunday at ten-thirty ayem, I asked if I should make a lunch reservation for one. She couldn’t comprehend why I would want to eat alone. She’s the cutest. We walked down to Anisette for our “one” o’ clock reservation. Her friend Jen met us there. We waited a few minutes for our table. First of all, Anisette is stunning. They really nailed the design on that place. I was told by my friend Liz that the almond croissant was amazing, so when I caught the eye of a server, I ordered that along with our drinks: coffee, tea, and a bloody Mary. Since it was her first day, she passed the information along to our server. He came over to inform us that they were out of almond croissants. I got up and escorted him over to the pastry area and pointed out the last almond croissant. God forbid the guy should look around the medium sized tray of bread for what I ordered. After punching him in the throat for wasting my time, I returned to the table. A couple minutes later, our drinks and croissant arrived which, I have to say, was perhaps one of the greatest pastries I have ever eaten.

Carrie, who loves vodka, but doesn’t love tomato juice, but loves bloody Marys, (I know it’s complicated), wanted another shot of Goose. I flagged down the first day server and ordered a shot and a Bloody Mary for myself. This was the beginning of the end. Our server came over and we ordered: French onion soup to start, a burger, with brie, pancetta, and avocado for me, eggs Benedict for Carrie, and Jen ordered a turkey, egg scramble on a CROISSANT. I, also, told our server of our drink order. After twenty minutes and telling the hostess and our first day server that our drinks hadn’t arrived, the manager came over. Now when I’m only operating on caffeine and not enough sleep, my patience runs thin. I explained the situation and the drink and shot appeared. Now when I’m paying twelve bucks for a bloody Mary and it says it’s garnished a certain way, that’s what I expect. Not so much. I told the manager and he made it right. About twenty-five minutes after our second drink order, our server, who I thought we would next see on a milk carton, brought the bloody Mary and shot we already received. At this point, I just wanted to tear out his eyes and piss on his brain.

We commiserated with the table next to us. The gentleman said, “I didn’t know which I would get first: my wine or my first social security check and I’m fifty-nine.” The table on our other side got up to leave and congratulated us on getting our drink. I felt like it was my wedding. The soup came and it was delicious. The rest of our food eventually arrived, but Jen’s scramble came on brioche. I said to the food runner that the bread wasn’t a croissant. He said it was. I argued that it was brioche. He walked away. I’m pretty sure this croissant expert, food runner has been to Paris...Texas, after he swam across the Rio Grande to get here. Hey, I’m no expert on pastry but when a customer questions something, get someone who knows. A manager walks by and I ask, “Is that a croissant?” He replied, “No, it’s a brioche.” Deja fucking vous! He apologized and took her plate to the kitchen. He returned a couple minutes later with said plate. He apologized that they were out of croissants. I work in a bar. We run out of stuff. Shit happens. But this is a french fucking bistro on Sunday at two in the afternoon. How can you run out of croissants? And why didn’t our “haven’t seen him since my ten year reunion” server inform us of this? The manager offered to get her something else, but since my thirty-year is just around the corner, she decided to eat what she got. For the record, my burger was amazing and Carrie said it was possibly the best hollandaise she ever had.

As someone who works in the service industry, I can usually tell the difference between a bad server and a poorly staffed restaurant. This was an instance of both. If he had been a good server, he might have checked once every eon or so to see how we were doing. I was told not too expect good service from a French restaurant. NEWS FLASH: This is America. Act accordingly. I asked the table next to us if he would ever come back and he said, “No.” I, on the other hand, may return. The food was that good and if you’re ever near Anisette, stop by and grab an almond croissant. Just don’t expect much from the service, because it was reprehensible.

Twenty Years Ago Today

My friend Poodle told me the other day that he had read my blog. Had he not known it was me, he said, he would find me arrogant. I’m sure I come off as a curmudgeon, a prick, a misanthrope, fill in the blank. Last night was my reunion and I was excited. I couldn’t imagine all the material I would glean throughout the evening. This event was over twenty years in the making, how could I not have a novel’s worth of stories from this night? Alas, my friends, the post maybe a let down, because my reunion was straight up, amazing. My mind was blown by the whole night that I don’t know if I can conjure up the cynicism to make this post funny, but I’ll try.

My old girlfriend, Liza Persky of Live and Let Date fame is in town. The reunion started at seven at the Hotel Sofitel so the plan was to meet Liza there for a drink at six. It was great seeing her. We were in the middle of an amazing conversation when I heard the one word I feared that would break it up, “Garber!” I thought wearing a mohawk would keep me incognito; but, alas, the reunion had begun. An old buddy Mike came over. He was meeting some friends before the shindig in the bar. Liza excused herself to the restroom and Mike and I caught up a bit. When Liza returned, it was just the two of us. But now the parade of alumni was in full effect. Their names began streaming back to me. I only had a short amount of time with Liza and wanted to spend it one on one, but when two mega-babes, Amanda and Dori, came over, I was happy to share my attention. It got really weird when two other beauties, Gab and Kelli came over. They both knew Liza from back in the day and shouted her name with excitement, while I had to introduce myself. Liza had a birthday to attend and I had to walk down memory lane so we bid our adieus. I headed upstairs where the party was just starting.

I went to the reception table and told them my name. They strapped a white band on my wrist and handed me an envelope which seemed the size of one of James Bond’s dossiers. The woman opened it up and pulled out a piece of paper, “This is your free drink ticket.” I paid a hundred and thirty bucks for this event, there was nothing in that envelope that was “free.” The first two hours were overwhelming. My A.D.D. was kicking in strong to quite strong. Every time I saw a new person, I excused myself to go say hi. In the beginning, I recognized most everyone, but there were a few who I had no idea who they were. Luckily, some of them were spouses, who when I found out that bit of information, I didn’t even excuse myself, I just walked away. At the ten-year reunion, I never went into the ballroom. I just stayed at the bar in the foyer. I vowed to do the again this time. Unfortunately, my third drink, without food, caught up with me, so I got in line in the buffet. They had wedding chicken, wedding salmon, and pasta. I ate just enough to line my stomach, then it was back out to the party.

