Friday night was a bore. There is no way I could write an entire post about the night and still maintain your good will. There was no drama, no comedy, but there was a bit of romance. It’s one of these Sid and Nancy couples who break up and get back together. They both drink too much, he’s a compulsive liar, and since she told a customer the other night that she is an owner in the bar, I’m thinking she is, too. But more on them later, let me tell you about my week.
Since going to the dentist, I’ve been having pain in my mouth where the temporary crown was placed. I had some idea it wasn’t going to be a day at the beach when, with a mouth full of novocain, I could feel her putting it on. I thought you weren’t supposed to feel pain when on novocain. After bearing with it through the weekend, I called Monday for a Tuesday meeting. Now I’m not one of those high maintenance patients, who freaks out at every little thing. Although I once had a physical with Dr. Jay and was left alone with my chest x-ray. I freaked out to the office assistant about the mass in my chest, Dr. Jay explained that it was my heart. To all my co-workers, there is documented proof that I do have a heart. My dentist explained that food was getting impacted between the temporary crown and my gums were getting inflamed. So after nearly thirty-nine years, I have begun flossing regularly. Alas, after the flossing and the flinging of embedded foods from as far back as high school, my mirror looks like the smorgasbord in Fargo. (Grrrr!) Yes, ladies, I am single. Start a line.
After the dentist, I met Tim for lunch at Fromin’s. Los Angeles has some of the most beautiful people in the world, and let me tell you, they neither dine, nor work at Fromin’s. I’m not sure what it is about deli’s, Nate n’ Al’s aside, that draws in the unattractive. Maybe good looking people don’t eat at places where you can order a sandwich, “extra-fatty.” I’m no expert on beauty but there won’t be any runway shows at Fromin’s any time soon.
Wednesday, I hung out with Julie in the afternoon. I believe she was disappointed after she said, “Let’s get high and go for a walk.” I said, “I’ll go for a walk.” Yes, I have not consumed marijuana in any form, nor had a cigarette since my hypnosis January 26th. Also, I’ve only consumed three adult libations since then. I did hypnosis to quit smoking, not to be a candidate for the most boring human on the planet. I guess good health comes at a cost. In any case, Julie and I were on an adventure. Two new places opened: Santa Monica Seafood and Huckleberry, and we had to cross Lincoln to get there. Both places are super groovy. Santa Monica Seafood is at the corner of Tenth and Wilshire. In the center is the fish market shaped like a horse shoe. Off to the right is a small cafe and oyster bar. We didn’t eat there, but I’m excited to go back. Huckleberry is half a block down. The owners of Rustic Canyon served brunch on weekends, but it was so popular that they shut it down and opened Huckleberry. They’re open Wednesday through Sunday, eight until four. Julie and I got coffee, which was excellent, and bread pudding with banana, chocolate and caramel. It didn’t suck.
I saw two films in the theater on my days off, both animated which is not my M.O. After leaving Julie I went and saw Coraline. It was really good and definitely not for kids. I was highly unnerved. It’s about a girl whose family moves to Ashland, Oregon. Her life is a drag and she finds a parallel universe, where life is great, or so it seems. I, also, saw Waltz With Bashir, which was really cool and dark. It’s about a Israeli filmmaker who realizes he can’t remember much of his time during the war in Lebanon in the early eighties, so he goes and interviews those who were there. I highly recommend them both. Also, I saw a documentary on Netflix called Dear Zachary. If you want to see a film that will rip your heart out, watch Dear Zachary.
Friday, finally. There was nothing exciting about it. Luckily, I had a great happy hour because the rest of night was average. The aforementioned Sid and Nancy couple, who I figured were done with their relationship (when will I learn that toxic relationships never die, they just reunite at O’ Brien’s), would stand near the bar and make out. I’m not quite sure at what volume throwing up in your mouth is just throwing up, but I believe every employee crossed that threshold. It’s not that they’re unattractive, I mean I could see them dining at Fromin’s, but there was just something psychically wrong with the whole event. Thank God he left a big tip. The closest thing to the ass clown of the night was this one girl, who wanted a vodka red bull with more vodka, the way Tim makes it. I dragged him over. She didn’t like how he made it, so I threw his out, and poisoned her. I didn’t mean to show Tim up, in fact, I apologized to him, but I just wanted to see this bitch puke. Alas, I did not. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have labeled this night as uneventful.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Is The Customer Always Right?
No! Tonight was a perfect example of that. Exhibit A: Laker Fan. Laker fan comes in usually on a Sunday night during happy hour looking for the Laker game. He’s actually a nice guy, but, generally, a pain in the ass. The thing about Laker Fan is that he pretty much only orders potato skins during happy hour for a grand total of $4.87. We like to have as many people in our establishment as possible, but some are just too high maintenance for the revenue they bring in, case in point: Laker Fan. For those who live on Planet Earth, you may have noticed that our president made a speech Tuesday night. Kimi was changing the channels in order to get the speech on some of our TVs. The problem with changing channels is that our four DirectTV boxes are stacked one atop the other, seven feet and up, so changing one usually changes many. I guess this bothered Laker Fan, because he approached me and said, “You’re not a Laker fan.” He may have phrased it as a question, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention. Now anytime someone begins a conversation with “You’re not...” the conversation is not going to go very far. Now had Laker Fan asked, “Are you a Laker fan?”, we could’ve had a discussion. Instead, I responded, “I’m an America fan and I’m going to watch the president’s speech.” Laker Fan got a bit flustered like I called him a Commie Homo-loving son-of-a-gun. I explained that the Laker game would be on at least two of our televisions. He ambled off to the bathroom. Exhibit B: Douche Bag. I had no interaction with Douche Bag, but he was annoying to Kimi and I don’t like it when customers annoy my employees. Douche Bag was drinking Guinness. He finished one and walked away. When he returned, Kimi asked if he’d like another. His response, “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.” Of course, your feeble mind should’ve been read. Kimi poured his Guinness and set it down. Douche Bag said, “I guess that’s where I’m sitting.” Actually, fuck wad, since you’re over the age of six, you can probably lift a pint of Genius and set it down any where in the bar and sit there. Exhibit C: Cell Phone Guy. My friend Megan lived in London a couple years ago and was struck by how few people, if any, spoke on cell phones while in restaurants, coffee shops, etc. That’s not so much the case here. There were about eight of us watching the speech intently, when cell phone guy made a call. From the first words out of his mouth I wanted to pound him. He said, “I’m at O’ Brien’s watching the president’s speech....” Actually, ass clown, you’re talking on the phone while the rest of us are trying to watch the speech. I know the bar isn’t a library, but it’s a big enough space that one can move, perhaps outside, to make a call. I don’t get why people feel it’s their right to disrupt a quiet space with their phone conversation. Kill them all, I say.
So I put the question to you, dear reader, “Is the customer always right?”
So I put the question to you, dear reader, “Is the customer always right?”
Sunday, February 22, 2009
G' Day
Did anyone catch the Flight of the Conchords episode a week ago where Jermaine dates Keitha, an Aussie? It was the funniest episode I’ve seen, if only for their mockery of Australians. Every scene Keitha was in, cracked me up. With this episode in mind, tt was fitting that the Santa Monica rugby club was hosting an Australian touring side. I figured it would be a much better night than Friday, since my shift was starting off with a seventy-five person party. It would have to be a better night, wouldn’t it? Could I be wrong about this? I’ll save you the suspense. The night was far better. In fact, it was insane. I’m guessing the biggest night in months and I wish I could explain why, but I have no idea.
As usual, I got to work early. I was chatting with some old regulars, and by old I do mean their age, when all of a sudden a small parade of pirates came marching up Main Street heading for O’ Brien’s. I figure since Stevie was about to take off, I might as well jump behind the bar early to help out. What looked to be a big pub crawl from the outside, maxed out at around thirty. The weren’t too douchey, throwing around their requisite, “Har!” with every second or third word. If they ever invent a time machine, I’m going back to pirate times (no, not Somalia present day) to see if they actually say, “Har!” I would love to know why we portray pirates this way. Did they write this in their diaries? “Dear Kitty, Har! Har! Plundered gold! Har!” They left as soon as they arrived, carrying with them their eye patches, their fake parrots on their shoulders, and their “Hars!” It was alright, because the rugby team had arrived.
Santa Monica played Huntington Beach, and I’m not sure where the Aussies fit it, but there were a few of them there. It was by no means a crazy rugby party. Two weeks ago, there was a rugby party and my sales were through the roof. Some teams come in and order car bombs and Jaeger bombs for the entire team, these guys, not so much. They drank from their free hour-long keg, then begrudgingly pried open their wallets for a happy hour brew. But something happened at around eight o’ clock, and the bar just blew up. I’m guessing it was a confluence of factors. First, all the rugby players who didn’t make the party, went home, showered and changed, and came back to drink. This includes the Australians who drank the shit out of Captain Morgan. Second, we had a comedy show at nine that may have contributed. Third, we had band playing called The Shore. The first time they played a couple of years ago, they weren’t on the schedule but I kept getting calls for them. Nothing has changed. Whenever they play, the phone rings off the hook. Last, the Independent Spirit Awards took place at the beach in Santa Monica and I presume some of that crowd showed up, too. Whatever the case, when Tim and Aoife came on, the bar was three deep. I had no chance to close out anyone. I left five hundred dollars in tabs open. Hey, you win some, you lose some.
By the time I got back from my dinner break, there was a good crowd, but it had slowed down. I don’t know what it is about Aussies drinking Captain Morgan and coke and J.D. (Jack Daniels) and coke, but these wombats must’ve drank themselves into a state of insulin shock. In general, Australians aren’t known for their tipping prowess. But as my sister said after working in Ibiza, “If you’re from a country that doesn’t tip and you don’t leave a tip, it doesn’t bother me; but, if you come from a country that does tip, and you don’t, then we have a problem.” With that said, many of the guys were extremely generous. Personally, I was just happy to have the business. One of the Aussies rang up a four-hundred and forty-four dollar tab. I was relieved that his card went through, his fifty dollar tip, while not huge percentage wise, was just gravy. What was so unusual about such a busy night is that there wasn’t an ass clown to be seen. There was the guy who ordered a Stella. “Seven dollars,” I told him. He pulled out all his money. “Six?” he replied in that “Is that cool? Like are you Monty Hall and can we make a deal, douche bag kind of way.” Fuck that. I said, “Do you have a credit card? Because I am not here to haggle.” Go to McDonald’s and try and short them on a Big Mac, see how well that works. Oh, I almost forgot. One of the pirates on his way out asked, “Do you have a to go cup?” I responded, “So you can take out the rest of your beer and violate our liquor license?” Now some people come from places that have no laws, Las Vegas comes to mind, but this guy wasn’t from one of these places. He knew what he was asking and responded, “Yeah, if that ‘s cool.” Of course, it is. I don’t know you, but as long as I can jeopardize my livelihood and the livelihoods of thirty others, I’ll do it. Check out the big balls on douche bag.
