A Race To The Bottom

It's Gator's birthday today, so yesterday I went to buy him a gift. At some point in my friendships, I usually gift a copy of The Alchemist by Paul Coelho. (For a book that I've bought so many times, for so many, I really can't remember what it's about. If memory serves, some kid fucks a sheep, the end. It's a classic.) One of my big things when it comes to gift giving is that I only shop at places that gift wrap. I'm a dude. I can wrap, poorly, but what's the point? Like cooking and cleaning, I'm happy to pay someone else to do it. (I'll know I've arrived when I can pay someone else to masturbate (for) me.) In any case, I head over to the only book seller near me, Barnes and Noble. I've always been a big fan of that store. I liken them to Starbucks and Borders to Coffee Bean. They sell the same product, it's just that Barnes does a far superior job of it. I grab a copy of the book from the third floor and head downstairs where I find no line, one of the benefits of the great recession. I tell the young, bookseller, who is lovely, that I'd like it gift wrapped. She replies, "I can't wrap it."

I was shocked. I looked down the the rolls of familiar gift wrapping paper and asked, "Do you have carpal tunnel?" She explained that since the end of January they've stopped gift wrapping, but she could give me some wrapping paper. I told her that I didn't want the book and would like to speak to the manager. The manager came down and explained the policy. I asked if it was a corporate decision and he said, "It came from the district manager," then he adds, "You've probably noticed a lot of other places are no longer gift wrapping." That's when I got upset. Not upset, upset. I mean it's not like someone was on my bike at spinning, but I was seriously annoyed. As anyone who has watched the news knows that we're living in interesting times. And maybe I'm crazy but shouldn't a business distinguish itself by what they do that's special and not help lower the bar. I explained that I would no longer be a customer and left.

I went down to Fred Segal, and while extremely expensive, they do gift wrap. Maybe I cut off my nose to spite my face, but I spent fifty bucks more than had I just taken the wrapping paper. It worked out because Gator isn't a fan of books; although, he perked up when I mentioned that this one had pictures. When I got home I called Barnes and Noble corporate. (For those who don't know me, yes, I do have a lot of time on my hands.) I explained my disappointment and the woman on the other end of the line was sympathetic. I gave her my information. We'll see if they call me back. I stressed the part that upset me the most was the manager's comment concerning other stores not gift wrapping. I said to her, and wished I had the presence of mind to say it to him, "It's not a race to the bottom."

Never Answer The Phone

I got to work and Gator called me up to the office immediately. He said in his raspy, Southern, good old boy voice, "I got a story for you which'll keep you laughing at me for months." He went on to tell me how some homeless looking dude who was some sort of roadie for The Allman Brothers and Doobie Brothers wanted to price out a dinner for Tuesday which included: 25 steaks, 45 clam chowders, 25 fish tacos, 30 shepherd's pies, open bar, and twenty percent tip. This burn out needed it on company letter head, too. God bless that little meth head that he thought O' Brien's had company letter head. Gator spent a few hours putting together this package. Long story short, the guy never came back. I spent a few minutes deleting all of Gator's hard work. I wish I could say that was the strangest thing that happened that night.

Any time someone calls the bar after a few rings it gets directed upstairs to the office. I hang out in the office so I can avoid all that transpires below. For a while there I would avoid the phone because it usually drew me into the world of the bar. I would get questions like, "Did I leave my credit card there? Is your kitchen open? When do you have live music?" and instead of answering, "I don't know. Maybe. Always." I would let it go to voicemail. I've gotten better about answering the phone and last night I seriously regretted that.

The called ID read, "Unknown Caller." If it were my home or cell phone, I wouldn't answer it, but I'm 0n the clock so what the hell. The caller asked my name and said, "I own "The Closet" (clothing store kitty corner) and my brother got locked out of my car. He needs sixty-three dollars to pay the locksmith. Once the locksmith gets the money, my brother can get the keys, open the store and pay you back." Fine. I have this thing about the neighborhood. All of us on Main Street are like a team. If we need Guinness, we call Finn McCool's, they give it to us. If Finn's needs Stella, we tell them to fuck off. It's symbiotic. In any case, I went downstairs to wait for this wizard. He shows up and from the conversation with his brother I figured I would pay the locksmith, he would get his keys and pay me back. Why would it be that easy?

Turns out, the locksmith got the key out of the BMW X5, but since the douche bag didn't have enough money and fought with the locksmith, who didn't speak English, the locksmith left with the key. So dip shit tells me that not only does he need the cash but needs a ride to Santa Monica Lock and Key. This reminds me of the saying, "No good deed goes unpunished." But it's allegedly for our neighbor across the street, so I agree. He tells me the locksmith is in the parking structure on fourth street across from a jazz club. "Harvelles?" I ask. "That's it," he replied. (It's a blues bar, but I'm not in the mood to discuss musical genres.) I pull up across the street and park. I figure that Santa Monica Lock and Key is at the bottom of the structure. Funny, living eight blocks away for fifteen years I never noticed it. Ass clown informs me that the guy is doing a "lock out" in the parking structure. "Where?" I ask. He says, "I'll ask the guy in the booth?" Now I'm wondering if he's going to ask the automatic ticket dispenser or the guy at the exit who has no idea what the fuck is going on above him. I decide to accompany cock breath across the street, because one thing I learned from my Three-card Monte days in New York, the money stays in the pocket.

So Harry Potter asks the parking attendant where this infamous "lock out" is taking place and the attendant looks at him like he just fucked his dog. I don't know why shit for brains thought that anytime something happened in any one of the six hundred parking spaces on any one of the seven floors that Zuul the gate keeper would be notified. Einstein tells me that he's gonna do a recon of the parking structure to find the Keymaster of Gozer. I waited outside. It was a pleasant evening. I watched people come and go. Then I wondered, "Is this guy coming back?" I wasn't sure how long I should wait. I was quite fascinated with the idea that I was being scammed for sixty-three dollars and/or a ride to the promenade. I was thinking that it was far too elaborate a con for a lift down the street or even for such a small amount of money, which was still in my pocket. Based on the parking meter, I had been there for twenty-one minutes. I was punished enough for my good deed. I went back to work.

On my way back, I saw that said car was still parked on Main Street; although, it was gone when I went home at three. I have yet to figure out if it was a scam. Although I'm a naturally curious person, my laziness has kept me from going across the street to The Closet and finding out the deal. I did learn two things: 1) The Allman Brothers won't be in town until the nineteenth of May, and 2) when I'm in the office, I will never answer the phone.

The Streak Ends

I was distraught to say the least. I heard on Friday night that what was supposed to be a blowout of a rugby party on Saturday got canceled. Something about not being able to get a field. Instead of a bar packed with guaranteed drinkers, I would have to hope that the second NCAA basketball game of the day would bring a good crowd. It didn't disappoint.

