Valentine's Day

After a craptastic Friday night, I figured people were just boning up for Saturday, which, coincidentally, was the most obnoxious holiday in the calendar, Valentine’s Day. I don’t understand why florists and restauranteurs feel that they can gouge the public just because Hallmark told them so. Last year Valentine’s Day was on a Thursday and I do recall a pretty good crowd at the bar. Although the holiday is geared towards couples, I feel that a lot of singles, women especially, are emboldened by Hallmark throwing down the gauntlet. Many of my single girlfriends over the years have donned black, gathered in packs, and collectively said, “I don’t give a shit what you say about being single, Hallmark! I’m going out and contracting a venereal disease.” Alas, this year was not the case.

I figured it would be the reverse of Friday night, slow happy hour, busy late night. Lucky for me, it was a busy happy hour. I was concerned going into the shift since it’s the weekend of the NBA All-Star game. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a professional sporting event to be found. Not that sporting events are the only reason people come into O’ Brien’s, but it does keep people’s attentions. Thank God, we had something everyone could watch all night long: the heath department’s “A” rating. I tried to point it out to customers but they were too busy watching the replay of the 1978 Slam Dunk competition where Dr. J got his afro caught in the rim. There was a good crowd for happy hour and the douche bags/ass clowns of the night turned out to be women. Three of them came in shouting something about O’ Brien’s on Wilshire. How much they loved it. How great the service is. Blah, blah, blah. When I hear about another bar’s superior service, the smile falls off my face. I just want to crap in their Stella. Something about being compared to someone or some place a customer loves makes me want to say to them, “Excellent. I guess I can only go down from here.” It’s like being on a first date and all you hear about is how great their ex was. In any case, these women double fisted in honor of happy hour ending soon. They were pretty loud, the kind of customers who make other customers roll their eyes. They were pretty harmless, but one of them got hammered. They hooked up with three dudes at the next table who fed them shots. In fact, one of the dudes ordered shots from Kimi. Kimi asked who they were for, since she was concerned about the drunkest of the three ladies. The dude lied and gave the drunk girl a shot. I told her friends to keep an eye on her. “What’s wrong?” one asked. “She’s gonna get raped,” I responded. In honor of their friend’s inebriation, the ladies left, soon there after.

There was a decent crowd up until about ten-thirty. I figured this was the beginning of the monster night. I was wrong. An hour later I wondered whether the great depression of 2009 had finally come to Main Street. Just before midnight, Tim said we’d get hit in fifteen minutes. Well if he isn’t the oracle of the West side, I don’t know who is. We did get hit. Unfortunately, it wasn’t sustained. It seemed to be busy for five minutes at a time. It wasn’t as long a night as Friday was, but it took its time ending. (Friday night was interminable.) In any case, the credit card system went down. I ran upstairs and reset the computer. Waiting for the computer to restart, the pole dancer from next door came up to change. It was difficult to maintain my cool, while my erection was pressing up against my asbestos trousers. With my back towards her, I side stepped out of the office, wishing her a “good night,” while my voice cracked like Peter Brady’s, going through puberty. I got downstairs to help close up, which is when shit got weird.

I don’t really know what a bloody Valentine is, but I’m sure this night came close. For some reason, three different pairs of employees got into verbal altercations, myself included. The irony is that my altercation was with the nicest person at O’ Brien’s, Gator. He’s the only person who can show up to work and announce that he’s pissed off, and have a smile on his face. I don’t know how our argument escalated but it did. I liken it to one of those first dates where you’re making out, doing some light petting, then two minutes later you’re fucking so hard that you’ve shattered her pelvis. You know what I’m talking about, right? Right? Is this thing on? (Maybe it’s just me, but I thought it was an apropos analogy for a Valentine’s Day blog.) In any case, Gator and I went outside and the whole thing was diffused faster than it escalated. Maybe I’ve lived in Los Angeles too long, but when I got home, I got on the internet and, yes, mercury is in retrograde. Please, don’t ask me what it means, I just make the drinks. All I know is that anytime something isn’t going right for one of my spinning or yoga instructors, “mercury in retrograde” is usually the reason why. Just once I’d love to hear them say, “Lack of personal responsibility.” But that’s neither here nor there. I thought it would be a busy night. I was wrong. Damn you, Valentine’s Day.