The night slowed down after midnight, then picked up for the last half an hour. When I checked our sales at the end of the night, we were so far beyond what I consider to be a great night. It was both a pleasure and a relief. We need these big night. What with these tough times, we’re hurting just like everyone else. Well not as much as AIG or Citi, but I don’t think the government will nationalize us if things go south. I don’t know why it was such a huge night. You’d figure after working in the same bar for almost four years, I would’ve stumbled upon the slightest clue. Alas, I have not. I guess if I had, I would’ve replicated it by now. Instead, I was just happy to be in the middle of it all. And to our Australian visitors, “Thank you for coming and G’ Day.”
As usual, I got to work early. I was chatting with some old regulars, and by old I do mean their age, when all of a sudden a small parade of pirates came marching up Main Street heading for O’ Brien’s. I figure since Stevie was about to take off, I might as well jump behind the bar early to help out. What looked to be a big pub crawl from the outside, maxed out at around thirty. The weren’t too douchey, throwing around their requisite, “Har!” with every second or third word. If they ever invent a time machine, I’m going back to pirate times (no, not Somalia present day) to see if they actually say, “Har!” I would love to know why we portray pirates this way. Did they write this in their diaries? “Dear Kitty, Har! Har! Plundered gold! Har!” They left as soon as they arrived, carrying with them their eye patches, their fake parrots on their shoulders, and their “Hars!” It was alright, because the rugby team had arrived.
Santa Monica played Huntington Beach, and I’m not sure where the Aussies fit it, but there were a few of them there. It was by no means a crazy rugby party. Two weeks ago, there was a rugby party and my sales were through the roof. Some teams come in and order car bombs and Jaeger bombs for the entire team, these guys, not so much. They drank from their free hour-long keg, then begrudgingly pried open their wallets for a happy hour brew. But something happened at around eight o’ clock, and the bar just blew up. I’m guessing it was a confluence of factors. First, all the rugby players who didn’t make the party, went home, showered and changed, and came back to drink. This includes the Australians who drank the shit out of Captain Morgan. Second, we had a comedy show at nine that may have contributed. Third, we had band playing called The Shore. The first time they played a couple of years ago, they weren’t on the schedule but I kept getting calls for them. Nothing has changed. Whenever they play, the phone rings off the hook. Last, the Independent Spirit Awards took place at the beach in Santa Monica and I presume some of that crowd showed up, too. Whatever the case, when Tim and Aoife came on, the bar was three deep. I had no chance to close out anyone. I left five hundred dollars in tabs open. Hey, you win some, you lose some.
By the time I got back from my dinner break, there was a good crowd, but it had slowed down. I don’t know what it is about Aussies drinking Captain Morgan and coke and J.D. (Jack Daniels) and coke, but these wombats must’ve drank themselves into a state of insulin shock. In general, Australians aren’t known for their tipping prowess. But as my sister said after working in Ibiza, “If you’re from a country that doesn’t tip and you don’t leave a tip, it doesn’t bother me; but, if you come from a country that does tip, and you don’t, then we have a problem.” With that said, many of the guys were extremely generous. Personally, I was just happy to have the business. One of the Aussies rang up a four-hundred and forty-four dollar tab. I was relieved that his card went through, his fifty dollar tip, while not huge percentage wise, was just gravy. What was so unusual about such a busy night is that there wasn’t an ass clown to be seen. There was the guy who ordered a Stella. “Seven dollars,” I told him. He pulled out all his money. “Six?” he replied in that “Is that cool? Like are you Monty Hall and can we make a deal, douche bag kind of way.” Fuck that. I said, “Do you have a credit card? Because I am not here to haggle.” Go to McDonald’s and try and short them on a Big Mac, see how well that works. Oh, I almost forgot. One of the pirates on his way out asked, “Do you have a to go cup?” I responded, “So you can take out the rest of your beer and violate our liquor license?” Now some people come from places that have no laws, Las Vegas comes to mind, but this guy wasn’t from one of these places. He knew what he was asking and responded, “Yeah, if that ‘s cool.” Of course, it is. I don’t know you, but as long as I can jeopardize my livelihood and the livelihoods of thirty others, I’ll do it. Check out the big balls on douche bag.
The night slowed down after midnight, then picked up for the last half an hour. When I checked our sales at the end of the night, we were so far beyond what I consider to be a great night. It was both a pleasure and a relief. We need these big night. What with these tough times, we’re hurting just like everyone else. Well not as much as AIG or Citi, but I don’t think the government will nationalize us if things go south. I don’t know why it was such a huge night. You’d figure after working in the same bar for almost four years, I would’ve stumbled upon the slightest clue. Alas, I have not. I guess if I had, I would’ve replicated it by now. Instead, I was just happy to be in the middle of it all. And to our Australian visitors, “Thank you for coming and G’ Day.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Insurance
I broke my phone, again. I do remember banging into something. This time it wasn’t the screen, it was the keyboard. When I originally bought the phone, I figured I wouldn’t get insurance, since I had it on my last phone and it never broke. I should’ve anticipated running into the bar at full speed with the full force of my petite body. Oh, hindsight, why are you only there for me after it’s too late?
Back in the day, O’ Brien’s should’ve had a slogan: “Home of the Entitled Customer.” For full disclosure, I was one of those entitled customers. I don’t know of any other business where customers feel that it is their right to not have to pay for every drink consumed. This was none more evident than my first customer of the shift, or the ass clown of the night. He was a little buzzed. The previous bartender had served he and his friend a bottle of Heineken and a bottle of Miller Lite. They ordered fish n’ chips to share. He asked about my previous boss. Since I didn’t recognize the guy, I figured he used to come in back in the day. When they were done, I handed them the check. You know what I charged them for? What they ordered, two happy hour beers and fish n’ chips, for a grand total of twenty dollars and three cents. This douche bag then hands me the check presenter and says, “What? No love?” I was shocked. First of all, I had no idea who this guy was. Second, he left me tweny-two for a grand total of a dollar and ninety-seven cent tip. I should’ve realized this guy was a straight up baller, a true player. Loser. Where does this guy get off expecting a free beer, because he may have once been a customer. At least I doled out the ass clown of the night award early.
I don’t know when my phone broke, but I do remember the last call I took before I noticed it. I got a call from my boss in Arizona. Since it’s not my birthday or wedding day, I figured that it was something serious. Turns out his Arizona business partners were coming in for dinner. Rarely do we have VIPs in the bar, but this required some serious preparations. I wiped down a table and placed some menus and set-ups on it. I was ready. They came in around seven. I don’t know why I was nervous. Maybe it’s because the last time my boss called me, I became a manager. For some reason, I felt like I was on a blind date with a couple of septuagenarians. Go ahead laugh, I got laid. They were lovely people. I got a text from my boss saying that the bar is cute and the lights are on too high at the bar. Since the dimmer no longer works on the bar lights, I turned the house lights down. It made the back bar look like a stage, but it was all I could do. I went to text my boss back, but, alas, I saw that I had crushed a few of the buttons on my phone. D’oh! My happy hour shift went long, because I was waiting on two tables, which accounted for a quarter of my sales, to close out. I finally got my dinner break and had my fifteenth Caesar salad of the month. Aside from changing the protein on it, I can’t figure out a way to sass it up. My sister once met a friend from Argentina at O’ Brien’s. He ordered a chicken Caesar and put ketchup on it. I threw up in my mouth, immediately. I don’t get ketchup and salad, but just for some variety, I may slather some on mine tonight.
It turned out to be a slow night. My colleagues feel that this is normal February business and won’t pick up until St. Patrick’s Day. We’ve got the rugby team in tonight, so I expect it to be big. We’ll see. I’m on the fence about buying a new phone. I’ve got a back up one that works fine, but I want something with a keyboard. I cracked the screen on my phone in December and felt that I broke even in regards to not buying insurance. I broke the keyboard on my phone last night and realized that I probably should’ve bought the insurance.
Back in the day, O’ Brien’s should’ve had a slogan: “Home of the Entitled Customer.” For full disclosure, I was one of those entitled customers. I don’t know of any other business where customers feel that it is their right to not have to pay for every drink consumed. This was none more evident than my first customer of the shift, or the ass clown of the night. He was a little buzzed. The previous bartender had served he and his friend a bottle of Heineken and a bottle of Miller Lite. They ordered fish n’ chips to share. He asked about my previous boss. Since I didn’t recognize the guy, I figured he used to come in back in the day. When they were done, I handed them the check. You know what I charged them for? What they ordered, two happy hour beers and fish n’ chips, for a grand total of twenty dollars and three cents. This douche bag then hands me the check presenter and says, “What? No love?” I was shocked. First of all, I had no idea who this guy was. Second, he left me tweny-two for a grand total of a dollar and ninety-seven cent tip. I should’ve realized this guy was a straight up baller, a true player. Loser. Where does this guy get off expecting a free beer, because he may have once been a customer. At least I doled out the ass clown of the night award early.
I don’t know when my phone broke, but I do remember the last call I took before I noticed it. I got a call from my boss in Arizona. Since it’s not my birthday or wedding day, I figured that it was something serious. Turns out his Arizona business partners were coming in for dinner. Rarely do we have VIPs in the bar, but this required some serious preparations. I wiped down a table and placed some menus and set-ups on it. I was ready. They came in around seven. I don’t know why I was nervous. Maybe it’s because the last time my boss called me, I became a manager. For some reason, I felt like I was on a blind date with a couple of septuagenarians. Go ahead laugh, I got laid. They were lovely people. I got a text from my boss saying that the bar is cute and the lights are on too high at the bar. Since the dimmer no longer works on the bar lights, I turned the house lights down. It made the back bar look like a stage, but it was all I could do. I went to text my boss back, but, alas, I saw that I had crushed a few of the buttons on my phone. D’oh! My happy hour shift went long, because I was waiting on two tables, which accounted for a quarter of my sales, to close out. I finally got my dinner break and had my fifteenth Caesar salad of the month. Aside from changing the protein on it, I can’t figure out a way to sass it up. My sister once met a friend from Argentina at O’ Brien’s. He ordered a chicken Caesar and put ketchup on it. I threw up in my mouth, immediately. I don’t get ketchup and salad, but just for some variety, I may slather some on mine tonight.
It turned out to be a slow night. My colleagues feel that this is normal February business and won’t pick up until St. Patrick’s Day. We’ve got the rugby team in tonight, so I expect it to be big. We’ll see. I’m on the fence about buying a new phone. I’ve got a back up one that works fine, but I want something with a keyboard. I cracked the screen on my phone in December and felt that I broke even in regards to not buying insurance. I broke the keyboard on my phone last night and realized that I probably should’ve bought the insurance.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Novocain
It’s quite an impressive drug. Just a few shots and your whole mouth is numb. I was told that it would last for two hours. It’s been two and a half and my jaw still feels more swollen than the elephant man’s skull. Yes, I went back to the dentist for my shakedown, a crown and fillings on two cavities.