Originally, I was told I would have to come in early so I could deposit money in the bank, but Gator did it instead. I got a call from Gator when I got to work that the bank was out of fives. I'm still having trouble comprehending that idea. We have a back up bag with extra fives and singles when we run out those denominations. Yes, we run out of fives sometimes, but we're not a bank. I can think of six denominations of American currency off the top of my head ($1, $5, $10, $20, $50, and $100.) How does a bank run out of any one of those denominations? Maybe I don't get out enough, but my mind is blown. It's not like we're asking for a stack of thousand dollar bills. These are fives we're talking about. And this is Wells Fargo, not some homeless magnet like Wamu, my bank. Fucktards!

Rugby or not, the bar began to fill up. All the TVs in the bar, except for the one in the front room was tuned to basketball. A friend of Stevie's the earlier bartender, had Stevie put on the Mexico/Costa Rica soccer game. From the moment the channel was switched, I knew this was not gonna last. Once the front room filled up and there was nary a gringo who gave a shit who the real south of the border super power was, I exiled this dude to the back room and put the game on that everyone else wanted to see. All the tables were filled, but there was one big one where the guys didn't have a drink. Chino had waited on them and I asked him the deal. He told me they just wanted to watch the game. Now a hot chick at the bar not ordering is one thing, but three dip shits at a big table, I don't think so. Maybe it's a sign that the economy is bad or maybe there's something in the water that makes twenty-something's balls bigger, but this is a business: order or get the fuck out. I've always loved the motto at Swingers: Gas, Grass, or Ass: No one eats for free. Words to live by. For those who didn't see it (I for one) the game was insanely close. I was too busy running around to watch it, but I had an idea what was going on by the volume and location of the cheers. After Villanova lost, the bar cleared out.

There was about a forty-five minute lull before an eighties pub crawl came through. Aside from the obvious signs of inebriation: stumbling, slurred speech, chunks of vomit in girls' hair, the best way to tell that this is the end of a pub crawl is that their first question is: "Can I get a food menu?" They were hammered, they were annoying, but, they were customers. They were your garden variety drunken fools. One guy stood by the bar and swayed, asking to close out his tab four times, after he closed it out. The one guy who got his food first almost got mauled by his "friends" like he was a wounded gazelle on "When Animals Attack." Then there was the young lady whose tab was over sixty bucks, shetook out her IPhone, did some calculations and left me an eight percent tip. Fuck the IPhone and it's shitty "Stiff the Bartender Tip Calculator" app.

Adrift in a sea of douche, two deaf men came in and broke my heart. I don't know sign language, but one of them indicated that he and his friend were deaf. He asked for pen and paper and wrote down "Bloody Mary" and, also, pointed to the Newcastle tap. There are certain drinks that people are really specific about, two are Bloody Marys and Margaritas. I top my Bloodies with Guinness, something I picked up in New Orleans. The deaf guy indicated that he was digging the shit out of it. He signed to me that he freaked out when I put the Guinness in but he loved it anyway. I was blown away how well he communicated that to me, at least, I thought that's what he said. The other guy looked at the menu and wanted wings. He was looking at the happy hour menu so I flipped it to the full price side. He put his hands to his eyes like he was crying like a baby. I cracked up. Occasionally, I get a little perspective on life at my job. In the five minutes of serving those guys, I got a lot.

For dinner I had a Kobe burger. Normally I love our burgers, but this one kind of sucked. Don't worry, Dear Readers, neither taste nor hunger stopped me from finishing it. I'm definitely off of our burgers until April. I got back to work and it was dead. It got a little busy around midnight, but we were never in the weeds. We all seemed to agree that this was an especially annoying night. I had one woman ask, "I have a question: Do you have a bathroom?" I said, "No." It's my standard response until two seconds later when I point it out. She said, "Why do you have to be sarcastic?" It's fucking Saturday night. Have a sense of humor. Then there was this one ass clown you yelled, "Vodka red bull!" I made it and he was over talking with his friend. I couldn't get his attention to give him the drink he yelled for. Future customers, when you order a drink, wait for it, wait FOR IT!

Although it didn't seem like a busy night, we made some decent money. But after blowing it up five Saturdays in a row, I'm sad to say, but the streak ends.

Dazed And Confused

I woke up this morning not knowing what day it was. That’s the problem with having a Vampiric schedule, you tend to lose a sense of time. There was a time when my sister was out of work and she would ask me, “Dave, is it weekday or weekend?” For the unemployed, it doesn’t matter, it’s all weekend. Sometimes when I start my week, I’m not ready. I’m a half a step behind, my sense of humor is off, it’s like how some people are without their morning coffee. For instance, I find that families don’t appreciate jokes about pedophiles. My bad. Luckily, when I got to work it was slow enough that I could ease into it.

I only had a few customers watching the tournament, when she walked in. She was a lovely, young Jewess. How could I tell? She had a necklace with Hebrew writing on it. Now I’d like to believe that she knows enough Hebrew that she knows it says, “Rachel, daughter of Moishe” and not “Jam it in my ass, Pilgrim.” In any case, she asked if she could sit at the bar and watch the game without ordering anything. Personally, I wanted to say, “No, buy a bottle of water. The TV isn’t free.” but having an attractive young woman at the bar doesn’t really hurt, so I carded her and let her stay. I have this fear that if my first customer is non-paying, then it will set a bad tone. It took some time, but it got busy. My friends Kathy, Poodle, and Claire came in with their kids and Martha brought her parents in. I love meeting people’s parents. I don’t know why I get such a thrill but I guess living in such a transient city, it’s rare that you get to see friends’ roots. I tried to compliment Martha by saying, “Your daughter is one of our best customers.” I realized they probably heard, “Your daughter is a drunk. Help her.” What I meant to say is, “Your daughter is one of our most generous customers. She’s salt of the earth. Well done.” You see, half a step off. Happy hour was great, but everyone seemed to come in at once and I felt like I was neglecting my tables. I hate when a customer feels that they need to come to the bar for something. They usually don’t mind, but it bothers me.

It got a little busy and it took a while before I got my dinner break. While eating, Kimi came in with her cousin, Brooke, who’s in town from Philly. I got behind the bar and Kevin and I did a shot with them. About a half-hour later, I noticed Brooke was a bit hammered. I figured she was tired from the flight, but she started speaking esperanto or some such shit. Kimi translated. I handed Brooke a bottle of water and felt like I was absolved of any liability from over serving her. (Go water!) My friend’s Danny and Rick came in. They’re big time musicians who were playing that night. There were three bands and they together brought in a great, adult crowd. It’s such a pleasure to serve adults. They don’t ask questions like, “What’s the cheapest thing here?” You, now fuck off! Now they weren’t all adults. I had one ass clown ask, “Do you do Gentleman’s tabs?” With my deafness in full effect, I heard, “Taps,” so I pointed to the beer tabs. He spoke louder, “Gentleman’s tabs.” I asked, “What’s that?” He explained, “You give me a drink and I pay you tomorrow.” I thought it was only in cartoons where they say, “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.” I’ve got fucking Wimpy up in this bitch. Fucking mooch. Act like an American: get a credit card and charge your life away. For the record, I have floated someone a beer who was short of cash, but they probably purchased a thousand beers since we’ve opened our doors. There are many customers who could drink for free if they had no cash, but, Catch-22, they always have cash.

