Unocal

Tuesday night I realized that my headlights were out. I was surprised that they both went out at the same time, until someone mentioned that one had been out for a while. I’m always the last to know. On Wednesday I pulled up to my service station, Unocal on 26th and Wilshire, only to find that they were gone. When an employee of the gas station told me that their lease was up, my sphincter tightened. I’m not very good with change and I loved my mechanics. They weren’t cheap, but they were always honest. The next closest station is the Unocal on 26th and San Vicente. I was a little concerned since it’s a much higher rent district, but I packed up my wallet and took a chance.

Speaking of change, hypnosis is blowing my mind. I haven’t had the desire for a cigarette, nor the usual symptoms of withdrawal: eating fourteen times my body weight every twelve minutes, seizures, and just being a total prick. I take it back. I’m still a prick, but it has nothing to do with nicotine. What’s really freaking me out is that I haven’t smoked weed since Sunday night, either. I don’t know if I’d classify myself as an addict, but I can’t remember the last time that I was in Los Angeles, or surrounding areas, and did not consume pot in some way. I’m guessing it’s been years. Ten? Fifteen? I don’t know, all the weed has made my memory hazy. Now I never mentioned that I smoked pot to my hypnotist. And it’s not that I have an aversion to it, either. I just haven’t turned on my vaporizer, picked up a pipe, or eaten a cookie, jolly rancher, or caramel. So many vehicles, so little desire. I’m not saying I’m a quitter, because rehab is for quitters, but it’s an interesting byproduct of hypnosis.

On Wednesday I drove up to San Vicente and 26th to take my car in. They checked out my headlights and said I needed a new pair. The called me at home and told me it would be a hundred bucks installed. Done. After the gym on Thursday, I took my car back and dropped it off. I wanted an oil change, too. Robert, “The President” of the gas station, it says it on his card, introduced himself, which impressed me. I told him I wanted an oil change, as well. The mechanic mentioned it was fifty bucks, probably fifty percent more than my former mechanic three blocks away, but I didn’t care. It’s when the president tried to up sell me with a “special” oil change that I got concerned. Now when it comes to being up sold on beverages, I laugh, but if the guy has dirt under his finger nails and it involves something foreign to me, like my car, I’m an easy mark. Fine, do the two part oil change for a hundred bucks. At this point, I’m grabbing my ankles.

I went two doors over to Starbucks where I ordered a large iced coffee. For some reason, Starbucks charges more for iced coffee. I don’t know why. I figure since it’s mixed with ice, they use less of it. Peet’s has far superior coffee and charges the same. Who cares? I’m already lubing up my corn hole for the mechanic, might as well bury a twenty-ounce iced coffee in there while I’m at it. After a delightful ninety minutes of reading the paper in eighty degree weather, my car was done. I went over and on my receipt, it said, “Recommendations: Serpentine belt and A/C belt.” I don’t know about the former, but I was told the latter refers to “air conditioning,” an option I don’t have on my car. I was suspicious. President Robert told me that the serpentine belt has cracks in it, so I give my hamstrings another good stretch. He said it would take two hours and cost two hundred bucks. Since I’m made of money, I said sure. I figure my car’s value has gone up over four hundred percent this week with new rear tires, new headlights, and a sham oil change. Keep it coming. True to their word, the work was done in two hours for two hundred dollars.

I forgot to mention that Wednesday night, I stepped on the power cord to my laptop, breaking it off. After leaving Unocal, I stopped by the Mac Mall. Turns out I only had to replace the cord, which I got from a third party for half the price of an Apple model. It felt like a victory. I feel that I can trust my hypnotist and Mac Mall. We’ll see how my car runs. Hopefully, I can also trust Unocal.

Hypnosis

I made two resolutions for the New Year. The first one was to give up wheat, which didn’t start until the Second of January. My second resolution, to quit smoking, took over three weeks to put in motion. I quit smoking last February when I got sick. I figured if this what a cold feels like, I don’t want to feel lung cancer. I quit until August Fifteenth, the night we got shut down, when I cavalierly bummed a smoke from Gator, who said in his gravelly, Southern drawl, “North Carolina thanks you, Garber.” No, I never got an actual thank you note from the boys down on Tobacco Road, but after a hundred and sixty packs or so, I shouldn’t wait any longer for them to write.

I hadn’t thought about hypnosis until one Saturday night when I was having a smoke with a woman who raved about it for smoking cessation. Ironic, I know. She did quit and was an ardent supporter, something in her just started smoking again. I figured if it worked for this woman, briefly, who I didn’t know, maybe it would work for me. I found Dr. Nancy Irwin on the internet of all places. She was pretty much the only hypnotist I was considering until I heard that an acquaintance quit through hypnosis. Alas, his guy charged over five hundred, while my gal charged only three hundred. Yes, I can be quite frugal, and am a value shopper even when it comes to ending habits that can curtail my life by many years. In any case, I finally pulled the trigger and called Dr. Irwin last Tuesday. She sounded cool on the phone and offered to get me in that Friday, which was a little too soon for me. First of all, I didn’t feel comfortable going smoke free then working twenty of the next thirty-five hours. I’ve come inches from bludgeoning frat boys for taking a maraschino cherry out of the fruit tray, when I did have my fill of nicotine. Quitting on a Friday was not an option. Also, shouldn’t there be a long waiting list to get into see this lady? The other doctor I was considering supposedly had a three month back log of patients to see. I was concerned that maybe he was better. I put it aside and made an appointment for Monday at one o’ clock. Dr. Irwin left me with one piece of advice, “Between now and Monday, smoke your brains out.” Done and done.

