The Perils of Time-Mismanagement

   So I’m house sitting for the month or so, just under three weeks I think. It’s for a regular patron of ours at the pub. Great guy.  Regardless…

     So, aside from making sure the dog (or dogs… I really should have checked up on that minor detail earlier) doesn’t run way and preventing the house from burning down, I really don’t have too too much to do.  Last Thursday, I figure I’ll be a nice guy and mow the lawn. It’s not a gigantor lawn mind you, but it doesn’t take a Florida native to understand doing any kind of physical activity outdoors, at noon, in June, in the Sunshine State,  to know I’m sweating like a BP exec at a Green Peace rally by the time I’m done. As soon as I finish, I hop in shower and as I’m washing off the gallons of sweat I’ve just exuded, I realize I need to grab some lunch before work and I don’t have much time.  I’ve already  eaten *everything* in the home owners fridge, cupboard, and pantry  (including the Frosty Pawz frozen doggie ice cream treats… which, for  the record, are *not* awesome regardless to how much pot you’ve smoked) so I need run up to Publix wicked quickly if I’m going to have time to  grab something before my shift.  In no time flat, I throw on some shorts, ironic tee shift from Salvation Army, and flip flops (my usual attire) and high tail it to the supermarket just up the road.

         Working later that afternoon, I know time is of the essence. I check my watch and realize I’m not *as* crunched for time as I originally thought. Relieved, I casually make my way around my 2nd all-time favorite super market. I peruse the magazine stand for a hot minute, make my way over to the crappy pre-made sushi,  contemplate the oven-ready stuffed chicken for a second, ultimately moseying over to the deli fresh sub stand. Have you ever had a Publix sub before? Wicked fucking good, man… but I digress…

     So as I tour Publix trying to make a decision on what I’m to eat for lunch, twenty or so minutes elapse. I probably make 3 solid laps around the entire floor of the supermarket. In that time, I’m given the Stink Eye by at least three people… three people I notice at least, coulda been more for all I know (Stink Eye: that face you make when you look at someone with complete and utter disgust as you’re thinking “Are you fucking serious?”).  Now to put things in perspective, I feel I should point out that I’m kind of a space shot, usually in my own world.  So at first, it doesn’t sink in that these people are specifically giving ME the Stink Eye or Ice Grill or whatever you want to call it.  I mean, I notice it but it doesn’t really register.  Not on a personal level at least.  Maybe they’re just having a bad day, or they’re just garbage in general?  Don’t really know, don’t really care. Well, I should say I really *didn’t* care until I encounter the poor old woman with the utterly shocked and amazed gaze that ripped right through me….

        Alright so maybe she isn’t THAT old. Admittedly, I exaggerate a little bit because it helps my story, but not much.  This woman, probably upper fifties, lower sixties walks passed me with this look on her face which will forever be embedded in my brain… and conscience. She gives this look as we pass one another like she’s just caught her son  masturbating at his grandmothers wake… like she’s SO upset, angry, and disappointed but she hasn’t even begun to unveil those emotions because  she’s still in utter shock at what she’s digesting in front of her.  Now, I start thinking… thinking quickly at that. I know I literally *just* showered, but do a quick smell test anyway. Nothing.  Maybe those other people were looking at me?  Why? What the fuck? As I’m running through this checklist of thoughts through my head, I feel a tap on my shoulder.  It’s the old woman…

     Confused, shocked, and relieved in a weird way, I ask the old woman  “Yes mamm? Can I help you?” with a shit eating grin on my face. With her hand cracked over her mouth, she somewhat inaudibly responds “Oh yes, welll… um…” Attempting to defuse this awkward situation, I interrupt “Do you need some help?  Do you need me grab something off one of the top shelves for you?  What do you need?” as I point in the direction of one of the top shelves, Honey Bunches of Oats and the new Just Bunches cereal.   “Oh no, no. It’s that...” again, hand over mouth, “well…”  I am baffled at this point.  It's as if she’s trying to say something, but can't. Or won't.  What… I don’t know.  And slowly, but quickly (contradiction I know, but that’s the only way I can explain my realization) it hits me…

Earlier, I said I RUSHED out of the shower… emphasis on *rushed*.  Rushed as in “sans-underwear” rushed…

I  literally walked, for twenty minutes, for three long casual laps, around Publix with my dong completely exposed for the general public to take in, for better or worse.