Although we started with a great crowd. It seriously slowed down. I had one customer order four Stellas and four chocolate cake shots. It was sixty-one bucks and I ran his card. I was closing out tabs when this guy spiked his check presenter on the bar in anger. I asked, “Is everything alright?” figuring he was bothered by the cost of his round. He replied that a colleague handed him back his tab and said, “Fix it.” The guy had left just under ten percent, six bucks. Most bartenders will overlook this if the customer tips a buck a drink. Personally, I would’ve let it slide, I figure it’s a marathon and you never know what this customer’s business will lead to. But I’m neither going to chastise nor apologize for my colleague. Here’s a lesson to bar patrons: if a bartender is unhappy with their tip, that’s their problem. The customer does not have to do anything. This customer could’ve said, “No. Fuck off and get your manager.” This guy looked like an idiot because he had a bitch fit and changed his tip to a more respectable one. This goes beyond the bar. It’s a life lesson. You can only control how you act.

My friends Rick and Danny’s band killed it. They started off with “One Way Out” by the Allman’s and crushed it. They played “Tush,” “Rock n’ Roll Hoochie Coo,” “No More Mr. Nice Guy.” I thought to myself, sweet, they’re playing the soundtrack to Dazed and Confused.

The Runner

Forgive me if my memory is a little hazy, but I just finished a spectacular meal at Gjelina on Abbot-Kinney, but more on that later. Adrian walked his dogs to the bar and stopped by for a coldy. (For those keeping score at home "a coldy" is less than a dozen.) We were hanging out on the patio enjoying the afternoon sun, when a young guy, Benjamin, who didn't look old enough to drink, asked about the smoking law on the patio. I explained that by law one must be twenty feet from an open door or window in a business district in Santa Monica, but everyone smokes so it's usually not a problem. Normally, I don't like people just pulling up a chair but Benjamin seemed harmless, so I let it go. He turned out to be a nice enough guy.

Benjamin tells us that he went to school in Chico, but lives in Colorado Springs. He's in town to give a deposition about a law suit. I hear "deposition" and "law suit" and I get the same reaction as when I see a person with a bowling brace on their wrist from the carpal tunnel. They're just out there trying to make a quick buck at someone else's expense. Turns out that Benjamin's deposition is involved with the Long Beach Police and the murder of his mom. Immediately, my heart breaks. I didn't get the whole story, but several years ago on the night after Christmas his Mom was shot and killed by a cop. I should've been suspect of his over share, but as a writer I'm all too curious about other people's lives. Turns out he's a pot smoker who's staying with his Grandma. He's got a good energy and an easy laugh, so I figure he's alright. Of course, I'd be wasting your time if he were.

Adrian took off and I headed inside to manage (read the paper.) I was sitting next to Benjamin who was talking my ear off. At one point he went outside for a smoke and said, "I should leave something." He set his phone down and went outside. I thought it was an odd thing to say, but let it go. He came back and closed out his tab. As he was leaving I said, "Hope your Grandma makes you a great dinner." It was part of our dope smoking conversation from earlier. He said to Kimi on the way out, "I left money on the bar." I decided to see what he left. On his $13.50 tab, there were three singles in the check presenter. Of course, I assumed it was just the tip. I asked Kimi if he paid and she said just what was on the bar. Fuck that noise! If his Mom isn't dead, I'm gonna kill the bitch. I ran out after him and caught him half way up Main Street. I said, "Benjamin, you only left three bucks." He replied, "Oh, I thought I left a twenty." We walked back to the bar together. I was ahead of him. I went inside and was in the bar for thirty seconds when I realized he was no where to be seen. I went outside to look for him and a customer told me he ran up Pier. I ran after him. I didn't see him so I hopped in my car. I headed north on 3rd when I saw him. I pulled into a driveway blocking his path. I hopped out of the car and said, "You wanna pay your tab?" He became apologetic and I called the cops.

He didn't run. He stood there the whole time. He said that he felt like an asshole for not having enough money. I said, "No, you're an asshole for running away." I waited for a few minutes and the cops still hadn't shown. It seemed futile. I called them back and told them to forget about it. I said, "If you want to do the right thing, come back tomorrow and pay your tab." I went back to the bar and told Kevin and Kimi what transpired and they thought it was hilarious. Kevin mocked me saying, "I hope you're grandma cooks you a good dinner." Whatever. I don't know what came over me but there was no way some little fuck was gonna screw my bar out of $10.50. Looking back on it, it wasn't the money. It was the principle. I felt like I was nice enough to this kid and he just shat on me.

I had dinner plans with Shari, who was waiting at the bar when I got back. I wanted to go back to Gjelina, where I had brunch on Sunday. Although I've read great things, I didn't expect it to be busy on a Monday. We got there at nine and it was packed. It was a half-hour wait so we went to the Brig for a cocktail. We went back at nine-thirty and I was pretty buzzed. We were seated on the patio under a heat lamp, which was eventually turned off. We got moved inside and had the entire room to ourselves. We ordered two pizzas right off the bat, then a braised garbanzo beans with Israeli cous cous and harrissa, and a steak with tomato butter, asparagus, and beets. The pizzas have super thin crusts and are amazing. We each liked the one we chose. Mine had olives, buffalo mozzarella, tomato sauce and peppers. Hers had cheese, carmelized onions and some sort of greens. The steak was off the fucking chain. The tomato butter gave it a silkiness like it was marinated over night in olive oil. I used my butter knife to cut it. The garbonzo beans was very good and the dish got better as it set. Although stuffed we ended the meal with a strawberry-rhubarb crisp and gelato, amazing. This is my new favorite place. They are incredibly successful and it is well deserved.

Thank God for Gjelina! What would've been a night where all I could talk about is chasing down some kid ended up being an evening of sublime gluttony. Like there's any other kind? Next year, when I'm in my forties, I'll have customers gathered around the bar, regaling them with the time I ran down the customer who ran out on his tab. I won't tell them the amount, I will only tell them that I caught the runner.

You Miss A Lot

I swear there was a saying, "You miss a day, you miss a lot." Maybe I'm just making it up, but it really comes to mind. I woke up Saturday and went to meet my friends Suzanne and Tim for brunch at AK, which was great. I had the best laid plans to put off writing about Friday night until today. Alas, when I awoke today, I had very little memory of Friday night.

Maybe it's age, or maybe my THC consumption is catching up with me, but shifts are starting to blend together. Here's what I remember. PJ Smith, who was in town from Nashville, played. He used to play once a month, but since he moved a while back, we ended up getting a great turn out to see him. I remember it was Hot Chick Night. I guess we owe it to PJ, since O' Brien's usually doesn't bring in that much talent. I remember meeting January, who reminded me of the woman who kept adding to her order last week, and then January chimed in, "I want a puppy." I told her that I titled my a post after her comment, which delight her. Unfortunately, my memory dies there, which leads us to Saturday.

