Thursday, November 27, 2008

Holidays behind the bar...

... just thought I'd post a couple tips for anyone caught working today or any other holidays. If you are justing starting out at a place you're almost definitely going to end up working these days. This is because for the most part it is a fact that older more established 'tenders choose to forego the following major perk I will discuss in lieu of having the day off.

Their loss.

Holiday hours are shorter, more concentrated and potentially exponentially more profitable than a regular shift. The regulars who come in are going to be glad you're open, glad that you are there for them to hang with, and often particularly more generous because of the fact that you appear to have drawn the short straw and are working instead of with your family.

Tell them no different.

And really, why would you? No matter how much you love your job I'm sure you'd rather have the day off, family or not. So let them tip you in that half-tip/half-gift type fashion that the holidays this time of year brings.

Also, even though more concentrated, you probably will not have that much business until the later part of the evening, so it gives you good time to get to know your regulars better and maybe even make some new ones while you are at it. I've had some pretty good conversations while behind the bar on Thanksgiving and Christmas, with people who have become more akin to friends to me than 'customers'. You may even see regulars who usually don't talk or come in at different times form bonds and this essentially, while not only making new 'clicks' who have your back, will often bring regulars in more often and at different times the rest of the year. Every time a good-tipping regular comes in it's potential money in your pocket and good times, so the more they come, the better.

And really, chances are no matter what your shift you will have time before or after to have a bit of a holiday.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

A little lonely...

... not everyone goes to a bar to meet members of the opposite sex or find a conversation for the evening. From behind the bar you will encounter all manner of people with all manner of agendas (there's that fucking word again!) and it is best if you learn to discern people and their motives, so as not to confuse your different types of patrons and say or do what could be considered anything inappropriate. It takes attention first and time second, but in the end any energy you exert in these directions will eliminate the chances of you losing money on a two-fold front. First fold, the money of the tip on the spot and second fold and more importantly in the grand design of your success in establishing a career behind the bar, the money of a repeated customer who digs the way you do things and tips accordingly based on that fact, time and time again.

Examples.

Some people like a little bit of 'lonely' in their bar experiences. I know I do. Sure, there are times when this isn't the case - mostly the times I enter the bar with friends and loved ones. Or after I get to know a bartender I will sometimes stop by to have a drink just to chit chat. But more often (and these days the word often applied to my being in a bar is ludicrous) if I'm walking into a pub alone I'm bringing a book or notebook and pen. This doesn't mean I want to be left completely alone, but a good bartender knows my engagement will be on my terms. This isn't to be rude, but some people, myself obviously included, like sitting at a bar by themselves and just sipping a pint while doing something. Nothing replaces the feeling of doing a little writing over a pint or two while surrounded by but not necessarily being a part of a pub's environment. I guess it's a way for me to play act as an adult, now invoking literary greats like Hunter S. Thompson, Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald just like I used to run through the woods and climb trees invoking Luke Skywalker, Snake Eyes and Megatron.

So the idea here, as a bartender to a bartender, is don't crowd your customers. Don't offer advice or polite conversation unless that is what the person is there for. A lot of times I've shown up to a bar with a book only to have the bartender not only ask what I'm reading, which is fine, but to go on and on about the unlikeliness of anyone bringing a book into a bar anymore, or start talking about their brother and his aspirations to be a writer and yada yada yada. That's fine if I take the bait with the first dialogue but when someone insists, invariably because they think I am really there to find companionship, it gets annoying fast. I'm reminded of that Bill Hick's bit where he's talking about bringing a book into a Waffle House in the south, where the waitress responds to seeing him sitting there reading by announcing to the rest of the restaurant 'We got us a reader!'. As a bartender you should strive to make every patron feel as comfortable as possible - the best bars are only as good as their 'tenders and the best bartenders make everyone, even the first time patrons, feel as though they've been there a million times - welcome and respected.

Another part of this is something I've talked about before but bares re-mentioning - NEVER ASSUME. This means if Jimmy Jim Jim comes in everyday for a year and orders a Drambuie on the rocks, never have it ready for him - unless that's his thing. I know that seems confusing, but now this goes back to the paying attention part. Every hardcore regular will let you know what they want and expect if you are paying attention, so pay attention. However, if Mr. Jim Jim does expect you to have it ready, but on day 366 comes in with a lady friend you've never seen before, do not have it ready and do not greet him with 'Hey Mr. Jim Jim, your usual?' Guests, especially men bringing in lady friends, requires a certain degree of anonymity, at least at first.

So summing it up, PAY ATTENTION - it will PAY you back in the end.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Because of Sex and the City...

... the movie (god help us) recently being released on DVD I thought it prudent I log weigh in with some tips.

1) Cosmopolitans are MARTINIS. This, simply put, means they are made MOSTLY from vodka, with another alcoholic ingredient being Triple-sec, an orange corn based liquor* The color comes from A SPLASH of cranberry juice.

I mention this because whille the show was in the height of it's popularity you would be amazed how many women would come in and order Cosmo's and then complain that they were too strong or 'this isn't how they're supposed to taste!'.

Now don't get me wrong, cosmo's are tasty drinks. I do not like them, but it was a popular cocktail long before Sarah Jessica Barker and her battalion of whores started ordering them and there's a reason for that. And I should know, Martini's of any kind were one of my specialties. When you pour those mixers into the steel shaker (never, and I do mean NEVER use a plastic shaker) you need to shake that fucker until the metal becomes so cold it sticks to your hands. That's when you will have a beautiful layer of ice on the top of your drink. Some would argue that, and say to shake it thusly** is to bruise the vodka, but to that I say, this is generally really only a concern if you are drinking a straight Vodka Martini. Sure, if you are thirsty for a Belvedere Martini, straight up you might want to think about a gentler shaking method. But if you are already mixing it with Triple Sec and Cranberry juice, you're obviously not concerned too much with enjoying the full vodka flavor and thus, the layer of ice is the trade off.

But yes, the point of this rambling diatribe is for all you fans of Sex and the City out there*** a Cosmo is a drink made mostly of alcohol, cut with lesser parts of other items to change and accent the taste of the vodka****. IT IS NOT PINK BECAUSE THE JUICE HIDES THE TASTE OF THE ALCOHOL. If this is what you are after order a Cape Cod (1 oz. Vodka and the rest cranberry) and ask them to shake it and serve it up in a fancy schmancy martini glass.

2) If you don't drink much and are going out do NOT where high-heels if you're unaccustomed to wearing them. This will save you from falling on your face when you finish your second Cosmo and stand up too fast, and it will save the bartender, whose really only doing his job and trying to look out for you, from being accused, whether directly or indirectly, of over serving you.

3) Do not accept drinks from strangers eyeing you across the bar unless you want to talk to them. Do not begin talking to them and accept more drinks unless you plan on either going home with them or at least giving them your (currently active) phone number. And it is NOT the bartender's fault for conveying the initial offer of said free drink on the stranger's behalf, no matter what happens as a result. We are there to serve the clientele and if that includes relaying a message between two people, yep, that's part of the job description. Ancient Roman wisom - DON'T KILL THE MESSENGER!!!
...............

* Fact checker - is this corn based? I'm pretty sure but now my memory has lapsed.

** Thusly? Have I been replaced by Thor?

*** Given the cast, I'll take the city

**** And yes, I have had a request (singular) for a gin Cosmopolitan before and I made it and served it with the same comment I reserve for the person that order Scotch and Milk - You're a very sick person and this drink should not exist.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

...

I move into the kitchen and pour some more coffee. It's an expensive blend from somewhere in South America but I have yet to master making coffee on my own, so it doesn't taste very good. I always prefer when I can to buy a cup: lazy, consumerist tendencies unspoiled there as in so many other places. Why is it that everything always seems to taste better when you buy it?

Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Junkies, Consumers - a word I fear ten times more than the last - the final epitaph that should be engraved on all of our tombstones. Maybe not everyone everyone, but most of us at this point in the attention deficeit disordered first decade of a new and shining millenium have reduced ourselves to little more than quivering masses of self-important ganglious urges. I've studied Magick for years, and while making several sizeable breakthroughs attempting to hack into the local reality grid*, it's this consumerist tendency in me, in you, in everyone reading this right now, that unplugs any real progress. That and a hearty love of alcohol, movies, music, books, comic books, drugs. All these things (with perhaps the exception of recreational drug use, which, while not exactly a myth is not exactly a truth either) get in the way - they are distractions we let our Id's and ego's get caught up in to effectively procrastinate ourselves out of any real commitment to the things we want most in life. 'I want to write a book'; 'I want to be in a band'; 'I want to own a restaurant'. All of these things are well and good, but if you want to do them, and I mean really fucking do them, then you better just stop taping the your favorite shows, renting 3 movies a week from Netflix and going out to the bar, because in the end, when all your minutes are collected and totaled, when you find yourself in a bed in a convalescent home or staring blankly at a dinner tray in an insane asylum, old folks home, rehab center or morgue, well, these are the minutes that will reek so bittersweet with the oils of wasted time and pointless endeavors.