The Three Amigos

-->

       One of the most rewarding aspects about sharing all the stories and shit storms I’ve weathered is how I’m able to refer to the most meticulous quarks and details of tending bar, slinging drinks, selling overpriced ribeyes, and knowing there are actually others out there who can genuinely appreciate where I’m coming from. They've been ‘there.’ This whole outlet of blogging is basically a griping secession for those on the inside more or less.

       Well, for those of you who have never had the displeasure of standing on the other side of the bar for a prolonged period, this week I’m going to shed some light on a couple of ‘insider’ drinks/shots. This is part of the Dark Side of the service industry you hope doesn't actually exist but still make a point to smile and ask how your bartender/server is doing today, solely to make a good first impression, just in case it does.

The Oklahoma

The Oklahoma predominantly goes to two very different, yet (throughout the course of the nite) connected demographics of clientele. One being the 40+ yr old, pin-stripped suit, advertising executive on a week long business trip away from his home, two kids, and dysfunctional, sham of a marriage. The other half of Oklahoma recipients are far too drunk for their own good, single women who travel in packs (who, more times than not, are brides maids accompanying the bachelorette party fitted with the standard $2.99 tiaras and plastic penis straws from Spencer Gifts).

The shot itself consists of cranberry juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, grapefruit juice, sour mix, (basically all the juices on your drink gun behind the bar), a shot of Sprite, and maybe a splash of grenadine for some color. Even without being a mixologist like myself, its quite evident that I mention no alcohol at all. That’s the idea behind this one.

        See, usually CEO Jr in the pinstriped suit is paying with the company AmEx. His main concern is banging one of these wicked hot USF Creative Writing undergrads. “A round of shots for me and my new friends!! is the most dialog you’ll have with him all night as a bartender. You may as well be serving him liquid asbestos for all he knows, but he’s kosher with that as long as he believes these girls downing another round gives him a better chance to cheat on his bitch of a wife and their farce of a marriage.

       The girls, on the other hand, have crossed that obnoxious drunk plane hours ago. The last thing they need is another Madori Sour, Malibu and Pineapple, or Cosmopolitan.

       So… two birds, one stone. Milk Mr. MoneyBags CEO jr while keeping the gold digging, house-wife-in-the-making, Alpha Delta Whatever alumni from getting even drunker and embarrassing herself more so than she’s already done. The lesson you learn; save you’re money next time your bartender offers to make you a Oklahoma.

Cement Mixer

This one is more of a fair warning than anything else. Granted, I may be bitter. I’m arguably miserable. I get this. Fair enough. As sour and ruthless as I may come off, I give you my word I’ve never exposed anyone to unfair (or unsanitary) justice but only to those who have asked or deserved it… and even * that * is once in a blue moon.

The Cement Mixer is simple science. Bailey’s and limejuice. Separate. The idea is that you’re to take a shot of Bailey’s, hold in your mouth as you take back a shot of limejuice. Most people doing a Cement Mixer believe they’ve simply been thrust upon the challenge of merely stomaching a grotesque shot, which is partly true. What they don’t realize is that Bailey’s and limejuice don’t mix.... literally.

As the limejuice mixes with the Bailey’s Irish Crème, it instantly curdles. Plain and simple. You have one of two options. One; instantly come to the realization you’ve been fucked with, swallow your pride in lieu of the concoction in your mouth, and spit the now curdled mess out as fast as possible as all on lookers point and laugh. Two; pull a Grady Little circa 2003 and abort just a little bit too late, against your own will. See, once that lethal combination of liquids gets together, it’s donezo. Doesn’t matter if they mix in your shot glass, your mouth, or you stomach… it’s a hot mess that is NOT getting digested. If you insist on being a tough guy, hard ass, and end up downing this one as its curdles in your stomach, set the egg timer… because you don’t have long. You may think you’re okay, not 100% but doing well enough for the most part…just like Pedro… but its already too late, you’re fate is set. That shit is coming back up, like it or not. Ask Jess, my date to Spring Fling my junior year of high school. (J-Ray, all jokes aside, still need $26 for the dry-cleaning bill)

The New Jersey Turnpike

You know your one friend who HAS to one-up every story you tell, your coworker who volunteers the fact he lives life on the ‘most awesome, uber extreme, totally epic’ level at all times, or that guy who must make it clear he ‘doesn’t give a fuck’ to everyone, in every room, he ever walks in to? Well for you, my friends, I present you with the New Jersey Turnpike.

