Boobs For Obama

Check out my friend, Nancy's video, Boobs For Obama.  And, please, don't forget to vote... for Obama.

Making A Right Turn

I woke up with a cold sore on my lower lip. I got my first one sophomore year in college. Something had erupted on my upper lip and I got it checked out at student health. The doctor said, “You’ll be studying a lot this month.” I would end up getting a cold sore once a year when I ran myself down. I looked at my lip in the mirror and couldn’t see anything, but I could feel it. The day had already started out bad, but it was about to get worse.

I was meeting Tim for lunch at Don Chuy’s on Washington. I was cruising down Abbot-Kinney when I got Tim’s call. He had a flat tire and could I give him a lift. No problem. I turned around and headed down Venice. I picked up Tim. The Beastie Boys were on the radio so I cranked up the volume. I got to the light at Walgrove, ready to make a right turn. I watched for the oncoming traffic. I had an opening. I took it. Tim screamed. I slammed on the clutch and looked over. I hit a woman.  

She was pushing herself off the hood of my car. With my foot on the clutch, all I could hear was my engine revving. “Are you okay?” I asked. I don’t know if she spoke English. She walked around the back of my car and continued across the street. To say I was scared was an understatement. I practically shat my heart out. I can only imagine that she was undocumented and didn’t want to cause any trouble. Thank God I didn’t hit an American.

My afternoon was uneventful. I dropped off more election night party fliers at the Obama campaign headquarters and was off to work. I had to discipline an employee for an incident which occurred on Sunday. I wasn’t looking forward to iit. Discipline has never been a big thing at my job. People get spoken to and occasionally fired, but as far as I know, it’s never been official. I opened a desk drawer in the office and found a file which said, “Discipline.” I pulled out one of the forms. I’m not saying it was old, but it made the Declaration of Independence look like it just came out of a copier at Kinko’s. For lack of a typewriter, I had to fill out the form longhand. For those who don’t know, my writing rivals that of a orangutan having a seizure; although, I’m sure there are both orangutans and epileptics who are offended by this. I showed the form to Nicole, who asked me to clarify a few words, actually all of them. When I met with the employee, I showed him the form, but read it to him, just in case primate scrawl wasn’t in his wheelhouse. The employee recognized his mistake and seemed really receptive.

O’ Brien’s had a slow night, but after Monday being so big, it was alright. I expected 80s night at Main to be big. They had a costume contest and Thriller dance contest with bottle service and a case of Red Bull Cola, as the prizes respectively. The ladies of O’ Brien’s dressed up as the Robert Palmer girls complete with inflatable guitars and pale make-up. They looked awesome. The winner pasted on a mustache on and threw on some Dolphin shorts and a tank. I dug through our promotional bottles and found a bottle of P.I.N.K. vodka which contains caffeine and guarana. I’m sure he and his friends, who partook in the bottle service, will be up until Halloween of 2017.

It was a strange day and a slow night. It started with a cold sore and continued with hitting a woman with my car. I can only learn from my mistakes. I need more sleep and definitely need to look both ways before making a right turn.

The Sirens

Waking up is tough. Getting out of bed is easy. Leaving the house to go to the gym is near impossible. Five years ago, I would set my alarm for six fifteen and be at the gym at seven. Now I get up at ten thirty and rarely make it past my computer. Hey, that’s where the porn is. I’ve made it two Mondays in a row, that’s consistency. If I can do two things on a Monday: go to the gym and take a nap, then life will work out. Monday was already a good day.

I watched the season finale of Mad Men, which is a terrific show. Much like The Wire, I like the show far more in the second season. Since I’m usually on the computer or reading the paper, I don’t always follow what’s going on. For example, last week there was a flashback or two. Normally, flashbacks show a definite time in the past, but Mad Men only goes back a few years so instead of a dramatic change in how a character looks, Don Draper’s hair is parted a few centimeters to the left. This leaves me wondering, “What the fuck is going on?” Thank God, I have Meredith, of Pretty Sharp fame, to explain everything to me. She’s the one who turned me on to the show. The season finale was great and I understood the entire episode. Who’s a good boy?!

I had one stop on my way to work, The Obama Campaign Headquarters in Santa Monica. I had to drop off the fliers I made last week for the Election Night Party. The office is located on Tenth and Wilshire and it seemed to be chock full of volunteers because there was no where to park. I found a spot a couple blocks down outside the Westside Rentals office. I wouldn’t bring up where I parked, except that the Westside Rentals Guy was outside doing his thing. I’ve seen this guy before waving his shield. I never gave it much thought until he came into O’ Brien’s over the summer. Someone said, “There’s the Westside Rentals Guy.” I figured it was one of the rental agents until I saw this freak in red and black striped satin shorts. Hot! I got to the campaign office and it was crazy busy. I spoke with someone on the phone named Christian when I first had the idea for the party. He told me they had no plans for a party, so I figured why not front run it. Like Kevin Costner, I hope to build it and they will come. I found Christian and to call him young is an understatement. Let’s just say I’ve clipped toe nails older than Christian. He was a super nice guy. I reminded him of our conversation and was excited to get the fliers. All he requested was that I bring him more.

I got to work and the Philly faithful were watching game five of the World Series. There was a good crowd. I didn’t pay much attention to the game. Both Nicole and Gator were there putting up Halloween decorations. I’m not a huge fan of Halloween, or as I like to call it: the week where I eat enough candy to become diabetic, but it’s always a big night and since it’s on a Friday, it should be crazy. Nicole and Gator finished decorating and we sat outside and had a managers meeting. It’s rare that the three of us sit down together. I dominated the meeting by telling them who I wanted to fire, and they told me why I couldn’t. Turns out if I fired all the people I wanted to, I would be the only employee left.

The game drew a good crowd and was eventually rained out. I don’t really know why or how it happened but O’ Brien’s got packed. In fact, I had to jump behind the bar a couple of times to make drinks, as well as, take a few orders at tables. Nobody told me when I accepted this job that I’d have to work. What the fuck?! My buddy, Darrin stopped by for a beer and I noticed his head kept turning every thirty seconds from the doorway across the room. It turns out a lot of hot chicks were showing up. Turns out the live music booked for that night was a group of singer/songwriters. The show was called The Sirens. A good rule to live by in the bar business is if hot chicks show up, dudes will stay.

It was a huge night, especially for a Monday. After working all her menial lunch shifts, it was nice to see Kimi make some serious cake. If anyone deserves to build her stack, it’s Kimi. She’s definitely paid her dues. When you pick up a shift, you never know how it’s gonna be. I guess that’s why they say it’s better to be lucky than good. O’ Brien’s will continue to be lucky if we keep booking shows like The Sirens.

Obama Election Party

Come down November 4th and celebrate the rebirth of America.

Give Up The Shift

I was a whore when I first started working at O’ Brien’s. I would pick up any and all shifts. Now that my two shifts overlap with three of five other employees, there aren’t a lot of opportunities for me to cover. Kevin, one employee whose shifts don’t overlap with mine, took off for Ireland a week or so ago and I figured I’d pick up a couple of Sundays. Since only O’ Brien’s is open that day, I could bartend and manage quite easily. I found out Saturday that Main would be open Sunday, which put me in a bind. Could I manage both entities from behind the bar at O’ Brien’s?

When I get home at an ungodly hour, the only two people awake are my sister and Kimi. Kimi and I had a long IM conversation about my new management position. It was pointed out that I’ve yelled at an employee or two. I don’t like to think of myself as a yeller in this position (that was my former boss,) but when I’ve been dealing with douche bags for six hours straight, I’d like to believe that my co-workers are gonna do the right thing. Don’t get me wrong. There haven’t been any serious transgressions, but I guess I can fly off the handle. You see my philosophy is that it’s all about the customers. With that said, I do have my employees’ backs. But at the end of the day, I try and bend as much as I can to customers’ whims, because without them we’re just a room full of bottles. In any case, it was good hearing her point of view.

I set my alarm at ten forty-five so I could have brunch with Jango and Tiff. I’ve set my alarm for many events, but brunch? What has my life become? I spoke with Jango and he wanted to try the Brickhouse Cafe in Venice. I used to love the Brick shit house as I like to call it, but it’s definitely gone downhill. I tried to subtly say this to Jango; but, alas, I was too subtle. When I got there, they were sitting at a table outside. Jango ordered the Southwestern omelet and added bacon. When our food came, not only did his omelet lack bacon, but the cheese that the omelet is supposed to come with. I had inhaled my chilaquiles and was finishing off Tiff’s pancakes, before his food finally came out. Mind you, they didn’t cook it again, they just added the bacon and cheese and heated it up. Needless to say, we won’t be going back there together.

Jango went to play soccer and Tiff came back to my place. She works for Human Rights Watch (bloody do-gooder) and needed to work on something, so I sat her down at my computer while I slept. I had to be at work at six and had a pumpkin carving party at four. I may have failed to mention that Tiffany is seven months pregnant and can get a bit peckish. I love my pregnant friends. They give me an excuse to eat everything. Tiff and I went to Swingers and sat at the counter. I knew the server from frequenting the joint. She was by herself and there was a decent crowd. We seemed to wait for a while and I began to get annoyed. That’s why it’s important to have a manager on the floor just so they can pick up on any customer’s needs while the server or bartender is busy. (I type this, locked behind a thick wooden door, away from the customers downstairs.) She finally took our order. My black and white shake got to me a few minutes later and it was worth the wait.