We're not here long, use it.

These are things I thought about while Bono preached about God's Country over my stereo speakers, probably too loud, not loud enough the spark in me counters grabbing my large blue coffee cup with a cute baby Penguin on it, moving down the stairs to turn that resistance potentiometer up another half a dozen notches or so, coming back upstairs to continue typing, this, a sort of last minute manifesto to ignite the stories I would be otherwise unable to tell.

Spark, spark, Flame.

Everyone thinks they can be a good bartender. Some can learn like monkeys to make the drinks the way the boss wants them made, but in the end its three things that separate out the cream of the crop.

1) Observation
2) Patience
3) Simple, gentle human compassion

Now, I am not necessarily known among the company I keep for any of the three of those, let alone all of them together. That doesn't matter. The thing is, after a while behind the bar, that person waiting on you retains many of the best attributes I have acquired, while the thing that walks around day to day, cursing and nodding its head to one album after the next, well, that's the formula but relaxed - ill defined like muscle long since out of use. The one in the mock tuxedo shirt and black slacks behind the bar, shaking Martini's, opening bottles of Chateau Montelena a smile and a nod for a cunt boss and her cunt husband, surrounded by their cunt spawn, that one, that's the focused, exact essence at any given moment. Yes, still prone to anger and outbursts, excitement and hypocritical modus operandi, this job, when it gets inside you and forces you to concentrate, pay attention, believe in the people walking in and out of your life day after day, night after night, this is the focused exactitude of what I am, because now the muscle is flexed and lifting, struggling to get the barbell off its chest for just one more day, trying to make a difference in just one more persons life even while slinging poison down their throats.

Bartending is, as I've said before, babysitting. But at it's best it's babysitting for people who don't want to be pampered, they just want to be listened to and taken seriously. Their muscles can relax here and you can oversee their own trips into the imperfect state - that is why alcohol and intoxicants are so important to our communities and continued existence in the first place, why booze will never be outlawed again and people still do drugs regardless of the dangers they've seen on the news, in the classroom educationals and in their everyday lives since the moment they could think for themselves.

We need to get fucked up so we don't fuck ourselves up.

Not buying it? Well, you shouldn't, because I'm only half right. There are an awful lot of people who the booze and the drugs do fuck up. DESTROY may even be a better word. And even those who do manage to manage their habits will mot likely loose in the end because of them. But that's just it. We all loose eventually anyway. Something's going to kill ya? - a clichéd' Charlie Sheenism that is not untrue. People who don't drink or smoke or snort or shoot still die, and probably with as much frequency as those who do at a young age.

So I ask you, 'What'll it be?'

As a bartender however those need not exist to you. Sure, you will encounter people who can't handle their shit, who grow violent or angry or needy. You're even going to have to wait on and deal with them. Best thing to do is learn to recognize the warning signs early and let them make their move. But be ready. Be quick to catch them and excise them from your shift, your bar, your life. These people never last long anywhere in public, that's why they tend to go out late, bar hop, have/ attend parties and get banned from the nice places (which if you've been listening to my advice all along, you'll be working at by now). Sure, get rid of one and five more might take their place, but a multitude of assholes in one room will, you'd be surprised, tend to work itself out rather quickly nine times out of ten.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

It sounds funny...

... but all you really need to win some people over is a smile. And it helps to lighten your mood as well.

I know, I know. I can hear it now.

"When did this become the Michael Landon hour?"

No, I haven't bought any of those stupid new age books Oprah pimps all the time, I'm just giving you hard sceintific FACT. I read long ago in some science journal or another that during the physical act of smiling the face muscles used trigger a chemical reaction in the brain that actually makes you feel happier.

"if this is supposed to be presented as scientific fact, where's the exact sources?"

Well, if I was writing actual scientific journals I wouldn't be posting a blog about bartending (or would I? This is a science. Oh, chock it up to laziness today)

Anyway, this is an important 'Occult' tool to remember and use when some swine has shat upon your day. It can be difficult, but that smiling does actually work.*

The other side to this is a lot of those folks who will try to fuck up your day are looking for a confrontation or your defeat. If you smile right back they get neither, and this will often drive a high percentage of these folks completely insane. They will escalate their attack, but hang onto those happy guns and eventually you will ruin their day, causing their attack to deflate and they to exit frustrated, angrier and defeated. OF course this won't bode well for any spouse or children at home, if that is where they go, but many of them won't have that anyway, hence their need to strike out into the working class to carry out their assault. And if you know for a fact they are married, and just happen to know where it is they reside, well, call the cops from a nearby pay phone and claim to be a neighbor reporting a possible domestic. They might not catch them in the act, but the asshole will now feel Karma is clenching a shriveled finger around their lives and sink further into unhappiness.

All from a smile. Who knew, right?

* And even if its mind over matter, it still works so who cares???

Friday, August 1, 2008

Plans and Agendas...

Okay kids, here's my checklist entitled: CRITERIA TO FIND A PERFECT GIG. If You are starting out as a bartender, or even if you're just looking for a better gig than the one you have, If the job meets these criteria, chances are pretty good you'll do well and LOVE your job (how often does that happen?)

1) You do not want to work in a club.

Let me repeat that because some of you won't believe your eyes. No I didn't stutter or mis-type YOU DO NOT WANT TO WORK IN A CLUB.

Now, I know there is a special, genetically-mutated percent of the population out there that think, 'Eh? He's mad, you bet your ass I do want to work at a club.

NO, YOU DON"T. Trust me, please.

Even those of the 'I do' persuasion I've known ended up hating the gigs once they'd achieved them.

Why is that, you might ask?

Well, let's see now. MMMhph (clears throat) Massive crowds of people constantly revolving in and out of your range and ridiculously loud music may sound like a good idea from the otherside of the bar (do they?), but from behind it these things mean A) it is unlikely you will ever make any of your customers acquaintance, without which your tips will never grow or stay steady, and B) it will likely be too loud and too busy for helping or listening to people, and like the above (or rather a part of it) if you do, it will usually be by their effort and in that case you can bet your ass they have an agenda. This will most likely be bad (someone trying to see if you know where to score drugs - 65% of these will be narcs) but it's not out of the question that occasionally it could be a good agenda. Someone might want to get you in the sack. Cool, yeah, but be careful, as things like that rooted in clubs have a tendency to turn out to be bad regardless.

2) You do not want to work for something corporate. Have you ever known a bartender at a Chile's that was zonked out happy with their job? Nope. No, you haven't. And if you've never known a bartender from Chile's, or any of those other corporate type shitholes, stop in one tomorrow after work, order a drink and make casual conversation with the bartender (AGENDA! he screams and points his finger at you) and see if they dig it there. THEY DON'T. If they do they are the souless undead and YOU MUST KILL THEM ON THE SPOT!!!*

'Okay Mr. all knowing dickhead, what is it I want then?'

Glad you asked smartass. What you want to find is something privately owned that has an older clientele and a loose pour system. These two points are important, so let me branch out a bit.

3) Older clientele. Der Clientele Oldario. Caliente cl... oh, never mind that one, just remember OLDER CLIENTELE.

Why? You may ask. Because you may think you want a gig where you can meet members of the opposite sex, be hip, pretend you're Matt dillion. Whatever.

That's bullshit. Read on.

Here's what an older clientele does for you: First - they will take care of you. Not at first, no. Older folks latch onto a bartender they like and don't let go, even if the bartender does. When you come on a gig like this the people will be suspicious of you at first.

They should.

You're not going to know how they like their drinks, you're not going to know anything about them or any of the little things that make them unique **. It will take you time and effort to earn their love and respect. Don't bitch or bawk at this - if you're not willing to put forth the effort you're not really cut out to be a good bartender and the last thing the world needs, well besides another Bush or Wayan's brother, is another bad bartender, so get a job as a lifeguard or something, will ya?

However, if you are willing to tuff it out and bare the thick skin that will get you through the initial period, you will eventually come to realize you know all of your regulars' drinks, you know where they like to sit and when, and you'll have learned the little nuances of how to act with regulars: one biggie here is you know not to have a drink ready for them when they walk in (unless they are the type that always comes in alone and wants this, a distinction you'll be able to garner after only a few experiences with most folks) or call their drink by name. The idea here is the person might be with different people at different times and not want them to know they come there often. All these things the they will notice and that's when they start to talk to you and you get to know one another. You'll find yourself thinking about them if you happen across a tv show they were talking about or they will begin to see their kids in you. At this point on your path you'll have become more than just a bartender - you'll have become friends with the people. You might end up going out for a drink with some of them or to birthday parties, Christmas parties, whatever. You'll bring in pictures of your vacation for them to see, talk about your parents or even just spend slow eveings behind the bar listening to them tell great stories about when they tended bar***.

