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.

    From time to time, I find myself going back and reviewing posts I’ve written in days and weeks past. I do so with a hesitant, vulnerable mentality… the way you reluctantly skim through your phone the next morning after a baaaad night of drinking… just hoping to God you don’t find that you’ve texted Dahlia nine times at 4am, asking if she wants to get back together, then saying you’re sorry for everything, then calling her a bitch, followed again by seeing if she wants to come over and ‘watch a movie,’ all capped off by somehow calling her a bitch again, confessing your love, and referencing last week’s episode of ‘It’s Always Sunny’ for some reason in one last drunken, incoherent, regrettable text. Reading my own posts in retrospect, I feel I should play Devil’s Advocate for a minute so I may answer myself and clear up what is most likely the standard response of any reader after reading a number of my arguably whiney posts.

    More specifically, I’m referring to the inevitable response the average reader (those NOT in the service industry warfront) must have after getting through three or four of my grumblings; “If everyone sucks so badly and your job blows this hard, find a new one!” Absolutely the standard response I would have if I heard or read someone saying the same thing with the same tone over and over and over. There are few things I should be more specific about, on a personal level, in order to accurately refute that statement.

    First and foremost, I’m persistent in referring to my job, and all others like it, as a warfront because the two share so many similarities. Like most other soldiers, I’m not here because I want to be, I’m here because I have to. Putting myself through college, there are few, if any, other job opportunities which can offer straight cash (and lots of it) on a nightly basis…aside from selling drugs or yourself on Nebraska Ave… and I’ve tried both. I learned very quickly that I’m not nearly as cute as I’d like to think AND if you smoke your entire product, you literally cannot make ANY money. I never took economics so I don’t really understand the specifics behind it either, but just trust me on this one.

    Second, I’m really not as miserable as I come off. My ramblings are simply a therapeutic caricature of myself. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t count how many times I’ve had one of ‘those nights’, only to go to bed swearing I going to find a new job in the morning. Like most occupations, you no longer reserve the right to free speech as defined in the constitution. Yah, I* could* say everything that’s marinating in brain as nine more Cosmopolitans clog up my service printer because the Sex and the City movie is opening upstairs, but I’d be looking for a new job before the opening credits even rolled if I did. This place here, I can let out just enough to keep me from shot gunning the bottle of bleach under the dish sink the next time I hear “Yo CHIEF! Seven more Jager-bombs for me and my boys...and more Jager than bomb… hook it up, aiiiiiight?”

    Lastly, I’ve got a percentage of douche-bagginess running through my veins, as I think we all do. Because of this, it is in my nature to crack on anyone who carries themselves in an embarrassing manner and usually have no idea they’re doing so. Peoples Exhibit A: my 10th grade high school year book photo, where I’m sporting frosted tips and a wicked clever “Eager Beaver Lounge" Abercrombie tee shirt

    I bring all this up to explain the why I’m so miserable. I acknowledge that at the end of the day, I don’t have the right to pass judgment on anyone in the way I do. I get that. That’s not really what I’m attempting to do. Basically, night after night, shift after shift, drink after drink, I’ve taken in a lot…and unfortunately, a lot of the same thing over and over. Witnessing people when they’re at their most primitive, unsophisticated state does something to you on the long wrong. It literally is gut wrenching to persistently watch these shameless acts, deprived of any self-respect, in an attempt to get laid or impresses your boss, or whatever. It’s fatiguing to enable people to act in such a sad manner after a prolonged period. These embarrassing displays I see in people time and time again literally make me sad. No joke, it makes me feel bad for humanity in general, because if THIS is the general public, the people voting to help direct our country, it baffles me that we’ve lasted this long. I share my pessimistic views in the hopes that others out there can read it and identify….and if they can and understand everything I’m writing about, at least then I know I’m not alone on this crazy train.

Karma: 1 - Sal Paradise: 0 (and a kick in the junk)

As     I started to rant about in one of my prior posts (if not in all of them) is the extended period of time I’ve been a miserable slave to the industry. One of the downfalls of being a bartender or server for so long (besides the fact you no longer have a soul) is the physical impossibility to simply enjoy a drink or a meal at any other establishment and not becoming a cynically critical observer of x, y, and z. What kind of clientele are they dealing with? Are they really weeded on a Monday night while they’re only pushing, maybe, 12 covers? Is she bullshitting about be able to make a good Manhattan?