First of all, I’m back on wheat, although I did stumble last Wednesday when I visited Fig, at the Fairmont Miramar. There’s something about a warm demi-baguette in it’s own paper bag with a side of green butter that I have trouble saying “no” to. I got my lab results back from my physical the other day. Everything indicated normal except my cholesterol had gone up. It was still in the “normal” range, but I didn’t expect it to rise after I stopped smoking. Also, my diabetes test was on the higher end, too. There’s a note written, “I recommend a more careful low fat diet.” Giving up wheat cut out onion rings, chicken strips, fish and chips, cake, cookies, etc., I figure I’ve already cut out a fair amount of fat. I guess this means no more butter tacos.
I rode my bike over to the dentist. Maybe it’s watching the first season of The Sopranos, but I expected a confrontation over payment. Maybe it was being treated like a deadbeat at my previous appointment, but if there was any mention of money prior to services rendered, I was ready to blow. And, no, I don’t mean “blow,” as in, instead of paying for services, I mean “blow” my top. The issue was never raised, which was a good thing, because Tiny, the receptionist, was looking seriously tough. I was lead into the back room. I took my seat and was tilted back and lowered. The first part of the treatment was sticking a fourteen inch needle in my mouth filling it with novocain. What began as a minty taste in my mouth soon turned to turd. At this point, I had to initial some papers discussing the risks of the procedure. Way to get me hepped up on goofballs first. I asked the dentist how long the procedure would take. She replied, “Forty-five minutes to three hours, depending if you’re good or not.” Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve got six hundred bucks that was going to be transferred from my pocket to hers, but there was nothing funny, nor cute in her answer. She jammed a jaw stopper in my mouth, keeping it ajar, then came the drill. Although my mouth was numb, I could still smell smoke emanating from my mouth. It smelled a lot like burnt hair. There was a pool of saliva gathering at my epiglottis. I had to swallow. Big mistake. There’s nothing like the taste of tooth dust in your saliva to really delight your taste buds. I tried to lay still listening to my IPod. Every once in a while, I would notice that my entire body was rigid. I would loosen up only to tense up a few seconds later. After about forty-five minutes, it was over.
I walked got out of the seat exhausted from catatonia and inhaling enamel smoke. My mouth felt thick. I figured I was mumbling more that I usually do. Tiny told me I sounded and looked great, then she told me I owed five hundred and eighty-five dollars. I gave her six hundred and waited for change, and waited, and waited. Turns out she needed the dentist to sign the receipt and get the change. Pretty efficient system. The dentist finally freed up to sign the receipt. She went to their dental register. I said, “Go get your purse.” She came back with a five and ten ones. Is she somehow telling me that I have to tip? She apologized for the singles. “Been dancing?” I asked. She responded, “Maybe,” and left to see to another patient. Tiny gave me a tip to get feeling back in my mouth. Ice cream. She told me it works for her and her daughters. She looked like she’s had a few scoops in her day. And it turns out there’s a Coldstone across the street. I headed over to the Creamery and ordered sweet cream with brownies (back on wheat). The woman behind the counter couldn’t understand a word I said. Yes, I was speaking like I had a broken jaw. I finally made it clear to her what I wanted and I got it. I took a few bites and realized that I couldn’t taste a thing. Great. I chucked it in the trash. I threw away perfectly good ice cream. Fucking novocain.
First of all, I’m back on wheat, although I did stumble last Wednesday when I visited Fig, at the Fairmont Miramar. There’s something about a warm demi-baguette in it’s own paper bag with a side of green butter that I have trouble saying “no” to. I got my lab results back from my physical the other day. Everything indicated normal except my cholesterol had gone up. It was still in the “normal” range, but I didn’t expect it to rise after I stopped smoking. Also, my diabetes test was on the higher end, too. There’s a note written, “I recommend a more careful low fat diet.” Giving up wheat cut out onion rings, chicken strips, fish and chips, cake, cookies, etc., I figure I’ve already cut out a fair amount of fat. I guess this means no more butter tacos.
I rode my bike over to the dentist. Maybe it’s watching the first season of The Sopranos, but I expected a confrontation over payment. Maybe it was being treated like a deadbeat at my previous appointment, but if there was any mention of money prior to services rendered, I was ready to blow. And, no, I don’t mean “blow,” as in, instead of paying for services, I mean “blow” my top. The issue was never raised, which was a good thing, because Tiny, the receptionist, was looking seriously tough. I was lead into the back room. I took my seat and was tilted back and lowered. The first part of the treatment was sticking a fourteen inch needle in my mouth filling it with novocain. What began as a minty taste in my mouth soon turned to turd. At this point, I had to initial some papers discussing the risks of the procedure. Way to get me hepped up on goofballs first. I asked the dentist how long the procedure would take. She replied, “Forty-five minutes to three hours, depending if you’re good or not.” Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve got six hundred bucks that was going to be transferred from my pocket to hers, but there was nothing funny, nor cute in her answer. She jammed a jaw stopper in my mouth, keeping it ajar, then came the drill. Although my mouth was numb, I could still smell smoke emanating from my mouth. It smelled a lot like burnt hair. There was a pool of saliva gathering at my epiglottis. I had to swallow. Big mistake. There’s nothing like the taste of tooth dust in your saliva to really delight your taste buds. I tried to lay still listening to my IPod. Every once in a while, I would notice that my entire body was rigid. I would loosen up only to tense up a few seconds later. After about forty-five minutes, it was over.
I walked got out of the seat exhausted from catatonia and inhaling enamel smoke. My mouth felt thick. I figured I was mumbling more that I usually do. Tiny told me I sounded and looked great, then she told me I owed five hundred and eighty-five dollars. I gave her six hundred and waited for change, and waited, and waited. Turns out she needed the dentist to sign the receipt and get the change. Pretty efficient system. The dentist finally freed up to sign the receipt. She went to their dental register. I said, “Go get your purse.” She came back with a five and ten ones. Is she somehow telling me that I have to tip? She apologized for the singles. “Been dancing?” I asked. She responded, “Maybe,” and left to see to another patient. Tiny gave me a tip to get feeling back in my mouth. Ice cream. She told me it works for her and her daughters. She looked like she’s had a few scoops in her day. And it turns out there’s a Coldstone across the street. I headed over to the Creamery and ordered sweet cream with brownies (back on wheat). The woman behind the counter couldn’t understand a word I said. Yes, I was speaking like I had a broken jaw. I finally made it clear to her what I wanted and I got it. I took a few bites and realized that I couldn’t taste a thing. Great. I chucked it in the trash. I threw away perfectly good ice cream. Fucking novocain.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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.
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.
Friday The 13th
What’s the deal with Friday the 13th? I remember it’s been scary since that dip shit Jason put on a hockey mask and slaughtered those crazy kids at the former summer camp. I always thought it would be more realistic if they camped some place really dangerous, like the Venice boardwalk, as opposed to the not so dangerous, high Sierras. In any case, our Friday the 13th was scary for one reason: we shat the bed. At least, that’s what our former boss would’ve said at the end of the night. I find it to be a funny expression, but never really understood why we did something wrong. Was there a flood of people coming into the bar who we scared off with poor service? No, but I guess that allowed him to shift blame for any failing in the business from him to us. I guess that’s why he’s collecting unemployment and we’re still in the deliciously, cozy bed.
First things first, as of Wednesday, February 11th, we have our “A” back. Ever since the “Troubles” last August, and, even though we had the cleanest bar in our inspector’s region, we could receive no higher than a “B.” In the hundred and eighty days between grades, we’ve cleaned the shit out of the place. (I meant that figuratively.) Personally, I never minded having a “B.” My Dad has a friend, Richard, who will only eat at places that have an “A.” He says that since he doesn’t have time to inspect every restaurant, he’ll rely on the health department to do it. I know that the letter grade represents how clean an establishment was for that half-hour that the health department was there. And I highly doubt that anyone ever walked up and said, “You know. I was gonna drink my liver cirrhotic and maybe nosh on some wings, but they have a ‘B.’” The “A” is back and we’re not letting it go.
Unlike last Friday when it pissed down rain while I was at work, this Friday the clouds parted just before my shift. Happy hour was really good. The place wasn’t packed, but there were some good drinkers, including four late thirty-somethings at the bar. These dudes had racked up a hundred and thirty dollar tab in ninety minutes. I could tell they were strong tippers and I wanted to close them out, but I didn’t want to put a damper on their time at the bar. Most customers are understanding when you say, “Hey, uh, um, the other bartenders are coming on, and since I’m not a socialist, I mean, I voted for Joe ”The Plumber“ after all. Do you mind closing out?” Instead, I informed the card holder that I was going on break and that all the drinks were on his tab. While they prepared my caesar salad with shrimp in our “A” rated kitchen, I stood over said card holder awkwardly until he closed out. Hey, that’s an extra thirty bucks in my pocket, not counting the seventeen cents I gave my bar back, because that’s a lot of money where he’s from.
The rest of the night blew. It was the Lads final concert at O’ Brien’s. They used to play every Friday. With the downturn in the economy, we’ve had to cut some costs, including what the bands get paid. Most bands were cool with it, but The Lads were having none of it. And since this was their thirteenth year at O’ Brien’s, they decided to have their farewell concert on Friday the 13th. Too bad no told their fan. It was one of those nights where I would’ve smoked myself silly, but I’ve put down the smokes and picked up complaining. It’s healthier for me, but annoys the shit out of everyone. Tim said it best, “This is the slowest Friday night that I can remember.” Luckily, there weren’t many douche bags. By the way, one reader wants me to replace the word “douche bag” with something else. First of all, who agrees with this? Second, any thoughts on a new word? It’s just that “douche bag” is to language like cell phones, e-mail, and internet porn are to society. What did we do before their invention? Or in the case of “douche bag,” what did we call people before bringing that word back?
When we counted our tips at the end of the night, I began to rethink my vote for Joe “The Plumber.” I knew it was going to slow down, but it still took me aback. I don’t know if this is how it’s gonna be. Or as the classic movie said, “The beginning of the end, the end of the beginning, end, begin, all the same.” Can you name the film? At the end of the night, I realized, it can be pretty scary to work on Friday the 13th.