I can't stress this enough: this is what being a good bartender is. Clubs and corporates are designed against this grain, so while you might make some money by sheer volume, you'll be missing out on steady, consistant funds but more importantly you'll be missing out on some very worthwhile relationships and life experiences that will not only serve to make Your existence much more rewarding, it will serve to make you better in ANYTHING you do after that. It's helped me in the two jobs I've had since going on hiatus as a bartender. It's helped me with everyday interactions with people, like when I go into an unfamiliar bar. And it will especially help you be a better bartender.

.................

Moving right along...

The loose pour system once was the only system. Nowadays there's a whole market of 'bar technology' designed to watchdog the amount of booze a 'tender pours. There's the ball bearing system, where the pourer on the bottle can be set to measure exactly oone ounce of pour before a ball bearing slips to the mouth and stops the flow. There's also a micorchip system, which I have never seen but heard plenty about. This is more crazy, Tron type bartending where a microchip measures your pour and transmits a report on it to a central database. Get it? This way they always know who pours how much, so trouble can be proven and logged.

Big brother, eh?

Loose pour is what it sounds like. You pick up the bottle, tilt it above the glass and pour. Maybe about an ounce for Joe schmoe, more than an ounce for your heavy hitters and less than an ounce for 'quarters'*^ and the like. This is war my friends, and you will learn to act accordingly. A bartender who can't measure a free pour isn't worth his margarita salt. If you're unsure, take an empty liquor bottle, a pourer spout and a shot glass. Fill the bottle with water, pop on that spout and start filling the shotglass. WHile filling count to yourself. Everyone's count is different. '1,2,3,'. Whatever. You'll get used to the count it takes to fill that glass and in no time you'll be able to measure a free pour just using your count. Again, corporates tend to be set up on the assumption everyone is going to overpour, so they opt for the security features mentioned above. Fuck that. People, especially older clientele, don't frequent where they can't get a good drink. Corp's rely on heavy turnover volume, hence coupons in the Sunday paper and ads on TV to attract new people all the time. Again, high clientele turnover rate = less regulars = less money.

Have there been people who have violated these rules and loved their jobs? Yeah. No one I know though. And while a cozy bar with plenty of regulars can actually be quite cathartic and pleasant to work at, clubs and corp's tend to be hectic and taxing, hence why it's not only the clientele that has a high turnover rate.

Okay, cheers for now, I need a drink.

...................................


* Legality: Do Not Go kill these people. Just give em' a hearty 'Piss off' and move on.

** Older folks socialize as much or more than younger folks do, so they will find a place they like also based on what other people in their age range with their likes and dislikes, expectations and apprehensions go. This is a great tip-off to whether or not you want to work at a place; case the joint for a few weeks before seeking employment; if there's no regular older crowd but a bunch of now-and-theners chances are its not that great a place.

*** BONUS FACT: Many people who frequent bars (not clubs) were themselves once bartenders or waitstaff!!! Guess how us ex-bar folk tip? GREAT!!! (if your not a blowjob hack that is)

*^ see 'what you don't do' blog from March 21st. Direct link here:http://thebartenderchronicles.blogspot.com/2008/03/what-you-dont-do.html

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Bar vs. Banquets...

There is a thin white line between the life of a bartender who works at a bar, proper, and a bartender that works banquets. If you are considering a gig in the poison-slinging industry then you should know the difference and lean in the appropriate direction. I started behind the bar - that's where I cut my teeth so to speak. When I began filling in for banquets on the weekends I already had a bias, even though there are pros and cons to both. Likewise I knew plenty of banquet bartenders who would not go behind a bar to save their lives, so to each their own. My point here is to help folks interested plot a course in the right direction.

You've already heard a lot of what it's like behind the bar, so it only makes sense not to waste time outlining the pros and cons there, as discussing now those of banquets will coversely demonstrate the 'bars' by contrast. Did that make any sense? Anyway, here we go on the great banquet coaster!!!

Banquet's number one advantage is based on a sickening loophole in the tax laws. If you work behind a bar or as a server, legally you HAVE to report your tips and grant the government a portion of them for taxes. In a banquet, you do not.

Now, don't worry, you don't actually HAVE to but you HAVE to, know what I mean? When I started behind the bar the friend that trained me told me, 'do what i do, once a week you have to file this tip sheet right? So just put ten bucks in for every day you work.' Now granted, this position I was taking from him was technically 'barback' on the establishment's records because they wanted to have two bartenders on weeknights and three on weekends, but they didn't want to have to pay them the extra fifteen cents or whatever an hour for the elevated position, so 'barback' it was.* Now, barback is a tricky thing. In my experience at the hotel it was great, because it was really a bartender position. But most of the other barbacks positions I've seen are what equates to a busbuy for the bartender, ie you run and fetch barrels or cases of beer for them, empty dishes and glasses and take them wherever, etc. Grunt work that gets, mostly, a small percentage of the bartender's sales. If you're young and can find no other way of getting in the business then go ahead and take it, but you won't make much and most of what I discuss on this site won't apply or even make sense to you until you're behind the bar. If you want to get into the real business however, don't go this route.

Anyway, to get back on point, yeah, as a banquet bartender you DO NOT legally have to claim you're tips because you do not, for the most part, have 'sales'. Most banquet gigs are tending open bars - that is weddings and company shindigs and the like, where the cost of the bar and everything the guests might drink is included in the cost of renting the banquet hall's room out for the party to begin with. This works to the bartender's advantage in a second way as well, as most folks, when a bartender is promptly making or handing them whatever they ordered without charging them a cent, are quick to tip a buck or two. This combined with the amount most people will drink, acquired through numerous trips to the bar, amounts to more and more dollars in your jar. Think of the last wedding you were at. How many people? Maybe it was small, under one hundred people. But these days when the wedding industry is an ever-escalating behemouth sprouting more and more tentacles folks tend to invite more and more people, until family becomes extended family (Hey! Great Aunt Jackie, her three kids, now grown up with families of their own, and even a couple of guys she used to fuck in the forties on Tuesdays! Glad you could all make it!) and friends become friends, acquaintances, co-workers, doctors, lawyers, friends of friends, etc. You get the point. If that's the case (as in my experience it is more than not) think of all those people returning again and again to the bar. Even if only 75% leave you $1 each time, well, that's a fucking lot.

And it's all under the table.

Plus your hourly. If this is the case, be smart, sign up for direct deposit for your check and never touch them, just let them accumulate like that wedding industry Cthulhu I mentioned before and in seemingly no time you'll have a nice big account for emergencies or eventual nesting.

Now, all that being the upside, here's the downside.

The music. If it's a wedding especially, but anything with a DJ in general, get ready to hear endless streaming of audio diarrhea and watch a ton of uncoordinated white folks do the Macarena, Electric Slide and all other manner of hell-spawned gyrations. I once saw an old man with a walker head out to the dancefloor and attempt to 'cut a rug' to Cher's atrocity 'Power of love'. If I knew then what I know now, I like to think I would have slipped roofies into everyone's drinks and attempted to leave psychologically unscathed. Unfortunately I still wake late at night sometimes screaming from dreams of that horrible sight.

Coupled with this, banquets rely on staff other than the bartender, same as any other service establishment, and for some occult reason banquet facilities almost ALWAYS line their ranks with all manner of sick freaks and losers. I've seen women with facial hair, young kids to stupid to understand the words 'that goes to the bride, the woman sitting at the head table with all the other flowers around her, the one who looks just like the enormous photograph hanging above the cake'. Women to large to fit through side by side loading dock doors, hunched and riveted spines, rheumy eyes, you name it. And what's worse, THEY ARE ALL STUPID. Usually. Not always. I worked with some that weren't, but of course the number of morons in any given event staff are stupid enough to more than out weight the advantages of those who are intelligent and agile.

Also, banquets do not provide the solace of regulars. Meet and greet, drink and eat, goodbye godspeed, now go on home and rest your feet.

Hah, now I'm a fucking poet, huh? Maybe I should change this to 'The Poet Chronicles'? Naw. Generally I hate and do not 'get' poetry. Unless of course some wealthy European ruler would like to pay me to sit around and smoke opium and drink Laudunum, composing verse. THAT I could get into.