Normally, I’m the first person at a party, but since I got there an hour after it started, I figured it would be in full swing. I walked in the door and, lo and behold, I was first. I didn’t bring a pumpkin, nor did I want to carve one. I tremble enough when I’m well rested, but after being up til five, I felt the last thing I needed in my hand was a sharp knife. I hung out for forty-five minutes, eating everything within arms reach: chips, candy, I even deigned to have a grape. Work was calling and I was off like a prom dress.

When I got to work, Emily was bummed that there wasn’t a big crowd. I asked if she wanted my shift and she took it. I went home to grab my computer, because if I’m gonna manage, I need ready access to porn. The slow happy hour turned into a good night. I really wanted the money since Saturday was slow, but I made a choice. Now that I’m a manager, sometimes I have to give up the shift.

Too Little, Too Late

Saturday was a beautiful day for a wedding. I woke up at nine forty-five, which was way too fucking early. The only thing I had to do was buy a glass for the brides to step on. The wedding started at five and I had to be their early to help hold the chuppah. I thought about washing the glass before bringing it, but since it was only gonna be stepped on, I felt it was like sterilizing a needle before putting a prisoner to death. The wedding was at Palisades park near the rose garden with forty chairs set up. Once everyone arrived, we got the show on the road.

When I got to the wedding, I found out that the glass would not be stepped but draught from. I have no problem drinking from a glass straight out of Pottery Barn, but many, including the brides, have a far higher standard for hygiene and sanitation than I. A bottle of Arrowhead did the trick. I was standing in back holding the chuppah with the sun beating down on me. As one who perspires freely, I tried to will my pits not to sweat through my jacket, to no avail. Since the wedding was in a public park, bystanders stopped to watch which was super cool. The musical accompaniment was provided by Doug and at one point he played James Taylor’s, “You’ve Got A Friend.” We were all invited to sing along but; alas, I don’t know the words. I sang something like, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. You’ve got a friend.” It was the perfect crime. After the ceremony which had a couple references to “No on Proposition 8,” we headed down to James Beach for the party.

I didn’t know how they would fit the entire party into the back house at James Beach, but it worked. My former neighbor Sarah, who was once affectionately referred to as “Messy Sarah” by Julie’s nephews, decorated the tables and did an amazing job. For the record, Julie’s nephews named my “Crazy Dave.” I don’t know where they got that name from, but I hung them upside down off of my balcony until the took it back. Call me crazy, I don’t think so. Although it seems like I’m made of money, what with me driving my ninety-seven gayata to the supply store every six months or so to buy a new pair of cargo shorts, I’m not. Thus, I gave Kimi my happy hour, but had to work from eight-thirty to close. I had almost two hours to guzzle booze and shove as many hors d’oeuvres in my pie hole as I could. Normally, if I’m at a party before work, I don’t drink, but I made an exception. I had a couple of cocktails and a glass of Veuve, which really suits my gayata lifestyle. Julie and Mary had their first dance to the theme of the Odd Couple. During which Julie asked the eternal question, “Who is Oscar and who is Felix?” All I know is that when Julie and I were neighbors, she was Rhoda and I was Mary, and that has made all the difference. The Odd Couple theme segued into “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” and we were all invited out to dance. Never one to shy away from a McFadden and Whitehead ditty, I knocked over a two nieces and a great uncle to get to the middle of the dance floor. After leaving a puddle of sweat, it was time to get to work.

It was nice showing up at eight-thirty. My energy was up, I was feeling great, too bad we were lacking customers. In the immortal words of Milli Vanilli, “Blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah.” The combination of not having a good crowd for game three of the world series and a rain delay which pushed the game until close to eleven, basically fucked us. It’s an important lesson in the bar business. Getting a good crowd early is the only way to fly. If only the Red Sox had beaten the Rays and been in the world series, Saturday would’ve been huge. In our race to emphysema, Tim and I took turns at cigarette breaks. Each time I hoped that I’d have to put it out halfway through, because a mob was about to flood in. Instead, I ended up smoking many a filter. Not only was it slow, but the customers we did get drank a lot of water. For instance, a couple of times people would come up and order, “Can I get a Stella and three waters?” I wanted to ask, “Do you mind if I stomp a mud hole in your ass, you cheap cunt?!” One guy ordered a soda water. No tip. He got a refill from Tim. No tip. He asked me again. I replied, “You gonna tip this time?” I don’t want to start charging the price of a coke for soda water, but if you’re gonna be cheap, you’re gonna pay more in the long run.

We eventually got busy. Too bad it didn’t happen until twelve-thirty. Now if we were in Chicago or New York, we would have had several hours before last call. Instead, “We in that sunshine state with a bomb ass hemp beat,” and only had an hour to bang it out. For how low our expectations sunk, the night wasn’t a total loss. It was just too little, too late.

Family Day

Back in the day, I used to get off work on Friday. Fill up a satchel of cookies. Hop on the Tide and secure my corner table on the patio at O’ Brien’s. I would throw down beverage after beverage with Adrian, Poodle, and Drew. Yesterday, I squeezed in a nap, then got to work early. My corner patio table was connected with two other tables. Instead of drinking with Adrian, Poodle, and Drew, I was cleaning up after their kids. How times have changed.

Drew and Liz are in town from Seattle, and it was great seeing Kathy and Liz walk in with Ruby and Cal, respectively. Ruby’s a fair skinned Buddha, who sits and smiles, while Cal can hear music playing on a car radio six blocks away and immediately start dancing. They are two cute kids. A bunch of other friends showed up to fill up the patio. No matter how good a happy hour I was gonna have, it was great seeing everyone again. It wasn’t the really same, considering I was sober and they were all home by eight. I guess life changes as we get older. Happy hour brought a good crowd. I had my peeps from DDB in, celebrating one their birthdays. I gave him the O’ Brien’s stoplight, which is a green shot, yellow shot, and red shot. I would tell you what’s in it, but that spoils all the fun. Let’s just say his friends were ordering him water not long after.

Aoife and Kimi came in for vagtastic Friday. it was now the most difficult part of the evening, ordering dinner. I stared at the computer screen, hoping for a new menu item to appear. Guess what? It didn’t. I settled on the Portobello mushroom sandwich. It was really good. Now all I have to do is order the shit out of it until I gag when I put it to my mouth. That’s the thing about my family, we’ll find something we like then order it to death. My sister is a little more flexible than I am. She orders different things all the time. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s really my sister. Since there wasn’t a baseball game keeping the happy hour crowd, the bar thinned out, but there was still a fair number of bodies in the house. The band was Meet Me At The Pub. They’ve played at the bar before but I couldn’t remember them. With a name like that I figure they’d be a Cranberries tribute band. In fact, they play reggae. Aside from Bob Marley, I’m not a huge fan of Reggae. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t mix well with weed. In any case, Meet Me At The Pub crushed it. They were still playing well past last call so I went back to tell them to wrap it up. The crowd was going insane. It was cool to see.

The night never got super crazy save for about fifteen minutes, but it was steady. I somehow avoided looking at the time until just before last call. For the most part, the customers were cool. There was the one woman who ordered a vodka soda, Shirley Temple, and vodka red bull. I told her the total was twenty dollars. She asked me to break it down by drinks: seven, three, ten. She and her girlfriends conferred like Generals at a war table. It’s just a round of drinks. Give me a twenty and fuck off! Again, she asked how much everything cost. Again, I told her. She gave me her card and closed out. By the way, thanks for the buck. That’ll make up for the three minutes of my life I will never get back.

The night ended up far better than any of us expected. I got home late and watched LIfe, which was awesome. I got to bed around five and because God hates me, I woke up at nine forty-five. I’m sure my friends got their eight hours. Since we’re older, most of us go to bed earlier. Moreover, I’m sure they were exhausted from family day.

Wassup - 8 Years Later

Election Night November 4th, 2008

Do you want to be sitting home alone when history is made? 

MMMMMMMMCookies!

I woke up at eight ayem with the taste of salsa still fresh in my mouth. It’s been a while since I had been to my Thursday class at the gym and it was time. The class was far tougher than I ever expected. It shouldn’t have been a surprise since I’ve replaced my daily workout regimen with Parliament lights. I used to smoke Marlboro lights. I switched a couple of years ago. I don’t remember why. I really dig the filters though. I guess cigarettes do taste different, but no matter the brand, after I’ve put out the butt, it still tastes like someone shat in my mouth. I find cigarette preference is a lot like light beer, especially domestic. We carry Bud Light and Miller Lite bottles. Quite often, customers come in asking for Coors Light. I always respond with our other offerings, which often upsets these mavens of flavor. I really want to ask, “What’s the fucking difference between two shitty beers?” I keep quiet in hopes of a dollar tip to put in my jar.

I hustled home to shower, then sped across town so I could be a half-hour early to my writing class. I got my seat on the couch near the air conditioner. Living in Santa Monica, I have very little need for AC. But going East of the 405 requires sitting near a wall unit. The class is pretty cool. There’s a steep learning curve. I’m amazed by my fellow students. A beautiful, blond, forty-something sat next to me. She’s married with three kids. She looks perfectly healthy except for the fact that she has brain cancer. Every person has a story. I hope it all turns out okay for her. I had one stop on my way home at The Shack. I parked on Wilshire and had a star sighting. I’m like any other tourist and can get excited about spotting a celeb. I saw Harrison Ford walking with, what I hope, is his child. I figure at his age, his progeny would be born at voting age.

I was at the Shack because my friend, Dan printed up fliers for the Obama election night party I’m throwing. The Shack is a Philly bar. I heard stories that during Eagles games, regular customers have reserved seats. I half-expected to sit down at the bar and be told to move. Instead, Pat and his wife, Janet, the owners, were super lovely. It was definitely the calm before the storm, as the Philly faithful began to pour in. It would’ve been cool to watch the game there, but I had to get home and bake.