After chain smoking for five days, I showed up for my appointment with one Parliament Light left. I filled out some paperwork and Dr. Nancy Irwin showed me into her office. I was to be there for two hours. The first hour or so, we discussed my smoking history (I started late and smoked on and off for ten years), the amount I smoke (I buy a pack a day, whether I smoke em’ all is another story), how the brain works (it’s mostly subconscious and easily persuaded: “These are not the droids you are looking for.”), and what hypnosis is (see previous.) After getting all that out of the way, it was time to party. I was sitting in a chair across from her desk. She asked me to turn the chair to the side and answer a series of questions. I can’t for the life of me remember the questions. (Luckily, none were about the consumption of fish semen.) They were yes or no, non-verbal responses. I only had to nod or shake my head. This helped her determine her approach. She asked me to picture my left hand in my mind’s eye. Then she mentioned that my eyelids would flutter, which they did, which made me laugh, which she said was okay. Phew. Then she tried to pull some Jedi mind trick on me about how my left arm was “light as a feather” and “held up by helium balloons.” She really wanted my left arm to rise. I almost shot it up just so we could move on to the stop smoking part. Instead, she moved on to my right arm. She came from around her desk and asked me to extend it and make a fist. After that she had me get up and moved me to a reclining chair. This is where the fun began. Occasionally, she would mention that I was going into a deep sleep and clap her hands, which scared the shit out of me the first time. I don’t remember much of what she said, but I was conscious the entire time. Towards the end she asked that I remember when I started smoking. She asked for verbal responses which were tough since I wasn’t fully awake making conversation a struggle. She did something where I was in a movie theater and watched my smoking life as a black and white film. Then as the projectionist I would rewind the film, losing frames along the way, then watch it again in color. It’s weird but the film seemed to disappear. At the end, she counted to five and I opened my eyes. My body felt super heavy, and not just cause I’m morbidly obese, but I seemed to be in a deep state of relaxation. She gave me a CD of the session which I have to listen to when I go to sleep every night.

I walked out feeling great. She seemed to instill some positivity into my subconscious. I did think about cigarettes but not in the “when am I’m gonna smoke my next one?”. It’s more like, “I’ve been without for two hours, I usually have one now.” I was feeling on top of the world until I realized that I had a flat tire. I pulled over at Centinela, north of Olympic, and called Triple A. Normally, the first thing I’d do is pull out a smoke and wait. Nope. The guy came out in fifteen minutes, filled my tire with air, and I drove it to Stokes Tire Pros. They talked me into a couple of new tires. I, also, picked up a new bedside clock radio with a CD player. My previous one I got in September of 1988 before going off to the college. I figured I could splurge on a new one after twenty years. I didn’t expect to drop nearly six hundred dollars in four hours (the clock radio was only fifty), but you never no where the day will take you.

One of the things that kept me from quitting this time was becoming a manager here at the bar. There are so many hours in the night and smoking a dozen cigs can kill at least one of those hours. It’s eleven-thirty and I haven’t had the desire to smoke. Also, the last time I quit, I couldn’t shove enough food in my mouth, but this time, I have no jones to binge. I’m not twelve hours into it, but so far I feel it was a good investment. If you’re trying to quit smoking, or if there’s anything you want to change, I would strongly suggest hypnosis.

Guest Bartenders

The first time I ever walked in to O’ Brien’s was a Tuesday night. Tuesday’s used to be guest bartender night. That night T.K. and Jimbo were behind the bar. I didn’t know them then, but we have since become good friends. The way it worked is that the bartender that night would let his friends bartend and he would keep the tips. Genius. Saturday night a guy offered us a hundred bucks to bartend for five minutes. He made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. Alas, that’s where the problem started.

I thought that Saturday would be better than Friday, but I had no idea it would be flat out amazing. We had the Santa Monica Rugby team in for their post-game party. Although I was told to expect a hundred, we got about half that. Either way, fifty people in the bar brings in an even bigger crowd. It never got crazy, but it was a great start. It was a relatively subdued rugby party. There was no singing, no boat races, and no shoot the boot. “Shoot the boot” is when a player scores their first try, similar to a touchdown in football, and must drink a beer out of their shoe. I don’t know what’s worse: drinking Bud Light or drinking it out of a sweaty, smelly shoe. At least the latter gives it some flavor. Even though the team gets a free beer for an hour and free food, I still sold three times more than I did the happy hour previous. I’d say it was a win win.

Aoife and Tim came on and I took my dinner break. While I was eating, the bar started to get busy. There were a couple of guys in plastic Viking helmets. One guy’s helmet had a horn pointing down. I don’t know if that means he’s into dudes, or what. But I was sitting with Jan, a regular, wondering why all the Viking helmets. Then a guy walked in and the place went ballistic. They all busted out with a round of “Happy Birthday.” I never found out the meaning of the helmets, but it didn’t seem to matter. I got behind the bar and there was a great crowd. We weren’t packed, but the noise level made it seem that way. My deafness betrayed me many times when I would look for customers’ tabs whose names I misunderstood. It was about ten-thirty when Aoife pointed out the guy who made us the offer we couldn’t refuse. I wanted to put a hundred bucks in the tip jar, but I was a little concerned because it was getting busy and having an extra person behind the bar who doesn’t know what he’s doing could be problematic. A half-hour later and a hundred bucks richer, he and a buddy, which wasn’t part of the deal, jumped behind the bar. They never handled any money and were supervised the whole time. The only problem was when one of them made shots and then proceeded to chug the rest from the shaker. I had to explain to him that he might see that behavior in biker movies, but we want to hang on to our “B” rating.

They were super nice guys and when their fifteen minutes of fame were up, they left quietly. The problem arose when one of the guys in their party closed out his tab and was stunned that it was two hundred and ten dollars. I had served two drinks on the tab and they were both to one of the guest bartenders. It turns out that many in his party were putting drinks on his tab. I ran out and got the guest bartender in question and tried to explain everything to the beyond irate customer. I wouldn’t call him a douche bag, because his anger was justified. Personally, I wouldn’t have gone so ballistic. It’s not like someone took his favorite spinning bike at the gym. The guest bartender copped to putting drinks on his tab and threw down a hundred bucks. I guess there was confusion with the guest bartenders because drinks for their party were put on said tab, and there was an impression that a bunch of guys from this party were together. I solved the problem by removing seventy-eight dollars worth of drinks. That plus the hundred that the guest bartender threw down left the infuriated customer with thirty-two dollars on his tab. It was a far smaller than even the drinks he consumed, but he was still really pissed off. We ended up taking the hundred from the guest bartending fee and put it against the drinks we pulled off. It turned out to be a wash. Oh, well.

