One of *those* nites (The Perfect Shit Storm)

    Aw man…tonite…tonite was one of *those* nites. One of those nites where you swear the Douchebag Convention must have let out five minutes before your shift started. For the record, an ever steady plethora of douchebags, by itself, doesn’t necessarily meet all the specifications in order to justifiably chalk up a shift as one of *those* shifts. One of *those* nights follows the same systematic formulation in the making of a Perfect Storm.

    In nature, a Perfect Storm is a number of exceedingly different variables all developing in a very specific fashion, at the same time, to inevitably produce all the ingredients needed to create the most intense weather phenomenon possible (or just some shitty movie with George Cloney and Marky Mark post-shitty rap career). In the service industry, one of *those* nites follows in the same fashion, theoretically. Obviously not producing any sort of natural phenomenon, one of *those* nites is the equivalent of a Perfect Storm but in the sense that a Perfect Shit Storm is the end product. I’ll take the liberty to walk you through the initial makings of one of *those* nites so as they’re forming, you may be able to spot them and deter it from fully developing.

    Usually, one of *those* nites starts as soon as you walk through the door. The new girl, who just started bartending with you guys, has just worked the lunch shift (because those are predominantly slower) so she can get a hold the ropes and the ins and outs of this particular restaurant. Because she’s new, the bar is trashed because she’s been weeded for the last two hours. Granted she only sold $300, she doesn’t know where anything is and subsequently shit gets thrown everywhere while shes trying to catch up. So, instead of getting yourself prepared for your shift that nite, you’re too busy cleaning up and straightening everything back to normal, which usually takes a hour or so to do.

    Some sort of sold out event is crucial to the foundation of a Perfect Shit Storm. The logic in this is that the event will enviably let out, filling up the entire bar and restaurant in a matter of 5 minutes, leaving 100 people all looking for something at the same time. Now, because you’re still busy cleaning up after the rookie from lunch, you’re not even prepared for a normal dinner rush. Also, an interesting phenomenon happens to people when they travel in packs, filling up a bar post-show or post-event. Some sort of mob mentality forms and every individual person loses the ability to think logically all together. It’s almost amazing. Even though I’m sure a large portion of these crowds are somewhat intelligent, most even being college graduates, they no longer can process basic common sense. For example, Johnny McDaytrader understands the complex influence of the latest government reform concerning carbon emissions on 3rd quarter profits for the biodiesel automotive market,yet he can’t understand why his mojito is going be a couple of minutes even though he literally just say down with 90 other people ordering drinks at the same time.

Apology letter to The Stripped Shirt Guy

    Hey man, being your bartender and having to witness the sad performance I see you display week after week, I feel like I need to apologize for enabling you to do so. We all know this started about a year and a half ago when you got a ‘bad wrap’ from the My New Haircut viral video



     As the first to apologize, let me be the first to tell you not to get too down on yourself, it is not your fault. It’s a little known fact, but douche-baggery is a classic example of nature dictating personality in the debate of Nature vs. Nurture. Its scientifically proven that the douche bag tendencies are embedded in your DNA. You’re born a douche bag, you’ll die a douche bag. Look at _____(update later... Steven Sagal? Joe Francis?), for example.

    There’s a few things you’ll need to truly understand so you don’t get too down on yourself. It’s not your fault you have equal parts blood, Red Bull, and Axe body spray running through your arteries. In addition, its instinct and not social training to why you feel the animalistic necessity to greet anyone you’ve ever met, friend or foe, boss or potential step-father, whoever, via formal fist bump (i.e. dubz, dapz, poundz, whichever sad nickname pluralized by the letter Z.)

    I was not sure if anyone covered this part already, so I’ll reiterate because I’m worried about you. It’s so important that you know it’s not your fault you can’t get a job now just because ‘they’ say it wasn’t from ‘an accredited university.’ You showed me the degree you printed after you passed your last online test. I’ve SEEN it hanging in the Bro Zone, framed in the backside of the garage, just left of the foos ball table. Granted, you majored in physical education and canine psychology, but it’s still a degree! Shit, you printed me one for my birthday.