I walked in to a pretty empty bar. I figured, in the words of my former boss, that Stevie shit the bed. I checked the sales and he actually blew it up. Turns out he got a great crowd for the tournament. Too bad, he advised them all to leave when I came on. No matter, there was a rugby party and pub crawl to be had. Prior to all that, I had two white, mid-thirties males belly up to the bar. In the bar and restaurant business, it doesn't get much better than white, male, adults. They ordered Car Bombs and beers, then fought over who would open the tab. My heart skipped a beat. Flash forward to closing out. The guy, who won the tab opening, commented to his friend, "I just spent the last fifteen years in a culture where saving money is of the utmost importance." Great! My visions of a twenty-five percent tip went the way of my pot fueled sperm count. Nine percent is what I got, but it was all good because the party was about to begin.

A few of the Santa Monica rugby players showed up and I figured it would be a small party. I went into the back room to turn on the TV and when I returned there were twenty-five guys from the other team standing at the bar. I filled pint glasses as fast as the beer would pour. It was a decent crowd, then the pub crawl arrived. I've seen some bad crawls in my time, but this annual one is great. I don't know what it's called or who organizes it, but it's all adults and no arrives too trashed. Now it is the last stop on their journey, so I'm not saying they don't leave that way. This is a pretty organized pub crawl. Every participant has a necklace with their (nick)name on it plus a list of all their stops. Every one was in good form but there was one annoyance. A woman ordered a Guinness and a Stop Light. A Stop Light is our birthday shot or three shots green, yellow, and red stacked from top to bottom, respectively. Some people get sick from them, but, only because they slam em' when they're already shit housed. One regular, Dan, once did his Stop Light shots in pint glasses. I've never seen a greater example of masculinity. That great male specimen proceeded to puke half-way up Pier Ave. In any case, I informed the purchaser that Stop Lights are for birthdays, which prompted the guy with her to show me his necklace, which said, "It's my birthday." I said, "Well it's official," so I whipped up a Stop Light, rang the bell, and sang "Happy Birthday." Next this birthday douche bag hands out two of the shots to his friends. I said, "No, no. You have to do them all." He replied, "No way, man." What a little bitch! I mumbled to a customer, "I wish I could unring that bell." I felt like I got scammed out of shots. After three calls to my therapist and a few kicks to a stray dog, I was over it. I took my dinner break, and my boys in the kitchen screwed up my order. I was cool about it. I went in to the kitchen, yelled, "Utensils down!" I held up the plate and the ticket and asked, "Does this look right?" They shook their heads "no" and then I spiked the plate on the ground. It was subtle, but I got my point across.

After my dinner break the crowd died. My friends, Lou and Laura came in with their friend, Laurie. Whenever Lou and Laura show up, they always bring a different woman. I don't know if I'm supposed to be wearing a condom or what, but it was great seeing them. The band brought a young crowd who I was suspect of. There was the dude who asked for, "A Henny and coke." I informed him that we didn't serve Hennesey and he changed his order to a Newcastle. For those unclear on the polar opposite of these flavor profiles, it's like saying, "You don't have sugar; alright, give me salt." Not only was the crowd suspect, but they were young and sparse. They hovered away from the bar not ordering anything. Since we were on a streak of crazy Saturday nights, and this looked to break it, I was down on the band. That was until I went into the back room where they were playing. Turned out that most of the crowd in the bar came to see them. And an hour later, the crowd blew up. This was our fifth busy Saturday in a row.

Of course, the night wouldn't be complete without an honorary douche bag. This guy was the worst. Kimi came over and told me that a half hour ago this guy ordered beers and told her to put it on his tab. She could not find his tab, but the customer had already walked away. When the customer returned to close out his tab, Kimi informed him that he didn't open one and had to pay for his beers. He claimed that he did open a tab and showed us his wallet where his card should be, as if that's proof. We checked the computer and there was nobody by the name of "Fuck Face." We asked him who he opened his tab with. He said either Kimi or myself. Now I can understand how customers confuse Tim and I (I tell them that I'm the good looking one and he tells them that he's the straight one,) but Kimi and I? Douche bags, gather round. When you take two of the three bartenders on duty to look for the tab that you never opened, you are denying some other nice customers a chance to get drunk and possibly get laid. Is it worth it?

I feel that I've let you down, Dear Readers. I should've been more dilligent about writing, as opposed to, brunching with friends. I know a burger and fries and lemon ricotta pancakes for the table are no excuse, but they were quite tasty. I learned a lesson, a valuable, hyper-caloric lesson. You miss a day and you miss a lot.

And For My Sins, They Gave Me One

I’m not gonna lie. I did not like St. Patrick’s Day. The funny thing is that I was actually looking forward to it. Since it’s the super bowl of alcoholism and pushing booze is my occupation, I figured it would be good times. I was wrong. It wasn’t all bad. The first few hours were alright. Let me rephrase that. The first few minutes were sheer terror, then the next few hours were alright, then there was a couple of hours of never wanting to set foot in a bar again, followed by the slow climb out of hell with my second wind and ending with sheer giddiness.

I got to work an hour and a half early. I know being early is a compulsion, but when it’s a really big event like St. Patrick’s Day, I can’t sit at home. I get super anxious about the coming storm and I feel as long as I can watch it for an hour, then I can ease into it better. I had lunch at Barney’s with my girl, Erica, then hopped on the Tide to work. Last year, I rode my bike and when I passed by Finn McCool’s I saw that it was dead. I thought, bad sign. Then I got to O’ Brien’s, which was over capacity, and realized, so this is where everyone is. That was last year. When I arrived this year, I expected a similar crowd. I was disappointed to say the least. I ran into my old boss, who having been out of the bar business for six months seems to have lost his tolerance for alcohol, because he was annihilated. We had coffee together, I watched him sway a bit, then it was time to work.

The first thing I learned about our computer system is that there is one button you never press. When you cash out a register it offers you to clear the totals, which you press “no.” Since Kimi and Stewart were done, I deleted their comps, transferred some checks and ran their cash out reports. For some reason, maybe my therapist can explain it, when given the option to clear out the totals I pressed “yes.” I won’t say that I took it well. In fact, I began to scream and shake. I was apoplectic. It’s the biggest day of the year and I reset the sales. Personally, I don’t know why there’s a nuclear option on our system. In any case, Aoife and Kimi came over trying to figure out what happened. I tried to explain while also trying to breathe. They and Kevin were great and said it would be okay. I called Nicole over who ran a cash out report and hers came out fine. Phew. I probably lost a couple of months of my life from my two minute fit (not that I want to live forever) but I got back into the groove. I was bouncing around waiting for customers to order drinks. The first check presenter I picked up off the bar, I saw that the customer left us “0” on twenty-one dollars. Now I try and give customers the benefit of the doubt. I asked Tim and Aoife if she left cash. No. I called her over and said, “Zero? You’re stiffing us on St. Patrick’s Day?” Customers, believe you, me, St. Patrick’s Day is not the time to start fucking with a bartender. It may take a couple of hours, but demand for my time will far outstrip supply. She wasn’t the only customer I had to set straight. One guy held out a brown fiver and said, “Is a bottle of Bud Light, five bucks?” I replied, “It is without tip.” I had a couple of regulars wring a buck out of this guy. It’s nice when customers have your back.