I’m a machine when it comes to baking my cookies. I have three sheet pans which I rotate in and out of the oven, so when I’m done putting the dough on one tray, it’s about time to take another one out. I rarely change the ingredients. I used try different chips: white, milk chocolate, caramel, but for the last five years, it’s been straight up semi-sweet. This time I decided to do half semi and half milk chocolate. A friend came over to grab some for the (R)Octoberfest she’ll be attending this weekend. We both ate one. Then when I was putting them in my tupperware cookie container, one fell in the sink. It didn’t get cooties or anything. I just didn’t want to mix it with the non-sink cookies. My friend said, “I’ll eat it.” Waste not want not. Forty-five minutes later and I was stoned out of my snot. I can’t imagine how hard my friend was tripping. I watched The Office which was hysterical. Wasn’t it? I like to think of myself as the arbiter of comedy, but dear readers, remember, my taste is tinged with THC. I went to bed at around eleven and when my head hit the pillow, all I could think was MMMMMMMMCookies!

Tune In Tomorrow

Service is a funny thing. There are two kinds of bad service: 1) When the actor/model/rock star doesn’t give a shit, or 2) when the server just isn’t very good. Tim and I encountered the latter at Cafe Buna on Tuesday. I can be a tough customer because I have high expectations. On the other hand, I know when it’s a server problem versus a management or kitchen issue. When one orders breakfast, it usually comes with toast. There are exceptions: pancakes, oatmeal, french toast. So when our server, who looks like she laid out on the surface of the sun after a ten year crystal methamphetamine binge, brings me my omelet without toast, I get a little irritated. Tim asked for vinegar for his collard greens and she brought oil, an acceptable mistake. Tim was gonna say something, but as he said, “I don’t want to throw her off her sobriety.” There were a few other issues which THC has obliterated from my brain, but we’ve decided to not go to Cafe Buna on Tuesdays.

Work was all right. It’s great to have Nicole back. I showed her the Obama election party flier that I had made. She was a big fan, until I told her how much it cost. She was totally cool about it, but she pointed out that I overpaid. You live and learn. Happy hour was perhaps the slowest I’ve ever seen. Kimi had so few customers that she spent most of the time cuddling with me while I read Esquire. I have several magazine subscriptions. The only two I love are The New Yorker and Consumer Reports. The rest I get because they’re cheap and provide minutes of entertainment. Esquire occasionally has good articles, but they also have crap, like a section on watches. The first watch displayed cost twelve-thousand five-hundred dollars. I guess a lot of their readers can afford that kind of timepiece. I’m definitely not one of those people; ergo, that article is bullshit.

Wednesday was my first day off in a week. My only plans were to make pot butter and have dinner with Shari. I ground up my nearly quarter pound of shake with my coffee bean grinder. I wonder if Krups knows how versatile their products are. I melted a pound and three-quarters of butter in a pot and transferred it to my crock pot, the ultimate device for baking food with weed. I let it steep for a couple of hours, strained it, and now it’s ready to be the main ingredient in my funtastic cookies. Shari came over around seven. Since we go for Mexican food nine out of ten meals together, we decided to try Lares, a place we haven’t been together. Although we didn’t need anything to inspire our appetites, we decided to smoke a little on the drive over. I was pretty high when I pulled the car into valet. Alas, the valet was no where to be found. We hung out and decided to have a smoke. At this point, my mouth is drier than a camel’s ass in the middle of the Sahara. And, no, the cigarette didn’t help. At one point, I thought about taking the gelatinous substance in my mouth and rolling it up into a ball of chewing gum. I chucked the smoke and went inside to find out if the valet was having a siesta or dead. I was informed that it was a busy night. I wanted to ask the guy, “Doesn’t the valet drive a car away, then either bring one back or not?” But since I was baked, I just looked at him blankly, then went back outside. The valet finally showed up and I was ready to lick the sweat off his balls just to get some moisture in me. He just wanted my keys.

Lares was packed. We got the last table. I never really thought about it, but in a pinch, salsa can be quite the thirst quencher. The food was all right. Shari seemed to like hers better than I, but with a little weed most food can be palatable. We stopped off at 7-11 for a little Ben and Jerry’s. Shari’s quite the surgeon with a spoon and a pint of cookie dough, lancing all the non-ice cream bits. We watched some TV. Finally, Entourage seems to be getting good. I went to bed with only a few things to do the next day. One of them is baking cookies. Want to know how they turn out? Tune in tomorrow.

Research

Since the gym has become a place where I occasionally park my car, I decided to become reacquainted with it. Back when I was working two days a week, I was there every morning. Now that I’ve become middle management, the lower end of the middle, I rarely seem to go. Lucky for me, I started smoking again. It speeds up my metabolism with the added benefit of hardening my arteries and blackening my lungs. Since my lungs have become a darker shade of tan, I’ve been afraid of cardio. I figured lifting for forty-five minutes was a decent enough work out. At least, I broke a sweat. Who am I kidding? I sweat like a pig just getting out of bed in the morning. After the gym, it was nap time.

If I don’t nap on Monday, I could win the lottery that night and still be pissed. Let’s say I wake up on Friday at eight ayem. I get to bed at fourish. Wake up at eleven and do it all over. By the time Monday comes, I’ve spent nearly half of the previous seventy-two hours at the bar. I guess there are far worse places to be, but sleep can be ever elusive. Prior to my nap, I got a call from my dear friend Julie. She told me that she and Mary (Yes, the same Mary who works hard so I can enjoy a steak the size of a toilet seat) wanted to get married before Proposition 8 can get passed. I don’t know who these Proposition 8 people are who want to protect the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. The same men and women who can’t get their shit together to make a marriage last but half the time. And why the fuck is it anyone’s business who gets married? If I want to marry my vaporizer, which by the way, we’re almost common law, I should have that right. I’m really proud that most of my friends’ marriages are great, but Julie and Mary have the best relationship of all my friends. You know what they fight about? Nothing. Except maybe who gets to sit next to yours truly on the couch. Personally, I feel that they’re too good for the institution of marriage that’s practiced in this country, but if this is what they want, then I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Plus, they’re getting married across the street from my apartment. Pretty sweet.

After spending a sluggish happy hour with Kimi and Shell, my friend, Nate came by. We had a drink and went to Baby Blues on Lincoln. Growing up in Los Angeles, barbecue is like pizza, since I’ve never been exposed to anything that rivals the south or New York, respectively, you could microwave a rib and rub a charcoal briquette on it and I’d be happy. Although some Texans have chided Baby Blues for being down home chic, others, from barbecue country, say that it’s great. I’ve found over the years that having low expectations, especially with food, can lead to a very happy life.

I got back to the bar and it was pretty slow. I went to the store to buy some smokes, sure beats working out, and ran into my friend Robin. She was hanging out with some ladies at Rick’s. Rick’s is a place that I pass by. I’ve only been in there a handful of times and maybe twice this year. It’s actually a good looking bar, but I’ve always gotten a strange vibe when I’m looking in. I was told that Rick’s is where O’ Brien’s customers who get 86’d go. At the bar with Robin were Annie, Tracy and Alana. I feel weird leaving my post when I’m managing, but I was only fifty feet away if they needed anything. I stayed for an hour. It was great chatting with the ladies. One of the cocktail servers, Joanna, asked if I was lost. I was just doing research.

Working in any industry, one has to do competitive research. Since I don’t drink like I used to, these field trips don’t come up as much. Now if I worked in a dispensary, I would love to do competitive research. What I learned from my extensive research Monday night is that even when we’re slow, we still do all right. I believe the key to our success is our patio and live music. Kevin, BROTHER, does an amazing job booking the bands. More importantly, he does a great job making sure the bands bring a crowd. That’s the key. If a band can bring thirty people on a Monday night, we’re thirty customers ahead of anyone on Main street. And the one constant in the bar business is that a busy bar attracts a crowd. Not bad results for having one Miller Lite at Rick’s. That’s what I call research.

My Hero

I sure can pick em’. After waxing on about how the Red Sox would be the saviors of the bar business, I sat and watched them lose. This sets up the dream match-up of Philadelphia vs. Tampa Bay. I’m sure there’ll be a Frontline documentary on the range of motion of John Mc Cain’s arms that night getting higher ratings. At least for the last game of the season the Red Sox faithful brought a good crowd.

I wouldn’t call our Pub a sports bar. Although it’s a great place to watch games, we only have five TVs. Compare that to a place like Barney’s where the ratio of TVs to customers is around fourteen to one. At the end of last football season, a storm sheered off our DIRECTV satellite sending us to cable. With the advent of the new season, we went back to DIRECTV getting a couple of HD receivers. The problem with the HD signal is that it takes a couple of seconds longer to process the signal. So if all the TVs in the main room are on the same channel, the standard definition TV viewers see everything first. Personally, I can’t watch a game that way. I don’t want peoples’ cheers or boos causing me to whiplash my neck. I changed the big screen from high def to standard def, so we could all be on the same page. This upset Mary Kate quite a bit. She requested that I change the channel on the standard def TV, to which I replied, “Yes, there are other people in the bar watching the game.”