Overall, most people looked the same. The women looked amazing. I was shocked how many of them had given birth many times and looked better twenty years later. In fact, one woman had a three-month old at home and was skinnier than she was in high school. God bless Beverly Hills. The night became a blur. I was really touched by the number of people who said to me, “Notes on a cocktail napkin.” Thank you for reading, Normans. Since I paid a happy hour’s worth of tips to attend, I was gonna stay until the bitter end, which was one. But at twelve-fifteen with only a couple dozen of us left, we went downstairs to the bar.

The bar had a rope in front of it and we were told that only hotel guests were allowed in. Fine with me. I’m way too old to stand in line to get into a place I don’t want to be, to be surrounded by douche bags (not the reunion attendees, mind you) I don’t want to know. I got my car from valet and said my good nights. I group of ladies still wanted to go out. I was down, but where? Turns out they could get into the hotel bar. I saw my car coming out of the garage. Rebecca asked if I was coming in. I said, “I’ll see you in there.” Then I mumbled, “After I get my car and go home.”

When people ask me about high school, I usually remember it fondly. What with the hormones, the severe acne, and the insecurity, I guess it was all right. They say that high school is the best time of your life. I feel that life keeps getting better or should I say I keep getting better. Now I know why they say that youth is wasted on the young. I had so much fun at my reunion. I actually wish they happened more often. Someone asked how we would look at the thirty-year. If I live that long, I’m sure my mohawk will be pretty fierce. As for the title, I lied. I graduated in June of 1988. It was more than twenty years ago today.

The Sky Is Falling

I’m a bit of a news junkie. Reading the Wall Street Journal this week, I thought it was the end of the world as we know it. Are we living through the next great depression? One of the issues that keeps coming up is whether the crisis will spread from Wall Street to Main Street. Since my bar happens to be on Main Street, I consider myself to be on the front lines of the economic malaise. At lunch, Tim told me that Thursday night was slow. This usually leads to a good weekend, but the way my happy hour started, I thought it was black Friday.

In the last couple of years, I’ve had a pretty steady Friday happy hour crowd. I have some regulars and I also have a good amount after work customers. Yesterday they were no where to be seen. Being able to see the forest for the trees is a good quality to have. As I stood, staring at the sequoia of recession, I forgot that this could be just a blip. Basically, I was suffering from medical students’ disease. From their studies of disease, medical students find everything that can be wrong with their health. In general, too much knowledge is dangerous. I forgot about this idea when I was standing behind the bar with my six customers, thinking that the biscuit wheels fell off the gravy train. Needless to say, it picked up.

At eight there was a decent crowd. I never know why this happens but sometimes it seems like a bus drops off a bunch of customers. Thirty people walked in the door. Thank God. Normally, people leave around eight-thirty and we don’t get busy again until eleven or so. Last night, it got busy and stayed busy. There were high lights and low lights. I’m not sure what it is about Kimi that just makes people puke, but this is the second time a customer has thrown up in front of her. At least this time the girl confined it to her glass, the last time the dude went Exorcist on her. I think she’s stilling pulling chunks out of her hair from that incident. Another nadir occurred when someone apparently farted. I use the word “apparently” because the smell was so intense and lingered for so long that I looked up and down the bar for a massive turd. Of course, I made the mistake of chiming in first with “Who the fuck shit their pants?” Kimi retorted with “He who smelled it, dealt it.” Damn it! She got me there; but, in all honesty, if that came out of my ass, I would head straight for the emergency room. At the end of the night some dude passed out while descending the two steps in the back. Lucky for him, his face broke the fall. The bouncers were called in. People were freaking out. The paramedics were called. I met them out front and directed them to the back where the guy was. Since he was laying on his side, I couldn’t tell who it was. When I finally saw his face, I was surprised. He was drinking Jack and Cokes. The first one he ordered from me, he told me to put less Jack in it. I clarified, “So you want me to make you a shitty drink?” “Yes” “I’m management now. I can do that!” The paramedics checked him out. He sat up, but couldn’t answer the question, “What’s your name?” They put him on the gurney and took him away, another satisfied customer.

The whole night was a high light. First of all, we were busy, which I love. Also, there were some old school O’ Brien’s customers in the house. Since many have gotten older, married, stopped pulling out; ergo, parents, I don’t see as much of the core, as we called ourselves. There were many generous tippers. Scott Hodges really took care of us. With the exception of puking, farting, and face planting, it was a great night. Watching a customer wheeled off on a gurney with splinters in his face, I smiled about the evening. How did it begin with me thinking that the sky is falling?

Getting Old

I’m not one of those late thirty-somethings who’s going to rant about the ravages of old age. For someone who goes to bed after three ayem five times a week, I do alright. I got invited to see Vampire Weekend at The Wiltern by my friends Megan and David. Ten years ago, there weren’t many bands who played a place that size who I hadn’t heard of, but now, not so much. Luckily, I have some young friends. I mentioned this band to Kimi, who practically burst with excitement and shouted, “Oh, I’m going, too!” To give you an idea of the difference in my age and Kimi’s, she asked me if I’d ever seen Escape From New York with Kurt Russell. I happened to have seen it in the theater, which was a year before she was born.

Turns out Kimi saw Vampire Weekend the night before we did. She mentioned that they started pretty late, some time around ten-thirty. At dinner at Woo Lae Oak, the three of us spent most of the meal wondering why a band would go on that late. I figured they had an algebra test they had to study for. When we got to the show, the crowd didn’t look too young, we just happened to be in the top percentile for age. I believe I saw a forty year old but he appeared to be chaperoning his kids. The Wiltern is divided into upstairs and downstairs, both general admission, but the upstairs has seats. We were standing in the middle of the lobby when four youths approached us, and when I say “youths,” I’m guessing high school age. One of them asked, “We were wondering if you guys had downstairs tickets you’d want to trade for upstairs.” I happened to be super high and had trouble comprehending the offer, until he said, “I mean you guys don’t want to stand up the whole time, do you?” Megan turned to David, who has a stiff neck, and asked, “Are they saying we’re old?” David turned his entire upper body, robot like, to face her, “I don’t know.” Yes, they were barking up the correct tree. And, although, Vampire Weekend has only one album, which means their set can’t be more than forty-five minutes, including a dozen covers, I would have loved a seat for the entire show. Turns out we had upstairs seats and did not make the trade.