First things first, as of Wednesday, February 11th, we have our “A” back. Ever since the “Troubles” last August, and, even though we had the cleanest bar in our inspector’s region, we could receive no higher than a “B.” In the hundred and eighty days between grades, we’ve cleaned the shit out of the place. (I meant that figuratively.) Personally, I never minded having a “B.” My Dad has a friend, Richard, who will only eat at places that have an “A.” He says that since he doesn’t have time to inspect every restaurant, he’ll rely on the health department to do it. I know that the letter grade represents how clean an establishment was for that half-hour that the health department was there. And I highly doubt that anyone ever walked up and said, “You know. I was gonna drink my liver cirrhotic and maybe nosh on some wings, but they have a ‘B.’” The “A” is back and we’re not letting it go.
Unlike last Friday when it pissed down rain while I was at work, this Friday the clouds parted just before my shift. Happy hour was really good. The place wasn’t packed, but there were some good drinkers, including four late thirty-somethings at the bar. These dudes had racked up a hundred and thirty dollar tab in ninety minutes. I could tell they were strong tippers and I wanted to close them out, but I didn’t want to put a damper on their time at the bar. Most customers are understanding when you say, “Hey, uh, um, the other bartenders are coming on, and since I’m not a socialist, I mean, I voted for Joe ”The Plumber“ after all. Do you mind closing out?” Instead, I informed the card holder that I was going on break and that all the drinks were on his tab. While they prepared my caesar salad with shrimp in our “A” rated kitchen, I stood over said card holder awkwardly until he closed out. Hey, that’s an extra thirty bucks in my pocket, not counting the seventeen cents I gave my bar back, because that’s a lot of money where he’s from.
The rest of the night blew. It was the Lads final concert at O’ Brien’s. They used to play every Friday. With the downturn in the economy, we’ve had to cut some costs, including what the bands get paid. Most bands were cool with it, but The Lads were having none of it. And since this was their thirteenth year at O’ Brien’s, they decided to have their farewell concert on Friday the 13th. Too bad no told their fan. It was one of those nights where I would’ve smoked myself silly, but I’ve put down the smokes and picked up complaining. It’s healthier for me, but annoys the shit out of everyone. Tim said it best, “This is the slowest Friday night that I can remember.” Luckily, there weren’t many douche bags. By the way, one reader wants me to replace the word “douche bag” with something else. First of all, who agrees with this? Second, any thoughts on a new word? It’s just that “douche bag” is to language like cell phones, e-mail, and internet porn are to society. What did we do before their invention? Or in the case of “douche bag,” what did we call people before bringing that word back?
When we counted our tips at the end of the night, I began to rethink my vote for Joe “The Plumber.” I knew it was going to slow down, but it still took me aback. I don’t know if this is how it’s gonna be. Or as the classic movie said, “The beginning of the end, the end of the beginning, end, begin, all the same.” Can you name the film? At the end of the night, I realized, it can be pretty scary to work on Friday the 13th.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
My Physical
The physical was pretty uneventful. No, my doctor didn’t jam her fist, wrist-deep, into my hole, but it did remind me of the doctor who did. He was a friend of the family who I called, “Uncle.” He wasn’t a proctologist. He wasn’t even a doctor. In fact, I’m not sure why his hands were on my shoulders for the entire ten minutes. I’m kidding. In all seriousness, they call me “Uncle.”
Since I listen to the CD of my hypnosis session when I go to bed, and it’s very quiet, I turn the volume up pretty high. Unfortunately, my day started with Quiet Riot screaming, “Cum On Feel The Noize,” at a hundred and twenty decibels. I was gonna ride my bike but google said it was forty-eight degrees. I got a spot and got to the office. At the front desk, I gave them all my information, and they informed me that my co-pay would be thirty-five dollars. I handed over two twenties, which the woman couldn’t accept because they had no change. I remember living in an age when cash was an accepted form of payment. I was at the Apple store a couple of months ago and paid with cash and you’d have thought that I shat on the Genius Bar. Everyone, even the security guard, has one of those portable, credit card machines, but pull out a Jackson and the bygone register drawer must be opened by an employee of Brinks.
I got to the exam room and was told to take off my jacket and get weighed. Learning from my sky diving debacle, I dressed light. I weighed in at 234. Fuck that. I took off my shorts, t-shirt, and boxers, causing quite a stir. I could see the nurse checking out my junk. Is she laughing? I don’t care. I’m cold and 233 and 1/2. Suck it. I asked the nurse if they could draw my blood so I could eat the banana I brought. No. I informed her that when I had good insurance, “good” defined as not purchased at a big box store, they would take my blood first, so I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. “You shouldn’t shop for heath insurance at Wal-Mart,” she said prior to slamming the door. “Costco!” I shouted after her.
My doctor, Malena Law, who is terrific, came in. We chatted, she stethoscoped me, then checked out my eyes, ears, and feet. She said, “I’ll step out while you take off your shorts. Don’t worry, you’ve got a couple of years before THAT exam.” The thing is I’ve had “THAT” exam. Remember my uncle? Actually, I was thirty-one or two and I was getting a physical and the doctor asked, “Would you like me to do a prostate exam?” “Sure. Why not?” “I’ll be gentle.” He gloved up and repeated, “I’ll be gentle,” several more times. I wasn’t the least bit concerned about the exam until I heard the word, “gentle” for the fourteenth time. He lubed up, jammed his finger in my ass, and rooted around. It didn’t hurt, I didn’t moan, nor did I draw wood. The awkward part was when he removed his finger, the glove slipped off his hand and got stuck. He “gently” removed it and gave me a clean bill of health. This time, Dr. Law rolled my balls, made me cough, and that was that. Prior to Dr. “Gentle,” I went to Dr. Jay. When he did a physical, he would x-ray my chest, do a breathing test, and a whole host of exams. I guess you get what you pay for. I was done with my physical. All I had to do was give blood and urine.
I’m not one of those people who fear getting shots or blood drawn. Needles don’t bother me with one exception. For some reason, I can’t watch people shooting up on screen. It skeeves me out to no extent. Ironically, Trainspotting and Requiem For A Dream are both in my top twenty. I got my blood drawn, now it was time for urine. Of course, the bathroom door is locked. After a couple of minutes, some dude walked out looking sheepish, a brown cloud trailing after him. Who you gotta fuck to put a book of matches in here?! I was given a cup and a wet-nap. I wasn’t sure why I got the latter until I began peeing into the cup. It appears there are instructions. First, wash your hands. Woops! Second, unscrew the cap and set it down with the top-side facing down. Nailed it. Third, wipe off the head of your penis with the wet-nap. What?! Do they think I’m dragging my dick in the dirt prior to this appointment? Fourth, begin peeing into the toilet, then move the cup into the stream. Fuck that! I’m peeing straight into the cup. There is no way I’m crossing the stream. I’m running on five hours of sleep and low blood sugar, I’m not gonna walk out of this restroom with urine splash back all over my shorts.
I made an appointment for next year. Just like this year, I’m sure I’ll forget about it until the week before. I presume I’m in good health, but I’ll find out in a week or so. I’ll keep you posted. Unless of course, the news is really bad, then I’ll probably lie about the results of my physical.
Since I listen to the CD of my hypnosis session when I go to bed, and it’s very quiet, I turn the volume up pretty high. Unfortunately, my day started with Quiet Riot screaming, “Cum On Feel The Noize,” at a hundred and twenty decibels. I was gonna ride my bike but google said it was forty-eight degrees. I got a spot and got to the office. At the front desk, I gave them all my information, and they informed me that my co-pay would be thirty-five dollars. I handed over two twenties, which the woman couldn’t accept because they had no change. I remember living in an age when cash was an accepted form of payment. I was at the Apple store a couple of months ago and paid with cash and you’d have thought that I shat on the Genius Bar. Everyone, even the security guard, has one of those portable, credit card machines, but pull out a Jackson and the bygone register drawer must be opened by an employee of Brinks.
I got to the exam room and was told to take off my jacket and get weighed. Learning from my sky diving debacle, I dressed light. I weighed in at 234. Fuck that. I took off my shorts, t-shirt, and boxers, causing quite a stir. I could see the nurse checking out my junk. Is she laughing? I don’t care. I’m cold and 233 and 1/2. Suck it. I asked the nurse if they could draw my blood so I could eat the banana I brought. No. I informed her that when I had good insurance, “good” defined as not purchased at a big box store, they would take my blood first, so I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. “You shouldn’t shop for heath insurance at Wal-Mart,” she said prior to slamming the door. “Costco!” I shouted after her.
My doctor, Malena Law, who is terrific, came in. We chatted, she stethoscoped me, then checked out my eyes, ears, and feet. She said, “I’ll step out while you take off your shorts. Don’t worry, you’ve got a couple of years before THAT exam.” The thing is I’ve had “THAT” exam. Remember my uncle? Actually, I was thirty-one or two and I was getting a physical and the doctor asked, “Would you like me to do a prostate exam?” “Sure. Why not?” “I’ll be gentle.” He gloved up and repeated, “I’ll be gentle,” several more times. I wasn’t the least bit concerned about the exam until I heard the word, “gentle” for the fourteenth time. He lubed up, jammed his finger in my ass, and rooted around. It didn’t hurt, I didn’t moan, nor did I draw wood. The awkward part was when he removed his finger, the glove slipped off his hand and got stuck. He “gently” removed it and gave me a clean bill of health. This time, Dr. Law rolled my balls, made me cough, and that was that. Prior to Dr. “Gentle,” I went to Dr. Jay. When he did a physical, he would x-ray my chest, do a breathing test, and a whole host of exams. I guess you get what you pay for. I was done with my physical. All I had to do was give blood and urine.
I’m not one of those people who fear getting shots or blood drawn. Needles don’t bother me with one exception. For some reason, I can’t watch people shooting up on screen. It skeeves me out to no extent. Ironically, Trainspotting and Requiem For A Dream are both in my top twenty. I got my blood drawn, now it was time for urine. Of course, the bathroom door is locked. After a couple of minutes, some dude walked out looking sheepish, a brown cloud trailing after him. Who you gotta fuck to put a book of matches in here?! I was given a cup and a wet-nap. I wasn’t sure why I got the latter until I began peeing into the cup. It appears there are instructions. First, wash your hands. Woops! Second, unscrew the cap and set it down with the top-side facing down. Nailed it. Third, wipe off the head of your penis with the wet-nap. What?! Do they think I’m dragging my dick in the dirt prior to this appointment? Fourth, begin peeing into the toilet, then move the cup into the stream. Fuck that! I’m peeing straight into the cup. There is no way I’m crossing the stream. I’m running on five hours of sleep and low blood sugar, I’m not gonna walk out of this restroom with urine splash back all over my shorts.
I made an appointment for next year. Just like this year, I’m sure I’ll forget about it until the week before. I presume I’m in good health, but I’ll find out in a week or so. I’ll keep you posted. Unless of course, the news is really bad, then I’ll probably lie about the results of my physical.