That’s the tough part about TVs in bars. The rule pretty much is: whoever gets there first, gets dibs. Personally, unless there’s a presidential debate or election returns, I only want sports on. I walked in on Friday and saw a couple of customers watching the Ellen Show. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Ellen Show. For full disclosure, my dear friend Mary is the executive producer on it and I’ve had many a steak dinner, steaks the size of toilet seats, at her house, because of the blood, sweat, and tears, she contributes to that show. With that said, I don’t want it on in my bar. Once in a while on a slow night, I’ll catch the kitchen staff or a bar back flipping channels. My favorite employee, Chino put on some animated program the other night. When shit like this happens, I try and explain calmly in broken Spanish which always devolves into harsh English. It goes something like this: “Chino, por favor, change the fucking channel! I don’t give a shit if Flocello wants to watch Thunder Cats! Put on Sports Center!” (Chino just laughs at my tirades. He really gets me.) Telenovelas, Discovery channel, you name it, I’ve asked them to change it.

I wish I can tell you something exciting happened on Sunday, but I’d be lying. It was just a good night all around. But the best part of the night happened when I got home. How many of you have masturbated with a velvet glove? Just kidding. I’ve been watching Meet The Press pretty religiously for the past year. It is such a shame that Tim Russert died. He was the best. In any case, Colin Powell was on. I haven’t heard much from him since he fell on his sword a few years ago, but here’s a guy who worked in the Bush administration, not only endorsing Obama, but calling out his own party. He mentioned that he’s heard senior party officials say that Obama is a Muslim and a terrorist, which shocked him. But the best thing he said was, when constituents mention that Obama is a Muslim, a good answer is, “No, he’s not a Muslim. He’s a Christian.” He goes on to say, “But the best answer is, ‘but so what if he is.’” In an age of a partisan politics and negative campaigning, here’s a guy who tells it like it is. Colin Powell is my hero.

Than To Fade Away

Friday was easy. I got to work at nine forty-five ayem to do the money. I was home by one for a nap. I’m a huge proponent of the nap. It’s a game changer. I went to work. Happy hour was huge. I knew it was gonna be a great night when Rob Cullen came in. A couple weeks ago, he started a tab, only two drinks, later I got a text that night that he was in Hollywood and not coming back. No problem. To rectify his previous tab, which I forgot about, he peeled off three twenties for our tip jar. It’s that kind of generosity that makes our shift. The rest of the night was busy and easy. Saturday was tough.

Saturday morning, I got a text from Adrian asking if I wanted to have brunch at Joe’s on Abbot Kinney. Joe’s is great, but for brunch, you have to like what they have to offer. It’s not the kind of place that you can order an omelet any way you want. Here’s what I had:

Crisp Pork Belly Confit, Sunny Side Up Shaner Farms Eggs, Gem Lettuce, Tomato Jam, Avocado Puree, Toasted Brioche.

It’s basically eggs, toast, and pork. I’m not really sure why they put Gem Lettuce in there, except to separate the eggs and toast from the pork. I’m gonna have to look over our menu. I may have to add parsley to every fucking item. After my third cup of coffee, I went home for a nap. I knew it wouldn’t happen. No matter how hard I furrowed my brow, REM was elusive.

Usually, whatever I’m feeling, I can always get it up for work. Saturday wasn’t the case. Maybe it was seeing the seventeen year-old bar back with his pants sagging. Can somebody explain this to me? I feel that jeans should neither be pulled up to the nipples, nor should they hang at the hamstrings. Maybe I’ve become a hard ass since becoming a manager, but something about seeing an employees boxer briefs while eating doesn’t strike me as too, I don’t know, professional.

I expected another lazy Saturday happy hour, thank God for the Red Sox. When ever I’m asked what team I’m pulling for, I answer, “I root for whoever’s tipping.” I can watch sports, but I don’t seek them out. I don’t get those people who stay our all night, sleep a few hours, then wake up to watch their team lose in a dark, dank bar. But, hey, they’re good for business. With that said, since the Dodgers lost, I’m pulling for the Red Sox to beat Tampa Bay then go seven games in the World Series. Whenever Boston plays, we get a great crowd and yesterday was no exception. It’s nice to hear a bar full of people screaming for the same team.

Unbeknownst to me, a practical joke had been played at Tim and my expense. Kimi came on at eight-thirty and two minutes into the shift she busted out laughing. I saw her pointing to the back bar. I looked up and saw two stuffed animals: a blue whale and orange fish, facing one another, with Garber and Tim written on them, respectively. Beneath it a sign said, Tim ♡ Garber. Tim walked in a few minutes later and noticed it immediately. I don’t know how I worked for over four hours without noticing it. The picture's up top.

Seeing those fish was probably the last time I laughed that night. I don’t know why it was such a struggle, but the night dragged on forever. It’s not that the customers were so bad. Don’t get me wrong there were some dip shits. My favorite douche bag was a guy named George. He started his tab stating that he was a bartender, never a good sign, and told us he’d tip us in cash. George had an obnoxious way about him. When it was time for him to close out his forty dollar tab, he showed Tim and I that he put a twenty dollar tip in the check presenter. He must’ve assumed we were mathematically retarded because he said, “That’s fifty percent.” Thanks for the help. He then asked if he could get a beer, which after one closes out and does the math for you, means he wants a free beer. No problem. I gave him a Corona, hoping he’d shut the fuck up. When I looked in the check presenter, there was only ten dollars. Now ten on forty is a very good tip, but when you claim to be a bartender, act like a tool, then point out that you’re leaving twenty, you can suck my balls.

Later on that night, I needed a drink. A customer order four mind erasers. I made it five. For the uninitiated, a mind eraser is Kahlua, vodka, fill with soda, then you suck it down as fast as you can. I was never into them until my previous manager introduced them to me. He called them squeaks and I loved to partake with him. But they got kind of gross after a while. In fact, I began to gag every time I did one. I’m guessing it’s a lot like a hot plate. For some it might be a turn on putting saran wrap in front of your face, watching the turd pour out of the brown star, but after a while I figure you realize it’s just shit. That’s a circuitous way of describing how I began to feel about the mind eraser. You can set your minds at ease, this one did the trick.

We ended up having a monster night. It took forever to count my money. I’m guessing it’s because I counted out over two hundred singles from one of the tip jars without any help from someone I won’t name. Let’s just say, maybe Tim doesn’t ♡ Garber. Now that I’m working five days a week, I’ve had some concerns of burn out. It definitely crossed my mind on Saturday night. But in the words of Neil Young, “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.”

I Didn't Have To Use My AK

It’s been busy around here. With Nicole gone this week, Gator and I have had to put in some extra time. I’ve had to learn a coupe things along the way: 1) ordering food and beverage, and 2) doing the money. Although we usually order booze on Thursday, I came in on Wednesday to do it. Unfortunately, I didn’t really know what to do, and I needed signed checks for when the orders came in. Luckily, Gregg, my former boss, was there to help. He showed me how to order the booze. I’m truly grateful he was there to help.

My plan was to get up at eight, so I could meet Kimi at the bar at nine-thirty to learn how to do the money. Since I became assistant to the manager and now bar manager, I like to believe that I know everything. I don’t. Kimi was hired over a year ago. She came in one day to meet some friends. I saw that she had resumes and told her to leave one with us. We were planning to open at lunch and Kimi got hired. The problem with lunch is that we don’t usually do a big business. It does lead in to a good happy hour, which doesn’t help Kimi’s bottom line. A month or so ago, Nicole taught Kimi how to do the money; and, here she was, showing up on her day off, without clocking in, to show me how to do it. I can’t thank her enough. We don’t deserve her.

After the money was done, Kimi took off to see Jimmy Buffett in San Diego. Personally, I wouldn’t watch him if he were playing on the inside of my eye lids, but to each her own. I had called Gregg about something earlier in the morning. He returned my call while we were at the bank, which I let go to voice mail. He decided to head down to the bar, and thank God he did, because orders came in that needed to be paid for. Since he is one of three people who can sign checks and two are out of state, he was a life saver. I saw that he had everything under control so I took off to my writing class. I was starving so I stopped off at Carl’s Jr. to grab a bite. I try and refrain from fast food, when I’m sober, but it is “fast” and that’s what I needed. I got to class with time to spare. There are some amazing writers in this class and incredibly brave people. One woman wrote about the night her son died which broke all of our hearts. I read my piece and got a good response, which felt great. I love all the kudos I get from my readers, but it’s nice to get it from fellow writers, too.

I got out of class at three-fifteen. My plan was to stop off at the supply store to replace my camo cargo shorts, eat a cookie, and make it to the promenade to see a four-thirty showing of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. I got the shorts and a pair of Chef’s pants for Halloween. I was originally gonna be a skunk by dying my mohawk white and putting white tape down my back. That costume just smacked of effort. I realized I had a chef’s coat from back when I took a cooking course. Since I already had the mohawk and chef’s jacket, all I needed were pants and a bandana. Done. Come Halloween I might just apply for Top Chef. I ate my cookie and hustled to the film. I parked at my gym, which alone makes it worth a hundred and thirty a month. I figure I’m paying for it, and since I haven’t been working out, I might as well use the parking lot.

The film was amazing. I can’t recommend it enough. It’s a terrific date film. I wish I would’ve brought a girl, instead of the Thai tranny I rented. You live and learn. There were only five other people in the audience and I was shocked how much the guys in front of me were conversing. They were far enough away and I’m deaf enough that I didn’t have to smoke their asses. I would definitely say that yesterday was a good day. I didn’t have to use my AK.

The Ruse

My day began with tragedy, but some comedy was added to it. In regards to deaths in the family, I’ve lost my Mom, Grandparents, Aunts, and Uncle, so my only consolation is that there aren’t too many more relatives to lose. In a situation like this, all I can do is make myself available.