So, there's the low down. Read it over and choose wisely. The best gig is one that offers a mix of both of these types, with the bulk of the time being spent behind the bar and a banquet here or there for extra cash. But of course, you can't always get what you want. Let's hope though, that you get what you need.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Free drinks...

...are part of the job, regardless of what anyone tells you. White collar pencil pushers will try to cut costs by telling you that you can't but you can, neigh you must buy your regulars drinks. It's an age old custom and a great way to show your customers you appreciate them.

Buy drinks often and with no expectations attached. If the place you work for has a problem with this, either do it anyway or find a new place to work. And none of this 'Manager approval' bullshit either. If you have to walk over and ask a manager to approve and then input a comp into the POS* system, well, it looks poorly for you and for the place. Chances are though if you're in the kind of place that employs this system they won't get that anyway, so move on.

Now, buying a drink is no substitute for listening to your customers when they want to talk, but buying drinks is a way to let people know you appreciate their business and also, their company. Now as far as not expecting anything back, there is a subtle paradigm here. If you buy a regular chances are they will tip you better - however do not think if they are already tipping you good they should tip you better after you buy them. Some people treat this as a type of race or 'one-up-man-ship spectacle' - in simplest terms the tip should not necessarily increase everytime you buy them another drink. This being said however, sometimes it does. But take this on a day to day basis. Once someone tips you one amount don't expect them to match it every time. If you do that will begin to become apparent in those oh so subtle ways we humans communicate, and you will alienate people you generally like. If you are the type who really only looks at the gig for money and don't care about your regulars as people anyway, then you shouldn't be in the business in the first place. Go sell children in Bangladesh.

Now, you may ask, if you 'do it anyway', is that technically stealing?

Well, I suppose what follows is a great example of what my friends and I call 'if you've convinced yourself, that's great' but here's my answer to that one.

IT'S A BAR.

You are actually doing the owners a favor by incurring good will in the name of the establishment - this is how you acquire and maintain regulars. Regulars mean repeat business for the establishment and repeat business means CONSISTENT INCOME. Period. For You and the bar. If the owners/operators do not want consistent sales, THEY should not be in the business.

It all comes out in the wash, believe me. It may be a different case in places like TGIFuckface's or Appledrool's, but those types of establishment's have no business being discussed in a blog about bars and bartending other than for the purpose of making clear they do not belong here. If you're bartending at one of those, quit now, it will only make your life better, sooner.

About three years into my five year gig at the hotel the management came under the idea that they should all of a sudden not allow us to buy regulars drinks. Now, this is even worse than opening a place with that policy, as most of my regulars were I's regulars and thus consistent customers of the establishment for over twenty years. How insulted would you feel if the place you've been going and having comps for that long all of a sudden said - NOPE, no more comps.

A little Insulted? Maybe.

Very insulted? Yeah, probably. Not that the free drink is the point, but when you're out with friends, you buy one another drinks, because you are friends and buying drinks is a friendly thing to do. A bar you feel at home at and frequent on a regualr basis you may do so for several reasons; atmosphere, good prices, good selection of imbibes,attractive staff, etc. However the one reason above and beyond all of these that seals the deal is the bar you choose to frequent you do so first and foremost because you feel friendship there.

In the situation related above, the staff and I of course fought to retain our rights to buy drinks for our regulars. In the end, my saying 'Never underestimate the power of complacency' rang true, just as it almost always does, and the management completely forgot about what was once such a 'hot idea'. Too busy cheating on their spouses and getting blitzed on a bevy of chemicals themselves, eh? But this was of course a privately run franchise, and as such not under as close corporate scrutiny as a lot of other places are.

Another thing to remember with buying drinks is don't 'play games'. If you buy someone you normally do not, they now may begin to expect it, and you have put yourself in a place where the aforementioned scenarios of one-up-man-ship may escalate. Try it once, maybe not the next time, and then do a 'here and there' trial. If you particularly want to endear yourself to the person, don't buy after they tip you - do it before.

Finally, remember to keep what you do and who you buy to yourself as far as discussion with customers or other staff. The people you work closely with are one thing, but if you begin bragging or offering helpful hints to just anyone all out clusterfuck will occurr. Someone else may begin buying a regular more than you, or you may hear about them making more on a tip from a person you considered 'your' customer. This can only lead to trouble, so heed early. In the end there are two types of people you buy drinks for as a bartender: those who you do it for because you genuinely want to do something nice for them and those who will tip you better because of it. Try your best to keep those worlds separate, even if the people come in and talk to one another.

Now you know, AND KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE.


........

* Although, in many cases if You are behind a bar with a 'POS' or Point of Sale system like Aloha or Squirrel instead of a honest to goodness cash register, well, you might be in the wrong place to begin with. Of course, that is not always the case, as the bar I worked in at the hotel for five years had a POS and was the shit, still adhering to an old world system in everything else, ie no meaured pouring spouts, no minimus, no ever present manager needed for comping, etc.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Come Sail Away... Bartender on the Road

I haven't been a bar tender on a regular basis for a while, but that it's like the mob, you can never get out. I have long been a fan of exploring new bars. There is a two-fold ideology behind this: 1) Alcohol saturated adventure, and 2) You can see what you shouldn't do and what you should do to be a better bartender. Traveling to Ohio this past week I had some prime time to investigate. Here's the gem.

...........

The White Sail.

We pull into a gravel driveway next to a white building that has a hand-crafted (and uneven) sign above the door that reads: The White Sail.

“Are we going to get hurt?” I ask my friend Marc.

“No,” he responds laughing slightly at my innocent question. Marc has previously told me the tale of how he finally discovered the White Sail after searching for it for years. Stuck in the middle of a small residential area I can understand how it might even be looked directly upon without recognition – the building more closely resembles a house than a ‘bar’ destination.

We walk in and immediately my eyes shrink – it’s about two o' clock in the afternoon on a sunny June day but in here its nine PM, October 25th 1972. The only light comes from objects like novelty beer signs and out of season Christmas lights that border and outline displays. The first thing I see as my eyes adjust to the light is a small child, sitting at the bar in front of the video poker machine. Then another small kid, the first a boy of about eight, the second a girl a year or two younger. Several seats past them are folk who appear to be their parents.

We sit down and the upper-middle aged platinum blonde woman behind the bar asks us for our ids in a tobacco-damaged voice. Her demeanor is a bit gruff, but in this part of the country that’s commonplace in establishments like this. As I suspect, once she discerns we are of legal drinking age she becomes immediately more personable and asks the age old question:

“What’ll it be?”

Marc is a Budweiser man and he answers accordingly. I look around knowing my predilection as a beer snob will win me no favor here. Two tall coolers on either side of the woman showcase MGD, Michelob Ultra and not much else. Our host procures Marc’s bud from a cooler just in front of us – I smile as I hear the can crack open with a burst of freshness. ‘What the hell,’ I think to myself, ‘when in Rome…’.

“I’ll have a bud as well.”

I’m treated to a second Crack and as I sit and take a sip from the aluminum can I’m not so surprised to find that a beverage I normally find abhorrent hits the fucking spot on this 80+ summer day. It comes as no surprise really. It’s only in a place like this, at a time like this that a can of cheap American lager tastes good to me. Marc and I settle back into our beers and begin to look around.

The bar is rounded and big enough for between twelve or fifteen nice leather-backed barstools. Behind it are two or three faux-leather apolstered booths and then a small succession of simple tables and chairs. Chances are if you’ve gone bar hopping anywhere in the mid-west you’ve seen the prototype the White Sail is based on – possibly best described as if imagined your aunt turning her basement into a bar…

Shifting my attention behind the bar one of the first things I notice is on a door next to the cooler to the left of where the bartender served us. Suspended by a single piece of Scotch tape is a child’s crude drawing of a large white sail with the words The WHITE SAIL scrawled in sloppy crayon below it.

Nice.

The Bottles on the shelf have color-coded plastic pourers and Marc points out a handwritten list to the left of the old fashioned cash register. I don’t recall everything, but yellow was the most expensive color at $4.25 and topped such items as Level brand vodka (easily a $6-$8 vodka in a lot of the places I know of back in LA or Chicago), and Christian Brothers VS. Total there cannot be more than 20 bottles on that shelf, and I'd say only four or five of them had yellow.

Did I mention our beers cost $4.50 for the two?

After a few minutes the kids leave with their parents and in short order a new guy enters the bar via a screen door in the rear of the place and sits down at the poker machine.

Wait... yes, I said a screen door. I did mention how much this place looks like a house didn't I? Moving right along...

