This Is Great

Change Candidate Wanted For California Interview

My buddy, Steve Fowler, interviewed me for his site: Change Candidate Wanted For California.

To Protect And Serve?

Sunday night was a good night. There were quite a few regulars in the bar. I wanted to hang out with them, but since they had been drinking for twelve hours and I hadn’t had a drink in nearly twenty-four, I chose to sequester myself in the office. It was about one ayem when I got the call from Brandon. The police were downstairs in Main and wanted to see me.

Growing up as a rebellious teen on the mean streets of Beverly Hills, I hated cops. I had no reason to dislike them, but it seemed like the thing to do at that age. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to appreciate the police. Sure my sphincter constricts to three microns in diameter any time one of them begins to follow me while I’m driving, but like the servers here at O’ Brien’s, they have a thankless job. As a bartender and manager of a bar, I realize that it is in my best interest to cooperate in any way possible with law enforcement. So when I got the call, I glossed my lips, strapped on my knee pads, and ran downstairs. Now Saturday night, there was a scuffle at Main and one of the scufflers fell on some broken glass. Allegedly, he told the paramedic he was stabbed so a large police presence appeared. Understandable. We shut down the bar and everyone went home. In light of this incident, the officer informed me that they respond to many calls at our address. Personally, I know it was a problem months ago, but it seems to have been quiet as of late, but he’d know better than I. I told him if there was anything going on that was wrong in any way, I’d shut down the club, immediately. He informed me that there wasn’t a problem at the moment, but that quite a bit of the city’s resources were devoted to calls to our establishment. At this point, two other police cars pulled up with their lights on. I had to wonder: who’s depleting city resources now? It’s understandable. They get one look at me and know their dealing with America’s biggest nightmare: a thirty-nine year old Jew in a hoodie who doesn’t give a fuck.

The officer just asked to go inside and look at our liquor license and store room. I didn’t gloss my face labia and pad my knees for nothing. “Please, come right in,” I said. They say that the first thing you say when a cop asks to search your car is “No.” I figure, we’re part of the community, their part of the community, no problem. The officer walks behind the bar, picks up a bottle, and shines a light through the bottom. Ahhhhh SHIT! I know exactly what this is. It was about eight or nine years ago. I got back from a wedding and went straight to O’ Brien’s. The bar was shut down. Turns out the fire department, police, or A.B.C. came in because of an occupancy issue, checked the bottles, found fruit flies, and proceeded to close the bar on a Saturday night. So here I am, watching the police searching bottles for fruit flies. All I can think is that I’m the underpaid schlub who let the cops in and is about to get the place shut down. He set aside one bottle, then asked to see the store room. I let him in and he checked some of our stock which are all sealed, unopened bottles. Now I don’t know much about fruit flies, but if they can get into bottles that have never been opened, then maybe the F.D.A. should be looking into this issue, because, and I’m sure I’m not alone here, there should be higher standards for food and beverage packaging if insects can get inside a sealed bottle.

In the end, it was a courtesy call. The officer was very nice and I told him that I’d do anything to make his life easier. I get the feeling they’re gonna crawl up our asses for the next few weeks, which is fine, because we have nothing to hide. I’ve been a resident of Santa Monica for fifteen years and I can pretty much tell you that on weekends people tend to revel in two places: Main Street and The Promenade; ergo, I don’t know why there isn’t a bigger police presence in both places. Like I said earlier, I appreciate and respect police. But I have to wonder. Is it their responsibility to check for fruit flies? Shouldn’t it be the A.B.C. (Alcohol Beverage Control) or the Health Department? Again, we have nothing to hide, but by doing this, are they living up to their motto: to protect and serve?

The Ecstasy And The Agony

How could one night start so amazing and end up such crap? I’m sure you’re on pins and needles for this one, so I’ll just say it. The band we had scheduled didn’t show. It rarely happens on a weekend night and this is probably the second time that I can recall. Luckily, we got a replacement band, Paul Chesne, who were great; but, unfortunately, it was too little, too late.