After dealing with Captain Angry, all I wanted was a smoke, but we were too busy. I finally got it at the end of the shift. To get an idea of how busy it was is to look at how long Tim and I went without a cigarette. Yes, you guessed it, the entire time. Like I said, it was an amazing night. It was almost an easy hundred bucks, but next time, I’ll think twice about allowing guest bartenders.

From Dead To Slow

Kevin quoted an old bartender friend of his the other night saying, “A bartender makes his money in the last hour of the night.” Thank God for that last hour, because the first nine pretty much sucked. After ten days of eighty degree weather, rain finally hit Los Angeles. Of course, I had low expectations, since Angelenos tend to shy away from humidity higher than fifteen percent. On the bright side, there weren’t any douche bags, at least on the O’ Brien’s side.

There were six people in the bar when I came on. It wasn’t until six o’ clock that I served a new customer. Luckily, those in the bar were very generous, making happy hour almost average. I need to clarify when I said that there weren’t any douche bags. I don’t consider homeless people to be douche bags, but there was one annoying one. First of all, I hate homeless people. I know it isn’t politically correct to say, but living in Santa Monica I am constantly inundated with these pan handlers. Alas, the homeless problem can only be solved with housing and until that moment comes, I’m not gonna give them cigarettes or spare change. At about seven, one of the unwashed ventured on to the patio asking me for a cigarette, I responded politely, “No.” He kept asking and I kept repeating until I said, “Please leave.” This is when he told me, “Fleetwood Mac is coming to town and Stevie Nicks is my mom, so you’re in trouble.” This dirt bag was straight up crazy. I might change my definition, but I feel that one needs to at least be a couch surfer to be a douche bag.

Kevin and Aoife came on and it was pretty dead. One of our servers was under the weather so that meant more people coming to the bar. Thank God for swollen salivary glands. It’s funny how other people perceive the bar as being busy. I had two different customers say, “It’s a great night.” I had to correct them. It would’ve been a great Thursday, but it was a below average Friday. In fact, I was having a smoke with one of them, when they made the comment. I informed them that I wouldn’t be blackening my lungs at midnight if it were a “great night.” A couple of friends of mine from New York, Fred Gillen and Matt Turk, are on tour and they stopped by the bar. I saw them play Thursday night and they were amazing. If you want to support great independent musicians, click on Gillen and Turk. Speaking of great music, The Automatics played. And, although, they don’t bring much of a crowd, it’s a treat to hear them play the entire album of The Who’s Tommy.

We were finishing up when Gator remarked how after the police showed up last Friday and Saturday at Main, it was a victory that there was no police action tonight. Ten minutes later, I got a text from Gator saying, “I spoke too soon.” I went outside and saw the flashing lights. Turns out one of the bouncers took a drink from a customer while closing up and the customer sucker punched him in the back of the head. He was taken to jail and the bouncer will press charges. I’m thinking of putting up one of those signs that factories have for number of accident free days, except this one will say, “____ Days Since Police Have Shown Up.” We are trying to nip this in the bud before it becomes a problem. As of now, we have security and enforce a dress code, but when you have a hot blonde chick breaking a bottle on another woman’s head, one has to wonder if there isn’t something in the ether that is causing evolution to work in reverse.

I know Saturday will be a far better night. There’s a big rugby party right when I start my shift. There’s supposed to be a hundred people and, as usual, a busy bar feeds on itself. Hopefully, this momentum will carry on through the night, because it can’t be worse than Friday which went from dead to slow.

From Cruising To Dead

I used to be a shift whore. Any time someone wanted me to cover, I would do it. A couple of times I worked Thursday to Sunday from four-thirty til close. Forty hours in four days is definitely the path to burn out. I haven’t had as many opportunities to cover, as of late, but I haven’t had as much of a desire, either. When Nicole asked me if I wanted to bartend with Kevin on Sunday, the day before M.L.K.’s birthday, I hesitated, but figured, why not?

I spent Sunday afternoon at a friend’s house, smoking weed and watching football. I don’t go to work high, but after taking my last toke at three-thirty, I feared that I wouldn’t come down in time. I got to work at six and after an iced coffee, I was sober. I walked in and the bar was packed with kick ballers. I don’t know how vigorous the sport is but I was immediately hit with a wall of b.o. Hey, as long as they pack the place, I don’t care if they all shit their pants. Kimi was supposed to work until eight-thirty, but since she had April’s going away party, she asked if I could come on an hour early. Since I was already there, it wasn’t a problem. I’m glad I did, because one customer tipped me ten bucks on a ten dollar car bomb, then forty on two cocktails. I never want to look a gift horse in the mouth but I had to say, “This is too much.” He responded that it wasn’t and who was I to argue?

Kevin came on at eight-thirty and there was a decent crowd. Any time I’m added as an extra bartender on someone else’s shift, I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I have my shifts and I don’t want to take money out of anyone’s pockets. At ten-fifteen, it seemed slow enough that I would just leave. I told Kevin my plan, when we got a pop. I stuck around but I really wanted to leave. First of all, this was Kevin’s shift. Second, I had internet porn to watch upstairs. It slowed down enough and I told Kevin that I wanted to leave. He informed me, “I had a big night (drinking) last night and I just want to cruise.” Then he added, “What are you drinking?” So that’s how it was gonna be. I poured myself a Ketel One, rocks, twist, and we cruised. We alternated our fifteen minute cigarette breaks. After eleven, it wasn’t busy enough for two bartenders, but if he wanted to cruise, I was all in. I must say, the night took forever to end. We had some cool customers, which, of course, means no douche bags. If Sunday night was a cruise, Monday and Tuesday resembled a morgue.