When the bartender asks him what he’s having he asks her about Margaritas – he does this in a way that makes me think he has only just learned of this drink for the first time recently. Our host looks a bit confused and he goes on to recite what he remembered to be the recipe, apparently related to him by another employee of the place. She listens for a moment but he does not express himself with confidence in his description or any kind of accuracy in terms of pronouncing the names of the suspected ingredients so she dons a pair of generic reading glasses and begins hunting around for a recipe book. Once said recipes are found they are not a book but a loose packet of index cards rubber banded together. She begins rifling through them.

“You tend bar, ask her if she needs help,” Marc prompts me.

“What’re you trying to make?” I ask cautiously.

“He asked about a Margarita,” she tells us, “I’ve never made one before, I usually work the day and get all the beer and whiskey drinkers.”

I’m about to offer up some advice when she lifts a card from the stock and holds it to the light. She moves away to grab her cocktail shaker.

Now, I’m all for offering advice, but here’s one thing to remember- don’t be a condescending prick about it. And I say that because step two is you never know who will find what condescending.

This is important in any bar, at any time, so let me repeat it in bold:

YOU NEVER KNOW WHO IS GOING TO FIND WHAT OFFENSIVE. If you write off every single other piece of advice I offer, please remember that one and always think before, during and after you speak. It could save your life, or at the very least your job.

I notice that after Jose Cuervo our host picks up the bottle of Grand Marnier (one of the few cordials the Sail offers along with the likes of Frangelico and DeKuyper's Razzmatazz) even though there is a bottle of Triple-Sec almost next to it. Now, for conversation I could get involved and tell her she could just as easily use the Triple, but the motivation behind using that instead of GM is its cheaper. This may piss off the guy ordering the drink, and might make my host think I’m a know-it-all little prick. Maybe not, she seems pretty cool, but I air on the side of caution. I figure with her apparent need to let Marc and I, two total strangers, know that she had never made a margarita before I’m betting she’s a bit self conscious and I figure let her figure it out herself.

So once the ingredients are in she shakes the fucker up and pours it into the glass she has already rimmed with salt (I missed this process but it looks to me like she used table salt, not margarita salt). She serves it up and goes back to opening cans of bud, what everyone else in the room appears to be drinking.

Marc and I go back to our beers and our constant appreciation of the room. It's a common misnomer that bars like this are cutthroat. I mean, yeah, if you're out dive hunting then you need to mind your shit, because a room can go pear-shaped in an instant and you need to be ready. However, and this is a big however so I should say HOWEVER, bars like the White Sail are typically, from this bartender's experience, the nicest places to drink. Blue collar folk (of which I am one) are in their element when they are drinking with friends and not being charged through the nose for it. You find a bar like The White Sail, it'll be your huckleberry for a long time. My bar in Chicago I left behind, Kraus' Gaslight is the same way and I miss it and the patron's every day, and especially every time I walk into a corporate drinking hole bent more on being a restaurant than a tavern.*

Like I said, find one of these and you'll have friends and a place 'where everybody knows your name' for life, and that's good for relaxing and reconnecting with the human race, especially as a bartender who has to serve people all the time. It's like the masseuse's masseuse.
..........

* When you find a place like this you will understand the distinction of the term 'tavern' as a colloquial from the various other terms around for establishments of drinking.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

A Cautionary Tale...

... far be it from me to discuss things that might make people uneasy (oh yeah, I never do that, right?) but this is gonna be one of those nights...

Part of the way we learn is through stories, and of course being a bartender you get plenty of those. What follows is a cautionary tale, because if you're like I was when I started, unattached and looking to fuck and get fucked up the job definitely takes you places - dens of debauchery so to speak. Adventure strained through pure Nihilism gets you plenty of good times and great stories, but it can also get you dead.

After about two and a half years of only working Tues, Wed, Thurs I relented and started picking up weekend days to help my boss fill out her staffing problems. One thing you need to understand about this gig, nothing beats it as far as flexibility. Three days a week I worke and made more than I do now working forty plus. What's more, at the time I was in an occasionally touring band and would sometimes require an entire week off here and there. With a normal gig this would never work, but as a bartender there's almost always someone looking to pick up more hours. You'll usually owe them a favor, but it works out.

My boss, an older Italian woman who looked after me as if I was her own would always comply with my schedule, so I extended the same courtesy back to her, no matter how much it occasionally pained me to do so. This in and of itself is a lesson, a variation on the ages old golden rule.

Do unto others, right?

There were plenty of people I worked with that ran to the boss every week with schedule requests, but when it came time to give something back it was always a 'no'. None of those people ever developed the comfortable, dare I say it friendly relationship I had with my bosses and peers, so none of them stayed long. If you're in and out of gigs like this, you will miss the WHOLE FUCKING POINT. Every gig, whether bartender or bookseller, will be rough around the edges at first. But if you stick through it long enough you build yourself into the lives and thoughts of those around you and become a fixture - when shit goes down eyes naturally fall on the folks that are rough around the edges, especially if they've been that way for a while. Us fixtures, we become the folks they go to after the smoke has settled to help pick up the pieces. We're Johnny Unitas' haircut to Abe Simpson - you can set your watch by us.

Anyway, forgive the huge digression.

So in working weekends I became friends with another 'fixture' of the building, a guy we'll call Thurston. Thurston was the slick, lady killer that one-upped my schedule, working a mere two days a week behind the bar. We had known each other in a perfunctory fashion since I'd started but working together we became pretty good friends. It took a while for me to get used to the weekends as they were a completely different speed and a largely different clintele, but after my initial 'rough around the edges' period I was in.

Weekends the bar closed at proper bar time, 2AM, and afterward the staff often went out and hit the 4 and 5 AM bars in the area. This often led to hijinks, as included in our menagerie of sousitude were not only Thurston, myself and our waitresses, but also several of the middle-aged security guards and various other hangers on. The guys were, of course, all trying to get in the waitresses pants and this led to particularly interesting conversations when observing those older guys, but that's another story...

So one particular Saturday night we were short-handed and brutalized by the end of the night (two Irish Weddings' let out at 1AM + an unusually full bar at that time already) and some of us were ready to do some drinking. The party fractured off this particular evening and it ended up being just three of us: Thurston, myself and everybody's favorite crazy waitress Lacey.

Lacey was nuts: She hung out with a batallion of off-duty cops half the nights of the week and coke dealing bikers the other half. She loved booze, blow and casual sex and always got her way. I had partied with her before, we worked Tuesdays together on and off for about a year at this point, and it was a general rule of thumb if you went out with Lacey, you weren't coming home until the next day.

So I jump in Lacey's car and we follow Thurston to a 5 AM bar in his neighborhood a couple miles away in Marquette Park.
The bar was constantly referred to as ROMANTICA even though it had no discernable name or sign. Romantica was a 'club' where mostly Polish and Lithuanian immigrants congegrated for debauchery of all kinds. Let me tell you, even if we've advanced enough as a society to where a couple white kids can walk into a mostly black bar and not feel weird, we HAVE NOT yet reached the level where three non-Eastern Europeans can walk into an entirely Eastern European club and feel anything but intimidation. Not in Marquette Park on the Southside of Chicago at three in the morning at least.

I'd been here before - it was a lot of loud Euro-pop, bad dancing, open-chested guys with names like Dimitri, and fucked up, loose blonde women too young to be ruined but too old to not be hanging out in places like this. Thurston and Lacey were semi-regulars here; the five AM after work party wagon had a long history of ending Saturday nights at this place. I'd heard plenty of stories but my time here thus far had been short and experimental bursts and thus I'd not yet encountered any of the real 'character' of the place. This particular morning however seemed to have 'LONG HAUL' written all over it since we left work, so I saddled up to the bar with my friends and we started with beers and shots.

Thing is, when you're in the industry you get pulled into the ebb and flow of everyone else's machinations. A lot of these people are in the industry too and everyone gets to know who has money on them, who has drugs on them, etcetera. You have to stay abreast of all this but also removed enough to remain anonymous and a bit of a mystery.

After a few minutes two spots opened up at the bar and we managed to slip in relatively unscathed. Thurston and I both offered Lacey a seat but she was tweaking already and seemed to feel the perpetual need to move around and talk to people in the peripherary. Of course the people Lacey chose to talk to were the ones that looked to me better left alone.

At some point Lacey began complaining that she needed to score some more drugs. This did not, however prevent her from doing as she normally did when I was out with her and slip me a little bunched up wad of paper, within which I would of course find a small amount of Saturday night white to help me keep up. Lacey lived and partied in perpetual fear of stasis - if you were out with her and not as 'into it' as she was she went out of her way to 'get you there'. I'm no Gary Busey, but I'm no angel either. Free blow is free blow, and in another minute I hopped up to make my way to the bathroom. I knew there was a single, dilapidated stall there that had a long history of protecting drug use, and hopefully it would be free.