Our staffing was different this year. Yesterday was the first time we had four bartenders behind the bar. Since four to nine is the busiest time, Nicole decided that it was better to be overstaffed than overwhelmed. I couldn’t figure out if it just wasn’t busy during this time or if having the extra bartender was exponentially more efficient. I’ll just say this, from nine to two it was busy and I missed having a fourth pair of hands. I don’t know when it happened but I started to lose it. I decided to order some food, which helped a little. Then I had a small shot of Jameson which helped, but I was still feeling like shit. During this time, the only fight of the night broke out. Carlton, a regular, who is black, was closing out his tab. He and another guy were having words. I don’t know how it started but there was mention of taking it outside. Then in a flash, Carlton turned and clocked him. The guy went down and his buddy tried to grab a hold of him. People immediately broke it up. Although I had a front row seat, I had no idea that Carlton decked this guy for a reason. Turns out the guy called him a “nigger.” Some people say you should never utter this word. I say go for it, just don’t expect to live very long after you say it. I was happy to see Carlton pop this guy, but was ecstatic today when I found out why.

During my ten hours I peed four times. It was the third time that I went out front (not to pee, but to go upstairs and pee) and saw that there was still a line to get in. Last year we got hit early and it died. This year I realized it would not end. Now this sense of eternal damnation to making drinks for drunken amateurs did not help my general well being, but I got my second wind some time around eleven. I don’t know what changed. Some how I got a surge of adrenaline and that carried me through the next three hours. Around twelve-thirty I poured myself a Guinness and it was perhaps the best beer I’ve ever had in my life. I rang the last call bell a few minutes early and the bar was cleared soon there after. It was finally over.

Counting the money took forever. It still isn’t clear how my end of days button press affected our totals, but I’ll find out today. When we finally counted our tips, I decided it wasn’t worth it. I’m all about making money, but given the choice I would’ve let someone else have my shift. I don’t know what makes St. Patrick’s Day so difficult. Maybe it’s all the amateurs or maybe it’s just sheer volume, but it’s not a lot of fun. Hopefully, writing this post will remind me of my disdain for the day and prepare me better next year. I was excited for this year’s St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to work, the only place I cared to be was behind the bar. Be careful what you wish for. After it was over, all I could think of was Willard’s quote in Apocalypse Now, “I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one.”

Pre-Patty's Day

The Saturday before St. Patrick's Day was the second biggest day of 2008. Maybe it was because St. Patrick's Day was on a Monday, and people decided that Saturday would be their alcoholiday, but we were busy all night long. Nicole informed me the other day that this year's Saturday before St. Patrick's Day Tim would come on at seven and Kimi at eight, as opposed to their usual eight-thirty. I said, "So you're gonna let them touch my stack?!" She replied, "Don't worry. You'll make enough money this week." I usually hate it when other people are right, but this time, I made an exception.

When I got to work the party had already started. The revelers had dusted off their green shirts and strapped on their spare livers. It was by no means Iditarod crazy, but there was a good crowd. There was probably sixty people in the bar and we were already expecting the women's rugby team. For the rugby party, we set up a buffet in the back prior to their arrival. I try and keep one eye on it in case there are some who think an empty room with steam trays is an invitation to dine. Rarely does anyone defile our food table, but on Saturday an unlikely character dug in. Chino pointed out that an old man reading the paper decided to taste our wares. I hurried back, wanting to punch him in the throat, then asking, "What about this untouched cornucopia makes you think we were saving it for you? Do you think this is Top fucking Chef? Were you just waiting to sit at Judge's table with Padma?" I would then get aroused watching him struggle for breath, daring onlookers to dial "911," lest they find their tabs with multiple rounds of unordered Jaeger Bombs. Instead, I informed him, "This is for a private party and not a public buffet." Luckily, the rugby party showed up and had at it. I was able to take my eye off of the buffet. I don't know if it was a pub crawl, but a fair number of people, who arrived before I did, took off. It didn't matter, the party was just getting warmed up.

I don't know where they came from or who they were, aside from the rugby players and my buddy, Mike Harrigan, but the bar began to fill up. Gator had to jump back and help. There isn't a whole lot I remember of the two and a half hours between clocking in and when Tim showed up. There was the dumb shit who ordered a round of drinks including a Guinness. I guess he didn't know that a Guinness is poured in two stages, so when I turned around to run his card, he grabbed the not full glass, and walked away. I wonder if he thought, "Cheap ass place. Can't even fill up a fucking Guinness. That and I had to reach across the bar to an area I shouldn't, just to get it." His loss. There was also the guy telling me the name on the tab, "Scott." I don't know how it works for the rest of you, but when I open a phone book, I usually go last name first. When I couldn't find someone by that last name, I had to yell across the bar to bring the customer back. It wasn't a big deal, but it happened twice more that night. Dear Readers, I know this falls on deaf ears, but unless your name is Prince, Seal, or Bjork (all regulars, by the way,) go last name first when closing a tab. When Tim showed up, I had to close out all my credit cards and count my cash tips because my stack is my stack. It was a good crowd, perfect for two bartenders. Kimi came on and I started thinking about dinner. I realized I wasn't sitting down and dining: one because there was no place and two no time, so I ordered fish and chips to eat standing behind the bar. I joke about the food at O' Brien's, but it is very good, and we have great fish and chips. Maybe it's my love for tartar sauce, but it hit my spot.

We were slammed until some time after ten, then it died. It was a hard death, too. I began to question whether this was an omen that St. Patrick's day would be weak (which it never is.) Or if I would survive the ten hour onslaught on Tuesday since I was falling asleep on my feet. I went outside to get some air. A server mentioned there was a party bus outside. I had dreams of a hundred people pouring into the bar ready to drink us out of everything. Alas, when I got outside, I saw that it was, as advertised, a party bus. It was fifty people on a double-decker bus partying. Good for fucking them. I believe a couple of ladies got off to befoul our bathroom. I went back inside, exhausted. Then it happened. Some time around midnight there was a surge of people. I was no longer concerned with Tuesday or my intestinal fortitude, because I was ready to party. It became a mad house. The biggest surprise of the night is how few douche bags were out. They were there, but I am hard pressed to remember them. When I was closing out credit card slips I was super impressed with how generous customers were.

It was a huge night, but I don't believe the numbers topped last year. This is four massive Saturdays in a row. All leading up to the biggest day of the year. St. Patrick's Day is long and arduous; and, although we look forward to it, we can't wait until it's done. Thank God for the warm-up event, the practice run, the test. The Saturday before Saint Patrick's Day, otherwise known as, Pre-Patty's Day.