For this one, the set up is usually the same more times than not. “Brah, yo… Brah… Dude, make me anything. Yo, I can take * anything *, I don’t give a fuck. Pour it ina fuckin’ glass and I’ll fuckin’ drink it. I don’t give a fuck Brah. Do it. Do it.” With that said, my services are at your command.

There’s usually two or three damp, filthy, beige-esque bar towels lying in the corners of any bar you go to. Next time you go, look for them. They’re there. We use those to lop up spilled drinks, over pours, condensation, etc. Needless to say, a lot of booze touches those towels. Why would we ever let that go to waste? We’re in a recession dammit! Would you believe there’s enough booze soaked into one of those little towels that if, hypothetically, I were to ring one out into a shaker, run the reminisce over some ice, and throw a splash of Triple Sec in there, it very well may taste like some gnarly shot you’ve never had before?

Good thing you don’t give a fuck, tough guy…

Hey St Valentine, Tomorrow, under the flag pole after G period, We Fight….

    One of the first things I said in my last post was how much I’ve appreciated everyone’s feedback on all of my postings and because of such positive encouragement, I’m going to post on a much more structured regiment. The idea was to post on a weekly basis. 18 days later… here I am. I hate to be the bearer if bad news, so brace yourself, but I’m lazy. I’d hoped you’d be able to deduce this yourself based off the fact that every post I’ve ever published has never come before 3am, yet we still find ourselves in this unfortunate situation. For that, I am sorry boy and girls. I’ll get better…tomorrow…or the next day…

    I’ve told you before the nites I absolutely *dread* tending bar more than any other are New Year’s, St. Patty’s Day, Gasparilla ect. Granted its great money, but its amateur hour and its not worth the mental torment I’m put through.

    Every guy thinks that because his great-grandfather’s neighbor’s cousin’s milkman was ‘straight off the boat from Dublin,’ he’s got pure Irish blood runnin’ through dem vains. Every girl remembers the glory days with her sorority sisters at the Delta Blowa Dudea house when she could simultaneously pound straight Popov vodka from an ice luge while ambidextrously beating off two Sigma Datea Rapea fraternity brothers. For some reason unbeknownst to me, the vast majority of the people who come out on these drinking holidays think they’re still able to drink like they could 10-15 years ago… regardless to the fact that a ‘nite out’ any other day of the year consists of jalapeño poppers and splitting a round of 2-for-1 house Merlot with the gals from accounting. The point being; tending bar is tiresome on a regular basis… obnoxious doesn’t even begin to describe how fatiguing it is on said holidays when Amateur Hour is in effect and light weights (if you will) drink exponentially more than they ever need to.

    I can officially put Valentine’s Day, or even the eve of Valentine’s Day, in the same category as all the other obnoxious holidays which open up Amateur Hour…but for a different reason. It’s difficult to iterate why for one specific reason. Lemmie describe my nite and maybe you can begin to understand where I’m coming from.
I had flat out forgotten Valentine’s Day was tomorrow until around 6 o’clock tonite…when it all hit me in a wave… like the ‘perfect storm’ starting to develop.

(Editor’s note: rest of post will be published tomorrow… not due to laziness this time, but rather fatigue. I’m a self proclaimed night owl, but it’s far too late even for this degenerate burnout right now. You’ve got my word… and if not, next drink’s on me…)

Not-So-Moral Victory

    I achieved one of those moral victories this weekend wherein I think I lost more by winning it. That’s not purposely ambiguous for the sake of attempting to sound profound, I just can’t think of another way to describe what happened Friday. Bear with me for a minute…

    I think in every post I’ve written, I acknowledge, to some degree, that all I do is bitch and moan and persistently see the glass half empty and I try to justify that by claiming this is some kind of therapy. Friday though, oh man…it doesn’t matter how big of a baby you think I am, you have to have some respect from where I’m coming from on this one regardless if you’ve never served a single drink in your life. Let me draw it out for you…

    First off, I’m hung over. Like Freshman Year hung over. Oh top of that, have you ever woken up in the morning, and start looking around in a semi-still-kinda-drunk haze, slowly realizing you’re not in your house but for some reason get the ‘this room seems oddly familiar’ kind of feeling only to roll over and see your ex-kinda-girlfriend/friend-with-benefits-which-you-ended-a-year-ago-because-she’s-fucking-bonkers laying next to you? Well, that was how Friday started. Somehow, it only went down from there.