This is another pro/con of the industry: there are drugs EVERYWHERE. Nothing says you have to take advantage of this fact, but if you do, you have to hold it down - you commit two many 'oh why not''s and suddenly its ten years later and YOU'RE that burnt out close-talker at the 5 AM bar, leaning on anyone and everyone you can for just a little bit of companionship because everyone else in your life will have gotten sick of your shit by then. Dabble, yeah, but remember, always keep your front toe on the brakes and the word 'No' at the front of your tongue.

So now its fifteen minutes or so later and my I've got a nice, cool numb rubbing in from around the edges making all the ugly people (and the place is packed with them) seem a little less ugly. In my absence Thurston has been hitting on the bartender, a hot Lithuanian chick with enormous breasts fighting like mad to escape from her shirt. Lacey has befriended a couple of real greaseball looking motherfuckers - the kind of guys that make amateur porn in their mother's basements. They're eyeing her with the predator's gleam, completely unaware that it is Lacey who is sizing them up for her own ends. For my part I return to my beer, refreshed in my absence by Thurston's new friend.

After a while Lacey parades her two new friends over to us and begins discussing the possibility of 'making a deal'. Something about these guys make me less than confident about entering into any kind of transaction with them but Lacey seems assured. I can tell Thurston is uneasy with what's going on too, but as I watch the bartender he's been working on throw her arms around some big stooge who has just come in at the other side of the bar I also realize he's probably looking for a new way to end his night. We move into position for trouble.

Thurston steps in and starts talking to the guys and soon it becomes apparent that this thing, for better or worse is going down. The guys seem antsy to get us to go with them, probably due to the target signs their eyes are painting on Lacey.

'We'll party bro.' or some other such sleazy banality issues repeatedly from their mouths as they pat Thurston on the back and attempt to assuage our obvious reservations. By this time Lacey has consumed several more beers and probably an equal number of shots and she's just about ready to walk to the moon and back if it means blow will be involved so Thurston and I begin watching her more closely while trying to successfully navigate this bizarre drug deal we now seem locked into as if we'd signed Dimitri's chest with our own blood.

Finally the bar closes (Shit! Two hours went by that fast and we still don't have the stimulants yet? This is going to be one hell of a long night, the kind where you tape the fucking blinds down and try and pretend the sun hasn't come back up around from the other side of the world to ruin your fun) and we wind up in the middle of Pulaski Ave. arguing with these guys about how we're not coming with them. Things are looking shady and I'm reminded why you should always drive yourself into situation like these - so you can leave.

Culmination comes a few terse minutes later. We're now at the point where at least one of us doesn't care and the others have become increasingly unsure whether this is even going to happen. The greaseballs are hemming and hawing, we’re sitting in a parked car on Pulaski Ave. at 5 AM attempting a drug deal – this is the kind of situation where any sane person’s spider sense would be screaming ‘GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE’ but there’s this strange, expectant electricity in the air – its holding the three of us by the spine and drawing us in. That’s what happens when you see the nightly news with three youths gunned down in a bad part of town and everyone that knew them says things into the camera like ‘what were they thinking, they were so bright?’. That pull, that inertia is why good, smart people get mixed up in things they normally never would and then end up meeting icky and often abnormal endings. It’s the cold hard reality beneath the numbers and once you feel it the idea of being just another statistic will scare you more than the guy with the gun pointed at your head.

Anyone who’s been in a really sketchy situation will tell you about this feeling; it arises as your body recognizes danger or stupid behavior and fights against the inertia of the situation. Death is a black hole, and once you're locked onto its frequency it is almost impossible to pull clean. In a situation like this you have to let it run its course.

Lacey’s in the back of the car and we’re waiting for these two guys to return. My brain is screaming to leave and I’m pretty sure Thurston is there too, but Lacey is going on and on about getting fucked up and blah blah blah I’m too frightened to pay attention right now. Then suddenly I see the grease walking back up on the car, their hands not in sight. Lacey evidently sees this too because all of a sudden the crazy party vibe disappears from her voice and I hear something that really sends a chill rocketing down my spine. I hear fear in Lacey’s voice as she says, “Oh my god, something’s not right. Their gonna do something…” It's the way she says 'Oh my god' - it sounds like the scene in the movie where we're about to die.

It's not a good feeling, sitting helpless as events play out. We’ve missed our chance to leave and the two hairy-chested harbingers of the apocalypse are almost upon the car, there's not even enough time to ask ourselves how could this have gotten this out of hand?

Suddenly time slips into the improbably soup of Schrodinger’s cat – in 50% of the Universes out there we die with three simple gunshots and they take our money and maybe Lacey. Somehow, someway we careen out of these corridors and into the other 50%, where the grease walk right up to the window, hand Lacey the stuff, take their money and leave. A final offer to ‘party’ with them goes unacknowledged and before I know it we’re off in Thurston’s car to his apartment.

…….

So that’s the tale. The lesson is of course, don’t do drugs, but if you do, don’t do stupid things in sketchy parts of town to get them. Jeez, I look back on that and simply marvel at some of the absolutely ridiculous things I did because I got caught up in that industry vibe. You become a fixture and people want you around and they want to share things with you, experiences and drugs and their bed, and you’ve gotta keep your head on straight if you’re going to make it out alive. It’s the best gig in the world, but like I said before, you’ve got to work to keep it that way because after the ‘new car smell’ wears off the partying, if you haven’t left yourself an exit, your fucked.

Now go make some drinks.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Secret Truth #1: No Such Thing As 'Adults'

There are things I learned as a bartender, and chances are you will too, that changed the entire way I view the world around me. I’m not just talking about the fact that, in America at least, the great and mythic cocktail known as the Martini is usually nothing more than vodka or gin in a fancy glass with a vegetable on a stick attached for good measure. No, what I am talking about is unlocking some of the most important, eye-opening secrets of mankind you can imagine.

Hog shite, you cry? Well then, let’s dance shall we? Here’s a good first example of secret bartender knowledge for you.

SECRET BARTENDER TRUTH #1: There is no such thing as an ‘Adult’.

There, I’ve said it and its fucking true. ‘Oh, well then what the hell are all these things in suits and SUV’s moving to and fro around me, blocking up the freeways and grocery cue’s? WELL THEY’RE NOT BLOODY ADULTS, I WILL TELL YOU THAT!!!

Now, before anyone goes all Orson Welles-listener on me, let me explain.

Growing up in this society you are told, shown, and constantly reinforced with the idea that after a certain age you will become this magical creature we call ‘An Adult’. You’re a kid for only so long with endless days of play and imagination, but then suddenly you are in school and year after year you are being ingrained with this idea that you have to start looking forward to the future, when you become this magic ‘Adult’ - the supposed pinnacle of what ‘we’ as ‘beings’ are meant to become. Childhood, even the play, is really only a way-stop in the striving for this ultimate state of being, and so effectively useless. We are supposed to cram all of our hopes and dreams into eleven years or so and then start sweeping up the toys and doing ‘important’ things, because ‘Adults’ are responsible; they bring home the bacon, make the tough decisions and never act like children. ‘Adults’ know that dreams are for the young at heart and in fact the ultimate evolution is to realize just how you can fit into the paradigm of the world around you and contribute.

Right? Have I got this at least close to the mark?

Well, it’s all bullshit. A myth. A fairytale.

Remember that as a bartender I had an older crowd. This was my advice to you, to seek this same kind of a situation for factors listed in one of the diatribes below. If you do this you will see in no time that there is no such thing as this fictitious animal. People act like teenagers (read: ID, or kicking screaming pleasure-principle) regardless of the fact that they have reached a certain age and acquired responsibilities such as careers, homes, cars, families, debt, etc. If this ‘Adult’ does exist at any point it is for those who graduate from the ‘education’ or ‘training’ phase of their lives into the ‘real world’ (another biting myth we are crammed with for most of our young lives) and try to act according to those stringent mores and modes in order to cast off their past and remake themselves. But for most, this does not last and a few years after settling into the 'desired' routines of 'Adult' life they revert..

I always likened the bar, especially on nights with music, to a high school cafeteria that served booze. People would run around and goose each other, cheat on their dates, pound a drink when no one was looking, dance like a moron, start fights, do drugs, yell and scream at one another, sneak away to smoke a cigarette so their wife didn’t find out, make out, fondle and sometimes more depending on how dark their particular corner was (I DO NOT envy housekeeping, I will tell you that). Now tell me that any of those people, no matter how they act during the day, could be classified as an ‘Adult’ according to even just part of this list? I mean, the occasional slip-up is going to come, but when it’s night after night, week after week? Uh-ah.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is not to say there is anything wrong with this. I myself am not an adult and I have never wanted to be, nor will ever want to be one. It’s always been more important to me to grow and change, as opposed to this idea that after a certain point I just automatically cross some invisible finish line and find myself all grown up and on the other side of Childhood’s End. However there is a danger to believing this will simply automatically happen and so consider this merely a warning for those who may be reading this believing in what they’ve been told. Put another way, if you think you don't have to steer the boat, that it will reach land on its own, you are doomed to ride the open seas for the rest of your gull-pecked days.