I met Gator down at the bar where we had to do our semiweekly food order. Neither of us had ever done it. Luckily, our Sysco rep, Julio was there. While downing a Corona, he and the cook spoke Spanish at a rapid clip. A few minutes later, the order was complete. My work was done. Nicole came by to pick up her computer before her flight. How do you console the inconsolable? I make jokes. During my Mom’s last few weeks in hospice, a friend of hers commented that my humor was especially sharp. Hey, when you’re on, you’re on. I met Nicole in the parking lot. I tried to comfort her, while slipping in some zingers. Somehow, I felt that if she was laughing, she would forget that she lost her brother. I got her some food and Gator and I left to get her some Xanax for the flight. After a few near accidents, we got the pills. Gator explained that we got tramazipan, which is better for nerves. He’s the expert. All I can offer are cookies. We saw Nicole off. then ate lunch at O’ Brien’s. I had a Kobe burger with bacon, avocado, cheddar, and grilled onions with steak fries, you know, in lieu of going to the gym. I went home to catch up on my stories and reply to an e-mail.

My Republican friend Carrie from Texas sent an e-mail about a Sean Hannity show that would expose Obama to be a pedophilic, terrorist who doesn’t use coasters. I dvr’d it and it turned out to be a round table discussion and a McCain Palin interview. It was really boring. But a few of her friends had replied to all on the e-mail, so it was the big dog’s turn. Here’s what I wrote:

As an Obama supporter, I decided to see how the other half lives. I watched the Fox program and must say I was impressed. I decided to do some more research and found a pro-McCain web site that had a lot of good arguments. Check out lemonparty.org if you get a chance.

Have you checked out the site, yet? If not, readers, check it out. That’s what happens to Republicans when they don’t blind carbon copy. You live and learn.

I went back to work at six. The Dodgers were playing the Phillies and Kimi, the Philadelphia fanatic, was behind the bar with her Phillies cap on. It looked like the Dodgers had it in the bag. My first clue that they were gonna lose was when a customer said, “They’ve got this one wrapped up.” Fucking jinx. My second clue was when the Phillies had a four run eighth to take the lead. My momma didn’t raise no dummies. When we were in the lead, I was yelling and screaming, getting up in peoples’ grills, I think I even spat on Kimi at one point. By the bottom of the eighth, I was curled up in the fetal position. I looked like I was trying to toss my own salad. Personally, I prefer malt vinegar. Hey, it is a pub, after all.

The rest of the night turned out well. Our open mic night had a great crowd. It was hard to believe it was a Monday. My buddy, Darrin, the originator of the lemonparty.org ruse, came by for a beer. Friends coming to visit definitely make the night go faster. Although it started off tragic, my day improved when I irritated some Republicans. I can’t wait until November 4th when they lose the presidency. That will be a great day. It will be a nice change from a two-term presidency that has been nothing but a ruse.

Tragedy

I woke up at the crack of eleven and was greeted by an instant message from Kimi asking if I had received her voice mails. I hadn’t. She informed me that our general manager, Nicole’s brother had died. Apparently, he and his friend were riding their motorcycles home from bowling at around one-thirty ayem in Dallas. A drunk driver drove into the concrete divider, got out of her car without putting her hazard lights on, and a few minutes later Mark, Nicole’s brother crashed into her car. (Link here.) Mark was twenty-five, married his high school sweetheart, and had a three year old child. Words can not convey my sadness for Nicole and the family her brother left behind. I would like to start a college fund for Mark’s child. I don’t know how it’s going to work, yet, but I am asking my readers: when the time comes to please give. Mark would’ve been twenty-six this Sunday. It’s just a tragedy.

The A Team

My friend and fellow bartender, Rob, when asked about the difference between working with men or women, said, “Men sell more, women make more tips.” With a bar staff of three men and three women, it’s rare that there are three dudes behind the bar. Saturday the stars aligned.

Now O’ Brien’s has been on a tear since Wednesday. But when happy hour started, I feared that the streak would end. I love it when I’m wrong. I don’t know why people show up for certain college games, but the Florida/LSU game drew a crowd. Combined with the Boston/Tampa Bay game, happy hour was strong to quite strong. Everybody was super friendly and good times were had by all.

The trouble began when the rest of the A Team showed up. For the first couple years, when I got my break, I would order food and remain behind the bar with the other two bartenders until my food was ready. Eventually, I realized that there was no reason to stand around when two other capable drink pushers could handle the crowd. So, lately, my fifteen minute break has extended to thirty. Kevin decided to call me out on it. “Why are you the only one who takes a break after he orders food, BROTHER?” (Kevin, like Desmond on Lost, has an affinity for the word “brother.”) This is coming from the guy who showed up two hours late for a shift I was covering, because he missed his flight. I begrudge no one a break on a ten hour shift. I am happy to cover while someone relaxes. Tim chose to jump in on this, too. Kevin loves to stir the pot. Although men sell more, women are far easier to work with. I never seem to have a problem with my female cohorts. I’m guessing it’s because I’m more high maintenance than they are, middle management does have it’s privileges.

Once all the bad vibes cleared, I suppressed mine for a later date, we got to pouring. After the Red Sox lost in extra innings the bar slowed down for a bit, but aside from that it was busy. Since we all smoke, none of us feel guilty about taking a break. At one point I was outside talking to a customer I hadn’t seen in a while, Jen. She mentioned that the reason she goes to Main instead of O’ Brien’s is because they comp her some drinks. I don’t know her that well, but I’ve never recognized her as a good enough customer that she earned free beverages. By the way, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but O’ Brien’s is the home of the entitled drinker. Back when I was a regular, free booze flowed freely. In fact, one December my friend Bryan Shultz changed the lyrics to the Twelve Days of Christmas. I don’t recall all the words but the one that stands out is “FIVE DOLLAR TAB!” Those days have ended. Sorry, folks, it’s a business. In any case, Jen came into O’ Brien’s later and ordered a round. When she handed me her credit card, I told her the round was on me. I don’t know if this adorable Latina had some Catholic guilt, but for some reason, the free drinks didn’t set well with her. Customers: have a fucking code. If you specifically state that you don’t come as often because you don’t get free drinks, then accept the ones you do get graciously.

The bar started blowing up and the A Team was turning and burning. I love working with Kimi and Aoife. Good times are always had. But, in all honesty, working with Kevin and Tim was a breeze. No matter how busy it was, I never felt like I was in the weeds. Even when it was four deep, we kept banging it out like no one’s business. The crowd started to thin out close to one. I was super bummed. I could’ve gone all night. I don’t know when the seven-hundred pounds of man meat will work together again, but I can’t wait until we reconvene the A Team.

On A Tear

Both Wednesday and Thursday were huge. Wednesday night saw our annual Route 66 Irish bikers. Monday was the first I’d heard of it, but every year a bunch of Irish hop on bikes in Chicago and finish up in Santa Monica. We even had to purchase extra steak knives for the event. If you ever want to host a party for Irish bikers, I highly recommend lots of boiled meat and ashtrays. Thursday night, we hosted Pepperdine law school, which packed the place. So when I walked in Friday to see half a dozen customers watching the Dodgers get whooped, I was concerned.

I’m not paranoid, but even in the best of times, I figure a massive Wednesday and Thursday would lead to a slow Friday. Until around seven, I was right. I don’t know if it was the return of the Bass skanks, but the bar started to fill up after they arrived. There seemed to be decent sized groups at the tables. One group was a party of older ladies, celebrating a birthday. They ordered two waters, two cokes, a diet coke, and get this, an Amstel Light. They came to throw down. I put the non-alcoholic beverages on a small tray and picked up the beer with my other hand. For those who don’t know me, I’m a bit of a trembler. It’s great for menage a uno, but sucks for carrying a tray of drinks. I remember the first time I put drinks on a tray to take them outside. I picked up the first drink to hand it to the customer and, immediately, the tray began to shake. Something about the rebalancing of the remaining drinks caused my internal Richter scale to go haywire. I put the drink back down on the tray and set the tray on the table. I was lucky enough to have my friend Kathy, former cocktail server, as an audience. She cracked up at my performance. I’ve been pretty fearful of the tray ever since. Lately, I have built up some confidence. So when I picked up the small tray with one hand, I shouldn’t have been surprised when two of the glasses, followed by the remaining three, fell to the floor. Luckily, my pants caught most of the spill. Mary-Kate was quietly enjoying her veggie burger and saw the whole thing. Needless to say, she had quite a giggle.

As happy hour went on, the bar filled up. We ended up getting pretty slammed up until close to midnight. From then on it remained steady until one, when it kind of died. My favorite dipshit customer asked, “What kind of eight shots can I get for sixteen dollars?” Really, dude? I don’t know at what point in the Spanish-American war, this guy last bought drinks, but sixteen dollars won’t get you eight cokes. I told him, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas any more.” I’m not sure why he chose “sixteen dollars” as his amount to spend on his small party, but perhaps his Diners Club and Carte Blanche cards were all full up.

The night turned out to be huge. Alas, at the end, I screwed up. The band gets eight free drinks. I saw that we had a band tab which had nine. I asked the cocktail server twice if she had a band tab, and I heard, “No.” So when I saw another band tab on the master screen, for some reason, I chocked it up to our sister club calling their DJ tab and “band” tab. Something about working for ten hours sometimes causes my brain to seize up. Instead of the band getting eight free drinks, they got eighteen. You live and learn. I talked to my boss, Nicole, about it this morning and she was super cool. I hope tonight continues our streak. Why not? We are on a tear.

Halloween

Fucking Stoner

I’m running low on cookies, so I needed to buy some shake. There are only a handful of places that sell it and they’re either on the east side or in the valley. Since I started a new writing class over that way, I found a place on Santa Monica near Vine. My plan was to get there when they opened at eleven and have plenty of time to make it to my noon class. All great plans laid to waste.