Monday, February 9, 2009
7000
At 7:18 p.m. from an unknown ISP in North America on Saturday, February 7th, I got my 7000th hit. I wish I could be more specific on the location, but all sitemeter.com gave me was this continent. When that 7000th visitor clicked on my blog, I was deep in the weeds, in one of the busiest happy hours that I could remember.
I got to work and there appeared to be a pub crawl at our establishment. I wish I would’ve paid more attention, because I couldn’t tell if they stayed or left, while others took their place. All I know is that we had the women’s rugby team in for their post-game party. After knocked the ovaries off the visiting team, they came in to drink us out of Bud Light and sing some songs. I’m not sure when it happened, but we got packed. My dear friends, Julie and Mary came in with Julie’s parents and their daughter Sarah. Sarah is four and adorable. She was running around the bar like she owned the place. Sarah and I have a love/hate relationship. The way I see it, she either loves me or hates me. For example, the four of us went to the Grove one night. I hopped in the back seat, wedged between the door and Sarah’s car seat. Her sippy cup holder was putting approximately four hundred pounds of pressure on my right kidney. I was uncomfortable to say the least; and, to top it off, Sarah would have nothing to do with me. I asked her about school, friends, collateralized debt obligations and the impact they would have on the failure of the current economy. Nothing. I wanted to say, “I held you when you were seven hours old while singing ”Kaya“ and this is how you treat me.” But I’m above that. Instead, I mumbled, “Fuck you,” under my breath. Alas, her mommies heard that and I learned a valuable lesson: you don’t say, “Fuck you” to a three and a half year old. In any case, I realized that was all in the past. Sarah and I were besties again. Happy hour was so crazy busy. I sold more in those four hours than I did in the ten hours the night before. The bar business is a funny thing. You never know who’s gonna show up or why.
The rest of the night was good to quite good. It seemed like it was gonna be crazy busy, but then it died. There really weren’t any douche bags of the night. There, of course, were customers displaying my usual pet peeves. Right now my biggest one is when a customer orders drinks, I bring them said cocktails, tell them the price, and they say, “I have a tab.” I just stare at them blankly, like having a tab is the answer. “Oh, you have a tab. Excellent. Congratulations! I have a cold sore that’s dissipating.” Part of it is that I’m into efficiencies. I remember using the Wells Fargo ATM back in college and realizing that I could lessen the number of buttons pressed by one, from ten to nine, and that made my sophomore year. I got a 2.3 G.P.A., but I gamed that money machine like no one’s business. I know that I could just say, “What’s the name on this alleged tab?”, but it’s like someone saying, “I’d like a beer,” I could say, “What kind of beer would you like, generic term using douche bag?”, but instead I say, “What is this a TV show? Are you afraid of product placement, you generic term using douche bag?” So when this woman told me she had a tab, I just stared at her then said, “Do you want me to guess the name?” She told me, I closed out her tab, then she left a goose egg for a tip. I showed her.
I want to take this time to thank all of my readers. I appreciate that you take the time to read my blog, and am thrilled when you tell me how much you like it. It took me twenty-eight days to get from 6000 to 7000, my fastest 1000, yet. If you get a chance, please spread the word. Facebook seems like a great place, so if you get a chance cut and paste:
http://notesonacocktailnapkin.com/
Thank you again for helping me get to 7000.
I got to work and there appeared to be a pub crawl at our establishment. I wish I would’ve paid more attention, because I couldn’t tell if they stayed or left, while others took their place. All I know is that we had the women’s rugby team in for their post-game party. After knocked the ovaries off the visiting team, they came in to drink us out of Bud Light and sing some songs. I’m not sure when it happened, but we got packed. My dear friends, Julie and Mary came in with Julie’s parents and their daughter Sarah. Sarah is four and adorable. She was running around the bar like she owned the place. Sarah and I have a love/hate relationship. The way I see it, she either loves me or hates me. For example, the four of us went to the Grove one night. I hopped in the back seat, wedged between the door and Sarah’s car seat. Her sippy cup holder was putting approximately four hundred pounds of pressure on my right kidney. I was uncomfortable to say the least; and, to top it off, Sarah would have nothing to do with me. I asked her about school, friends, collateralized debt obligations and the impact they would have on the failure of the current economy. Nothing. I wanted to say, “I held you when you were seven hours old while singing ”Kaya“ and this is how you treat me.” But I’m above that. Instead, I mumbled, “Fuck you,” under my breath. Alas, her mommies heard that and I learned a valuable lesson: you don’t say, “Fuck you” to a three and a half year old. In any case, I realized that was all in the past. Sarah and I were besties again. Happy hour was so crazy busy. I sold more in those four hours than I did in the ten hours the night before. The bar business is a funny thing. You never know who’s gonna show up or why.
The rest of the night was good to quite good. It seemed like it was gonna be crazy busy, but then it died. There really weren’t any douche bags of the night. There, of course, were customers displaying my usual pet peeves. Right now my biggest one is when a customer orders drinks, I bring them said cocktails, tell them the price, and they say, “I have a tab.” I just stare at them blankly, like having a tab is the answer. “Oh, you have a tab. Excellent. Congratulations! I have a cold sore that’s dissipating.” Part of it is that I’m into efficiencies. I remember using the Wells Fargo ATM back in college and realizing that I could lessen the number of buttons pressed by one, from ten to nine, and that made my sophomore year. I got a 2.3 G.P.A., but I gamed that money machine like no one’s business. I know that I could just say, “What’s the name on this alleged tab?”, but it’s like someone saying, “I’d like a beer,” I could say, “What kind of beer would you like, generic term using douche bag?”, but instead I say, “What is this a TV show? Are you afraid of product placement, you generic term using douche bag?” So when this woman told me she had a tab, I just stared at her then said, “Do you want me to guess the name?” She told me, I closed out her tab, then she left a goose egg for a tip. I showed her.
I want to take this time to thank all of my readers. I appreciate that you take the time to read my blog, and am thrilled when you tell me how much you like it. It took me twenty-eight days to get from 6000 to 7000, my fastest 1000, yet. If you get a chance, please spread the word. Facebook seems like a great place, so if you get a chance cut and paste:
http://notesonacocktailnapkin.com/
Thank you again for helping me get to 7000.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
This Is Your Life
On a slow night, I try and figure out a title for my blog. I got to work in the pouring rain and there were only two customers watching Braveheart. Personally, with the exception of special events, presidential debates, elections, or the Oscars, I feel that there should only be sports on our TVs. Every once in a while I catch a bar back or cook watching a telenovela, which sends the wrong message to our customers on so many levels. In any case, my original title was “They Might As Well Be Dead,” which is a lyric from The Beatles’ “Rain.” It goes, “When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead.” A very fitting title for any rainy night in Los Angeles; but, luckily, this was not any ordinary, rainy night.
Happy hour was pretty much dead. I inherited the two Braveheart watchers from Steven, who warned me, “These guys are characters.” Steven says “characters,” I say “douche bags.” Let’s call the whole thing off. Actually, one of them was alright. The other one looked like a body double for Jason Lee on “My Name Is Earl,” including and especially, the seventies porn star mustache. He was loud and annoying. I remember seeing Braveheart for the first time and thinking it was long, but with commercials and no customers it seemed interminable. I know. I know. There’s a bunch of fantasy footballers our there saying, “Shove your Miata up your ass, Homo!” I don’t mean to badmouth the manliest film ever made, but watch it at home. Normally, I really dig happy hour, but yesterday I was not enjoying it. If it weren’t for conversing with Nicole and Karen, I would’ve probably done something unthinkable, like clean. Thank God for Karen whose tip doubled my take.
Aoife and Kimi came on and it did not pick up. Aidan O’Leary, a friend, regular, and one of the original Legends, was having a going away party. Since he’s moving back to Ireland, he had a bi-pub crawl, Finn’s and O’ Brien’s. The crew was supposed to be at O’ Brien’s at nine-thirty. Now I love my friends, but there is no way I will ever set my watch to one of their appointed times. During this down time, I was able to identify the douche bag of the night. He was tatted up and walked in with a hot chick. Tattoos are a funny thing. I would only get one if I could figure out what I would want on my body for the rest of my life. Well, that, and I cant find a hairless spot on my body. I’m thinking of an eyeball tattoo. Now, this douche decided that small skulls were something he wanted to take to the grave. He ordered two shots of Jaeger and two Patrons on the rocks with very little grapefruit juice. I made them healthy cocktails and poured the slightest drop of grapefruit in. I’m sure you know where this is going. He took a few sips and said, “There’s too much grapefruit in here.” His girlfriend chimed in, “Mine, too.” Normally, if someone doesn’t like a drink, I throw it out. In this case, adding more Patron would have the same effect. I grabbed the bottle and his girlfriend said, “I was kidding.” I believe she was surprised that her dude was trying to mooch an extra shot. I poured it and got the standard, “Thanks, man, I’ll take care of you.” Of course, you will, it’s your girlfriend’s tab. The next one he ordered I opened the can, set it in front of him, and made sure he added the grapefruit himself. When I set the can down he thought it was the funniest thing ever. I should take that shit on the road.
It wasn’t until eleven that the proverbial good times began to roll. Aidan and the crew descended on O’ Brien’s, better late than never. With the exception of Paulie “Diapers” Vandewater, it seemed like every one who had ever been a regular was in the bar. It was great seeing everyone again. Eight years ago I could go down to O’ Brien’s on any night and there would be a good sized crew hanging out, forget about Friday and Saturday when everyone was around. Not long after the crew came in, Jason Fineberg, a friend from elementary and high school walked in. I remembered that there was an elementary school reunion that night and after dinner they came into the bar. It was a trip. I had seen most of them at the reunion in September, but it’s still pretty wild, twice in twenty years. It was so awesome having them in. Around midnight it slowed down and I went from behind the bar to see my old school pals. That’s when I saw her. Of all the “B” rated, formerly rat infested pubs, she had to walk in to mine. Liza, former girlfriend of Live and Let Date fame, was in town from New York. She stopped by to surprise me. I told her that I knew she was coming to town. She was shocked. How could I know? I explained to my technologically, Amish friend that when one writes on a “wall” on facebook, anyone can read it. Note to readers: if you don’t want someone reading a conversation on facebook, send an e-mail.
I mentioned to Kimi at one point that I couldn’t get a beat on the night. It seemed packed for an hour and then it would thin out. Sales weren’t great, but tips were. I can’t begin to thank everyone for their generosity. It was a great start to the David Garber Dental Fund. I would name names, but I would feel bad about forgetting anyone. I’ll just say that Martha Bane belongs in the O’ Brien’s hall of fame. The thing I love about my job is that I never know how a shift is going to turn out. It could start off pouring rain and miserable and end up as an episode of “This Is Your Life.”