We went in and got our seats, a few rows from the top. When the concert eventually started around ten thirty, cell phones lit up the crowd. Now I’ve heard over the last couple of years that cell phones are the new lighters at concerts. Somehow I don’t feel that screaming, “Free Bird!” at the top of your lungs holding up a Blackberry Pearl has the same impact. But when they started playing the screens of a shit load of phones lit up the crowd. It took me a minute to realize that they were video recording the concert. I don’t know what kind of phones these crazy kids have, but I take a picture of my friend from eighteen inches away while using the flash and they look like a Shmoo. What shocked me even more was that there were people a few rows in front of us practicing phone-cinematography. Maybe the IPhone has some sort of zoom lens I’m unaware of.

Lucky for me, the one-album band played for less than an hour, which got us out at eleven thirty or so. When they first came on, I thought they were far too small for the venue, but their sound got bigger and they grew on me. The last band I saw at the Wiltern was Queens of the Stone Age, whose sound was so big one of my testicles blew off. Don’t worry I reattached it with stapler. (I sure hope Obama wins so I can get that health insurance, I’ve read about.) One thing about Vampire Weekend is that it was probably the first concert I’d been to where the lead singer said, “If you’re not sitting in a seat, you should try and dance.” It’s not the same as Funkadelic singing, “Shit! God Damn! Get off your ass and jam!” I guess I’m just getting old.

The Wrong Card

I have an amazing memory. It’s actually pretty freakish. I remind friends of things they’ve said or events in their lives when they can’t even remember them. This freakishness has translated to the bar. When a repeat customer walks in, there’s a good chance I’ll recall their drink. The same goes for people’s tabs. I can usually keep track of who’s who when it comes to their credit cards. Unfortunately, my belief in my amazing memory leads to over confidence. So when a customer asks to close out a tab, instead of asking them their name again, I grab the card which I believe belongs to them. Last night was the third time in my brief, bartending career that I got it wrong.

My loyal readers all know that yesterday was half-way to Saint Patrick’s Day. For those of you unschooled in the ways of Saint Patrick’s Day, it’s like the World Cup of Drinking, except only one country is represented, Alcohol. An hour after we got shut down, I was telling my boss that we would get our lost revenue back with a, you guessed it, a half-way to Saint Patrick’s Day. My other boss opened a bar in Scottsdale and every seventeenth of the month, they have Saint Practice Day. Now that may work out in the sticks, but this is Santa Monica. I don’t believe we could do it every month, but every six, why not? We had Irish music planned all night. From four to seven would be an Irish Trad on the patio. From eight til ten would be a couple guys from the Lads, and ten until close would be the Twilight Lords. I normally don’t work Wednesdays but since it was a celebration, we had two bartenders. I started at four-thirty when we had a hundred and fifty balloons delivered. It was quite festive. After they were spread out throughout the bar, I felt like I was back at my prom.

The crowd was decent early on. By seven-thrity, the place started to fill up. Since Johnny and Jimmy were playing in the main room, the back room was empty. This made the bar look pretty busy. I was becoming fast friends with my customers and one wanted to close out, let’s call him Findling. I thought he was Rogers, so I gave him Rogers’ card. All I had to do was ask Findling his name. No way, I have an AMAZING memory. This, of course, wasn’t an issue until Rogers wanted to close out. Once I went to the credit card holder, I knew exactly what a stupid shit I was. This was the third time I’ve given a customer the wrong card and I feel like a total asshole, because I am totally inconveniencing them. The first time it happened was to a regular who works as a server and should have cash to tide him over, but he was pissed. The second time was a woman whose card had insufficient funds. I gave her card to the man, whose card I thought it was, and he gave me another one. This woman whose card had insufficient funds ended up bawling in the parking lot. I’m not sure why she was so upset about a card that couldn’t provide her with any money. In any case, Rogers works for Guinness so he gave me his business card. About ten minutes later, Findling walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. I nearly shat myself. Usually when customers close out, they leave. I never thought of looking around the bar for him. I’ve never been so happy to see another man. I think he was put off when I kissed him on the lips. (No tongue of course because that’s gay.) I called Rogers. He turned his car around, I comped his meal for the inconvenience, and returned his card. A weight was lifted off my shoulders.

When the third band went on in the back many customers followed, revealing how sparse the crowd was. Seeing this, I decided to call it a night. There was no need for both Kevin and I to make shitty money. In the end, we both did alright. It wasn’t a great night, but I’ve got my twentieth high school reunion on Saturday night, so I’m glad I made some money. For someone who smokes weed as consistently as I do, my memory is really good; but, I learned that when customers close out, I have to ask them their name, so as not to give them the wrong card.

The Hard Sell

I have a love/hate relationship with the automobile. I find them to be the scourge of the environment and keep us addicted to oil which only supports those who wish the destruction of our way of life. In Los Angeles one needs a car to get around. I tried to avoid this when I started school in September of 2005. That lasted about six months when I gave in and bought the Gayata, Mazda Miata. I paid forty-seven hundred dollars for it. It’s a great car. It always starts and is a ton of fun to drive. Yes, it’s a little small and many times after I get in it, I ask, “Does this make me look fat?” I got rear ended last November. A woman in a Jeep Cherokee couldn’t get her Ugg out from under the pedal in order to step on the brake, only in L.A. The insurance company cut me a check for four grand. I fixed the tail lights for a couple of hundred and now my car only cost me around a thousand. It does look a bit ghetto, since I do have tape holding the trunk closed, but it is quality tape.