To recap my schedule: buy weed at eleven, go to class at noon, stop by the surplus store, see Rachel Getting Married at the Landmark at four forty-five. I ran out of the house at ten-fifteen. I thought I had everything, but I was sorely mistaken. First of all, I forgot the address to the dispensary. No problem. I was pretty sure I had been there before and when I pulled up, it looked familiar. Also, I forgot to bring a cookie for the film. No worries. I could get one at the dispensary. I pulled into a spot on Santa Monica. It was ten to eleven. The address of the place that looked familiar was 6210 Santa Monica. That rang a bell. Guess I must be at the right place. At five past, I asked someone at the furniture place next door when the gated business would be open. He told me that was part of their store. Shit! Those stoners must not have updated there address on weedtracker.com.

I went to a place on La Brea south of Wilshire, where I got my shake back in July. They had what I wanted in stock. I asked for two ounces of the super shake and a pot caramel. The guy in the lab coat weighed out the weed. “Fifty grams. That’s two ounces.” He announced. Actually, it’s not. For those keeping score at home. It’s twenty-eight grams to the ounce. I told him the last time the guy gave me a hundred grams for one-fifty. He emptied the jar into the bag on the scale. I didn’t see the total, but this sizable bag could suffice as a travel pillow. He threw in the caramel for free and I was on my way.

The only writing classes I’ve taken are screenwriting courses. I’ve heard good things about this guy, Jack Grapes, so I signed up. It’s a method writing course, which I guess is something akin to method acting. Now my experience with acting class wasn’t so great. I was told that all screenwriters should take an acting course, so I signed up for one in my area a couple years ago, owned by a woman named Joanna. I was interviewed by an employee at the acting school, who told me he was also a writer. In fact, he’d just completed a screenplay he’d been working on for five years and was going to have a table reading. Note to writers: if you’ve been working on a script for five years, it better be Gone With The Fucking Wind. I went to the first class and learned that all we would be doing is facing another actor and saying, “You look nice today.” To which the other person would respond, “I look nice today.” Ad infinitum. That’s the whole fucking course. Knowing that I could get out while only forfeiting fifteen percent of the cost, I bailed immediately. Soon thereafter, Joanna, the owner, called me several times, imploring me to take the class. I don’t know what her fucking deal was but I hate the hard sell. Whether it’s a hundred and fifty dollar car wash for my thousand dollar car, bottled water for the table, or Landmark Forum, if the product doesn’t sell itself, then you can suck my hairy, Jew balls before, I’m gonna listen to your sales pitch. In any case, the writing class was an introduction. We’ll see how it goes.

After class, I was starving. I stopped at In n’ Out on Venice. It doesn’t get much better than a couple double-doubles animal style. After that, I popped into the Surplus Store to buy new work Dickies. For those who haven’t been to the bar, I wear a flame-retardant, black asbestos uniform. It keeps me warm in the winter and sweating like a rapist the rest of the year. I went to the Landmark theaters to see Rachel Getting Married. I took a bite of my caramel which tasted like weed suspended in brown sugar. I decided to only eat a half, since I wanted to have use of my legs later. It wasn’t that strong. I loved the film and highly recommend it.

I got home and fired up my computer. I wanted to make sure those burn outs really put the wrong address on weedtracker.com. Woops! The address said 6231 Santa Monica Blvd., not 6210. I was across the street. I do consume a fair amount of weed, but rarely am I such a fucking stoner.

Cleaning Day

Since the unpleasantness which befell my bar back in August, we’ve tightened up our cleaning regimen. Our side work has become far more extensive and twice a month we have cleaning day. There’s nothing like getting to bed at four ayem, only to have your alarm go off at five and a half hours later.

When I woke up, I was miserable. Because I worked the night before, Nicole said I could come in at ten-thirty. I decided that I didn’t need special dispensation, so I arrived just after ten. The only thing I wanted out of cleaning day is for it to be over, so I grabbed a rag and got to work. We had some music playing, Kimi baked some muffins, and conversation took place which I had no desire to be a part of. There used to be a bar back who worked weekends, his nick name was “Bean Bag.” I worked a few turn around shifts (leave at three return at eleven) for Tim on Sunday morning. Bean Bag would roll in at eleven-thirty and talk to me. As someone who can be super lazy, I can tell the signs of work avoidance. Number one is when someone is not doing any work. So when one of the bartenders rolled in at ten-thirty and recounted getting up at five to go surfing, I said, “The bar’s not gonna clean itself.” He got a little sensitive. He called me “Baby Gregg” in honor of my former boss and stormed off. My boss asked me, “Why are you being an asshole to everyone?” Every one? I was cleaning, minding my own business, but since she asked, “I was here until three. I don’t want to hear someone talk about getting up at five to go surfing after he rolls in a half-hour late.” I went back to cleaning and we were done by eleven-thirty. I was okay to go and be an asshole somewhere else.

I called Tim and we planned to meet at Cafe Buna. I asked my manager Gator to join. He begged off, until his truck wouldn’t start, then we jumped in the Gayata and headed to Buna. I’ve said it before, but I really like the people I work with. Unfortunately, I only see a handful of them outside of work. It’s a nice change to see my fellow employees outside of the bar. I passed on the special omelet with meatballs, marinara and mozzarella. Who the fuck thinks of this shit? Breakfast was great and I returned home for my stories and a nap. I’ve always been a huge proponent of the nap. When I worked at M.G.M. I squeezed one in every day. There was a time when I thought it was a symptom of depression, but slept that notion away. In my second office, which was a former store room, I ripped apart a box and laid it on the linoleum. I would sleep on that using my gym bag as a pillow. I told my sister about my Rube Goldberg sleeping arrangement and she pat me on the shoulder and said, “I’m really proud of you, Dave.” I knew I should’ve found another job then and there, but I was paid too well to do a minimal amount of work.

I hustled back to the bar for six o’ clock shift. I wanted to get there before the debate started. A block away, I realized I had forgotten my keys. Last week, I thought I lost them, so Gator made me another set. Luckily, I left that second set at work. I seem to forget things at the right time. The debates were pretty boring. For such an amazing speaker, Obama isn’t a very good debater. McCain on the other hand is a total wanker. With a ten trillion dollar debt and our country falling apart, do we really need to cut taxes? Why don’t we raise them, put people to work, and rebuild our country? How fucking novel is that? There were about twenty people watching the debates intently, which gave me the idea for an Obama Election night party. I’ll keep you posted.

My buddy, Darrin, came by and regaled me with tales of his crazy ex-wife. I hate seeing my friend in pain, but I love hearing the stories. One day I’ll relate the saga of the Veteran of Scandinavian Wars. I got a text from a friend who was down the street at Chaya. I last saw her in mid-July and she was single. Now she’s engaged. Life moves pretty fast. I met a high school friend back at my bar for a drink. She’s the first person I’ve seen since the reunion who was there. It was nice to do a post-mortem of that night. She had just as much fun at the reunion as I did.

Next door had a great crowd for Rebel Yell, the 80s night. They had a moon walk contest, which was a clever idea; unfortunately, it dragged everyone away from the bar for fifteen minutes. At the end of the night, I looked at the time and realized it had been eighteen hours since my alarm went off for cleaning day.

3000

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for all your support. I remember when I first started this blog, I was excited to have a handful of readers in one week. I began notesonacocktailnapkin.com on April 2nd and it took me 104 posts but by August 11th I had 1000 readers. It took another month and 32 posts but by September 10th, I was up to 2000. At 9:35 a.m., someone in Dublin googled “grey goose napkins” and became my 3000th visitor, only 28 days and 24 posts later.

I am here to thank you all for your loyalty and kudos. I ask that you please keep reading and if you enjoy what I write, I beg you to cut and paste notesonacocktailnapkin.com and forward it to everyone you know.

Thanks again,

David Garber

Danielle

Kevin calls it Groundhog Day. As in, on Sunday and Monday night when we part, he says, “See you tomorrow for Groundhog Day.” Something about working the same shift three nights in a row breeds a serious familiarity. The O.C.D. in me appreciates it. But when I arrived at work yesterday, Groundhog Day was different and her name is Danielle.

Our cook for the last year or so, Aurelliano, gave his two week notice. He was a tough one. When a food order was up, he would drop the plates in the window with a clank and flick the ticket, all with a snarl. Any time you asked him for something, like a side of ranch, he looked at you like you just asked for his liver. He definitely mellowed and he even began to smile occasionally. It’s nice when an employee settles in, only to head for greener pastures. Nicole put an ad on Craigslist.org. (Link here.) She mentioned to me that a young woman who worked at a gastro-pub up in Seattle had called about the job. She sounded great on paper. I found out when I got to work that she was in the kitchen cooking.

I went down and introduced myself. New blood in the kitchen gets everyone excited. Not to demean the kitchen staff in any way, but having an native English speaker, who has cooked many types of food, makes me feel that there is a God. I sat down at the bar to read the paper and watch the Angels play the Red Sox. The Angels lost in the bottom of the ninth and their pennant hopes were dashed. I’m not a huge baseball fan, but I am a fan of money, so I felt that a freeway series would be great for business. I was the only one in the bar pulling for the Angels. Sean and Audrey, two of our best customers, regulars from Boston, were sitting at a booth. I bought them a round and when I set the drinks down, I said, “Fuck the Red Sox.” Needless to say, I was still upset that there wouldn’t be a So Cal series. Later, I apologized and Sean explained that a Red Sox/Dodgers world series would be huge. Always appreciative of Sean’s wisdom, I ran upstairs and ordered a Tony Conigliaro jersey online.