    First table I get, 12 soulless, sorority, trust-fund babies. From an untrained eye, this would be an amazing thing; pretty girls with lots of daddy’s money. However, girls such as this have not gotten to become such horrible human beings without feeling like everyone around them is below them (ie ME) and they’re entitled to, well, everything. I know what I’m dealing with going in, so I strap up and prepare for battle because I know it’s going to be a hard one.

    I kid you not, as I’m IN the process of placing the FIRST round of drinks down, Prada McFaketits is already complaining she needs a refill on her water and verbalizes her anger about it. It only got worst from there. I honestly cannot even go into meticulous detail because it genuinely makes me too irate to recall the entire incident, but I’ll leave you with this one specific. The blondest one of the group literally, yes *LITERALLY* started crying when her French fries were touching her prime rib sandwich because she asked for them on a separate plate. I wish I was creative enough to make this shit up, but I’m not. It’s obvious this is one of those tables which are fishing. They’re fishing for something to be wrong or to complain about so they can get *something*. The short and the end is they talked to three different managers a total of seven times, complaining about anything physically possible, and ultimately getting an entire $379 bill comp’ed.

    One of my staff members was outside smoking a cigarette as the pack leaves and witnesses the entire lot of them laughing and high fiving one another as they stroll bye, deducing the whole charade was an act to get an entire free meal. Like I said I can’t make this stuff up.

    Backtracking, I think I lied earlier when I said I had a moral victory this weekend. What I should have said was I had an immature, resentful, unsanitary victory this weekend. Let me clarify… People in the service industry really, really look out for one another. So, when 12 spoiled brats waste an hour and ten minutes and $379 worth of food and drinks by putting on a charade so they can get their kicks off getting a comp’ed meal, it’s not a good idea to walk to the bar across the street. We know that bar. We have friends at that bar. Our friends at that bar, they have cell phones… and they loved your story.

Don’t fuck with the people who serve your food or make your drinks.

I wish I was kidding.

I’m not creative enough to make this shit up.

Those were the days...

    With most of my past posts I normally blog about a common quark or one of the ins-and-outs of the service industry that are, at the least, entertaining or humorous to anyone regardless if they’re in the industry or not. This week, I guess I’m more purposing a question which can only be answered by those who have personally weathered the shit storm that is tending bar or waiting tables.

    I’m conscience of the fact that I do little more than just persistently bitch about the negative aspects of tending bar on these posts. The long hours, the constant bullshit, the smells, the sights…I arguably hate everything about bartending. I took the last nine days off, however, so I could catch up on school work and study for midterms. My first shift back was Saturday for Guavaween. As surprised as you may be to read this, I’m equally if not more surprised to write it; I was wicked stoaked to get back there. I wasn’t really sure why either. Bills are paid for next month, so I knew it wasn’t a financially driven motive. It honestly scared me a little bit that I was excited to get back behind there to pour another Goose and Red Bull for Chip McStripped-Shirt and his cronies. It really got me to thinking.

    There’s a number of responsibilities, jobs, and activities we all had growing up which we whole-heartedly despised but anytime we murmured a word under our breath about how fucking lame it was, somebody older than always reiterated how we’d miss it when we were older. For me, it was double secessions for soccer. The last six weeks of summer, the hottest weeks of July and August, Coach Lepore dragged us out of bed at 7 am so he could run us for countless miles in unbearable heat only for us to take a two hour lunch break and come back to the fields at 2 pm to run the *same* drills we had executed just hours earlier. Back then, I hated that man, I hated those drills, I hated soccer. I literally laughed in the faces of LHS alumni who claimed we’d miss ‘these days.’ How on Earth would I miss going to bed at 10 oclock in the middle of the summer so I could wake up, run four miles, run drills, force fed *anything* for lunch because I was already on the brink of exhaustion, run drills, throw up, and then work out for another three when I could be smoking a lot (like a LOT) of pot, drinking stolen beer with my best friends, and simply doing nothing…like you *should* be doing during summer vacation? You know what I have to say to those pretentious, dickhead alumni now? I miss it. I miss it a lot.