They say if you throw a frog in boiling water, it’ll jump right out, but If you put them in cold water and slowly turn up the heat, they’ll boil to death. That’s how I feel about dirt and my car. I’m sure I washed it some time in the spring (of 2006) and it’s been due for a wash since a couple of weeks after that, but a) I don’t notice the inch of dirt, and b) the dirt, I do notice, begins to seem essential to the structural integrity of the vehicle. Some times I’m afraid that once it’s washed, it’ll just fall apart. Since I’ve got my twenty year high school reunion on Saturday, I figured it’s time for the bi-annual cleaning. Even though I’ll most likely be the only alumnus with tape holding my trunk down, the least I can do is have a clean car. I pulled up to the car wash on Venice and Lincoln. Reading the menu, there never seems to be something called a “car wash.” There’s the “custom,” “super,” and “deluxe.” The employee approached me and said, “This little car is pretty dirty.” He offered me the top of the line wash and wax for one hundred ninety-nine dollars, but since it was slow he would knock fifty bucks off it. I drive what some would call a “beater” or what my more urban friends would call a “hooptie.” Now I don’t know what kind of rube he thinks I am, but I’d hate to spend fifteen percent of the value of the car on some armor all and turtle wax. And does it matter how dirty my car is? Doesn’t the car wash tunnel clean it? Wouldn’t a hose do the same job? “Go fuck yourself!” is all I could think. I could understand if I came in driving something nice, but my car, I don’t think so. He went down the price ladder from a hundred to fifty, until I finally told him I’d settle for the seventeen dollar package. This one includes useless spray on wax.

I’m not a very good sales person. If I don’t believe in a product, I’m not gonna push it. If every customer who ordered a seven dollar Jameson, I asked if they wanted to upgrade to a Middleton, which costs twenty-five bucks, they’d think I was crazy. I don’t know why some salespeople find it okay to go full bore in their pitch. Maybe that’s why I’ll probably never be in sales, because I hate getting the hard sell.

The Din

The bar can be an extremely noisy place. You’ve got people shouting, the band playing in the back, and the stereo cranking in the front. When everyone’s gone and we’re just finishing up, the slightest volume from a T.V. can make me insane. After a shift is over, I yearn for silence. But on Saturday night, it was slow and quiet and I found that I really missed the din.

After my carnivorous excursion on Saturday, I went home to try and take a nap, which was pretty unsuccessful. I got a text from Kimi predicting that I would have a great happy hour because of the USC Ohio State game. MIdwesterners crack me up. I had seen quite a few of the Buckeye faithful in and around Santa Monica. How could I tell? They’re the hayseeds wearing their O.S.U. regalia. Now this shit might play in East Lansing, but when you come to an actual city dressed in your college attire, you look like the red neck you are. In any case, I don’t expect much of a crowd from college games. People tend to gravitate towards bigger sports bars like Barney’s. (Barney’s is staffed with hot women. If I had my druthers, I’d rather be there then with a curmudgeon like me.) When I got to work there were already a couple of Ohio State fans. The game started at 5. With a half-hour to go and ABC on the main T.V., news of the recent train crash filled the screen. Not wanting to watch this tragedy for thirty minutes, I changed it to ESPN. This got the cunts from Columbus up out of their booth. “Uh, we’ve been here since one, and we really want to watch the game, and, uh,” one of them stammered. I wanted to fuck with them and say, “SC isn’t a big draw in Los Angeles. Go somewhere else.” But I assured them in my simplest and slowest of speech, “I will put the game on at five.”

For the next half-hour, one of the chodes was getting pretty riled up, talking shit to anyone who would listen. That lasted about ten minutes into the game. While Ohio State received a veritable butt raping by USC, the man in the red shirt got awfully quiet. In the second half, after he switched from bud light to bud, his ire became directed at the refs, who obviously couldn’t hear him down at the Coliseum; unfortunately, I could. The high point of his presence occurred when he bought his last three dollar beer. He put down two singles, four quarters and two dimes. Now he’s a true playa! Happy hour turned out pretty good, what with that twenty cent tip I got, but it was later on in the evening that it kind of died.

I don’t know why, but the bar was kind of empty. The few customers we did have were good drinkers, ordering big rounds of car bombs, an excellent sign of a pending good night. Since I’ve taken on the new zen attitude of not to freak out when it’s slow, I was pretty chill until I noticed something missing, the din. We had a great band, The Automatics. They do the entire Tommy album, which is amazing. It was just that there were so few customers that the absence of noise caused me concern. It eventually picked up. Around twelve-fifteen we got hit, but that was pretty brief. It turned out to be a better night than any of us expected.

Now don’t get me wrong, I get tired of the shouting and screaming while I’m working. But Saturday night I realized that loud noise is the sign of a busy bar. Quiet after work is great, but while I’m working, I want the din.

Colon of Steel

My friend Justin sent me an e-mail about the L.A. BBQ Festival. He asked if I wanted to join he and Meredith of Pretty Sharp fame. Charred meat in Santa Monica, how could I say no? I called Justin when I got up this morning. He told me that he and Meredith couldn’t go because of nanny problems. I shouldn’t have been surprised considering the subject of Meredith’s latest post Nannygate. Justin did drive by the festival and he told me there were tents with lots of smoke emanating from them. And you all know: where there’s smoke, there’s barbecue.

I hopped on my bike and headed down to the Santa Monica pier. I figured it would be like the occasional health fair down at the promenade. Just a bunch of geriatrics and homeless people milling about. I was quite surprised to see a line of over a hundred people waiting for the festival to begin. I got in line. Away in the distance I could see the box office with a “Will Call” and “Buy Tickets” section. I asked the person in front of me about our line. He said, “None of us have tickets.” I wasn’t buying it, so I headed to the box office, where there was no line. I handed them ten bucks, and got a ticket. (They also sell VIP tickets for fifty bucks which allows you to go to a separate line.) I walked back and shared this information with the end of the line, which started to move. I saw the list of barbecue purveyors, of which there were eight, three were from out of town, the ones I would try. I figure, although I love Baby Blues, why should I get it at a festival when it’s just down the street. In any case, my first stop was LC’s from Kansas City, MO. They had spare ribs and baked beans. (Each stand was ten bucks a plate.) It was pretty good, not great. Luckily, I got there early, because the line grew long. Not as long as the beer line, though. It always shocks me how long some people will wait for a bud light. I picked up my garbage and looked for a trash can. None to be found. There was a recycling bin. Way to plan ahead Santa Monica. In line for my spare ribs, a gentleman told me about Elgin sausage from Texas. That was my next stop.