It was dinner time. I asked Danielle to make me something. She threw together some chicken marinated in balsamic, with marinated red peppers, portabella mushroom, and garlic, with a side of sauteed spinach, and crostini. It was delicious. I felt that I had a new lease on life. I asked Danielle what her schedule is going to be. She replied, “I’ll be off Monday and Tuesday.” FUCK! Presuming that she works Friday through Sunday nights, she’ll be off for forty percent of my shifts. If all goes well, that’s three meals with a little bit of variety. Anything less and I may just cry.

I went upstairs to the office to read over the books. Actually, they’re magazines, porn to be exact. Do the short answers in the centerfold count as reading an article? I got a call from Kevin telling me that a friend, who asked to not be named, was downstairs. It was around midnight and he had one question: Did Scott show up? It was midnight and his window of arrival just opened. Alas, he hadn’t shown. I talked to him and a neighbor, Lynette (sp?), about him. Ten minutes later my friend pointed and asked, “Is that him?” It was. “Scott!” I yelled. Turns out Scott worked through last night and into the morning. Kevin took down his number just in case he doesn’t show up again. I was happy that Scott made it in, but I was elated that we hired Danielle.

Scott

I’m a creature of habit. Now people who know me would say that’s an understatement on par with calling the current economic crisis a slow business cycle. I consider myself a guy who has O.C.D., occasional A.D.H.D., who used to work for M.G.M. My O.C.D. when it extends to food and drink has a shelf life. I may eat lunch at a place five days a week for weeks on end, but I will eventually suffer from burn out. I’ve got nothing on O’ Brien’s greatest customer of all time, Scott.

If O’ Brien’s had a hall of fame, Scott would be the first inductee. With the exception of a handful of times, none which I’ve witnessed, Scott has shown up at O’ Brien’s without fail between twelve and twelve-thirty every night for the past twelve years. In fact, when we closed down in February of 2007 to redo the bar, my bosses gave Finn McCool’s the company credit card and got Scott a tab. As a regular, I would see Scott around. My earliest memory of Scott was at the millennium new year’s eve. O’ Brien’s threw a black tie event and Scott was there in his tuxedo and birkenstocks and socks, my kind of guy. We never really spoke until I started working behind the bar. In the beginning, I always saw Scott with a pint of Guinness in hand. Over the years, I recall him drinking Fat Tire and Pyramid Hefeweizen, only to come back to Guinness. As a comrade in O.C.D., I appreciate the constants in life. So when Scott didn’t show up last night, I got a little worried.

I arrived at six, at the end of the Planet Sports kickball social. After an intense, round of kicking a rolling ball and running the bases, sixty or so, twenty and thirty-somethings drink their faces off. Although the place becomes a bit of a mess, it’s great to have them. A half-hour later, they were all gone and the bar was pretty quiet. Happy hour went quickly because I hung out with my friend, and former die hard regular, Sarah and her friend Adrienne. After closing out Emily, the happy hour bartender, my biggest decision of the night arrives. What to eat?

We actually have very good food. Many customers are big fans of a variety of items. I have to admit that after years of eating the same things, I can’t fucking stand the food anymore. Let me retract that statement. If I want to eat moderately healthy then I’ve pretty much burned out on everything on our menu. In fact, when the spring lettuce mix hits my tongue, my gag reflex kicks in strong to quite strong. If I wanted to eat fish n’ chips or a Kobe burger with bacon, cheese and avocado every night, I’d be happy, morbidly obese, but happy. We had a great chef for a while, Eddie. He would make some killer dishes for us. Alas, Eddie was fired by my previous boss in a text message and I was back to eating the same two or three things.

Sunday is my favorite day of the week for one reason: the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. It makes the night go far faster than Monday or Tuesday. After finishing the puzzle, I went downstairs to look around. There was a local Venice band playing. Their fans tend to travel in an unwashed pack, toting their skateboards. I went to the restroom and found an empty flask of Bacardi sitting on the toilet. The fucking balls on these urchins. As a bartender, I have a lot of pet peeves, but bringing in your own booze tops the list. Not only does it mess with our bottom line, but it fucks with our liquor license.

I went back upstairs to read the Sunday New York Times crossword supplement, the actual paper. After that, I went back down to close up and noticed Scott’s absence. I figured he was outside getting a smoke. It wasn’t until Kevin mentioned that he hadn’t shown up that I became concerned. For someone who I now see five nights a week and Kevin has seen three to four nights a week for six years, neither of us knew his phone number to call and see if he’s all right. Hopefully, we’ll find out tonight. I hope we have a great night, but my biggest concern is whether or not I get to see Scott.

Danny Boy

He ordered a tall Captain and coke and tipped well. He caught my eye, later, so I made him another one. He didn’t want it, but rather two Newcastles and two Bud Lights. No problem. Keep the drink. He introduced himself as Danny and we became fast friends. That was until he ordered three Bud lights, then a fourth, he gave me a fifty, I gave him change. Fifteen minutes later he returned saying I shorted him. He said, “I’ll shut it down, so you can count the drawer.” Cease all operations so he can get his twenty? He was sorely mistaken.

I thought happy hour was going to be just average. There was a decent crowd. My boss told me earlier that a kickball league which we sponsor might have some people show up. Somehow it slipped my mind. God bless the weed. At seven, we had a Bass promotion, which consisted of two hot chicks in plaid Catholic school girl skirts and t-shirts which read, “When was the last time you received proper head?” Upon seeing the shirt, a couple of ladies at the bar commented that it had been a while, if ever. (For the record, neither of these ladies had ever been with me.) The irony is that for some reason the Bass has been flat all week, providing no head at all. Between the kickball and the Bass whores, the crowd, which I thought would just be average, became massive. There was a problem with the gas in our draft system, so our beers, which we sell one or two a night, were pouring like shit. Chino, my bar back, who if I ever opened a bar he would be my first hire, informed me that we were out of gas. I began to trip. Cursing at the top of my lungs, I struggled to pour beers for the huge crowd. Turns out we found a small tank of gas, which barely got us through. The Angels were in a close game with the Red Sox, so instead of the usual precipitous fall off after happy hour, the crowd swelled and stayed.

Bartending is a lot like gambling in Vegas, you have no idea what time it is, but unlike Vegas, time seems to stand still. After busting our asses behind the bar, we thought the night was close to over. It was eleven-thirty and just beginning. Although I don’t get the physics of the draft system, apparently we didn’t have enough gas to power the system and mostly foam came out. Spending five minutes to pour a fifteen second beer isn’t an efficient use of time. At one point Kimi said she almost lost it. She later revised that statement to, “I definitely lost it.” It must’ve been around twelve-thirty when my new bestie, Danny, ordered three bottles of Bud Light. The total was fifteen and he gave me a fifty and I got his change: a twenty, a ten, and five singles. Before I could give him his change he asked for another beer. I cashed in the ten for a five and gave it all to him. He threw money down on the bar, excited for the superior service he received. As I mentioned earlier, Danny came back believing that I gave him the wrong change. He told me I gave him change of a twenty. I replied that since the tab was twenty, if that were the case, he wouldn’t have received any change at all. Oh, the drunken, aren’t they fun to argue with? I tried to serve people and explain it all to him, to no avail. I took his number and told him that if we were over, he’d get his money back. He continued to bad mouth me. It was good times. Note to customers: when you get your change, count it. If it’s wrong, say something. Don’t come back fifteen minutes later and complain, especially when you’re drunk.

I counted my drawer at the end of the night. Guess what? I was over. No fucking way! I gave Danny his correct change. I texted Danny the news and put a twenty under the drawer for him. I woke up this morning with a voice mail from Gator, my manager. Turns out, I texted too soon. Gator told me that I was thirty dollars under. I knew it! I did give Danny the correct change. I called him to explain. The guy who was a super prick last night said, “It’s cool. I’m not gonna trip over twenty bucks.” Where was this rational person eleven hours ago?

People ask me how the economic crisis is affecting the bar business. Last night was the biggest I’ve seen in months, if not over a year. We walked with more money than we’ve made since I don’t know when. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe with all the uncertainty in the world, people need to forget about life for a while. I know one who did. He didn’t count his change when he got it. To my past, present, and future customers. Don’t be dicks. Don’t act like Danny boy.

Hot Girl Night

I mentioned that I dodged a bullet last Monday by not working for Kevin. It was seriously slow and he gave me Thursday instead. Last night, I stood behind the bar waiting for the rush to happen. I voiced my concern to Tim, who assured me, “It’s hot girl night. The guys will show up.” Thank God, Tim was right.

The day started off like most with Tim and I having a belabored half-hour discussion on where to eat. Since breakfast places are seemingly few and far between, we settled on IHOP, a place we hadn’t been. A breakfast place can earn a lot of points with me when they set down a pot of coffee on the table. I’ve blown people for less. By the second pot of coffee, I could hardly taste my mediocre omelet. No problem, I was happy that my heart was about to explode out of my chest. What I really loved about IHOP is that It’s so rare that I feel like a tourist in my own city. It’s kind of nice being surrounded by pasty skinned Brits with their collars popped, shorts too short and running shoes without socks. I can tell how long they’ve been in country by how many sun blisters and boils they carry. God bless those who feel they have to prove they’ve been on vacation by returning with scores of pre-cancerous cells.