Happy hour was pretty much dead. I inherited the two Braveheart watchers from Steven, who warned me, “These guys are characters.” Steven says “characters,” I say “douche bags.” Let’s call the whole thing off. Actually, one of them was alright. The other one looked like a body double for Jason Lee on “My Name Is Earl,” including and especially, the seventies porn star mustache. He was loud and annoying. I remember seeing Braveheart for the first time and thinking it was long, but with commercials and no customers it seemed interminable. I know. I know. There’s a bunch of fantasy footballers our there saying, “Shove your Miata up your ass, Homo!” I don’t mean to badmouth the manliest film ever made, but watch it at home. Normally, I really dig happy hour, but yesterday I was not enjoying it. If it weren’t for conversing with Nicole and Karen, I would’ve probably done something unthinkable, like clean. Thank God for Karen whose tip doubled my take.
Aoife and Kimi came on and it did not pick up. Aidan O’Leary, a friend, regular, and one of the original Legends, was having a going away party. Since he’s moving back to Ireland, he had a bi-pub crawl, Finn’s and O’ Brien’s. The crew was supposed to be at O’ Brien’s at nine-thirty. Now I love my friends, but there is no way I will ever set my watch to one of their appointed times. During this down time, I was able to identify the douche bag of the night. He was tatted up and walked in with a hot chick. Tattoos are a funny thing. I would only get one if I could figure out what I would want on my body for the rest of my life. Well, that, and I cant find a hairless spot on my body. I’m thinking of an eyeball tattoo. Now, this douche decided that small skulls were something he wanted to take to the grave. He ordered two shots of Jaeger and two Patrons on the rocks with very little grapefruit juice. I made them healthy cocktails and poured the slightest drop of grapefruit in. I’m sure you know where this is going. He took a few sips and said, “There’s too much grapefruit in here.” His girlfriend chimed in, “Mine, too.” Normally, if someone doesn’t like a drink, I throw it out. In this case, adding more Patron would have the same effect. I grabbed the bottle and his girlfriend said, “I was kidding.” I believe she was surprised that her dude was trying to mooch an extra shot. I poured it and got the standard, “Thanks, man, I’ll take care of you.” Of course, you will, it’s your girlfriend’s tab. The next one he ordered I opened the can, set it in front of him, and made sure he added the grapefruit himself. When I set the can down he thought it was the funniest thing ever. I should take that shit on the road.
It wasn’t until eleven that the proverbial good times began to roll. Aidan and the crew descended on O’ Brien’s, better late than never. With the exception of Paulie “Diapers” Vandewater, it seemed like every one who had ever been a regular was in the bar. It was great seeing everyone again. Eight years ago I could go down to O’ Brien’s on any night and there would be a good sized crew hanging out, forget about Friday and Saturday when everyone was around. Not long after the crew came in, Jason Fineberg, a friend from elementary and high school walked in. I remembered that there was an elementary school reunion that night and after dinner they came into the bar. It was a trip. I had seen most of them at the reunion in September, but it’s still pretty wild, twice in twenty years. It was so awesome having them in. Around midnight it slowed down and I went from behind the bar to see my old school pals. That’s when I saw her. Of all the “B” rated, formerly rat infested pubs, she had to walk in to mine. Liza, former girlfriend of Live and Let Date fame, was in town from New York. She stopped by to surprise me. I told her that I knew she was coming to town. She was shocked. How could I know? I explained to my technologically, Amish friend that when one writes on a “wall” on facebook, anyone can read it. Note to readers: if you don’t want someone reading a conversation on facebook, send an e-mail.
I mentioned to Kimi at one point that I couldn’t get a beat on the night. It seemed packed for an hour and then it would thin out. Sales weren’t great, but tips were. I can’t begin to thank everyone for their generosity. It was a great start to the David Garber Dental Fund. I would name names, but I would feel bad about forgetting anyone. I’ll just say that Martha Bane belongs in the O’ Brien’s hall of fame. The thing I love about my job is that I never know how a shift is going to turn out. It could start off pouring rain and miserable and end up as an episode of “This Is Your Life.”
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Dentist
Ever since I tore a crown off at work while chewing gum, I’ve realized that it’s about time for my triennial trip to the dentist. There was intense pain in the back right side of my mouth anytime I consumed something too hot or too cold. I looked online and saw that it cost as much as a grand to replace the crown. All of a sudden, it didn’t hurt to eat ice cream. It’s amazing what a pain killer high costs can be. A few weeks ago, I was at lunch with my colleagues, when Nicole suggested, “Why don’t you just get INsurance?” Pronunciation aside, I realized that Nicole is a genius.
When I worked for MGM, I had the greatest health and dental insurance through my union. When I was in school at UCLA, there were tons of medical resources at my disposal. After graduating, I went for a few months without any insurance. A friend of mine pointed out that since my family practically perfected cancer, maybe I should have a policy, just in case. Let me tell you, it’s not easy getting insurance as a cigarette and pot smoker. Let me rephrase that: it’s not easy getting insurance as an honest, cigarette and pot smoker. A piece of advice: if you ever apply for health insurance, lie. One day Jango told me that as an executive member of Costco, one could get insurance. Now I’ve never been to a Costco. It’s not that I have anything against it, like Wal-Mart, it’s just that I don’t have a real need for a gross of paper towels or a side of beef. Also, I’d probably have to rent a car just to bring home everything I buy there. But for a hundred bucks a year to be able to purchase insurance, call me Costco executive member.
Heeding Nicole’s advice, I went online to and found out that I could get dental insurance for eighty-nine bucks a year, plus a ten dollar sign up fee, through Costco. Now I’m a value shopper, but even I realize that price is too good to be true. As part of the sign-up, I had to choose my dentist from a list of possibilities. I picked Dr. Nguyen because she’s Vietnamese and I was in Vietnam a few years ago. Also, I had some massage parlor fantasies of my new dentist. Alas, happy endings cost far less than dental bills, even with insurance. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I arrived for my two o’ clock appointment early. There was no one to be seen so I sat down and worked on my crossword. I guess I could’ve shouted out, “Who you gotta fuck to get your teeth cleaned up in this bitch?!” But I save that kind of behavior for restaurants, which is probably why I have a higher percentage of loogie in my meals compared to other customers. A few minutes later Dr. Nguyen walked in. She was soon followed by her tiny dental assistant and the large, but sweet looking, receptionist.
I was taken back for x-rays, which anyone knows is an unpleasant experience. I can’t believe with all the technology available they haven’t figured out a way to take an x-ray of your mouth without having to open wide enough to deep throat a mason jar. After the x-rays, Dr. Nguyen came in and told me that I needed: a deep cleaning, to replace my crown, and to repair a couple of fillings. Oh, yeah, I, also, have leuco abrasion, which is some sort of pre-cancerous cells. Hey, it’s better than post-cancerous cells. I guess smoking isn’t as salubrious as I thought. It wasn’t just the smoking, but a tooth that needs to be filed down so it doesn’t continue to cause trauma. Damn you, cancer-causing, sharp tooth! I agreed to all the treatments and was moved to another room for the deep cleaning.
Before any treatment took place, I was presented with a bill of sale by the receptionist. Something about the nine hundred and seventeen spondoolicks, this was all gonna cost, made her corpulence seem threatening. Nine hundred bucks? “How long do I get to pay this?” “It’s three-hundred and twelve for the deep cleaning today.” “I only brought sixty (for co-pay.)” “We take credit cards.” “Of course, you do.” I signed. Having not had ghetto insurance at my previous job, I don’t recall paying for anything, except that which wasn’t covered: blow and viagra; much less, being presented with a bill I had to sign prior to treatment. Hey, you get what you pay for. I got my deep cleaning and scheduled an appointment for the rest of it in two weeks time. I first did it for a week, but realized I might need two in order to save up some cash money, lest I get a beat down Santa Monica Fats, the receptionist, for failure to pay.
Walking home, I decided to do some comparison (post) shopping. I called my former dentist, who never presented me with a bill prior to service; but, then again, I never had a happy ending fantasy about him. Well, once, but that’s a story for another blog. Turns out he charges eight hundred and eighty for a deep cleaning. I guess three hundred with skanky insurance isn’t so bad. Since I’ve quit smoking, I’ve developed a money saving equation called the cigarette multiplier. I multiply five dollars (a pack a day) times the number of days I have to refrain from smoking in order to afford something. It cost two months to quit (hypnosis), four months for my recent automobile raping, and now six months to have a purty mouth. Mathematically, I have to quit smoking for a year to pay off the previous three weeks of my life. Turns out, even with insurance, it isn’t cheap to go to the dentist.
When I worked for MGM, I had the greatest health and dental insurance through my union. When I was in school at UCLA, there were tons of medical resources at my disposal. After graduating, I went for a few months without any insurance. A friend of mine pointed out that since my family practically perfected cancer, maybe I should have a policy, just in case. Let me tell you, it’s not easy getting insurance as a cigarette and pot smoker. Let me rephrase that: it’s not easy getting insurance as an honest, cigarette and pot smoker. A piece of advice: if you ever apply for health insurance, lie. One day Jango told me that as an executive member of Costco, one could get insurance. Now I’ve never been to a Costco. It’s not that I have anything against it, like Wal-Mart, it’s just that I don’t have a real need for a gross of paper towels or a side of beef. Also, I’d probably have to rent a car just to bring home everything I buy there. But for a hundred bucks a year to be able to purchase insurance, call me Costco executive member.
Heeding Nicole’s advice, I went online to and found out that I could get dental insurance for eighty-nine bucks a year, plus a ten dollar sign up fee, through Costco. Now I’m a value shopper, but even I realize that price is too good to be true. As part of the sign-up, I had to choose my dentist from a list of possibilities. I picked Dr. Nguyen because she’s Vietnamese and I was in Vietnam a few years ago. Also, I had some massage parlor fantasies of my new dentist. Alas, happy endings cost far less than dental bills, even with insurance. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I arrived for my two o’ clock appointment early. There was no one to be seen so I sat down and worked on my crossword. I guess I could’ve shouted out, “Who you gotta fuck to get your teeth cleaned up in this bitch?!” But I save that kind of behavior for restaurants, which is probably why I have a higher percentage of loogie in my meals compared to other customers. A few minutes later Dr. Nguyen walked in. She was soon followed by her tiny dental assistant and the large, but sweet looking, receptionist.
I was taken back for x-rays, which anyone knows is an unpleasant experience. I can’t believe with all the technology available they haven’t figured out a way to take an x-ray of your mouth without having to open wide enough to deep throat a mason jar. After the x-rays, Dr. Nguyen came in and told me that I needed: a deep cleaning, to replace my crown, and to repair a couple of fillings. Oh, yeah, I, also, have leuco abrasion, which is some sort of pre-cancerous cells. Hey, it’s better than post-cancerous cells. I guess smoking isn’t as salubrious as I thought. It wasn’t just the smoking, but a tooth that needs to be filed down so it doesn’t continue to cause trauma. Damn you, cancer-causing, sharp tooth! I agreed to all the treatments and was moved to another room for the deep cleaning.