Tuesday wasn’t much better, but Monday was an unqualified abortion. I came down from the office around midnight and there were five people in the bar. It wasn’t just our bar. Finn McCool’s closed at ten. Again, Monday from what I could tell, was douche bag free. Now Tuesday was a different story. Some people expected it to be busy since we have a new president in office. It wasn’t the case. I guess we could’ve tried to throw some sort of party, but it’s not like election night, which was more like a sporting event, where everyone was on pins and needles waiting for the result. The inauguration was a great speech from nine to nine-thirty, then some dopey poem, which was embarrassing after listening to President Obama. In any case, I got a call at midnight from Craig that he was downstairs. We sat down on the patio for a smoke when I spotted him. The douche bag drought had finally ended. Kevin said he was rapping earlier and butchered the word “inauguration.” Kevin named him “DJ Cunt.” It’s got a nice ring to it. DJ Cunt is one of those customers who’s always in your face. He suffers from high self-esteem and a high threshold for purchasing cigarettes, since he seemed to always be bumming from people. He sidled up a table of two grunge muffins with backpacks. I can’t tell the difference between the homeless and campers, but these guys were a little of both. They seemed to be amused by DJ Cunt. He was way too loud, but since the homeless campers enjoyed his company, I figured they could have him.

Overall, Sunday was a huge day, while Monday and Tuesday were brutal. I’m hoping it’s just a blip, because I don’t know how long we can survive with single digit crowds. I’m not too concerned. It is the slow time of the year, but, still, in three days we went from cruising to dead.

Bottle To The Head

Growing up in the cozy enclave of Beverly Hills, I was constantly reading about the ongoing gang war between Crips and Bloods just a few miles away. Although there was a drive-by in Westwood Village, I never felt threatened in any way. But I was always conscious of the fact that anyone could be carrying a gun and any altercation could escalate out of control. A young woman learned that lesson Saturday night at Main, when some shit talking back and forth, led to a woman smashing a Corona bottle on the young woman’s face.

I thought Saturday night was gonna be bigger than Friday. Was I ever wrong. Thank God for happy hour. We sponsor the Santa Monica rugby club and the women’s team came in after a game versus San Luis Obispo. I love that we sponsor the Rugby team. It means that many Saturdays in the winter and spring we have a good sized crowd that ends up building an even bigger crowd. I played rugby for a couple of years in college. Aside from the drinking and occasional game, singing was a big part of it. The songs veer toward the crude, crass, and all around disgusting. It was my favorite part of the sport. The women had a song session and; although, they sing the same low brow songs, they do have lovely voices. It was a pleasure to hear them harmonize lyrics like “Who can take a glass rod and shove it in his cock? Put it on a table and smash it with a rock. The S & M man. The S & M man.” Aside from the lady ruggers, there was a great crowd, some big drinkers and great tippers. Alas, the douche bags of the night reared their ugly heads. I don’t know their names but they came in with a regular, Brendan. Now, Brendan is a super cool guy, his friends most definitely were not. I guess they’d been drinking for the past seven hours or so. Some people can handle it, these guys became douche bags. One of the douchers tried to wrest Brendan’s drink from him, which I put a stop to. When Mary-Kate came on, they directed their charm towards her. I don’t know what they said, but I let her know that if they bothered her at all, they’d be gone. I cut them off after two rounds. Brendan apologized and they left. The shift ended with me waiting to close out a couple of big tables and by the end of happy hour I had made a grip.

As all good things must come to pass, and the same can be said for the crowd at O’ Brien’s. There was a decent crowd for a while, but it dwindled. Main had five parties of twenty people each, which means that they started off half-full from the get go. Every time I went out for a smoke, it seemed like Main was the only show in town. I was concerned since the street was pretty empty. Unfortunately, the band neither brought much of a crowd, nor kept one. The decent crowd was in from eleven-thirty until one. It must’ve been twenty after one, when I saw the red lights reflecting off the bar wall. Since we weren’t too busy, I went to check it out. The entire patio was looking across the street. I saw a small Latina who I thought was, Jen, one of our regulars standing on the corner, with her were two bouncers and a few cops. There must’ve been three cop cars outside and a police SUV screaming down the street. All I had heard was that there had been a girl fight. I went across the street to get a closer look. When the young Latina turned around, I saw that her face was covered with blood. As I mentioned before, apparently she got into it with another girl and the other girl took a bottle to her face. The bottle swinger took off, being chased by the bloodied girl. The cops saw what took place and apprehended the one trying to flee the scene. The bloodied girl asked her friend, “Does it look bad?” Oh, yes, it looked bad. I mean nothing twenty stitches couldn’t fix, but it’ll leave a scar.

I spent the next fifteen minutes up in the office playing A/V guy for a police officer. We watched the security tape only to determine that the quality was too poor to make anything out. I asked the officer what is going on in the world where an argument escalates to a glassing in a matter of seconds. I wondered whether it was the economy putting people on edge or if the same people are just becoming more stupid. He thought it was the latter. He didn’t feel it was anything we were doing wrong. He just said, “You mix alcohol and big crowds and this is what you get.” I didn’t get a good look at her, but the one swinging the Corona was supposed to be super hot. I guess you never who’s gonna go off. I don’t believe the girl deserved to get glassed in the face, but I do believe that some people have big mouths and need them shut. I guess she learned her lesson. In any case, watch who you mouth off to, you might get a bottle to the head.

I Ate Semen

It was only fish semen, as if that’s any better. Julie and I went to Echigo on Thursday night. We sat at the bar, where they serve omakase, chef’s choice. After ending with the unbelievable crab hand roll, we were free to order what we wanted. I went straight to the specials board. I can’t remember the first thing I ordered but the second was shirako. There was a woman, Jillana, sitting a couple of seats over, dining with her father and brother, who explained what it is. The chef, Toshi, told me it was seasonal. Jillana compared it to halibut fin and uni. She said it looked like brain. Since I’ll eat anything that casts a shadow, I went for it. I ate it too quickly, it was still hot. It was far creamier than I expected. Afterwards, coincidentally, I went for a smoke. When I returned, Jillana ordered a piece for herself. After she ate it, her father remarked, “I guess you can’t say you don’t swallow.” It was easily the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard a parent say to a child. It was then that I was told what I had eaten. Does this make me gay, or just fish gay? I’m really not sure why it’s seasonal. Do fish only fill up their scrotums once a year? So many questions, which will probably never be answered. In any case, I won’t be ordered fish cum in the near future.

