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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
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.
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