    Granted we’re not arguing any of the smart, long term investments you made to increase your ‘awesomeness’… we all think the 8” plasma screen you have spewing from your console (which is *necessary* to display the latest Black Eyed Peas video as it blares entirely too loud from the speakers), the borderline-pimp-esque-but-just-a-scootch-too-small 17 ½ in. rims, and the oh-so-clever brass Truck Nutz you have hanging from the rear bumper of the 2005 Ford Explorer you’re leasing is all ‘wicked killer’ too, but there’s something we should have told you earlier. This one is our bad…

    Well, you remember that ‘crazy, psycho, bitch’ you knocked up a year ago after feeding her chocolate martinis and Washington Apples all night at Hyde Park Café? Well apparently that shithead kid eats like three times a day, and still shits his pants, so unfortunately you may need to start catching up on some of the child support payments. I know man, bullshit.

    Listen, I hope you’re starting to feel a little better. Like I said, I’m really sorry for the bad wrap you got from one silly viral video. That video portrays you as so one sided. I personally know there SO much more douche bag there than you get credit for.

Her and I

Anywhere from 40-60 hours a week, I put on the show...and I hate it. I have put on my little dancing monkey suit, slapped on my fake smile, laughed at the saddest, most played out attempts at humor and anecdotes, enthusiastically responded like a wide eyed puppy when referred to as 'Chief', 'Boss', 'Hoss', 'Slick', 'Homie', and basically any other pretentiously condescending nickname a drunk happily slurs my way because he can't remember my real name for far, far too long. This place, here...this is my oasis away from all that...and if you've never been on the 'other side', it's extremely hard, if not impossible, to understand this fact but...the view from here is nice. I’ll get explain more in a moment…

I've been a solider is the service industry warfront for a solid nine years. I started in high school, working in a local independent pizzeria when I was a junior. I originally just viewed it as an excuse to get out of the house a few nights a week and a good way to make some extra cash to buy pot. Very quickly, I realized the one aspect of the service industry that is simultaneously the most amazing advantage and also its most tragic downfall; you can make a lot of cash…very quickly. Unfortunately, I knew this when I started college and hopped from restaurant to restaurant from bar to bar, working, paying my way through school and rent and bills. Given, she (the industry) has been good to me in that sense, but we have a love-hate relationship, like that pussywhiped buddy of yours that keeps getting back together with THE SAME GIRL even after she just banged half the cast of I Love New York, Season 2 because they were at Macdittion’s Saturday. Don’t get me wrong, you ‘like’ that girl, she’s bad ass to party with on the weekends, but it you kills you every time you see your buddy crawl back to her because you know he’s miserable and he’s even said himself he doesn’t want her for the rest of his life. Well, that’s how kind of how her and I are, but were more like a summer fling. I planned on using her for what I need, then come August, I gasta move on baby, I’m sorry. This fling I’ve got going was supposed to put me through school so I can get a real big boy job, lasting no more than 4 years, 5 tops. Well, unfortunately (a lot of this is her fault by the way), I’m on the Van Wilder, 9 year plan. Around my second or third junior year, I had a brilliant idea to change majors with only 7 classes left, so our summer fling lasted much longer than I had ever hoped for…and now, I can’t shake this bitch.

Well, I can see graduation in the mere distance so it finally feels like August again. I thought I was bitter and burnt out on slinging drinks and dealing with obnoxious drunks before, but now with the end goal in sight, I’m on a whole new plane of resentment. Obviously, for job security, I can’t comment about the shitfaced quarks and pitiful performances I witness while I’m working. Here however, this place, this is mine, this is my escape, this is my oasis from all that. This is the one medium I can utilize as an outlet to keep me from wigging out the next time I hear someone order deep fried cider wings (with extra blue cheese, of course), extra crispy calamari, a bowl of beer cheese soup, and a Diet Coke to drink, because ‘I’m on a diet.’ The absurdities about people in general I’m forced to realize behind the bar have driven me as close to insanity as I ever would like to be. My only hope is to share them with you guys so at least somebody can take joy in my misery.