It’s been a while, but you may remember the kick ballers who used to come in on Sundays. They’re part of a group called Planet Social Sports. They’ve given up on O’ Brien’s and moved on to Brennan’s. Luckily, Brennan’s treated one team so poorly (e.g. the bartender filled pitchers with the wrong beer and when confronted with the mistake said, “They won’t know the difference.”) that they came to O’ Brien’s. Well one man gathers what another man spills. I really loved this team because they were all in their thirties and forties. They were polite, fun, and great tippers, and they were just the beginning. I have no idea how it happened but the bar got crazy. I know there was one bicycle pub crawl, and perhaps a second pub crawl and by six o’ clock the bar was packed. This is what I live for. It’s obviously more than one person can handle and Chino did an amazing job and Gator, thankfully, jumped behind the bar, too. Speaking of Chino, my favorite, he opened a tab for table three, an order of chicken strips. It was crazy busy and I looked at the lone customer at the table and thought to myself, we are not going to collect that four dollars and ninety-two cents. I let it slide. By the time it died down, there was one unsecured (no credit card attached) check remaining, table three. I told Chino it was no big deal, but that when it’s that busy, try and get a credit card. By the way, he’s far better about getting cards than I am. In any case, even when the night went to shit, Chino reminded me of why he’s my boy.

It was great to sit down after killing it during happy hour. When I got back behind the bar, it was slow. We don’t have a system for when a band is supposed to show up or who they’re supposed to report to. They just turn up, plug in, and play. It was ten after ten when I decided to see if anyone was setting up. Alas, there was no one. I knew then and there that this night would turn into a shit show. I called Kevin and he organized the Paul Chesne band, but it would be a while before they got there and even longer for them to set up. This left two servers and three bartenders competing for a limited crowd. Being a server at O’ Brien’s is the most thankless job around. People order drinks from the bar then sit at a table, taking up the only space a server has to earn. Dear Readers, if you are ever at a bar and want to sit at a table, please find out if there’s a server working before ordering at the bar. At one point a customer came to the bar and ordered a Stella, rum and coke, vodka soda, and six kamikazes. While I made the drinks, Kimi mentioned to me that they were sitting at a table. I finished making the drinks, told him the total and asked if he wanted to start a tab. If he did, I would’ve given the card to the server, but he didn’t so I closed him out. The server got upset with me. I guess I should’ve walked the card over to the server and have her run it. Instead I stewed for a few minutes, then I transfered the tab to her, so she could collect the cash. She split the tip with us: a win/win. There is nothing worse than a slow bar. When it’s busy, everyone’s making cash, and everyone is happy. When it’s slow, we’re not necessarily miserable, but we are super aware of the limited time we have to make our nut and there’s only so much time you can complain about how tired you are of eating a BLT five meals a week (four hours is my personal record.)

We got hit some time after midnight. Everyone seemed to show up at once and we were in the weeds for about three minutes, then it died. The band started at twelve-thirty and we got a crowd. At one point, Chino was motioning to me and I figured he needed my keys. Kimi said, “I think that chicken strips guy is back.” Turns out, Chino saw the guy from table three out on the sidewalk and mentioned to him that he ordered food and didn’t pay for it. The guy denied it, but Chino said, “Look you ordered food and I don’t want to have to pay for it,” and he brought him inside. I’ve said it before, if I were to open a bar, Chino would be my first hire. It is so refreshing to see someone care enough about his place of employment that he confronts a customer over a sub-five dollar tab. There are moments where an employee shows their character and this was definitely one. In any case, this douche bag offers up the one card we don’t accept: Discover, then exchanges it for a card which gets declined. He finally pulls out a brown fiver. Don’t worry, Big Spender, I will keep the tip. I took that eight cents and put it towards that slice of cheese I’ve been saving up for: Tillamook, mother fucker.

Rarely do I complain that California law makes us close at two, but Saturday was one of those nights where we could’ve used an extra hour or two. For how empty it was until midnight, it was packed at last call. It would’ve been an epic night had the original band showed up, but thanks to Kevin for getting Paul Chesne. I never want to peak at happy hour, but I was grateful to at least have a peak. So rarely have my happy hour and late night stood in such stark difference. They were the ecstasy and the agony.