Friday night wasn’t very remarkable. My happy hour started slow and never really got busy. Tim and Kimi came on and at one point Kimi asked Tim, “Will it pick up?” Luckily, at around ten-thirty it did. There were two douche bags of the night, Jr. and Douche Jr. Jr. seemed like a cool guy. He first paid cash, then opened up a tab. Douche Jr., at around nine, asked why it was so slow. Where were the ladies? Douche Jr. informed me that he was single and looking for love. Jr. bought shots for any lady who came around and there were many ladies. Of course, Douche Jr. had no game. Why is it always the ones who talk a big game, end up having none? I mentioned that Jr. started off as a cool guy, but the drunker he got the louder his shouts became. Whenever he needed a drink he would yell, “Yo!” and I no more than four feet away. No bartender likes to be shouted at, but this guy was ringing up a hefty bill, so I let it slide. At the end of the night, his tab was one ninety-eight. Tim ran his card and it was declined. That earned him douche bag of the night. What transpired next was awesome. Tim confronted him. Jr. ponied up a bunch of cash. Tim took it and put sixty on the card. Jr. tipped us twenty on the card and most likely unbeknownst to him, forty in cash. Douche Jr. ordered a round from Erin, a server, and since Jr.’s card was rejected, they couldn’t pay. Erin took back the drinks, and; although, I didn’t ask, I’m sure she would knight them douche bags of the night, too.

There were a few other characters, too. There was a bachelor party. We get the occasional bachelorette party, but rarely bachelor. They were well behaved and tipped well, but they got a bit maudlin. I was serving some customers when I heard one of the bachelor party say, “You’re getting married. Your life’s gonna change. You’re getting married.” The phrase, “you’re getting married” was repeated many times. I thought I was listening to a bad episode of Sex and the City. I commented to a customer, “I think they’re gonna make out.” Thank God, they didn’t. Then there was the one woman who insisted on calling me Tim. She’s been doing it for a couple of months and I’ve tried to correct her to no avail. There was, also, the woman who was shocked that a twenty-ounce beer cost seven dollars. All I could say was, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Ironically, her name was Toto.

It turned out to be a decent night. I expected it to be slow and Saturday to be busy. I guess I’ll find out tonight. In any case, I just pray that in no time soon, do I repeat the words, “I ate semen.”

Benetton Douche Bags

It’s amazing how a day can change over the course of sixteen hours. Monday was cleaning day. I got there early, cranked up the tunes, and got to work. I was soon joined by my colleagues. I’ve mentioned before that cleaning isn’t my forte, and I don’t enjoy setting my alarm after working late, but it was a blast. Too bad that night had, and ended with, an international melange of douchery.

It’s rare that all five bartenders are together. It’s not something that crossed my mind until yesterday. It was actually a lot of fun. We hung out, chatted, sang, all the while beautifying the bar. We weren’t too far into the cleaning when I heard the scream. It was bloodcurdling. It came from Mary-Kate and my first thought was, “Oh, shit. We have rats.” A few seconds later she came in the room beaming. It turns out our little Mary-Kate booked her first national commercial. I don’t know what made me happier, the fact that we don’t have rats or that Mary-Kate will be on TV. I’m gonna go with the former, not because I don’t wish MK well. It’s just that acting is a tough gig. I kind of compare it to a toxic, malignant, bitch goddess of a girlfriend, who every year or two gives you such an amazing blow job that for several minutes after you’re still pulling the fitted sheet out of your ass. In any case, it’s an amazing way to start the new year. I wish her all the luck in the world.

Tim had lunch plans with his Dad and Kimi had to work, so Nicole, Gator, Kevin, Aoife, and I went to lunch at the Library Ale House. People love the Library. I’m not such a huge fan. First of all, I don’t care for beer bars. The Library has a lovely patio and some of their food is good, but I don’t seek it out. I ordered fourth and got the Jerk Chicken. Gator followed with the same. There was a time when I would’ve changed my order, because I used to believe that everyone at the table should order something different. It was part of my last supper mentality. If it were to be my last meal, I’d want to taste everything, but hours of therapy each morning has caused me to evolve into the semi-flexible curmudgeon that I am today. My jerk chicken tasted like, you guessed it, chicken. I buried my head in the plate, not speaking until Aoife asked, “How is your food, David?” I stopped chewing long enough to grunt. It was good. When we got up to leave, the place was packed, which caused me to remark, “So this is where our lunch business is.”

After spending the hot, sunny afternoon on the couch watching 24, I came back to work. My buddy Craig was there having a beer with his friend Joe. It’s twelve days into January and we’re sitting outside in jeans and t-shirts, living the dream. Lindsay, who works next door, joined us, then my friend Shari came by. I went to the bar to get us some drinks and Kevin was pouring a couple of shots of Zwack, something he found in the fridge. I asked if it tastes like Jaeger, because I’m not a fan of Jaeger. “No,” Kevin assured me and poured me a shot. I should’ve known Kevin was lying because his lips were moving. Yes, it tasted like Jaeger. Ugh! Chalk one up for Kevin. Shari and I went off campus for dinner. We drove all around looking for a place to eat and ended up two blocks from where Shari lives at Hurry Curry. Turns out our waiter lives in Shari’s building and he hooked us up with a couple of bowls of soup: corn chowder and lobster bisque. The corn chowder was good, but the lobster bisque was amazing. It’s not something I would’ve ordered at a place that specializes in Japanese Curry, but it blew me away.