Before any treatment took place, I was presented with a bill of sale by the receptionist. Something about the nine hundred and seventeen spondoolicks, this was all gonna cost, made her corpulence seem threatening. Nine hundred bucks? “How long do I get to pay this?” “It’s three-hundred and twelve for the deep cleaning today.” “I only brought sixty (for co-pay.)” “We take credit cards.” “Of course, you do.” I signed. Having not had ghetto insurance at my previous job, I don’t recall paying for anything, except that which wasn’t covered: blow and viagra; much less, being presented with a bill I had to sign prior to treatment. Hey, you get what you pay for. I got my deep cleaning and scheduled an appointment for the rest of it in two weeks time. I first did it for a week, but realized I might need two in order to save up some cash money, lest I get a beat down Santa Monica Fats, the receptionist, for failure to pay.
Walking home, I decided to do some comparison (post) shopping. I called my former dentist, who never presented me with a bill prior to service; but, then again, I never had a happy ending fantasy about him. Well, once, but that’s a story for another blog. Turns out he charges eight hundred and eighty for a deep cleaning. I guess three hundred with skanky insurance isn’t so bad. Since I’ve quit smoking, I’ve developed a money saving equation called the cigarette multiplier. I multiply five dollars (a pack a day) times the number of days I have to refrain from smoking in order to afford something. It cost two months to quit (hypnosis), four months for my recent automobile raping, and now six months to have a purty mouth. Mathematically, I have to quit smoking for a year to pay off the previous three weeks of my life. Turns out, even with insurance, it isn’t cheap to go to the dentist.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Brig Band
Twelve, fifteen years ago, I used to see a ton of music. There wasn’t a barrier I wouldn’t cross in this city to see a band. I didn’t care if it was Lincoln, the 405, or Highland, alright I never crossed Highland, I sought out music often. Ten years ago I started hanging out at O’ Brien’s. I could tell that my desire to see live music was fading when I noticed that the only time I saw a band was when I would use the restroom at O’ Brien’s. (No, there isn’t a busker in the shitter; a few empty glasses, occasional vomit in the no flush urinal, and the smell of death on a hot, summer day, but no busker.) In fact, we have live music five nights a week that I only hear through a curtain while I’m at the bar, or through the floor while I’m in the office. Call it a streak, but Monday I sat in the back room for a few songs, and Tuesday I went to the Brig, all for live music.
Monday night was good times. My buddy Craig showed up with his friend Neil, who is moving out here. Craig mentioned that Neil works for ESPN, but I didn’t realize that he’s one of the anchors on Sports Center. You wouldn’t know it by the car I drive, the way I dance, or the classes I take at the gym, but I’m pretty butch. In general, I’m a dude, but I’m not the kind of dude who engages in fantasy football, which, by the way, is Dungeons and Dragons for Jocks who used to beat up on kids who played Dungeons and Dragons. Now, I’m sure there are guys who would’ve shot their load knowing they were at the same table as Neil Everett, but I didn’t really know who he was. He’s a super cool guy, but my knowledge of Sports Center ended with Chris Berman. In any case, the three of us enjoyed a great night at the bar. Turns out Neil gives shout outs to his friend’s businesses on Sports Center. Guess I’ll have to tune in and see if he says, “Kobe drives the lane, O’ Brien’s on Main.” That’d be sweet. During a trip to the bathroom, Craig stumbled upon the band. He dragged us back there and we checked out a couple of songs. One of the guys was playing a cello that had no body. It looked like it was built by Dali, trippy. This woman sang “Jolene” and killed it. Alas, I should have left after that.
I’ve heard about the Brig Band for a while. Kenny, a friend from the gym, is in the band. They’ve been playing every Tuesday night for seven years. The Brig is a funny place. It used to be a dive that I hated. The one night I had a good time, I walked outside to see that someone had bent the antenna on my car. I thought parking in The Brig lot outside the front door was safe. Silly me. They finally transformed the stab-atorium, shit hole into a seriously groovy bar. Since Craig and Neil were out, I had them meet me there. Earlier in the evening, I was told that I had to get there by ten; otherwise, it would be way too packed. I got there at eleven-thirty and was amazed. In the words of Craig Shapiro, “This is one of the top places.” The place was packed. There’s no stage so the band: keyboards, bass, sax/trombone, drums, and DJ plays in the middle of the space. I was impressed with the eclectic crowd. I thought it was pretty busy, but Kenny told me that it was so crowded last week that he had trouble getting back to his keyboards after the break. They’re a free form jazz band led by DJ Peyote Cody. When the band took a break, the DJ kept the tunes going and people were cutting a rug. It was amazing to see a crowd like this on a week night.
I left a packed bar at midnight and returned to a quiet one. I know their Tuesday crowd didn’t happen over night. They’ve been playing the same night for seven years. But to have a week night like that is huge. They had a packed house and three bartenders. There are times when I feel that we are in the only game in town. It didn’t feel that way last night. If you get a chance, I highly recommend that you check out the Brig Band.
Monday night was good times. My buddy Craig showed up with his friend Neil, who is moving out here. Craig mentioned that Neil works for ESPN, but I didn’t realize that he’s one of the anchors on Sports Center. You wouldn’t know it by the car I drive, the way I dance, or the classes I take at the gym, but I’m pretty butch. In general, I’m a dude, but I’m not the kind of dude who engages in fantasy football, which, by the way, is Dungeons and Dragons for Jocks who used to beat up on kids who played Dungeons and Dragons. Now, I’m sure there are guys who would’ve shot their load knowing they were at the same table as Neil Everett, but I didn’t really know who he was. He’s a super cool guy, but my knowledge of Sports Center ended with Chris Berman. In any case, the three of us enjoyed a great night at the bar. Turns out Neil gives shout outs to his friend’s businesses on Sports Center. Guess I’ll have to tune in and see if he says, “Kobe drives the lane, O’ Brien’s on Main.” That’d be sweet. During a trip to the bathroom, Craig stumbled upon the band. He dragged us back there and we checked out a couple of songs. One of the guys was playing a cello that had no body. It looked like it was built by Dali, trippy. This woman sang “Jolene” and killed it. Alas, I should have left after that.
I’ve heard about the Brig Band for a while. Kenny, a friend from the gym, is in the band. They’ve been playing every Tuesday night for seven years. The Brig is a funny place. It used to be a dive that I hated. The one night I had a good time, I walked outside to see that someone had bent the antenna on my car. I thought parking in The Brig lot outside the front door was safe. Silly me. They finally transformed the stab-atorium, shit hole into a seriously groovy bar. Since Craig and Neil were out, I had them meet me there. Earlier in the evening, I was told that I had to get there by ten; otherwise, it would be way too packed. I got there at eleven-thirty and was amazed. In the words of Craig Shapiro, “This is one of the top places.” The place was packed. There’s no stage so the band: keyboards, bass, sax/trombone, drums, and DJ plays in the middle of the space. I was impressed with the eclectic crowd. I thought it was pretty busy, but Kenny told me that it was so crowded last week that he had trouble getting back to his keyboards after the break. They’re a free form jazz band led by DJ Peyote Cody. When the band took a break, the DJ kept the tunes going and people were cutting a rug. It was amazing to see a crowd like this on a week night.
I left a packed bar at midnight and returned to a quiet one. I know their Tuesday crowd didn’t happen over night. They’ve been playing the same night for seven years. But to have a week night like that is huge. They had a packed house and three bartenders. There are times when I feel that we are in the only game in town. It didn’t feel that way last night. If you get a chance, I highly recommend that you check out the Brig Band.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Super Bowl
I’ve said it before. I’ll watch sports if they’re on, but won’t set an alarm or drive across town for any event that isn’t played more than every four years. I take that back. I did drive across town to watch the Super Bowl. But with the Super Bowl comes parties and with parties comes food and friends (the order isn’t important,) so to clarify: there must be some added value for me to hop in my Gayata in order to watch a sporting event.
Saturday was a great night, not as great as Friday. The hight point of the evening was when my friend’s Lou and Laura stopped by with their friend Deb or Deborah or Debbie. I believe it’s the latter two, but there is no other name which women are more adamant about. Some Deb’s believe that “Debbie” is a slutty name or “Deborah” is too uptight. In any case, it was great seeing them. The last time they came in, I wouldn’t let Lou drink alone, or with Laura or Amy or the other hundred and fifty people there. The night turned into a bit of a Patron shit show. This time Lou drank with those on the other side of the bar. It was great having them in. The low point was when I noticed there was a dry piece of skin in the upper right corner of my mouth. I nibbled on it for a while hoping it would go away. I woke up the next morning only to realize it was a cold sore. I never realized what a tasty snack Herpes Simplex One can be. I figured I’d quit smoking and get healthier. Instead, I just look like a leper. I guess a lot of people are getting sick. Some are bed ridden. All I have to do is apply Abreva for a few days and stay away from unclean women for a few hours. It could be worse.
I stopped by Pavilions to pick up coffee and Abreva. Since they closed the Starbucks on Lincoln and Montana, I can’t stop at a Starbucks between the one on 7th and Montana and the one at the Pavilions. I feel that human evolution has plateaued. What’s the point in living? I ordered an iced coffee, so I could cool off on this eighty degree winter morn. I saw the barista pour hot coffee over ice. Really? Really? Who are you trying to kid with that shit? I asked him, “Are you pouring hot coffee over ice?” He responded, “We don’t have any iced coffee made?” I’m just glad I don’t carry a gun. I expect this kind of service from Coffee, Bean, and Retard, but Starbucks?
I got to Megan and David’s early. We exchanged pleasantries, then I sat down on the couch with the NYT Sunday crossword. I’m a pretty low maintenance guest. As long as my water glass is filled and my adult diaper changed every few hours, I’ll just sit quietly on the couch. They had Chicago pizza flown in for the game. Although I’m not eating wheat, I have no problem consuming, cheese, sauce, and cured meat. I took a crap the second week of January, so fiber isn’t high on my list. It was delicious. It was great times hanging, but I had to get to work. By the way, I finished the Sunday NYT crossword and I have witnesses, Julie, that I never used the internet. Did you finish it, my little Daikon?
Good thing I barreled down Coldwater to get to work, since the bar wasn’t very busy. I was bummed that I worked Super Bowl last year, but it was a monster compared to this year. The upside was that it was an amazing game, probably the best Super Bowl ever. I thought Pittsburgh would crush Arizona. I was wrong. There was a post-Super Bowl party at Main scheduled for the night. I was a little concerned since the fliers had a picture of what looked like two vatos throwing up gang signs. I’m no marketing maven, but I would have had a picture of a chick with big tits over a couple of gang bangers, but what do I know. Turns out these two dudes blew it up. There was a big crowd for a Sunday. It was a little sausage heavy, which doesn’t seem out of place at O’ Brien’s, but watching a bunch of dudes stand around the dance floor while a handful of women danced, made me think of shark week for some reason. Do sharks rape chicks in that show?