I Want A Puppy

Rob Cullen made our night. It’s that simple. It was a mediocre Friday, but one tip changed everything. Thank God for Rob Cullen. Six months ago, it seemed that Fridays were the great nights and Saturdays were hit and miss. In the last month, or so, it’s been the opposite. I don’t know what could be the cause of that, except maybe our economy is in the shitter; and, the after work crowd is rushing home to cuddle with their pay checks. It could be a lot worse, because it seems like I live in a bubble here in Santa Monica. I pray that bubble doesn’t burst.

Growing with the one and a half seasons of Los Angeles, I’ve always looked at day light savings as the beginning of summer. Everything seems to change when people drive home in the light, instead of sheer darkness. Alas, daylight savings has come really early this year, as you may have noticed, so my summer kick off is taking place in fifty degree weather. I guess this is why our patio, which is normally busy in the early evening, was empty save a few icicles hanging from the tables. I only had two customers at the bar when he walked in. I recognized him as a Stella drinker who gets a bit too drunk. I served him one to give him a shot. Half-way through his beer his eyes were closing and he began to talk to himself. It was a great way to start off a shift. He came in for his second beer and I told him he was done. He mumbled something, walked out, and flipped me the bird over his shoulder. Good times. Happy hour was funny. To the outside observer, it may not have seemed busy, but everyone came in at the same time. We have six items on our happy hour menu and for some reason, everyone was ordering potato skins. I don’t know why it happens, but some things tend to get ordered more than others. For instance, I’ll make a Sex on the Beach (vodka, peach schnapps, orange, and cran,) once every six months, but five customers ordered them last night. I don’t know why it happens. Something in the ether. In any case, I messed up a table’s order when I put in two wings instead of two skins. I was off my game, but it turned out to be a delicious mistake. You don’t think I just throw that shit out, do you?

Tim and Kimi came on and the douche was in full effect. I didn’t experience it as much, but they sure were inundated with it. Tim’s all-star was the guy who picked up a can of Red Bull we were using and took a sip, then he put it back. Tim called him on it. The guy said, “All right. I’ll be a man. I admit it. I took a sip.” This jerk off drank from a can and placed it back to be poured into someone else’s drink and he claims to be a man. No dumb shit, a man pulls out the three dollars sans tip to buy a can of Red Bull. It’s up there with the ass clowns who feel the garnish tray is a tong-less buffet. I saw one dude grabbing olives out of it. I was tapping a beer when I caught his eye. I shook my head, pointed to the olives and said, “Uh-uh.” The guy came over and said, “Want me to leave a dollar?” How stupid are people? I tell this guy to obey a rule, one that concerns hygiene and every other customer, and he thinks I’m trying to extort a Washington out of him. I told him, “No, you can keep your money.” Later on in the evening, I had three customers waiting to be served, one woman and two men. I went up to the woman, “What can I get you?” She said, “Some fruity shots. Something that tastes good. No tequila.” I said, “Grape kamikaze?” She replied, “I don’t like kamikazes.” Great. Why don’t I go through the book of shots to find one you do like? For those keeping score at home, some bartenders may be shot sommaliers. I’m not one of them. Then she mentioned that she’s a bartender. I said loudly, “Really?” Because in no universe of normalcy, would a “bartender” hold up other customers while they decided what fruity shot they wanted. I moved on, leaving her to ponder her eventual decision. Then there was the guy at last call who ordered, “One diesel and two unleadeds.” I’m game. I asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?” He laughed, “A Bud and two Bud Lights.” That amused me for a nano-second.

But the bar wasn’t comprised solely of douche. One woman, an annoyance, ordered a Fat Tire and a Long Island. I asked, “Anything else?” A water. I was filling the water. “Anything else?” A Bass. I was visibly annoyed, because it’s not a question I like to ask over and over. “Anything else?” Another customer made my night, when she chimed in, “I want a puppy.”

Flip Cup

I know I’m getting old when I have to google drinking games. I first heard about Flip Cup when the kickball league brought it into O’ Brien’s. I didn’t really pay much attention to the game, I would just pass by the long table of competitors and try and avoid any sort of contact, lest their b.o. rub off on me. The kickball presence has dwindled, but the Santa Monica Women’s Rugby team brought flip cup back to the bar for a one night only tournament.

Friday night, Gator pointed out that the tags on my car were expired. I didn’t remember paying my registration fees; in fact, I don’t remember receiving them. When I got home, I rifled through my files, which is a small stack of dusty papers on the corner of my desk. Nothing. I woke up Saturday and called AAA. They asked me my license plate number and I was stumped. For some reason, I remember the license plate on my Mom’s 1977 Cadillac Seville, 513 WGP, but I don’t know mine. I threw on my good robe and trudged down to the garage. I got the requisite paper work and AAA informed me that I needed a smog check from a “smog check only” place, then I had to pay a hundred and fifty-six dollars in fees on my hundred and sixty-two dollar car. First of all, I don’t know which lobbyist blew which state senator to implement the “smog check only” law, but what’s the difference in smog check places? After getting this done, I hauled ass to AAA to pay my fees, only to find that they’re closed on Saturday. D’ oh. I needed food before going home so I stopped off at Subway. Who ever thought of the five dollar foot long is a genius. If they sold it as a dollar-twenty off, no one would care, but they have a constant line at every one of these sub-par sandwich shops, because of this magic price point.

I walked into work early only to find the end of the urban iditarod. Last year’s iditarod was the biggest pub crawl I’ve ever seen. A year and a week ago, I was warned that there would be a hundred people crawling to our bar. I got coffee at the Novel Cafe, went to the store to get some smokes, and then I saw them. They were a column of drunken revelers, hundreds of them, pushing shopping carts, hence, the iditarod. The security cameras show me passing our entrance, then immediately turning around, and darting into the bar. A minute later, about three hundred people followed me in. Our occupancy is around one-eighty. We ended up closing at six for an hour, just to reset. The police shut down Main Street. Click here to check out pictures from it. I only caught the tail end of it this year. I can only assume it wasn’t nearly the size, since we stayed open. Unlike evolution, where humankind progresses, those left at the end of a pub crawl are a mere three I.Q. points from retarded. (And it’s anyone’s guess which side of retarded their I.Q.’s lie.) This is what I began my shift with. Lucky for me, there was a double rugby party of sorts. First, the men played a team from San Diego; and, also, the women were having their Flip Cup tournament.