Back at the bar, I was hanging out with a couple of new, regulars: Brendan and Bree, when the first of the international douche bags picked up Brendan’s drink and took a sip. My first assumption was that Brendan knew this guy, who sounded Israeli, but turned out to be Russian. Brendan said he didn’t really know him but it wasn’t a big deal. A valuable lesson I learned at Swinger’s was to deny service to douche bags. Something in me wants to give them a second chance, but usually they fuck up even worse later. I let the guy stay and he left soon thereafter without any incident. The rest of the panoply of foreign douche reared their nozzled heads at the end of the night. They were four tour operators from Ireland. It was way past last call and the bouncer was really lenient with them. At about four minutes til two, I said, “Sorry, guys, I’m gonna have to take your drinks.” I approached the biggest one who said, “You’re not touching my drink.” I don’t make enough money to forcibly remove a beverage from some mouth-breathing, knuckle dragging, third-world dwelling, neanderthal so I threatened to call the cops. When I realized that I didn’t have their number, I asked Kevin to use his charm. He informed the vaginal cleansers that we were closing up and they had to go. They had all finished their drinks, but one guy refused to leave. He claimed, “You’re treating us like second class citizens.” I don’t know what it is about landing at LAX that brings out people’s entitlement issues. Maybe he thought that since he was the same ethnicity as the bar that the rules didn’t apply to him. Personally, I don’t go into Jewish bars expecting different treatment. Oops, I almost forgot, the chosen people don’t institutionalize alcoholism. Now when Obama legalizes marijuana, I’m sure you’ll see a chain of Rosenberg’s Smokatoriums spring up overnight.  And I won’t care what time they close, but they’ll have to pry the bong from my cold, dead hand.

Monday morning I was loving my bar family, early Tuesday morning I wanted to take a lead pipe to the skull of some bar douche. What a difference sixteen hours makes. I went from hanging out with friends I love to hanging out with Benetton douche bags.

Pay Your Tab!

It was just an ordinary Saturday during the slow time of the year. Kevin, Tim, and I, three tons of fun, were set to bartend for the third time in a year. I figured we’d spend the night shouting, “My turn!” then go out and curtail our young lives smoking, with the hopes that once we lit our cigarette, a crowd would burst through the doors. There must’ve been something in the air, because there was no time to smoke. We were slammed.

The douche bag of the night was at the bar when I got there. I’ve known D.B. for years and always thought he was a cool guy. When it was time to pay his tab, D.B. informed me that he left his credit card at the Speak Easy, a bar on Pico and 14th and could he pay his tab tomorrow. I told him, “No. Drive over to the Speak Easy. Get your card and come back.” Since the Speak Easy is 2.4 miles from O’ Brien’s, I thought it was a done deal. I was wrong. D.B. told me that he just wanted to go home lay on the couch and watch basketball. What? Are you kidding me? This is a business, like any other. D.B. drank, ate, and ordered food to go, but decided that he didn’t need to pay that day. The truth is, D.B. plays in a band at O’ Brien’s once a month, so i know I’ll see him again, but that’s not the point. Where does someone get off thinking they can’t waste a few minutes on a Saturday afternoon making a five mile round trip to pay their bill? It’s a funny thing how a regular customer feels the rules don’t apply to them. For instance, last week a customer was sitting at a booth and put his foot up on the booth. The bartender asked him to take his foot off the furniture. This douche bag put his other foot up. They exchanged words and the douche bag said that he’s a) a cop, b) knows the owners, and c) has been at O’ Brien’s since it opened. Now does his occupation and history with the bar give him the right to disrespect the place? I don’t think so. In any case, D.B. left without paying his tab and didn’t come in Sunday, either. D.B. is easily the douche bag of the night.

Although my shift was off to a rocky start with D.B., it was nice getting the douche bag of the night award out of the way. Next door, Main had a party scheduled for a hundred and fifty people, so I figured their night would blow up and ours would just blow. Maybe it was the band or the line caused by Main, but we got busy earl. It started at around ten-thirty and didn’t stop until last call. Anytime someone asks for a beer we don’t have, Coors Light, for example, I list off the beers we do have. On Saturday night it went like this, “What can I get you?” “Coors Light” “Bud Light, Miller Lite, or Amstel Light.” “Coors Light” “We don’t sell Coors Light.” The customer then held up a bottle of Coors Light. Now, normally, if I see a customer holding a beer we don’t sell, I throw them out. But I did happen to notice that there were two bottles in the cooler. I’ve already looked like a total asshole, telling a customer we don’t sell a beer which he just bought from us, so I checked in the cooler. No Coors Light. I turned and repeated, “Bud Light, Miller Lite, or Amstel Light.” I still felt like an asshole.

It turned out to be the biggest Saturday in at least a month. I have no idea why, but I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. I hated to start the shift explaining to a man, older than myself, that we run a business where we exchange goods and services for money. This seems to be lost on D.B. I can’t wait until the next time I see him. My first words will be, “Pay your tab!”

6000

On January 10th, 2009 my 6000th reader logged in at 3:26 p.m. from Los Angeles, CA using Sprint PCS. It took me 34 days and 16 posts to get from 5000 to 6000. I just want to take this time to thank all my readers. Please continue to read and spread the word.

Thank you,

David Garber

2:30

My losing streak for films extended to six. I saw Revolutionary Road this week and wasn’t a fan. It was way too much melodrama. Mad Men is a far more entertaining view of the time period and the dissolution of the American dream. On Wednesday I saw Gran Torino which I really enjoyed. Although I understand why people don’t like it, in fact, I was disappointed by the ending, watching Clint play the bad ass for the last role of his life was seriously good times. The last film I saw this week was The Reader. Kate Winslet should win best actress and Ralph Fiennes should be nominated. I liked the film but wanted to love it. I was left feeling a little empty by the end. Alright, enough with the film reviews, let’s talk douche bags.

Happy hour started dead, but turned out alright. Paul, easily the douche bag of the night, walked in asking customers to bum a smoke. I don’t appreciate when one customer bothers another. It’s inevitable in the bar business. Paul asked me for a smoke. I asked, “Are you a customer?” “Yes,” he assured me. He ordered a cider and proceeded to talk to everyone at the bar. When a customer behaves like this, my sphincter immediately constricts. I feel it’s my job to keep an eye on these idiots in case they step over the line. My litmus test was when Paul spoke to Sean and Audra. Sean told me that the brief conversation could’ve gone bad, but they were able to laugh it off. When one customer offered to buy him a drink, I informed him that Paul was done. How do I remember Paul’s name? He introduced himself to me four times. Douche Bag.