Sausage with a side of brisket, this was my kind of stand. The sausage was off the chain. It did look pink in the middle, which concerned me. I’m sure I’ll be fine but if I don’t live through the weekend, please bury me in sausage casing. My last stop was Bandana BBQ from St. Louis, MO. They, also, had spare ribs and baked beans. I didn’t really want to repeat the first plate I had but they did come all the way from Misery. It was good, not great. I was a little disappointed that the spare ribs weren’t cut. It reminded me of Bob Vance’s bachelor party on The Office. Stanley tries to cut his steak with a plastic knife and it breaks, while Creed gets primal on his, no need for utensils. I’m more like Creed. I wandered around, kind of wanting another plate, but I was all full up of meat. I thought about trying out some Mac n’ Cheese, but ten bucks seemed a lot for a few bites.

I decided to head home. I had a great time, but if I were to do it again, I would get a posse of super hungry stoners (redundant?) and get one VIP ticket, so one of us could jump the line. Next year. I did consume quite a bit of meat (several kilos, I’d guess) so why don’t you can check out my new dvd, Colon of Steel.

Smoking Can Be Lucrative

It’s a horrible addiction. I’m not hear to moralize. It’s just that when I quit in February, I knew on an intellectual level that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t smoke a cigarette again. When we got shut down, I just grabbed one for the hell of it. Bad move. It’s been three days since I’ve had one. Something about being in the office when the registers downstairs had seized up and no money (cash or credit) was going in or out that I bummed a smoke. I didn’t know it then but two smokes later, I was gonna be making some cash.

Before I clocked in, I helped raise my bar’s bottom line. I was talking to Nicole about raising the price on the well fifty cents. (This was an idea that Kevin had pushed. Just giving credit.) We got into the computer and had at it. I, also, learned how to change the message to employees when they clock in. That can be good times. One of the things I love about my bar is that at any point conversations can start up between total strangers. There are times when I introduce people with similar interests, but today was one of those times when people at the bar just seemed to enjoy each other’s company. With Enterprise Fish Co. closed, happy hour was especially busy. The low point came when a couple of men of middle Eastern persuasion ordered food after happy hour ended. They were intent on getting the happy hour discount, even though it was past eight p.m., which is an exceptionally late happy hour, and the food they ordered wasn’t even on the happy hour menu. But they assured me, “We will take care of you.” There are certain phrases spoken at the bar which automatically turn life into Bizarro World. When they got the check, they asked about the Buffalo Shrimp. I got a little ornery. I told them, “This is what you ordered. This is how much it costs. We’re not here to make a deal.” They took it in stride.

A new cocktail server started last night. Any time a change is made in the computer upstairs, adding an employee, for instance, all the terminals (registers) restart with a message, “Be Right Back.” This time it was an eternity. I ran upstairs and deleted the new employee then I updated the system. This only added more minutes to the eternity. (For you Mac users out there, it’s like when the color wheel keeps spinning.) Gator came into the office while I called POSitouch customer service. I bummed a smoke off him. He told me, as I started my habit again, “North Carolina thanks you.” We got the system up and running. There was a great crowd early on. I thought it was gonna be one of those crazy busy nights, but it started to die. An hour later, I found myself walking outside for my third smoke of the night. Head down, I hit the patio. Lying on the bricks were two twenties. No way! I bent over to pick them up with a customer watching me. I don’t know if he expected me to put up fliers around the neighborhood, “Have you lost two twenties? Call 1-800 You’re never fucking getting them back.” He eye balled me for a while. What could I do? Hold them up and shout out, “Did anyone lose these?” My Mama didn’t raise no dummies. Tim asked me if I was gonna put it in the tip jar. I hate to quote myself, but “My Mama didn’t raise no dummies.”

We ended up getting busy. The night turned out great. My orneriness resurfaced towards the end. There aren’t many things sacred to me at the bar, but the fruit tray is one. People seem to think they can shove their hands down their pants and stick their fingers up their nose, then grab an olive. One of my colleagues will stick his finger in a customer’s drink when they act like the fruit tray is their own personal buffet. So when I looked over at a customer stuffing a two-dollar tip into the maraschino cherries, I freaked out. Now I’ve seen people lay bills over the fruit tray, but jamming two in it is not cool. I went over and pulled out the money, shouting, “Are you kidding? Are you kidding?” One of my colleagues told me I was over the line. He felt she was just looking for a dry place to set down money. Maybe I was over the line, but contaminating food with dirty money doesn’t sit well with me. And who is he to question my authority? Doesn’t he know I’m assistant to the manager? I love having a title. No matter, I had an extra forty bucks in my pocket. Before I started my shift, I didn’t know that smoking can be lucrative.

Not The Only Douche Bags On Main Street

I wasn’t there but last night ended up being huge. Turns out the Circle Bar and Enterprise Fish Co. got shut down. I heard that the former had an issue with water and the latter was sewage. I remember when we got shut down for rodent infestation, one of my managers told a customer that a water main broke. Honestly, I don’t wish a closure on anyone, but it’s nice to know we’re not the only douche bags on Main Street.

80's Night

Prior to redoing the bar in the winter of ought-seven, we had an old five cd changer to crank out the tunes. We swapped out the cd changer for Muzak. Muzak is a satellite music system based on stations. Tim and Kevin prefer Varsity and Feedback, while I always put on the 80’s station. I happen to be a big fan of the music from that decade, but I, also, feel that customers get a sense of nostalgia when they hear some of these songs. I guess that same sense of nostalgia is what prompted Dawn and Amanda to promote an 80’s night on Tuesdays at Main called Rebel Yell.