During my brief stint of collegiate rugby, I learned about boat races, which are essentially, beer relays. Flip Cup works the same way except after a drinker finishes their beer, they must set the cup on the table and flip it so it lands upside down. Personally, I’ve never understood drinking games. Invariably, the goal is to get the other person to drink, while the only dope smoking game I’ve played, Zonk (I’m shocked it’s on Wikipedia,) makes the goal for you to smoke. In any case, the Women’s Rugby team locked up the back room for their tournament. For those keeping score at home, you’ll remember, last week we threw a rugby party but no one showed. Leaving me alone with a steam tray full of bangers is never a good thing. This week, because of a miscommunication, the party showed up, but there was no food for them. But, guess what? They did alright with beer. It’s Saturday at six p.m., I’ve got the tail end of the iditarod, the Men’s Rugby team post party, and the Women’s Rugby team Flip Cup tournament in the back. It was a perfect storm. Pretty much everyone was well behaved, with the exception of the remaining iditarod dip shits. No matter who I chose to stop serving, they would end up with a drink in their hands. It was futile. Alas, I never did see the Flip Cup tournament, but some of the women were jockeying to carry the pitchers of beer into the back room. I’m not sure why, but they were obsessed with wanting to look like they were doing their jobs. They would never last as employees here.

The Flip Cup tournament ended, but many of the Rugby players stuck around. After my dinner break, it seemed to slow down, but that didn’t last long. It didn’t seem as crowded as the night before, but people were far more serious about drinking. There were groups of adults, who knew what they wanted, ordered, paid quickly, and tipped well, essentially, dream customers. At the end of the night, I looked at the totals and it was the third super busy Saturday in a row. And if last year was any indication, next Saturday, because it’s just before St. Patrick’s Day, will be four in a row. Actually, if last year is any indication, it will be flat out insane. I have no idea who won the drinking tournament; but, seriously, does anyone ever lose when they play Flip Cup?

39

Even though it was my birthday, I figured it would be like any other Friday. I got to the pub a half hour early and was immediately greeted by Nicole. She wished me a Happy Birthday and walked me inside. I walked into the main room and saw above the bar two-foot, gold, helium, balloons, which read, “GARBER 39.” Awesome. I cracked up. It was a great beginning to my shift.

Happy hour started off slow, but then some old friends began to trickle in. Liz and her sister Sarah led the parade. She was followed by Poodle, Claire, Adrian, and Kathy. Kathy had stashed a homemade, red velvet cake under Ruby’s stroller. She busted it out with candles to boot. My friends sang, “Happy Birthday,” and then we dove into the cake. It was delicious. I was super touched, it was a lovely thing that Kathy did. The bar began to fill up, and in between bites of cake, I was running around helping customers. Needless to say, I was a bit distracted. It was my birthday and there were friends everywhere. I neglected a few customers, but when I explained the balloons, all was forgiven. It was a great happy hour, I probably should’ve stopped there.

It was a strange night. After my dinner break, it seemed busy, because of the noise and the crowd, but we didn’t seem to be making many drinks. We did have some real All-Stars walk through the door and I blame the band. I’ve never had so many customers pay with change. The first one ordered a bottle of Bud. I told him five dollars and he whipped out three singles and eight quarters. He then asked, “Is there an ATM nearby?” I wanted to ask, “Do you want the one that only spits out hundreds, high roller?” Personally, I hit the ATM before I go out. I don’t break my piggy bank in order to purchase a five dollar beverage. The next wizard ordered a Guinness, seven dollars. He paid with a five, a one, eight dimes, and four nickels. The first time around I counted wrong and he corrected me. I apologized and explained, “I so rarely get dimes and nickels to pay for a drink, I mean from my non-homeless customers.” I thanked him for the lack of tip and moved on. Perhaps my favorite customers were the two women who ordered Diet Cokes. They told me they were both designated drivers and balked when I charged them six dollars for the drinks. I explained, “Just because you drove doesn’t make you a ‘designated driver.’ If you transport your drunk friends, then I’ll kick you a soda, but if everyone drove and wanted free Diet Cokes, we wouldn’t make any money.” It saddens me that I have to take time out of the celebration of my birth to explain how the designated driver program works. Go to McDonald’s and mooch a free cola, skank. I was beginning to regret working on my birthday. What started out so sweet, was becoming a pain in the ass. Of course, on my birthday, I had a trio of young ladies belly up to the bar. One asked, “Can we get three mystery birthday shots? It’s my friend’s birthday.” I asked, “When?” She responded, “Three days ago.” I replied, “I’m gonna have to charge you.” She began to get defensive, explaining that she didn’t want anything free. I ask you, Dear Reader, am I wrong to assume that when a customer says, “birthday,” they mean “gratis.” Otherwise, why not just call them shots?

Two bands played that night. And between them they some how took up half of the back room with their equipment. During the second band, Opus Dai, my buddy Jimbo came up to me and said, “Dave Garber, if you don’t go listen to this music and write about it in your blog tomorrow, I’m no longer your friend.” Well Jimbo, I listened and now I’m writing. Are we still friends? Just before midnight I did a shot with some regular customers. I don’t know if it’s my age, but that shot took the life out of me. Not only was I exhausted, but time slowed down. It wasn’t just me and my nearly forty-year old ass, but Kimi, too, couldn’t believe how long the last hour of the night went. I guess the bands loyal followers finally ran out of change to purchase drinks, which is why it was so slow. When our clocks finally ticked half past one, I rang the shit out of the last call bell. In fact, I went over a minute early and stretched out my shoulder, in hopes of cracking it like the Liberty Bell. I don’t regret working on my birthday. It is just any other night. Next year my birthday falls on a Saturday. For those keeping score at home, it will be my 40th. Douche bags be warned: I will not suffer fools on that night. I’ve got three hundred and sixty four days to bone up, and bone I will, but for now, I’m just going to enjoy being 39.

Happy Birthday To Me

Some people (women) celebrate their birthday all month long. I’m not a big fan of my birthday. It has nothing to do with age, I don’t really care about my age, I mean I’m a thirty-nine year old bartender, how much could I care about my age? In any case, I scheduled my crown replacement on Wednesday. As Shakespeare said, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” Had King Henry IV gone to the dentist, the quote would’ve been, “How much more fucking painful can replacing this crown be?” It’s not nearly as poetic, but it does come from the heart.

After getting my temporary crown, I was in pain for the first week. By flossing and hoovering advil, I was able to make it through the second week with not too much pain. I went in for the final stage in my nine-hundred dollar dental tab, not including my golden, eighty-nine dollar insurance policy. I got in the chair and was ready for the end game. Dr. Nguyen removed my temporary crown which felt great. She then proceeded to poke around the gap, causing a moderate amount of pain. It was the next step that was unbearable. My dentist informed me that when she placed the new crown on, I would feel a couple of seconds of cold. She missed the mark by a couple of light years. Anyone seen American Me? Remember the scene where a group of prisoners jam a knife in another prisoner’s ass before they rape him? That was a dawdle compared to the pain I felt. I tried to rip the arm rests off the dental chair, to no avail. The dental assistant caressed my arm, which had I not been in so much pain, I would’ve appreciated. The dentist massaged my jaw for a few minutes and the pain eventually subsided. After purchasing my third bottle of advil for the week, I started feeling much better.