I wasn’t feeling great later in the evening. I feared that I was coming down with the same thing everyone else seems to have. Aoife gave my some over the counter Irish Tylenol with codeine. It definitely helped, but my energy was low. Ironically, I believe I was a better bartender because of it. It put me in a really zen place. I had the benefit of experiencing, the rarely seen in the wild, female douche bag. She screeched out her order of a Stella and three shots of Patron, then threw her credit card at me. Although I didn’t seek it out, I got a lot of sympathy. In fact, one woman got up in her grill about her behavior. The benefit of this incident is that both parties tipped well. The best tip of the night turned out to be accidental. A woman ordered a Jack and coke, Stella, and sugar-free Red Bull for a grand total of seventeen-fifty. She took out a fifty and fifty cents When I returned with her change, she was gone. I guess she thought she gave me a twenty. Sweet! I rarely confront customers about shitty tips, but one Indian guy, Slurpee not Casino, ordered a Captain Morgan and coke, vodka tonic, Jack and Diet, vodka Red Bull, three hefeweizens, and two SoCo lime shots. The total was sixty-eight dollars. He closed out his card. I picked up the check presenter and saw the two dollar tip he left. “Rajneesh!” (Not his real name) “Did I forget something?” “Two dollars on that order? Really?” He ended up throwing three singles in. It was a thrill compelling a customer to boost his tip from three percent to seven. Yes, I do have mad skills.

The low point of the evening came late. I was chewing gum when the crunch of metal reverberated through my skull. I tried to recount what I ate all day. Did I consume any alloys? None that I could remember. I took out the piece of gum and stuck to it was a cap/crown/filling. It freaked me out more than caused me pain. That was until I took a swig of cold water, which felt someone jamming an icicle into my gums. Since I don’t have dental insurance, I saved the cap/crown/filling, in case I need to glue it back in. Who really needs a dentist?

Of course, the night wasn’t all bad. There were some great customers. My favorite were the three who fawned over me, begging me to never not serve them. I ended up buying them a round. Remember customers: flattery will get you everywhere. In case you’re curious about the title of this post, it’s the punch line to a bad joke. What time does a Chinaman go to the dentist? You guessed it. Tooth hurty.

Busted

I’m not a spiritual person, but I do believe that karma can be a bitch. There have been three times in my life where someone broke the law, in order to get by me, and got caught immediately. Once a woman ran a stop sign when it was my turn to go. Cop blew her up. Another time someone passed me from the “right turn only” lane. Done. A few weeks ago, I was crossing Main Street in the crosswalk when a car drove through. I cheered as the cop chased him down. Last night had nothing to do with me. I was merely a bystander, but it was good to see some good old fashioned karmic retribution.

I’ve only seen “J,” as in Jack Ass, Jammy Rag, Jerk Off, etc., a handful of times in the bar, but in those few times I have deduced that this guy is a total asshole. The first time I noticed J must’ve been in September. He’d followed my boss, Nicole, and her friend, Karen, from Rick’s, where I understand he yelled at the bartender about religion, always a good subject to bring up at a bar. I don’t particularly remember his demeanor but it was poor enough that I remembered him. Sunday night, after a lovely farewell dinner for my sister, I retired to the office. I came downstairs at around one-fifteen. J, who is probably in his early forties, was arguing with some kid half his age. I couldn’t tell you what the argument was about but I remember the kid saying, “What are your sales? A million? Two million?” I definitely came in too late to make heads or tails of it. One of our door guys got in the middle and told them to walk away, which they did. I turned my back for two minutes and when I turned around a lovely, young lady pushed J in the chest sending him back. I have no idea what he said, but at this point the bouncers asked J to leave.

J was not going quietly. Rarely, do bouncers use force to make a customer leave and this was no exception. J made it to the patio when he began to resist. “Why you gotta push me?” J asked the bouncers. They did not push him. They may have had their hands on him, guiding him towards the exit, but there was no pushing. As J finally made it to the sidewalk, a customer said, “When the bouncers ask you to leave, you should leave.” J was having none of this. He yelled at the customer to step outside. They exchanged a few words and J charged back onto the patio, meeting the wall which was Rodney and Mec. Since I was so entranced by the altercation, I didn’t see the Po Po creep up on the sidewalk. The officer had his taser in hand. With the laser sighting locked on J’s chest, the officer shouted, “Sit down on the curb.” J asked, “What did I do?” The officer repeated, “Sit down on the curb.” The taser was on him the entire time. J chose to turn and face the light post. He put his hands on it. The officer made him spread his legs, then he cuffed him. Someone heard J say, “I’m a lawyer.” All I heard him repeat was, “What did I do?” They put J in the back seat, when one of the local Venice grunge monkeys ran over to the cop. Now I don’t know how this woman knew J, but she said, “Officer, this guy is the most together guy I know.” I was shocked. The officer informed her that they were just gonna let J sleep it off at the station. The grunge monkey repeated, “He’s the most together guy I know.” I responded, “That guy’s an asshole.” “Yes,” was all she said. Quite the character witness, that one.

While closing up, one of the bouncers mentioned that he’s played basketball with J; and, funny enough, J’s been punched in the face many times at said games. The irony is that I don’t believe J was even drunk. J just seems to have some serious anger issues. I know people who thrive on being argumentative and combative. Shit, I’m one of em’. But you have to know when to walk away. If someone, whose job it is to maintain security, is asking you to leave, then you should probably leave. But J chose not to and karma reared it’s ugly head. Like I said I’m not spiritual, but I do believe that what you do in this life will certainly come back to haunt you. And you, J, got busted.

Slow Weekends

I have an amazing memory. I remind people of things they said or did years ago. I remember many of my failures with a shudder. But for some reason, I forget how slow the bar can be after the holidays. With New Year’s Eve only two days prior and people still licking their wounds, I didn’t expect it to rain money. It just makes it that much harder to deal with douche bags; and, yes, there were a few.