It took me a couple weeks but I’ve learned a valuable lesson from the owner-operators. A manager does not have to be on site at all times. As long as there’s a set of keys to change a keg or grab a bottle of booze, most problems can be solved. I had dinner plans with my friend Shari Wacks. Since I couldn’t eat another meal at work, but I wanted to stay close by, Shari and I ended up at Lula. Before that we had a couple of cocktails on the patio like we used to do early in the millennium. Aoife worked happy hour and I wanted to cash her out before I took off. I’m not saying my blog is influencing customers but Shell Blevins left her a super generous tip with the note, “The tip has nothing to do with Garber’s blog.” In any case, kudos to your generosity. Around the time I was finishing up with Aoife, Dawn and Amanda came in dressed like a couple of extras from Pretty in Pink. They looked amazing.

After sitting down to dinner I got a call from my boss. Apparently, the happy hour prices that were promised at Main all night had not been changed on the computer. Luckily, it could wait until I had eaten. Lula was very good. Shari and I finished up and headed back to the bar. I took her up to the office to show her my managerial prowess. I called POSitouch to put the happy hour prices up all night. Shari was so enthralled with my skills that she left before she could see me fail. Since my previous boss taught no one how to change the prices and POSitouch customer service couldn’t do it, I finally had a project. I tinkered with a few things, then ran downstairs to check the register. No joy. Another half-hour and a few more sets of stairs and the customers at Main finally got the happy hour prices they were promised. Someone’s earning their eight bucks an hour. Now I could take off my vice-president of IT hat and enjoy 80’s night.

The last time I managed Main was two weeks earlier when we sold nineteen dollars worth of product. Thank God one employee and one former employee were there to give us that impressive double-digit number. By ten-thirty there was already thirty people inside. Not a huge crowd, but people were going for it. Around eleven, I realized that we had no security. We can get by with out a bouncer on a week day if just one side is open, but both sides, nuh-uh. At about midnight, I noticed quite a few people had filtered in. I stepped outside to see a crowd had formed. Steve, a Main bartender, was checking I.D.’s. I took over. I got a party of Italians. One woman’s I.D. said “1/10/1987.” If she were American, she’d be of age, but since they do shit backwards in other parts of the world, she was only twenty.

By one, there was easily over a hundred people and all I could think of was how the fuck am I going to get these people out of here. Thank God for Brandon. After last call and the DJ shutting down, Brandon, the bartender, started with, “Please close out your checks and leave.” I wasn’t alone. I chimed in. I told the last group that they’d have to finish their beers. They had several full ones and didn’t seem to listen, so I picked them up and threw them out. As I locked the door, I heard them say, “The owner’s a dick. He threw out our beers.” Did you hear that? They think I’m the owner.
With Main closed, I forgot about O’ Brien’s. Seems like a bunch off douche bags made their way onto the patio. Drunks are like retarded children. If you speak slowly and prod them a bit, you can bend them to your will. I eventually got them out. I can’t tell you how happy I am that the night ended. Everyone had a lot of fun, but next week we better have at least two bouncers for 80’s night.

2,000

I started notesonacocktailnapkin.com on April 2, 2008. It took me 104 posts, but on August 11, 2008, I had my 1,000th visitor. It was around this time that I decided to start publicizing my blog on facebook. It was one of my better ideas. It only took me 32 posts and 30 days to reach 2,000. I don’t know who the 2,000th reader is. I do know they live in Tujunga and logged on at 1:24 a.m. through facebook.

I just want to use this post to thank my readers. It means the world to me that you take the time to check out my blog. I would love the find out if I can reach 3,000 in less than 30 days. Please, if you dig what I write, forward the site to your friends. It would mean so much to me if you could help me get the word out about notesonacocktailnapkin.com. Again, thank you so much for helping me reach 2,000.

Walk Outs

He was the first customer I can remember. It was my first Saturday happy hour by myself, probably around five in the afternoon. He ordered a New York steak. Trusting a customer is a tough thing. The only rule I knew is that if someone walks on a tab, I pay for it. I asked for a credit card which he felt uncomfortable about. I put in the order and it turned out we had no New York steaks. After informing him of this he got up and said, “You are the worst bartender I’ve ever seen. A bartender is supposed to make you feel comfortable. I don’t feel that way at all.” I responded, “I guess I can only improve.”

When it’s slow, I usually don’t ask for a credit card to start a tab. But when it gets busy, it’s best to have something securing the running account. I’ve only had a couple of walk outs in my time. Normally, it’s sheer forgetfulness. One Friday afternoon three people ate on the patio. At some point I looked up and they were gone. I sprinted one block and caught them at the corner. I asked, “Do you want to pay your bill?” They weren’t malicious or inebriated, just unaware, but that was sixty bucks I had no desire to put towards three strangers’ dinner. Once in a while you get the customers who have no intention of paying. A few months back one of my colleagues dropped the tab at a table who was ready to leave. I understand they studied the bill until no one was looking, then they took off. Scum bags! There’s a third type of dip shit, the drunk. Before bartending ever crossed my mind, there was one customer who was notorious for walking on tabs. I remember one night after seven straight walk outs, the owner operator asked said customer for a credit card. Indignant, he threw a handful of cards: Blockbuster, Ralph’s, Coffee Bean, but not one credit card. Hey, I wasn’t working there at the time, so no skin off my back, but we’ve got a chronic walker now.