    As I said with my first post, I can see the light of the day in the sense that I know I won’t have to be slinging drinks for too much longer. Hopefully, within the near future, I’ll be an actual responsible, contributing member of society. It makes me think how I will look back on these days. Will I only remember the pitiful attempts at humor and stench from the nine gallons of Aqua Di Gio Chip McStripped-Shirt is wearing? Or will it be one of those memories I look back at and just hope to God Marty McFly and Doc will come tearing up my driveway in the Deloraen any second so they can take me back to those moments, the moments I genuinely miss, even for just a one single night?

Storytelling

   The art of storytelling has always been of interest to me. Whether it’s just you and a bunch of buddies bullshitting around a table slamming Sam Adams Summer Ale as the Sox play an irrelevant interleague game or you’re enduring the crazy ramblings from the Vietnam Vet father of the one-night-stand-turned-girlfriend (at least until ‘that time of the month’ FINALLY comes along and you know you’re in the clear to hit the old dusty trail), they’re an experience. Good or bad. The manner in which the story is delivered is often just as important as the story itself at times. 

    With my experience bar tending, I hear a lot, A LOT, of stories. Unfortunately with most I hear, I find myself putting on a facade with the shit-eating grin, all ears, giving the illusion I’m eating up every word. It always seems to play out that after 8 Dewar’s on the rocks, 11 mojitios, or a bucket of margaritas every twenty-two minute story ends with that uncomfortable anticlimactic conclusion of “Oh man, you just really needed to be there.”

    Earlier this week, I heard one though. I heard a friggin’ story. Absolutely basking in its awesomeness after the conclusion, punch line almost, I knew I’d be passing this one on to friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers alike, full well knowing it could be appreciated by really anyone. That to me, that unprejudiced, timeless nature is the foundation of a GOOD story.  Given that I’m passing along this gem third hand (maybe even forth for all I know), I can only hope I do it justice.

    A regular of mine, Billy, has a sister living up in New York City as she completes her Masters. His sister Kate is around twenty-seven, twenty-eight-ish, with her husband being a few years older. They’re coming home after a wedding and reception at some hoity-toity venue in Manhattan, jumping from bus to bus, subway to subway, ultimately navigating the way back to their house in Brooklyn. Needless to say, it’s extremely late (a little bit past 4 am) as they’re two of maybe six passengers in the last car of the D train. Thanks to the open bar and three too many Cosmos, Kate is nodding in and out of consciousness as her husband of four years, John, nudges her. Assuming he’s just elbowing her to wake her up, she doesn’t hear a word he says. He nudges her again, “Kate…Kate! Fucking look!” he whispers in a muffled, aggressive murmur. Disoriented, she looks around to see what the hell he is talking about because, as far as she’s concerned, Jesus himself better be juggling unicorns to justify John preventing her much needed nap.

“John, I’m fucking tired. PLEASE just wake me up at our stop!” she slurred out. To ensure that she’s fully conscious, he quickly double-taps her with his elbow.  Her entire body burns with fury as she grudgingly opens her bloodshot eyes. Before the first explicative can leave her mouth, John stares dead ahead, giving nothing more than the slightest upward nod like it’s the universal sign for ‘Dude, look!’  Very carefully, he whispers for her to look down the train to the one guy sitting alone, reading a book. She looks…and looks…and looks. It takes a second to register. She slowly turns back to John and asks if he really thinks it’s ‘him’. He mouths “I don’t know,” as not to be heard.

    The two immediately become infatuated with this one, sole man, sitting 20 feet down from them on the train because it looks *exactly* like Bill Murray. They’re sure of it, at least they think they MAY be sure of it, if that makes sense. They both know it goes without saying that neither one of them can actually go ask this complete stranger if he really IS Bill Murray for a number of reasons. For one, they’re aware they’re slightly intoxicated and exhausted, so their judgment isn’t par for the course to begin with. They also know this poor guy has most likely been plagued by this same question a dozen times a day since Ghostbusters came out 30 years. Most importantly, they both know if it actually is the legend that IS Bill Murray, the last thing in the world he wants to deal with is a couple of drunk 30-somethings asking him if he’s the dude from Caddyshack while he’s minding his own business, reading a book on the D train at four in the morning.

     Covertly, they sit and watch, and watch, and watch, trying to read him as best they can without giving themselves away. The wheels begin to squeal as the train pulls up to the next stop, and ‘he’ casually closes his book and makes his way to the doors, conveniently located right next to where Kate and John are sitting. The two meticulously watch his every step towards the exit. Just before he’s about to step off and make his way to a connecting train or coffee stand or where ever, he stops dead in his tracks… turns to the both of them… and with the slightest half smile, says “You know if you tell anybody tomorrow, they’re never going to believe you anyway,” and walks off.