Thank God for the party at Main. It turned an otherwise mediocre Sunday into a good one. I don’t know how other bars were for the game, but it seems that unless you were a Steelers or Cardinals bar, you had to give it away to draw a crowd. I figure next year, we should be the chameleon bar. Which ever teams make it to the Super Bowl, that’s the bar we are. I know it sounds insincere to say we’ve always been a Chargers/Giants bar, but who cares as long it brings a crowd for the Super Bowl.
Saturday was a great night, not as great as Friday. The hight point of the evening was when my friend’s Lou and Laura stopped by with their friend Deb or Deborah or Debbie. I believe it’s the latter two, but there is no other name which women are more adamant about. Some Deb’s believe that “Debbie” is a slutty name or “Deborah” is too uptight. In any case, it was great seeing them. The last time they came in, I wouldn’t let Lou drink alone, or with Laura or Amy or the other hundred and fifty people there. The night turned into a bit of a Patron shit show. This time Lou drank with those on the other side of the bar. It was great having them in. The low point was when I noticed there was a dry piece of skin in the upper right corner of my mouth. I nibbled on it for a while hoping it would go away. I woke up the next morning only to realize it was a cold sore. I never realized what a tasty snack Herpes Simplex One can be. I figured I’d quit smoking and get healthier. Instead, I just look like a leper. I guess a lot of people are getting sick. Some are bed ridden. All I have to do is apply Abreva for a few days and stay away from unclean women for a few hours. It could be worse.
I stopped by Pavilions to pick up coffee and Abreva. Since they closed the Starbucks on Lincoln and Montana, I can’t stop at a Starbucks between the one on 7th and Montana and the one at the Pavilions. I feel that human evolution has plateaued. What’s the point in living? I ordered an iced coffee, so I could cool off on this eighty degree winter morn. I saw the barista pour hot coffee over ice. Really? Really? Who are you trying to kid with that shit? I asked him, “Are you pouring hot coffee over ice?” He responded, “We don’t have any iced coffee made?” I’m just glad I don’t carry a gun. I expect this kind of service from Coffee, Bean, and Retard, but Starbucks?
I got to Megan and David’s early. We exchanged pleasantries, then I sat down on the couch with the NYT Sunday crossword. I’m a pretty low maintenance guest. As long as my water glass is filled and my adult diaper changed every few hours, I’ll just sit quietly on the couch. They had Chicago pizza flown in for the game. Although I’m not eating wheat, I have no problem consuming, cheese, sauce, and cured meat. I took a crap the second week of January, so fiber isn’t high on my list. It was delicious. It was great times hanging, but I had to get to work. By the way, I finished the Sunday NYT crossword and I have witnesses, Julie, that I never used the internet. Did you finish it, my little Daikon?
Good thing I barreled down Coldwater to get to work, since the bar wasn’t very busy. I was bummed that I worked Super Bowl last year, but it was a monster compared to this year. The upside was that it was an amazing game, probably the best Super Bowl ever. I thought Pittsburgh would crush Arizona. I was wrong. There was a post-Super Bowl party at Main scheduled for the night. I was a little concerned since the fliers had a picture of what looked like two vatos throwing up gang signs. I’m no marketing maven, but I would have had a picture of a chick with big tits over a couple of gang bangers, but what do I know. Turns out these two dudes blew it up. There was a big crowd for a Sunday. It was a little sausage heavy, which doesn’t seem out of place at O’ Brien’s, but watching a bunch of dudes stand around the dance floor while a handful of women danced, made me think of shark week for some reason. Do sharks rape chicks in that show?
Thank God for the party at Main. It turned an otherwise mediocre Sunday into a good one. I don’t know how other bars were for the game, but it seems that unless you were a Steelers or Cardinals bar, you had to give it away to draw a crowd. I figure next year, we should be the chameleon bar. Which ever teams make it to the Super Bowl, that’s the bar we are. I know it sounds insincere to say we’ve always been a Chargers/Giants bar, but who cares as long it brings a crowd for the Super Bowl.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Gandhi
I figured it would be like any other Friday, except for the fact that it would be my first shift behind the bar after quitting smokes (this time.) Last time I quit, I was a bit of a prick. Let me rephrase that. I’m a bit of a prick anyway, last time I quit smoking, I was a big, meaty, cock. Judging by the last time I stopped smoking, I was little concerned that I would gouge out a customer’s eyes and piss on their brain for the smallest of infractions. Don’t worry, dear readers. All customers left with the exact number of eyes they walked in with.
My happy hour shift started like any other. There were a handful of people at the bar who I bored with my tales of hypnosis and the end of my days as a smoker. As each new person came in, the previous one got to relive my tale of smoking cessation and my week off from marijuana consumption. I probably drove a few of them to take up both habits. I guess I was like that douche bag in college who found Jesus and wanted everyone to know about it. I always wonder if Jesus ever sees these fools coming first. Close to eight o’ clock, about fifteen early twenty-somethings came in to the bar. It was just before happy hour ended and I was excited for the pop. Alas, these kids were a little douchey. In fact, my level of anxiety began to rise. Normally, my first thought goes to smoking, but it appears that hypnosis has some how cut off that neural pathway. It’s like morning coffee. Just the smell of it when you walk into Peet’s will wake you up. In my case, I just purchase a cup of Peet’s coffee and my bowels begin to quiver. The anxiety eventually subsided, but like a person who has never smoked before, a cigarette wasn’t an option for me. (I apologize if I bore you, but this hypnosis thing is blowing my feeble, and easily controlled, mind.)
Kimi and Tim came on and usually I’ll order food, smoke, eat, smoke. Instead, I ordered food, ate, and went back to work. Novel. It was a great night from the get go. There were great customers. Adults who knew what they wanted, drank well, and tipped even better. The band brought some great people, too. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t all great. There were some douche bags but this was minor douche. As Kimi said, “There was enough douche to bother me, but not enough to put me over the edge.” In fact, there wasn’t even a douche bag of the night. There was the one guy who was hoovering chicken wings like a fluffer chugs cock. He looked like one of those cheetahs on “When Animals Attack.” I especially loved it when he took a break from gagging on the tiny bones, in order to yell, “Yo! Can I get another order?” Since you were so polite, why not? There was also the woman who asked to close out her tab. She gave me her name and I couldn’t find it in the computer or her card on file. I told her to ask the person who had been helping her. I may have been a little loud in order to be heard above the din, because her friend said, “You don’t have to be mean.” I said, “Excuse me? I told her I couldn’t find her card, maybe the person who took her order could help. Is there a problem?!” I don’t like yelling at customers, but I hate being told how to behave by them, either. Now this was someone who easily could’ve lost an eye and had her brain showered with urine. Then there’s the seriously minor douche who you ask how they want something, they tell you, then change it while you pour. A guy ordered three shots of Patron and a Red Bull. I asked if he wanted the Red Bull on ice. He said yes, checked with his friend, and half way through pouring it, he yelled, “No.” I angrily threw out the drink. I like to passive-aggressively let customers know when they’ve violated the rules of the bar.
Great music, great customers, big money. Sweet business. I wish every night could’ve been like Friday. Towards the end of the night, my lower back started to tighten up. I figured some weed would ease that pain, but when I got home, I didn’t have the inclination. (One paragraph later and, yes, my mind is still blown.) By the way, my favorite part of the night was when an Indian dude, dot not feather, ordered a drink and closed out his tab. I’m sure you can guess his name. Maybe it’s the nerd in me, but how many times do you get to slide a check presenter and say, not offensively, “Here you you go, Gandhi.”?
My happy hour shift started like any other. There were a handful of people at the bar who I bored with my tales of hypnosis and the end of my days as a smoker. As each new person came in, the previous one got to relive my tale of smoking cessation and my week off from marijuana consumption. I probably drove a few of them to take up both habits. I guess I was like that douche bag in college who found Jesus and wanted everyone to know about it. I always wonder if Jesus ever sees these fools coming first. Close to eight o’ clock, about fifteen early twenty-somethings came in to the bar. It was just before happy hour ended and I was excited for the pop. Alas, these kids were a little douchey. In fact, my level of anxiety began to rise. Normally, my first thought goes to smoking, but it appears that hypnosis has some how cut off that neural pathway. It’s like morning coffee. Just the smell of it when you walk into Peet’s will wake you up. In my case, I just purchase a cup of Peet’s coffee and my bowels begin to quiver. The anxiety eventually subsided, but like a person who has never smoked before, a cigarette wasn’t an option for me. (I apologize if I bore you, but this hypnosis thing is blowing my feeble, and easily controlled, mind.)
Kimi and Tim came on and usually I’ll order food, smoke, eat, smoke. Instead, I ordered food, ate, and went back to work. Novel. It was a great night from the get go. There were great customers. Adults who knew what they wanted, drank well, and tipped even better. The band brought some great people, too. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t all great. There were some douche bags but this was minor douche. As Kimi said, “There was enough douche to bother me, but not enough to put me over the edge.” In fact, there wasn’t even a douche bag of the night. There was the one guy who was hoovering chicken wings like a fluffer chugs cock. He looked like one of those cheetahs on “When Animals Attack.” I especially loved it when he took a break from gagging on the tiny bones, in order to yell, “Yo! Can I get another order?” Since you were so polite, why not? There was also the woman who asked to close out her tab. She gave me her name and I couldn’t find it in the computer or her card on file. I told her to ask the person who had been helping her. I may have been a little loud in order to be heard above the din, because her friend said, “You don’t have to be mean.” I said, “Excuse me? I told her I couldn’t find her card, maybe the person who took her order could help. Is there a problem?!” I don’t like yelling at customers, but I hate being told how to behave by them, either. Now this was someone who easily could’ve lost an eye and had her brain showered with urine. Then there’s the seriously minor douche who you ask how they want something, they tell you, then change it while you pour. A guy ordered three shots of Patron and a Red Bull. I asked if he wanted the Red Bull on ice. He said yes, checked with his friend, and half way through pouring it, he yelled, “No.” I angrily threw out the drink. I like to passive-aggressively let customers know when they’ve violated the rules of the bar.
Great music, great customers, big money. Sweet business. I wish every night could’ve been like Friday. Towards the end of the night, my lower back started to tighten up. I figured some weed would ease that pain, but when I got home, I didn’t have the inclination. (One paragraph later and, yes, my mind is still blown.) By the way, my favorite part of the night was when an Indian dude, dot not feather, ordered a drink and closed out his tab. I’m sure you can guess his name. Maybe it’s the nerd in me, but how many times do you get to slide a check presenter and say, not offensively, “Here you you go, Gandhi.”?
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