In order to start a tab at my bar, we ask for one thing: a credit card. We accept Visa, Master Card, and Amex. Our chronic walker claims

Half Way To Saint Patrick's Day

Slammed In Sixty Seconds

Friday night was a late one. I texted a joke to my manager, Gator, “You deal with the tards next door. I’ll take care of this side.” The “tards” are our sister club. They’re actually awesome guys. They just were never trained. Turns out my text was prescient, so after getting their money sorted, and having a couple of beverages, I didn’t get home til four-thirty. I caught a couple of episodes of Entourage and ended up getting to bed an hour later. When I woke up at ten-thirty, I wished I was dead. I had a one-year old’s birthday party to attend. I was the first to arrive. A few minutes later a single woman became the second party guest. We were soon outnumbered by the childful. The party was great. I only yearned for a nap. Instead, I gorged myself at the taco cart that catered the party. I don’t speak much Spanish, but several times they yelled, “Muevete, pinche gordo.” I’m not sure what that means, but I can’t recommend these taco people enough.

My happy hour started alright. Some friends came in to watch the U.S. vs. Cuba soccer match. One customer, who I bought a drink for, ended up tipping me twenty on thirty-four. As a bartender, I don’t always expect a tip, even when I buy someone I don’t know a drink, but this time it worked out. An example in reverse, Thursday night I had dinner at the Counter on Ocean Park. My friend Amanda and I were the last people in. We sat at the counter. When I asked for the check, the server said, “You won the cool customer award. Your food is free.” Figuring dinner with a healthy tip was forty bucks, I threw two twenties on the bar and said, “I’m a bartender. Nothing is free.” I guess half that came back to me. In any case, my happy hour died at seven. And when I say, “died,” I should use a capital “D.” At one point, I had two customers at the bar and that was it. I live in the second largest city in the country, is it too much to ask for a few dozen customers at all times? Tim came on at eight-thirty. Kimi was at dinner with her Uncle. She said she’d be in at nine. I texted her to take her time. This was nothing two bartenders couldn’t handle, much less one. At nine-thirty we were fully staffed. There still weren’t many people in the bar. This is when I get nervous. I usually walk up to Tim and say something subtle like, “We are so fucked!” With the exception of when the writers strike hit at the end of last year, I was invariably wrong. In fact, I remembered how I would get and decided to bite my tongue. Good thing, because we got slammed. I’m guessing we did most of our business from eleven til one-thirty. It was a ton of fun, too.

You never know when it’s gonna happen. At happy hour, I can see a pub crawl come in and know immediately. But when there are three of us behind the bar, I can have my head down for a second, making drinks, and then I’ll look up and it’ll be three deep. This is what I live for. At eight o’ clock, I was ready to fall asleep on my feet, but at two I felt like someone had dropped a gram of crystal meth in my coffee. That’s how it happens sometimes. You can for hours with no one, then you get slammed in sixty seconds.

Pandering

Watching Sarah Palin pander to the masses during her speech made my stomach turn. I don’t understand how republicans, the party of big business, oil, and tax cuts for the rich, convince blue collar, middle-America that they are on their side. Just because Palin’s oldest child got knocked up out of wedlock and her youngest is missing a few chromosomes, doesn’t make her an every day person. But I figure if she can do it at the republican convention, why can’t I do it on my blog?

Friday started off pretty uneventful, with the exception of the three cases of Guinness glasses sitting on the bar when I arrived. These new glasses are like Viagra to me. There was a decent happy hour crowd. A Friday regular, Chris, had his birthday which filled the patio. It wasn’t until about nine o’ clock, when regulars Rob Cullen and Scott Hodges showed up that the idea of pandering even entered my conscience. Rob complained that as a regular reader, he was hurt that he wasn’t mentioned in my blog. Same thing happened earlier in the week when my friend Jason Powell was bothered that his birthday didn’t get a what what at notes on a cocktail napkin, more on that later. But Rob is right, he should get a hollar. Rob is what we call a hero. He’s a good drinker and a monster tipper. Everyone needs a Rob. His end of the night tip can boost our bottom line by ten percent. I can only dream what life would be like if we had ten of him. (For the mathletes at home ten Robs would double our tips.) There was a few months where we lost Rob. I’m not gonna lie, it hurt. Tim had to sell his boat and I cut back to four meals a day and smoked brown weed for a week. Please, don’t leave us again. I can’t take inhaling Mexican brick or eating less than twelve thousand calories a day.

I mentioned that I had a couple of parties last Sunday for the long weekend. The first one was Jason Powell’s birthday. He and his wife Erica had us over to their home where City Bakery awaited. It was a terrific party, and I’m kind of pandering giving it a review, but there was something noticeable about the event that’s a theme in my life. For the first couple hours of the party, I was the only single person with no kids. Eventually, more of my kind filtered in to the shindig. It’s not like I was ostracized by any means. I just happen to notice that all of my friends are reproducing. I used to want to be one of those people. I figured one day I would get married and start a family, but the older I get the less I want it. It just seems like more work than I want to put in. Also, being in a bar for twenty hours a weekend doesn’t seem to lend itself to fatherhood. I’m not looking for excuses but it is a good one.

Writing a blog about my life causes me to walk a tight rope some times. I try and be honest about what goes on in my work and personal life. I hate to think that I’m the kind of person whose writing can be swayed so much by others. I try not to cater to the desires of my readership, but for now, like that elitist hockey-mom, I don’t mind pandering.

Obama Campaign Headquarters

I got an invite to the opening of the Obama Campaign Headquarters. I wasn't the only one. When I got off the freeway I couldn't believe the traffic. I found a spot six blocks away. i'm standing in an alley behind Motor with hundreds of people listening to speakers I can't see. Helicopters buzz over head.

Obama isn't a politician. He is a movement. I have never seen anything like this. Parking was brutal but I'm glad I came down to Obama Campaign Headquarters.

Yeast Gard Yahoos

I’m not gonna lie. I’m not a big fan of managing. I said I would help out and I am. I joke that I’m the only minimum wage manager in Santa Monica. If I’m not, introduce me to the other shmuck so I can kick him in the balls. I may not be financially compensated but my new general manager tells me how much she appreciates me helping out and that does go a long way. I’m guessing I can make it til the end of the month until actual talk of money occurs.