Friday’s douche bag award goes to the bar golf losers. For the uninitiated, bar golf is where a bunch of dip shits dress up in golf attire and do a pub crawl. What differentiates this from an ordinary pub crawl is that these serial date rapists keep score of their alcohol consumption. For instance, if a person can chug a beer, their score is one stroke, while if one takes two tries, that’s scored as two strokes, and so on. I didn’t have the pleasure of serving these jerk-offs, that luxury fell to Kimi. Aside from being loud and obnoxious, they didn’t tip. For those unaware, three dollars is not a sufficient tip for eight pints of Guinness. Of course, cheapness does not warrant the douche bag of the night award. What sealed the deal was that they broke several glasses during their douche off.

Saturday’s douche bag award went to a new comer. How could I tell? Because after he plucked a cherry from the fruit tray (one of the seven mortal bar sins), he told me he was new to town. He ordered two vodka and red bull. I asked if he wanted to start a tab. No, he wanted me to close him out. After a couple of minutes, I picked up the check presenter. The credit card was removed but the check wasn’t signed. I said, “Could you please sign the credit card slip?” “Sure,” he replied. A couple minutes had passed and Aoife was asking him where the slip had gone. Instead of signing and returning it, he must’ve crumpled it up. We reprinted the credit card slip and he signed it, no tip. Aoife and I alerted Tim not to serve the bald cunt in the green shirt. It’s really amazing how in one meeting a person can come off as such an asshole. In one transaction, he ate from the fruit tray, got rid of his credit card slip, and then stiffed us. He later came up to Tim to ask a question. Tim walked away saying, “You’re getting nothing from me.” Turns out he just wanted a “To-Go” cup. Nothing like trying to violate our liquor license just to take away the drink he refused to tip on.

Believe me, it wasn’t all bad. There were far more stars than turds. First of all, my sister set a record for a non-United Kingdom resident spending her vacation at O’ Brien’s, eleven days. It was a blast having her in. Last Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday Lindy burned the midnight oil with me and woke up Sunday feeling under the weather. I want to make her a t-shirt, “I spent my winter vacation at my brother’s bar and I all got was the flu.” Hey, it beats the chlamydia most women get. The two biggest stars were Martha Bane and Jamie Dailey. They came in Saturday happy hour and were unbelievably generous. In fact, they made my night. Some people wonder why I work happy hour after three years and it’s because it can be the difference between a great night and a mediocre one.

We’ve been on a four-month tear and as the saying goes, “This too shall pass.” As most people, over ate, over drank, and over spent for the holidays, they tend to make resolutions which will most likely keep them out of the bar. I even made two resolutions: 1) stop eating wheat (done), and 2) stop smoking (not yet.) In any case, these are the lean times. If the economy doesn’t implode, we should be back on track mid-February. This is the first of, hopefully, not too many slow weekends.

New Year's Eve

I have a history of wearing tiaras on new year’s eve. I remember my first new year’s at O’ Brien’s for the millennium. There are many pictures of me tripping on ecstasy wearing a dainty silver number. If you look hard enough at one photo, you can hear me grinding my teeth. When I got to work I scoured the tables for the right tiara, since a cardboard top hat is so tacky and butch. When I found one with a blue feather, I knew it would be a good night.

Aside from my usual duties Tuesday night, I had to wait for a delivery of balloons at two-thirty in the ayem. Since both sides had a great night, it took me a while to finish up. I remember looking at the time at two thirty-seven and the balloons still hadn’t shown. Kevin was kind enough to hang out with me. At three-fifteen I was going to call. I grabbed the blank check and realized that all that was filled out was the date, memo, and signature. Perfect. Kevin and I gave up and left at three forty-five. The odd thing was that when I talked to Nicole the next day, she told me that the balloons had been delivered. A mystery indeed.

I got to work Wednesday with a little anxiety. It’s just another night of work, but I place so much importance on it, being the last night of the year. Everything I did that night I looked at as the last time of the year. This is the last time I clock in this year. This is my last meal of this year. This is the last time I masturbate in the women’s bathroom this year. You know, the usual. I did find the perfect tiara, so I got that out of the way. In any case, Aoife, Kevin, and I were behind the bar at seven-thirty, ready to party. Alas, there were only a handful of customers in the bar. Like any new year’s eve, I was waiting for something to happen. I would alternate between pacing and smoking. During one cigarette break, I mentioned the balloon fiasco. Steven, a bartender next door, informed me that the balloons were delivered Tuesday night and he brought them into Main. I was irritated that I wasn’t informed, but how was he supposed to know I was waiting for them. In any case, he gave me a couple of strands of silver beads, which made me feel pretty.

Although there weren’t many people in the bar, Robb came in and took care of us. With a hundred bucks in the tip jar, we were off to a good start. I figured the night couldn’t have been worse than last year, which just blew. The crowd was pretty non-existent until about ten-thirty, but all of our customers were in a generous mood. Once the revelers poured in, the night became a bit of a blur. We normally have two high-top tables in the middle of the room, but they were taken out, allowing the bar to grow four deep. Since we have a champagne toast at midnight, about fifteen minutes prior, I began lining up the plastic champagne flutes. With the steady hands of an epileptic having a grand mal seizure, I probably wasn’t the best person for the job. I would try to set down a few at a time, but since they are so light, and I so unsteady, I would knock them over. Luckily, Nicole took over my duty. We set the glasses on the bar, popped the Frexeinet, and we were ready to party.

The midnight hour came and went. For some reason, the night lost all its momentum. Many customers decided to close out their tabs. A half-hour before the new year, the bar was slammed, a half-hour into the new year, and it died. I set down my plastic flute of Frexeinet and began to drink from the bottle. I don’t know if I kept picking up a different bottle, but I didn’t seem to put a dent in it. Finally, it was time for last call. We had extra security and the bar was cleared out quickly. While we were counting our money and cleaning up, a guy from Kilkenny, wandered in from the back room. We informed him that he had to leave through the back. He told us that he was just getting his jacket. Kevin said, “A Kilkenny man with a jacket, we should get a photo of that.” I cracked up for the first time in the new year.

It was a lucrative night. Many thanks to Craig, Lindy, Fred, Colin, Seth, and the others who made it worth our while. The year went by super fast. There were huge changes at the bar and I’ll try and reflect on those in another post. But just like the last quarter of our year was great, so was our new year’s eve.