My Dad came to town, so it was movies and food. We went to the Landmark theater to see The Class, a French film about the year in the life of a teacher and his class. Although I dozed a bit in the beginning, no fault of the film, the film was terrific. By the way, when I doze during a film, I can usually follow just by listening, but it’s far harder when the movie’s in French. The next day we saw Two Lovers, which was truly amazing. It’s pretty close to a masterpiece. It stars Joaquin Phoenix and Gwyneth Paltrow. I wish that all of you who have seen the train wreck that was Joaquin Phoenix on Letterman, would go and see this film. Having gone through a losing streak in December, it’s nice to see two excellent films in a row.

Last night, Dad and I went to Fraiche for my birthday dinner. I really wanted to go to Pizzeria Mozza, but with the choices of five or ten o’ clock reservations, I decided to move on. I have to say, I couldn’t have made a better choice. Growing up, I always thought of Culver City as an oversized trailer park. That has all changed. They’ve done a remarkable job with the downtown area; in fact, Santa Monica could take a page out of their book. In any case, I started off with The Grape, vodka with crushed grapes, amazing. I was feeling butch so I moved onto a Blood Orange Martini, which while tasty, was a blood orange screwdriver straight-up, heavy on the orange. For food, I started with sopresata, beef tartare, and a pork chop with romanesco sauce, broccolini, and parmesan polenta. The sopresata was alright, but the tartare and pork chop were superb. Fraiche was packed and for good reason. I met my Dad one last time, for breakfast at Huckleberry Cafe. I had the fried egg sandwich with bacon, gruyere, arugula and aioli on country bread. This dish was far better on paper. The bread was too thick and arugula too abundant, drowning out the taste of the bacon and egg. When i go for breakfast, the last thing I want to be inundated with is arugula.

By the way, on Thursday, March 5th, my 8,000th reader checked out my blog. It’s the fastest thousand readers so far. I have made a change. I began advertising on StumbleUpon.com this week, so hopefully some of these new readers will stick around. I want to take this time to thank all of you for helping me get to this level.

So here I am, lying on the couch, resting up for another night of work. Some people think it’s a shanda to work on my birthday. Most people I know would end up going to a bar anyway, I’ll just be on the other side of it. So if you’ve got nothing planned, swing by, have a drink, and wish a happy birthday to me.

Pitchers

“We don’t sell pitchers.” I say this quite often and it invokes the same kind of ire as when I inform a customer that we don’t sell Coors Light. Occasionally, I get the “What kind of Irish Pub doesn’t sell pitchers?” This kind, now you can take your ass up the road to Finn McCool’s and not a get a pitcher there. I explain to customers that a pitcher is sixty-ounces, and so is three Imperial Pints, our standard glass. And you know what? Those bastards who go on about pitchers always end up ordering different beers in the end. The problem with telling people that we don’t sell pitchers is that since the rugby team gets an hour of Bud Light after their game, there tends to be pitchers scattered through out the bar on any given Saturday. This causes customers to call me a liar and I hate being called a liar.

Prior to coming to work, I checked out the Santa Monica Rugby Club’s schedule. They were hosting the Las Vegas Blackjacks. I feel that team name is a little on the nose. Why not the Las Vegas Roulettes or the Las Vegas Buffets or even the Las Vegas Crystal Meth Addicted Whores? On the nose or not, I always root for the Whores. In any case, I got to work and saw that some of the Blackjacks were already in the bar. Turns out the Blackjacks only brought one team, so there was a one o’ clock game, and only a smidgen of a party to be had. I was perturbed, a half-hour into my shift and there were only a dozen rugby players and thirty pounds of Bangers and Mash set up in the back. I began to drown my sorrows in Bangers. There nothing like deep fried sausage to chase the blues away. (And, yes, that last sentence was literal.) It turns out that the most of the Santa Monica team didn’t come to the party because they were resting up for the blow out that was to take place at seven o’ clock. And let me tell you, Dear Reader, it was a blow out.

I don’t know when it happened, probably around eight, but there was a two-front storm. First, was the rugby team’s piss up. David Hughes, rugby player extraordinaire and fiance of Brooke “Kamikaze” Nelson, inquired about the cost of having our three pitchers made available for sale. I told him that I’d charge them for three pints and that was that. The second front was a customer’s birthday. He hired a band to play. The party was dropped off by a bus. By the time they arrived, I had completely forgotten my earlier disappointment with the meager turnout for the rugby party, because I was in the weeds. For those unfamiliar with the term, “In the weeds” refers to not being able to keep up with the crowd at hand. Personally, I love being “in the weeds.” It makes me feel alive. Now we’ve got a two-front storm and three pitchers out on the floor, numbers most quants would shy away from. The problem is, now I’ve got customers ordering pitchers of beer. I tell them we don’t sell pitchers, they’re only for the rugby team. Invariably, the customer would tell me that they are part of the rugby team, to which I would respond, “Then grab one of the three pitchers and I’ll sell it back to you.” Then there was the one customer who called me a “liar.” I knew he was kidding, but I wanted to throttle him just the same. Being behind the bar, you can miss a lot. Turns out this storm brought a couple of near fights in the back. It’s never a good sign when security is calming a situation before they clock in. Also, a couple of people vomited in the bar and this was all before nine-thirty.

Tim and Aoife came on and it was similar to last Saturday, they just had to jump into the mix. Since we tend to be a late night bar, it’s pure gravy having an early crowd. Both Tim and Aoife were confused about the pitcher situation. I told them to charge for three pints. Tim asked, “Until when?” I said, “Until they stop drinking.” I took my dinner break. Since I’m back on wheat, my options increase exponentially. Right now, I’m in the process of burning out on BLT’s with avocado. I threw a club in there to mix it up, but processed turkey skeeves me. It tastes like ham made from a bird. MMMMMMMMMMMBird Ham. The birthday party left and the rugby team’s drinking games slowed down. It started to look like a normal night. At one point, a Euro ordered “two shots and two beers.” I don’t know what part of generic Soviet society he grew up in, but I asked him to clarify. “Sambuca and two beers.” Fine, I closed him out. No tip. He’s from the old country. What can you do? Tim shoved his credit card receipt in my face and said, “They’re loving you tonight.” Two minutes later, a guy orders a round of drinks and tips a hundred percent, more than actually, thirty on twenty-nine. Tim picked up the credit card book and said, “That guy in the glasses just tipped us a hundred percent.” I replied, “Why is it when I get stiffed, ‘they’re loving me’, but when I get us thirty on twenty-nine, ”we“ just got tipped a hundred percent?” Tim conceded. The same guy returned to the bar for the same drinks and left the same tip. Turns out it was his birthday. I wish they all celebrated like him, instead of the whiners who come in trying to mooch a free drink on their birthday which occurred three weeks ago. When I point this out, they say, “But we’re celebrating now.” Have your birthday at my bar on your birthday, and I’ll buy you a drink, if you’re buying the round. I don’t know why your friends should get a break on your birthday. Let them buy you birthday drinks.

The birthday party left and the rugby team’s drinking games slowed down. The crazy night began to resemble a normal one. This normality ended around twelve-thirty when we got another pop. It turned out to be a huge night, almost the same as the previous Saturday. I only pray that this keeps up. If business stays like this, we may just have to invest in a few new pitchers.