    Along the same theme of subconsciously critiquing every element of every new bar or restaurant you patron, you find yourself profiling the specific types of guests who enter your bar. When I say that, I don’t simply mean in a prejudice or racist way at all. Granted there are individuals who personally do that, but it’s already a given that anyone that racist in this day and age is already a d-bag, so we don’t need to waste any of our time on them. The profiling of which I’m referring to holds true to the vast majority of bars and restaurant of the same class. Here, for a couple of examples:

    The Grandma/Grandpa: A staple for lunches at most places. Usually travels in packs, normally the ‘gals’ from Wednesday nite Bridge or the West Chester Knitting Association. Service normally includes 104 refills of iced tea and constant restocking of Splenda packets on table. Reason for avoidance: still under the impression that a $2 tip will suffice on any bill (regardless of amount) as long as the server is given the verbal tip (“I just wanted to let you know what an amazing job you did. You were fantastic!) Most all servers will back up the fact that formal praise of a job well done after the duration of a meal, more times than not, leads to gratuity of <10%.>The $30,000 Millionaire: The still wet behind the ears, UT or Bentley finance graduate who is taking out his new, experienced work peers or the wicked hot intern who he’s trying to impress because she’s the only one with less experience than him at the office. This guy really blows because he loves to talk the talk and then walk the walk, per say, by ordering the most expensive shots and drinks and insists on picking up the rather large bill. Normally, that is a great sequence of events because a large bill normally equals a large tip…but not for this guy. Reason for avoidance: His main goal is to impress everyone…except the bartender. His entry level position barely gives him enough financial freedom to pick up the tab, so subsequently, skimps on the tip every time. He can usually be spotted by being the youngest of a group of CEO-looking businessmen. Keep an eye out for JC Penny suits with the price tags mistakenly still attached from when he bought it a week ago, when he got the job.

    The Stripped Shirt Guy: No need to elaborate on this guy. He’s already been dogged on in past posts, with more to come in the future I’m sure. Simply the epitome of a douche bag.

    The reason I bring up the profiling of guests is that I’m personally guilty of doing so as much as any other server or bartender. I had done so in a shift this past week, when a group of Grandma’s walked in to the patio. Naturally, I tired to pull a server out from the main dining room to take them, but nothing doing. Like clockwork, I refilled tea after tea and entertained story after story about grandsons and granddaughters. As the conclusion of their meal neared, I offered to split up their check, as there were five women eating together, and the chattiest catty of the group said there would be no need as she would be treating all of the other gals. I didn’t think much of it, as getting screwed on one large bill is equally as shitty as getting screwed on five smaller bills. As I dropped the one check off to Marie, I would later find out her name to be, she complimented me on my service and how I reminded her of her grandson in Gainsville, who also goes to school. I took this to be the final nail in the coffin. ‘The Gals’ all said their goodbyes and thanks as they left and I reluctantly picked up the bill-fold after busing their table…

Forty-two dollars. FORTY-TWO DOLLARS on a tab of $102 with a hand written note which read “Good luck in school! Thank you so much again (-: Here’s a little extra for books!”

    Arguably the best tip I’ve ever gotten in all my years of slinging drinks and waiting tables, and to think, thirty minutes before I was trying to pawn them off on some server. I have never *ever* received a tip that high in percentage and felt SO shitty in my life.

Karma must be involved here in one of two ways:

    I was the dick who automatically profiled these women as the stereotypical Grandma’s I’ve dealt with in past experiences and ultimately ended up being SO in the wrong, I’ve got some shitty karma coming my way.

OR

    Because I tried to throw these nice older women to someone else, me feeling wicked shitty after receiving a 41% tip is karma’s way of kicking me in the junk and telling me I’m an asshole.

    I’d *like* to believe that my feeling so bad in the aftermath of receiving such generous offer is all the wrath karma is going to throw my way and all my ad karma is said said and done…but I’ve been around to witness the luck I usually get…and from my past experiences…damn…I’m fucked.

You guys have any input?