Now that’s a fucking story.

    I should probably preface this rant with an apology for being more pessimistic than usual. I predominantly work on the patio and because of the cold front the last few days, we were wicked slow. I didn’t make nearly as much as I had planned on and budgeted for monthly (rent, bills, fantasy football dues, weed… the standards)

    Like I’ve acknowledged in prior posts, I’m usually a pretty miserable son of a bitch in my ramblings here. The thoughts and ideas I have scrambling my brain midshift make it to this page as a form of therapy for me so I don’t commit an unhonorable form hari cari (I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron) as I’m pouring another Mich Ultra to Pecs McGoo because “I’m on Atkin’s… Watchin’ my carbs, brah.” I normally feel a sense of relief the second I start jabbering away at my keyboard. I think my subconscious knows that all the horrible garbage I’ve just witnessed and tucked up and away during my nine hour shift of slinging drinks will soon be released out of my head and on to a page… kind of the same way that monstrous, gargantuan inmate from the Green Mile used to literally suck the evil out of people. Tonight my aggravation took on a whole new form I’ve never dealt with prior.

    The short and the end is that I’m pretty miserable as it is as I walk on shift. I know I need to make X number of dollars and I can quickly conclude that’s not going to happen because of the weather. It’s just simply too cold. Realizing this, I say brief prayer to the service industry Gods for a quick, painless shift (and by that I mean dumping three shots of Jameson and Bailey’s in my Dunkin Donuts Great One). I should have realized at the time that karma’s already stacked against me so nothing of the sort was possible.

    See, when it’s wicked slow like tonight, you run into a couple of problems. For one, you’re standing around doing nothing but thinking about how much money you need to be making but aren’t. Then when somebody *finally* walks up, there’s no escaping them. When you engage a guest when it’s busy and he starts talking about how (insert mindless topic you have no interest in whatsoever here), its very easy to give the illusion you’re interested for a few moments and then use any number of excuses (greeting a new table, checking food in the kitchen, ringing in drinks on the computer, etc) to slither away. When it’s one on one, like tonight, you’re friggin trapped man. It’s doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, only having the one guest to entertain and to talk to. It’s just that Murphy’s Law always kicks in when it’s just that one dude.

    99.8% of the time it you’re tending bar on a night the tumbleweeds are rolling in the distance and you’re entertaining one guest an hour, that single guy is always a depressing individual. He’s not depressing in the sense of “Oh, I just came home and found my wife banging the pool boy…and we don’t even own a pool.” He’s always depressing in the sense that he’s a ‘regular’ at the bar you work at, you see him *literally* every shift you work, and he offers the same mindless banter time and time again.

    To those outside the industry, that may not seem that bad at all. You don’t realize, however, what a toll that takes on you as an individual. You first start to realize that this guy is, in all honestly, probably at your work more than you are and he’s not even paid to be there. You realize this guy has the same stock stories, jokes, and anecdotes he recycles ever two months. Most importantly, you realize how this guy has been coming up to see you, sucking back his Dewars on the rocks, for over two years and not once have you ever heard about his wife, son, daughter, niece, nephew, or job for more than maybe a minute. Nothing.

    He probably spends six or seven hours a week in your vicinity and has never once cared to talk about something you or I would deem important or of value. The author of Waiter Rant, who only goes by the alias of The Waiter so his guests don’t know his actual identity, touched on the same topic. He said “It’s unfortunate. It’s unfortunate these people have almost no connection to the outside world. Their lives, dreams, hopes, and ambitions only come to life within these walls. The second they pay their tab and walk out our door, they are instantly nothing again.” He’s referring to the same sadness I see shift after shift. The depressing fact that so many people’s individual significance is dependant on the burnt out, scruffy haired, pot smoking college student who is paid to pour his drinks and listen to him literally talk about nothing.

    THAT was my night tonight. The most ironic part about it… right now, this second… I wish he stayed for a few more rounds…babbling about the trade he made for Hines Word in his fantasy league so his teams weekly score would be that much higher…and then his tab would have been that much higher…and then my tip would have been that much higher…and then I’d have the money to buy that bag and I’d be that much…better.