Since it was a beautiful day, I decided to go see a movie. I get shit for it some times. People love to say, “But it’s so sunny out. Why do you want to be in a dark room?” News Flash: It’s always sunny here. I chose Appaloosa based on a friend’s review. I wasn’t a fan. Although I laughed a few times, I found the story to be piecemeal and plodding, and when ever Renee Zellwegger was on screen, the film pretty much died. I biked home to catch up on my stories, more time avoiding the glorious day. I watched Pushing Daisies which I’m done with. While it’s clever and stylized, I feel too much like I’m reading a gay, super natural, mystery, graphic novel, and I hate that genre. After deleting Pushing Daisies, I turned on Dirty, Sexy, Money. This is a show I thought I would delete, too, but I really enjoyed the episode, so I granted it a stay of execution.

Forget my stories, I was ready for the most entertaining show of the week, the Vice-Presidential debates. Now, I hate Sarah Palin. I feel that she is everything that is wrong with this country and the debate only solidified my beliefs. First of all, she isn’t very smart. Being able to speak intelligently on a host of issues is no easy task, but she is running for the second highest office in our nation; and, ergo, shouldn’t come across as a provincial twat. The Daily Kos brilliantly sums up her debate tactics (or is it a strategy?) in a flow chart. Unfortunately, Sarah Palin appeals to a wide swath of our democracy. By using terms like: “hockey mom,” “Main streeter,” and “Maverick,” which I hate the most, she speaks to knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, dumb shits who when prompted by the N.R.A. vote in droves. By the way, has anyone met a self-proclaimed “Maverick”? Fuck her! And what upsets me the most is the fact that she didn’t drop trou and take a shit on the stage; and, therefore, was determined the winner. Why do we lower our standards for stupid people in this country? It belittles us all. On the bright side, I ordered food from Sushi Sho on Montana. While it’s not great, it’s very good, especially for delivery, and they have excellent California rolls, but must be ordered with masago on the outside. It adds a nice texture.

I got to work and Tim seemed to have a solid happy hour going. Maybe I should’ve bathed more vigorously, but everyone seemed to leave when I showed up. I did notice that there was a bevy of attractive women. I couldn’t stop staring at one beautiful blonde who was so tall that her waist was above the bar. I struggled to remember if we had a brass foot rail which she was standing on when Tim asked, “Is she standing on something?” No, she was just your usual hot six foot one blonde, a breed rarely found in the hostile sausage fest, which is O’ Brien’s. The crowd eventually showed up and while it wasn’t a great night, it was definitely worth my time. Even if it hadn’t gotten busy, it was nice to be working on hot girl night.

Waffle

I received an e-mail from Amanda, my former boss at Swingers, that the Travel Channel would be filming there for a show about Late Night Breakfasts. For those who didn’t know, I worked as the host of Swingers on Friday and Saturday nights in the summer of 2005. Also, for those of you who would like a lesson in humility, pick up a few menus and seat people. In any case, my only plan for my one night off this week was to have dinner at Nagao with Meredith, I figured I would stop off at Swingers after for a black and white shake, one of the great tastes in Santa Monica.

After getting up at eleven, I texted Tim about having lunch. I hadn’t heard from him by twelve-thirty and planned on seeing Towelhead at two, so I ate food at home. Tim finally called. Turns out his cat was sleeping on his phone, so he never got my text. I’m seriously tired of Tim’s cat getting in the way of our relationship. I gave Tim an ultimatum. It’s me or the cat. After some yelling, some screaming, and some tears, many tears, it turns out the cat is staying.

To bury my emotions, I ate a cookie and headed down to see Towelhead. I once had a screenwriting teacher who said that he’s never read a script that was too bold. I would love to hear his opinions on this script. It’s easily the best film I’ve seen this year. Now, before you rush out and see it, let me just say, it’s an extremely dark film. I laughed several times and feel that I have to see it again, just to make sure it was okay to laugh. It’s definitely not a date movie and parents don’t take your kids. In fact, if you haven’t already had kids, see this film first, and make sure if you do have kids that they never leave your sight. With that said, run don’t walk to see Towelhead.

With some time to kill, I went home to catch up on my stories. I believe I’m done with Heroes. If someone could please explain the point of this show, I’m all ears. I’m still a big fan of Sarah Connor and I’m really happy that Life is back on the air. With nothing left to watch, I left for dinner early. Much to Meredith’s dismay, I was sitting outside with a beer when she showed up. After reading my blog, she really wanted to be able to shout, “Is your time more valuable than mine?!” She doesn’t know that the next time we meet, I will have camped out over night just to make sure she doesn’t get to scream those words.

Sushi is my favorite food. What I love about it is that if you get something you don’t like, it’s only a couple bites to the next order. Nagao used to be my local. Nothing happened to its “local” status, it’s just that since I work for tips and can’t afford a whole haircut, having a regular sushi place seems extravagant. For those who haven’t been to Nagao, or for those who haven’t heard good things, this is what we ordered: albacore sushi with garlic (one of the greats), yellowtail sushi, spider roll, spicy scallop hand roll in soy bean paper (he uses a chili oil which provides heat without an overbearing Sriracha flavor), salmon sushi, and just to come full circle, another albacore sushi with garlic. For any Nagao doubters, try this menu and if you don’t like it, don’t go back. What’d you think? I was gonna refund your money. I didn’t make the shit.

My last stop of the evening was Swingers. There was a camera crew and a pretty full house when I arrived. I grabbed a seat at the counter. I was all ready for my black and white shake when my former manager insisted that I order breakfast. Although I had already eaten, I added a waffle to my order. A minute later, the producer of the show introduced himself. My waffle arrived a few minutes later and a camera crew filmed my gluttony. The producer would ask me questions and I had to answer them including the question. My answers went something like this: “You can really tell Swingers makes their food from scratch, because...” “Swingers gets crazy late at night, because...” “Swingers is the best place for late night breakfast, because...” I felt like such a whore, but at least it was for a good cause.

The camera crew left. I felt I could push away my meal in peace. The day started on such a dark note, what with Tim’s playah hater cat, then Towelhead. I had no idea the day would end on such a light note, a waffle.

My Achilles Heel

No, it’s not pizza, crank, or twenty-year old Thai trannies; although I do have a soft spot for any and all of them. I was actually being literal. Last night at work, I injured my achilles. In a workplace where a customer can dance barefoot on glass, a bar back can drop a keg on his foot, or a cook can scald his hand at the deep-fryer, I hurt the tendon which connects my calf to my foot by of all dangerous activities, reading.

I met Tim for a man date at Cafe Buna. I’m a big fan of the breakfast there. It doesn’t take much for me to become a fan of a breakfast place, but hash browns are definitely a step in the right direction. They have a ton of omelets, and some of them are seriously strange. They had a special pizza omelet which had meatballs, peppers, onions, sauce and cheese. I’m a big fan of pizza, but it rarely is the good half of a hybrid. There was a time when I was up in Berkeley at a burger place called Barney’s. They had a special pizza burger. My friend Marc ordered it, because as he said, “I like pizza and I like burgers.” Yes, it sucked. There are other ingredients Buna puts in omelets that I’m not gonna try: rice, carrots, peas, and plantains; and, no, they aren’t in the same omelet.

I didn’t have to be at work until six and there were a few films I wanted to see. I chose Ghost Town with Ricky Gervais. I didn’t eat a cookie before because I didn’t have enough time and didn’t want to still be high when I got to work, so I fired up the vaporizer. When I got to the theater, I saw a pack of wild tweens being shepherded by a mom. I asked the box office guy which film they were seeing; and, of course, they bought tickets to Ghost Town. I walked in the small theater and tried to figure out where I could sit and avoid these cackling twits. Alas, I mistakenly chose to sit behind another young pair of twerps. You know the kind. When the film slows down, they’re ADHD seriously kicks in. At one point I said, “Please put your foot down,” which she lifted, blocking the screen. It’s all just a fucking tweenage wasteland. Audience aside, I really enjoyed the film. It was pretty funny in the beginning, the middle dragged a bit, but the end seriously moved me. I recommend seeing it.

I arrived at work for my last shift as a minimum wage manager. I said I would help out for the month and that has come to an end. From now on, any complaints I have about my job won’t have the rider “eight dollars an hour” attached. As the bar manager, I will be responsible for ordering and inventory. I did the latter last night. It’s not the most exciting job, standing in a hot storage room counting bottles, but it’s a living. At the end, I counted all the bottles in the room against the numbers on my sheet and the score was 421 to 412. I chalked up the disparity to some of the extra promo bottles and wine bottles on the shelves or I could've just done it wrong.

After dinner, I went upstairs to read. I’m digging Tom Friedman’s new book, “Hot, Flat, and Crowded.” As a man of leisure, when I’m sitting down, I like to put my feet up, except when I’m on the toilet, which would be pretty awkward, so I dragged over the other office chair and propped my feet up on the armrest. I took them down about twenty minutes later and felt some pretty decent pain in my left Achilles. I tried to walk it off and stretch it to no avail. Now there are very few times when I feel old, but hurting myself while reading is definitely one of those times. At that moment, I got a call from Kevin who had to run out for a minute and could I bartend. No problem. I limped down and got behind the bar. My Achilles hurt but it was nice to be making drinks.

At the end of the night, Kevin slid me some money across the table for jumping behind the bar. I refused. I have no problem with managers accepting tips when they help out behind the bar. Since bartenders tend to make more than managers, I feel it’s only fair. When I’m managing, I’m only there to help my employees build their stack. Kevin offered to take me to lunch instead which I accepted. Will he ever rue the day he offered to feed me. I’m taking it easy right now, icing my leg. Starting tomorrow night, I’ve got three shifts behind the bar which means twenty-six of the following sixty hours will most likely be on my feet. I pray that I don’t re-injure my Achilles heel.