In any case, I arrived at work early. I wasn’t excited about the eight hours of monotony, but when the clock was to strike midnight (not the broken one over the bar that always reads two fifty-four) I would be able to celebrate my friend and colleague, Aoife’s birthday. For someone who could care less about his own birthday, I sure dig other people’s. I got to work and my former boss Gregg was there. It is a little awkward but I’m not as bothered by it as some. I guess tonight was his annual fantasy football draft. If you don’t know about fantasy football, which I really don’t, but from what I can tell, a dozen or so douche bags get together and pick players. During this four hour extravaganza of douchery, these ass clowns yell too loud, throw paper balls at one another, belch and don’t tip enough. From what I understand, in years past, my boss would buy the Femfresh posse one round. Since my boss was relieved of duty, that apparently has changed.

Running a business is a funny thing. If you don’t make enough money to cover costs, then you go out of business. My boss was a big fan of cost cutting. When we had rodents at our bar holding open casting calls for “Ratatouille 2: Pour Me Another Guinness,” my boss chose to purchase a system which tracked our draft beers poured and sold. I didn’t ask, but for those keeping score at home, I presume no beers were poured the week we were closed. I remember the night we got shut down. I assured my boss we would get it back. I recommended a half-way to St. Patrick’s Day on September 17th, which will take place. His response, “We need to cut costs.” I know that a penny saved is a penny earned, but you can’t draw blood from a stone. We need to be at capacity early and often. I believe my former boss understands that, but I never heard any suggestions to get there.

No matter, because the Summer’s Eve crew was in the house. I’m guessing they spent a couple of hundred bucks, which isn’t much for ten guys in four hours. That really didn’t compare to my former boss’s purchase of two budweisers and thirty-two Powers whiskeys for a grand total of two hundred and thirty dollars, which he, of course, doesn’t pay for. I guess cost cutting went the way of his job. Look, it’s his bar, but walk the fucking walk. Don’t spend months texting us the morning after we sell eight or nine grand to tell us twenty draft beers weren’t accounted for, then blow through two bottles of hooch for customers buying three dollar Bud Lights. (By the way, the system once said that half a Guinness and half a Blue Moon were poured at six ayem when the security camera showed the bar was empty. It’s a brave new world.)

We have a great crew of bartenders. There isn’t a whole lot we can do to get people in the bar. All we can do is keep them there and get them to come back. Speaking of which, I guess we’ll have to wait a whole year for the Massengill mob to return. I sure hope it doesn’t coincide with and mar Aoife’s twenty-first again. The rest of the night was alright. We got slammed at one point. It coincided with the time the bar back had to go to the airport to pick up up his mother-in-law. I made drinks, bussed tables, took orders, and washed glasses. I sure am management material. Hopefully, next year, my former boss will have a new bar where he can host his fantasy football draft and we won’t have to deal with the Yeast Gard yahoos.

Labor Day

Last year it was sheer insanity. This year it wasn’t so bad. Like last year, it was only Kevin and I behind the bar. Like last year, a manager had to jump behind the bar and make drinks. Like last year, there was a time when I never wanted to bartend again. Unlike last year, it wasn’t as busy. This year there was about twenty minutes where I wanted to find another job. Last year it was forty-five minutes to an hour where I wished I worked in a cubicle staring at a computer.

There’s something about the long weekend that brought out generous customers. Sure we got stiffed, but those tipping five bucks on two drinks were far more common than most other nights. At one point, when it was three deep, a smiling woman waved to me repeating, “Hey, hey, hey, hey.” I was tapping a beer and made sure she heard every word I said. “’Hey, hey, hey’ Are you different from all these other customers? Do you feel that by saying, ‘Hey,’ you’re gonna get a drink first?” The smile fell right off her face. I felt bad because I’m sure she meant nothing by it, but customers must understand that certain behaviors will not be tolerated by bartenders. I’ve seen two of my colleagues do a standing jump over the bar in order to break off a snapping customers’ fingers. I can’t stand when a someone taps their credit card on the bar. Somehow it cuts through the din of the crowd.

It was a lucrative night, it was a fun night, and I’m certain it won’t just be Kevin and I behind the bar next Labor day.

George

When I got to work on Saturday, the sun was out but the bar was empty. I figured it was gonna be a soft happy hour. Saturdays are funny at my bar. In the late afternoon, most people seem to run errands and do what they’ve gotta do before going out. Lucky for me, people started filtering in. Since my friend Mike was in town from London, and I had two parties to attend before work yesterday, I didn’t get a chance to write about Saturday night, which was still fresh in my mind. But one customer stood out from all the others.

He wore a yellow, hipster t-shirt, blacked out Yankees hat, and had tats on his arms. He ordered four pints of Guinness from me and while I poured them, he order four red headed sluts from Tim. Normally, ordering from two different bartenders is a bad thing, but George (Jorge on this credit card) handed me a twenty. He said, “Right off the bat, here you go.” He also tipped twelve bucks on his round. Thirty-two dollars for four shots and four pints is super generous, but now George becomes that special customer who if I see the slightest bit of dryness on his tongue from across the room, I’ll start pouring him a drink. It’s a costly endeavor, but once you throw down a tip like that, you become a face in the crowd. After George ordered the next round, he pulled out a twenty and said, “I found this. What should I do with it?” I told him to give it to Tim who was walking by. One more twenty found its way into our tip jar.

Some may think that George is an idiot for throwing money around like he did, but bartenders have a comp tab (some call it buy backs.) We get to reward whichever customer we choose. I happened to comp George: two Grey Goose cocktails, one Grey Goose martini, and a Blue Moon. That’s thirty-six dollars in drinks he didn’t have to pay for. I, also, did a couple of shots of Jameson with George, which would cost fourteen bucks. He may not have broken even, but he did pretty well. Compare this behavior to a friend of mine who I comped two of his five drinks. His bill was sixteen and he tipped four. Now he may think that twenty-five percent is a good tip, but since his bill would’ve been twenty-seven without the free beverages, twenty-five percent is low. We’ll see how well his tips next time his tab has every drink on it. Most customers who walk in the bar tip a buck a drink. Those customers are fine, but I’ll be waiting for the return of George.