The Birds And The Bees

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

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

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

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

The Week In Review

I went for sushi early in the week. A douche bag sat two stools down. How could I tell he was a douche bag? He talked on his cell phone so loud that I couldn’t drown him out with my ipod. At one point he rattled off his social security number. All I got was 560-33-. Had I gotten the other four digits, I would’ve put it on stealmyidentity.com. This guy capped off his order asking, “Hey, where is the Mackrel from?” When no one could answer, he said, “I hope it’s not from Mexico, because I don’t want to get the swine flu.” Really? Really?

I recount this story because Tuesday night I went to the Jameson sponsored “Bartender’s Ball.” Bartenders know that there is a sea of douche sloshing around on the other side of the bar; and, now, the other side of the bar would be comprised solely of bartenders and industry people. I was curious to know who would be the douche bag. I mean the law of averages states that if you stand on the customer side of the bar, chances increase dramatically, that you or someone near you will be a douche bag. You know what? I didn’t see one. It’s amazing how polite everyone was. I’ve never heard, “Excuse me,” uttered so many times, as people tried to pass. The only thing they offered to drink was Jameson. If the party were sponsored by Ketel, I would’ve been passed out in the alley in my own vomit, but since it was whiskey, I was able to get a good but not overwhelming buzz. The only downside was when I arrived, there was a healthy line down the block. Now I hate lines. Normally, I wouldn’t have gotten into this one, lest they were giving out blow jobs at the end, but free booze was worth my twenty minutes.

Many people like to joke that I’m gay (at least, I hope they’re joking) and my next sentence will not help my cause. “Every Little Step” is the best film this year. I know there’s only a handful of dudes who I could recommend a documentary about the making of the original and the casting for the revival of “A Chorus Line,” but the inspiration for the once most popular Broadway show of all time, as well as, those whose dream it is to be a part of that show, is truly amazing. Not to butch up too much, but I also saw “Tyson,” which was really good. There are actually some similarities between the two. In “Every Little Step,” you learn where Michael Bennett got the idea for “A Chorus Line,” and in “Tyson” you find out why Iron Mike bit Evander Holyfield’s ear off.

That brings me to work. We are definitely living in interesting times. Some Mexican national fucked a pig a few weeks ago and now “The Swine Flu” is bordering on a pandemic. Not only am I concerned that my customers won’t have enough money to come down and drink, but I fear that they’ll be too afraid to leave their homes. We had a new band playing. They put me off my game when they started taking chairs from the patio and dining to the stage. I don’t know what they were thinking, but I really don’t appreciate when the “talent” feels that their needs are more important than the “customers’.” I have no problem eating standing up, but some actually like to sit at a table to dine. I went back ready to throttle someone. Instead, I took back the chairs and put that anger into a little ball ready to be unleashed when an SUV cuts me off in my Gayata.

The night started off to be pretty weak. I don’t know where they came from, but customers showed up. We weren’t in the weeds, but we were busy. I turned to Tim and said, “It feels good to be a bartender again.” I tend to say this when we get busy. Tim’s a little superstitious and gets upset when I comment how busy it is. He fears that I’m somehow gonna screw the pooch. Well, come midnight and he was right. As fast as they came in, they left. Me and my big mouth. Back to Tim. He was chatting up a couple of regulars, January “I want a puppy” and Gina. He offered to buy them a round, in exchange for a peck on the cheek. Gina jumped at the chance, but January’s lips were only for her Bud Light Draft. Tim relayed the story and ended it with, “January make Timbo sad.” Although last night a few customers had to remind me to smile, Timbo cracked me up.

The night turned out to be pretty decent. Even though I jinxed our rush, I really enjoyed the customers who came in. I presume tonight will be busier, but I fear that the there will be more douche. I guess it’s the vicissitudes of bartending. Dear Readers, I apologize for not being as diligent with my posts. I hope you enjoyed the week in review.