In order to do this job you have to be inducted, and in order to be inducted you have to learn the secret truths. Not only learn them to say them, but learn them to apply to the rest of your life and especially your gig, so as not to waste it. Now what are you waiting for, go out and serve those kiddies Scotch and Bahama Mama's!!!

Thursday, May 8, 2008

'And you may ask yourself, how did I get here???'

How does one become a bartender? Many ways, but this is how it happened to me, in full, long-winded, parenthetical-ridden widescreen confessional.
......

What percent of Americans go to bars? I’m talking on a regular basis here? Who's got a favorite pub? Look at the U.K. That’s a pub culture. It’s practically the glue that holds their communities together.

Drinking is a way of life.

How could you live this life and not have something to cling to; an ‘out’, some avenue behind conscious thought. Something to make the very air that you breathe tingle against your arms and make even the littlest junk feel oh so important.

I’m a bartender and I say everyone has they’re vice. It’s my job (and pleasure) to serve it to you, and its my very great pleasure to read you these stories from my vantage point and amuse you, sicken you, and straight up bewilder you. So please, proceed, laugh, cry, yell, scream, but definitely, pour yourself a drink and raise a toast to those who sow it all together.

…………………note: this was penned sometime within the first year or so I started.................................

I walk out of KARL’S on 95th St. at 2:22 in the morning and it’s unseasonably warm for Chicago. A nice thunderstorm wind is blowing everything around in that electric kind of way that comes with the first signs of spring. I’ve got a buzz and two Hacker Pschorr’s to go and have to pause just before I get to my car. This is the kind of weather that connects me to this physical plane. In this kind of weather I fell in love, found The Cure, lost a friend, left the country, fucked, made love, jerked off, snorted coke, recorded an album, beat some ass and drank a beer. My keys in my hand, I remember what it was like when I worked a regular job…

Six years through college working at a certain Unfulfilling Packaging Service and when I received the chance to jump gigs and start bartending I took it. One of my best friends, Sonny, had been holding down the gig as assistant weekday bartender at a local Southside hotel’s posh restaurant for almost three years. When impulses of change brought him looking for a new job the woman he worked with, Eye* as we will call her, started looking for his replacement she set her sights on me. I had gotten to know Eye quite well in the three years I visited my friend (hrmph, free drinks, ahem) and she saw me as a nice and easily moldable understudy. Looking back on it now all I can say is thank God! I sucked it in, embraced the fear of change and walked in to my supe at the Package Service and gave my two weeks. Then I took the next two nights off to train behind the bar. I had worked in a factory setting for six years at that point and hardly considered myself a people person, so I had to find out what I was in for.

I trained the next night, Tuesday, and went home happy. It’s not too bad. It always sucks to be the new guy on the block, not knowing where everything is and what not, but this was actually fun. Pour drinks, chat with regulars, etc. I shyly found myself thinking maybe I was more of a people person than I had previously given myself credit for.

Next night was Wednesday, a busy night on the south side of Chicago. Hump day as it is commonly referred to. All your raging alcoholics and socialites cringe half in anticipation, half resignation to having two days left until the weekend. The hotel has a live band, a two-piece called Lake Street who play Wednesday nights (Fridays and Saturdays as well) and cater to entertaining the best and brightest of the local middle-aged adventurers. As I walked in the door for the first time in uniform Sonny flags me down.

“Sink or swim buddy, tonight’s gonna be a rough one. Eye just called in sick for the first time in, like twenty years so it’s just you and me man. I’ll split my tips even with you but you're gonna have to try to keep up, okay?”

“Fuck.”

How I made it through the next couple of hours I don’t know. I did okay but there was still an acceptance issue between some of the regulars and me. Eye’s been here a long time. Sonny’s just gained acceptance at three years. Everyone is nice and interested in me, but that's where it stops; they don’t want me pouring their drinks or taking their money because I don’t know the routine. And it was busy as shit on top of it. I mean we were two or three deep at some points. Drinks literally flew from our hands, and there was no time for delicate social introductions, compensations or explanations.

Sink or swim.

By the end of that night, when Sonny counted out the tips there’s something I didn’t expect. He hands me my half and when I count it back I find that there’s almost as much in my hands now, after one ten hour shift, as there would be after one week at the Service.

Sonny quickly interrupted my astonishment.

“Eye’s going to be out tomorrow night as well. Look, I know you’re supposed to go back to your other job tomorrow, but I could use you and …”

“Dude you don’t even have to say another word. Let’s go get a drink at one of the four O’clock bars, eh? We need to celebrate my promotion in life.”

So this is the funny thing right? It’s like quitting smoking. It’s tough at first and then time lapses and all of a sudden you’ve got the hang of it. Not just that, you’re situated. You crash and stomp like a drunkard through a museum and you fuck up orders and accidentally say the wrong thing and feel like shit and then all of a sudden there’s someone else whose new and they’re looking to latch onto anyone they can for help with the little things and BOOM! You realize you can help them because now you have all the answers to all those same questions you had when you were the new guy, because you’re not the new guy anymore.

.......

Yep, that's how it happened.

........
*obviously all names have been changed to protect yada yada yada.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Money in the pocket...

Okay all You prospective bartenders, here's a serious part of the conversation, so listen up. When You get a gig in the service industry You ALWAYS HAVE MONEY IN THE POCKET. This is one of the most amazing and useful aspects of the job, and even if you have a day that seems solely populated by busloads of customers from hell, with the help of your regulars by the end of the night, or at the very least the next day, you will be counting the money and remembering why exactly it is you deal with douche bags who say things like, 'this Virgin Pina colada isn't strong enough' or 'you didn't make this Cosmo right, it tastes like booze'. Really. Seriously. Truly.

However, as with most aspects of life on this tempestuous planet of ours, what is the GOOD thing is also, in some why, the BAD thing. Oh yes my children, I can hear you now:

"How can having money in the pocket be a BAD thing?"

Let me explain.

I used to go to this liquor store on 65th and Cicero every Wednsday night after work. I always hung with friends after work on Wednsday, and when I hadn't planned ahead and needed to acquire beer at 2AM this was a pretty good ticket. It was a shitty little hole in the wall on the Southside of Chicago, the kind of place where there are always these bum-ass looking motherfuckers with filthy clothes and filthier beards hanging out looking at the porno magazines readily on display in a spinner rack on the floor.* Scum hole that it was this particular posion shop had two things working in its favor. 1) It sold until 4 AM and, 2) it had a pretty decent beer selection. GOOSE ISLAND, HOEGARDEN, BASS, etc. And actually, the third thing it had going was a friendly staff.

But wait, here's where the issue comes in.

So let's say you get your gig, your working late and you start frequenting a place like this. The more you come in the more the guy behind the counter starts to recognize you. You're not a vile retard like most of his customers so you maybe start a little bit of conversation here and there. If you're not careful you start thinking of him as an okay guy, dropping your guard and forgetting that he's working in a dead end job, in the middle of a shit neighborhood, and you're walking in every week with a couple hundred dollars in your pocket.** Maybe you're not a cynic who thinks the human race is, by a , a festering sewer, and pretty soon it seems perfectly natural that the guy is asking you about what you do, as, in my case at least, I was coming in in uniform (those cheesy tuxedo shirts and black slacks really do make you stick out like a sore thumb next to filth-Henry at the spinner rack). From here he might wait a couple weeks before he asks how you do over there, you know, money-wise, as if he's innocently exploring career options (yeah, sorry, that teardrop tattoo is pretty much gonna count you outta any of these gigs in this town at least). You see what's going on here?

YOU HAVE MONEY. YOU ARE A TARGET. When I realized this I quickly jotted the lesson down and put it under my pillow, then stopped going to the place.

Now, I know its paranoia, but I've always said a healthy dose of paranoia is a good thing. It will keep you alive and out of stupid situations. And these situations can really catch you unaware. Let's talk about another one.

If you are a single guy and you are a bartender, you will be looking to score. END OF STORY. To go a bit backwoods vernacular for a moment, 'There ain't no innocence in this gig, and if there is when you come in it will get wrung right the fuck out of you.' You're surrounded by decadence and it wears off. Your job, if you want to survive with an unscathed soul and face, is to play, but keep your fucking head on straight while you do so. That being said, here's another warning.

