The Birds And The Bees

I was once asked if there was anything that I don’t write about on my blog. I answered, “I don’t discuss chicks I bang.” Although, I do discuss my sex life hypothetically, sometimes. For instance, Tuesday I was riding the “loser cruiser,” “the train of shame,” yes, I was on the bus. Just behind me a twenty-something southern woman with bad skin was shouting a story into her cell phone. I kept turning around wanting to punch her in the hole, then she mentioned that she lived in a shelter. I don’t know if it was a homeless shelter, a shelter for battered women, or the “Tempura House” for lightly battered women. (Thank you, I’m here all week.) In any case, I’ve never banged any of those types of women. This got me kind of aroused. Now I won’t tell you if I had sex with her, but I will tell you about a couple who did have sex in my bar.

She’s a regular who drinks Chardonnay. She was on her third when I closed her out. She’s actually a sweet girl, who’s a mess. Her biggest flaw is that she has an on again/off again tumultuous relationship with the Hamburglar. I tried to engage her in conversation by mentioning that I saw “Star Trek” earlier in the day. (Liked it, wanted to love it, but am still thinking about why I didn’t.) Now this woman works in the film industry, but had no idea which film I was talking about. I’m not saying she was drunk but there are Bushmen living on the exurbs of the Kalahari who can logline that film in twenty-five clicks or less. He was a mild mannered guy sitting at table seven, working on his computer. I don’t know what made him get up and invite her to join him, but he probably figured that he didn’t need to use his last roofie. They sat together for a few minutes, then it was on. They were tongue jousting pretty vigorously, and at times it looked comical. Although I find it low rent, I will admit that I have found myself tongue wrestling at a bar on more than one occasion. But I’ve never done it at five-thirty in the afternoon. I guess they wanted to be discreet, because they grabbed their drinks then moved to the back room. A few minutes passed and it appeared they had left. They didn’t. They only made it into the former office, which is now an ante room or pantry, off the walk-in fridge. How did I know? Because one of the bartenders was taking turns with a cook peeping through the hole where the door knob once was. I gave it a gander, but not seeing much, moved on. I probably should’ve broken it up, but it doesn’t get any more awkward than cutting off another couple’s coitus, then closing out their check. Lucky for me, Gator walked in on them. According to Gator, “He was fucking her face.” I love Gator. Face fucker paid his tab and I couldn’t help but say, “I hope you had fun here at O’ Brien’s.”

I should just stop the blog here and now, because the night didn’t get any more interesting. There was one celebrity at table eight for several hours. I didn’t even recognize him. He ordered a Macallan 12 and half a Guinness. I gave my standard line, “I’ll serve a draft in a thimble, but it’s gonna cost the same.” He ordered a twenty-ouncer and stayed for two more. It’s so rare that we get celebrities at O’ Brien’s. With the exception of Smallville star, Cassidy Freeman, it’s rare that anyone of note comes in. I won’t tell you his name, but I will say he was in “Milk.” Happy hour was great. I can only thank the Lakers. I’m really split on working Lakers games. It always brings a great crowd, but I find my self shouting, “Fuck!” every fourteen seconds. I get a little tense during the game, to say the least. They finally won and I could take a break. The second half of the night started out slow. I was concerned that we were going to set a worst Friday night record, but people started to show up. I don’t know if it was the band, “Wires in the Walls,” who are really good, but we had some great customers. Although there was the one douche bag who came up to the bar, began to drum on it (one of six thousand pet peeves), then reached into the garnish tray (oh, no, you did-ent.) I shouted, “Get your fucking hand out of there!” I probably could’ve handled it differently and don’t believe he stuck around, but there are rules at the bar and they have to be taught some how. I find shouting works best.

I’m off to the L.A. BBQ Fest now. I’m gonna load up on meat, if you know wha mean. Keep an eye out for my soon to be released DVD: “Colon of Steel.” Although I look around and see all my friends having kids, I feel like a parent, because I got to tell the story of two people fucking in a back room at a bar, or as I like to call it, the story of the birds and the bees.