Bartending one night a beautiful blonde comes in and sits down by herself. Orders a drink and sits there. Now after a couple months of this you learn to temper the predator's eye with common sense - why is she alone? Girls don't often come into bars by themselves, especially ones that look like this, so THERE MUST BE A REASON WHY SHE IS ALONE. I go about my business serving people, watching all my regulars and some dopes I don't know go up and talk to her. They all buy her drinks, she accepts every one, and they all cycle off as it goes nowhere. Eventually she tells one of my reg's that she's interested in me. Now, the first thing I think is, 'why?'. I start talking to her and eventually find she's pretty cool, but suspicion lingers. Closing time comes around and she asks me if I want to go for drinks at a 4 AM place. I cautiously say I know of one, and after my closing duties we take off.

The whole time at the other bar she's getting drunker and drunker and so am I. However, I continually avoid ordering us shots even though she's mighty gung-ho about the idea. Need to keep one foot out of oblivion, see? After a while she starts talking about taking me back to her place and all I can think about is how she came into my bar, scoped out what kind of business was going on, how many regulars I was friendly with, how many drinks I bought her, how many more I bought her with money I earned that night with my tips. Be mighty convenient to scope out a bartender, make him think with his dick and bring him back to foreign turf where someone could be waiting to hit him over the head with a length of pipe and then the two of them could take the money in his pocket.

Again, paranoid? Maybe, but the situation warranted it, to avoid the possibility of trouble. Besides, if they're that into you, your bed is as good as theirs, eh?

.......

So the idea here is to recognize that like ol' Spidey said ' with great power comes great responsibility', only in this case its more like 'with great money comes great opportunity to get fucked'. When you start making that dough watch your ass because there are all kinds of freaks, weirdo's and junkies out there to who $200 is worth setting a trap for.

........

*I tell you, nothing like pouring drinks all night and wandering into a seedy liquor store at 2:15AM only to see bizarro santa claus reading Club International, the spittle hanging from his lower lip like one of those slimey hand truck stop toys and the clerk hurrying to put up a fraudulent 'OUT OF ORDER' sign on the door before old man claus can sneak off with Ms. Herpes November and rub a quick one out before returning to his full time job of walking up and down Cicero Avenue.

** Leave it in the car? In this neighborhood? Nope. Better off on your person where you can defend it.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Regulars

Rule number one: TREAT YOUR CUSTOMERS GOOD, TREAT YOUR REGULARS AS IF THEY WERE ROYALTY.

Seriously, these are the people that not only are going to make the biggest impact on your financial status, but also, well, they're the ones who are going to make your job enjoyable. In my years at the hotel I had regulars that came and went. Some died, some moved and some just stopped coming in. The latter would of course always make you wonder occasionally about their livelihood. To this day even from this side of the bridge of several years and 3000 miles I consider many of them good friends and I look forward to, even in unlikely cases, seeing them again.

Now, regulars can also be assholes (see previous post). Unlikely? Maybe. You'd think that the factor that adds up and makes one return again and again to an establishment would be the repore they develop with the other people there. In some cases this might be someone who gets along with some of your other regulars but just doesn't like you* or it may be that they are just the kind of asshead that, being powerless in their own lives they need a place where they can go and cause ill will and conflict (plenty o' them out there). Either way, my advice on this type of regular is idealistic in nature, but still, it goes like this: DON'T GIVE THEM THE BLOODY SATISFACTION. They are looking for, yearning for the conflict, the confrontation, the bullshit. Do you know how funny it is to watch these type of people not get what they're after? Oh, its hard to do, because there will be times that you are busy and under pressure and feel like shit and the last straw will be some jag-off** like the aforementioned Quarters showing up. But if you can go zen, and manage to deny the maggots there detritus, oh, its a joy to watch their own frustration build and erupt, consumming them and making them look like an asshole to that many more people around you as they escalate their attempts at cracking your cool.

*If this is the case one thing you should NEVER do is try and either tell your good regulars about your problems with the asshead or even worse, try to enlist their opinion and sway them against him. That side of the bar is that side of the bar for customers - it can only lead to trouble to get mixed up in that kind of thing.

**Just wanted to stop for a minute and share a reflection on this wonderfully strange curse word: Jag-off. Doesn't get nearly enough credit as a rough, best-when-barked in a gruff angry voice of disblief curse. Say it with me now. C'mon, out loud: Jag Off. Nice! Par it with 'fucking' in front of it or 'shit heel' behind it for an extra flavorful slur!!!

Sunday, March 23, 2008

A bartender’s bartender (interloping definitions and meanderings)

I have long been a bar person, but not just any kind of bar. Shortly after becoming of legal drinking age my good mate Brown introduced me to two bars that have coloured my perceptions of every joint I’ve entered since. The first was the Rocking Chair Lounge in beautiful downtown Orland Park, one of the more ‘affluent’ (read yuppies, a mall, and for a long time no blacks) suburbs on Chicago’s Southside. In such a surrounding, the Rocking Chair was a bastion of working class sensibility to my otherwise violently cynical visage.

The second, Karl’s Pub, is still standing today and remains my favorite drinking establishment in the world. Why? What make’s Karl’s so special? The people. And that’s that. As I told my younger sister when she turned twenty-one and then again my younger cousin on the same occasion, you can go to all manner of bars and they’re looking for a good time but by nature they are really only as enjoyable as the people there. You could go to the wickedest club in Los Angeles or Rome, Italy for that matter, and if it’s filled with unfriendly, mean or stupid people you WILL NOT have a good time nor a strong desire to return, unless of course you are either a sadist or a person studying human behavior for its own sake. If you are studying human behavior and you find a bar filled with these kind of people, you should probably apply for a job there, because as I’m sure I will reiterate many times here, there is no better place to learn the psychology of the human animal than from the unique vantage point offered serving people intoxicants.

Speaking of pubs and clubs, a large part of this issue of what makes a bar good is obviously personal taste. What I like, you might not like, and vice versa. So how do people find out what they like? How do you look at the phone book for your area, surf through the names of all the drinking establishments possible and pick something to try? Well, for many it’s by what type of bar they are. Let’s go over some of the different genres, if you will, eh?

Bar – This is an obvious general term for an establishment that serves liquor, beer and/or wine for consumption on its premises. The term probably originated as slang by outsiders from the days when public drinking establishments required membership and non-members were ‘barred’ from joining in. This was in contrast to our next division,

Pub – shortened slang for ‘public house’, the opposite of the membership required bar, anyone could drink in a pub. Internally ‘bars’ and ‘pubs’ all have their own layout, specialty and design, but the distinctions between the two exist only in the long ago day that their patronage was different. It is common knowledge that Britain tends toward the use of the word ‘pub’ while ‘bar’ is a slightly more American use for the same basic type of establishment.

Clubs – A club does not necessarily serve alcohol, but most do, unless they market themselves to minors, in which case non-alcoholic beverages often accompany bad dance music. Of course this implies that only minors listen to bad dance music and if you’ve been to only a couple of clubs in your life you can probably atest to this as not being the case. No, bad dance music is a non-discriminating tribulation of modern society and it is my belief that when in the hands of alcohol-swilling adults it poses an even greater threat in that the prefix ‘bad dance’ shifts from an adjective to a verb.

Clubs usually have themes and it is in this way that they target market their clientele and gain a regular following. For instance, just in case you have been living under a rock (as I often would like to) there are Goth clubs with their pseudo-vampire clientele, there are Strip clubs, where, depending on which gender they market to, members of the opposite sex dance naked for show. There are gay clubs and leather clubs, dance clubs and rock clubs and all other manner of themes you can probably imagine. I have even come across ‘fight clubs’ in my day – a bar that houses a large boxing arena and people decide who in the crowd they wish to beat, if the other party is game (which they almost always are – I mean, imagine the social pressure) both sign wavers absolving the club of any responsibilities and then they fight for the amusement of the other patrons.

Taverns – essentially just another word for a bar, although in some areas the distinction of ‘tavern’ is bestowed by tradition or legal license, the term is more closely related to the days when ‘taverns’ were the same or similar to ‘Inns’. Think medieval days when road weary travelers needed places to stop along their arduous journeys in order to replenish themselves with food, beverage and a place to lay their head for rest.

………………..

So there you have it. Distinguishing for yourself what the various monikers of potential hang-outs and watering holes may have in store for you will help you narrow down your search for the kind of place where you can get down to business and do what it is you are traveling there to do, relax, meet people, party and have a good time!

Once again I’ve segued away from myself though. How did we get to this mock encyclopedic listing anyway? Oh yes, my favorite watering hole, Karl’s. As I was saying before my digression, Karl’s is my favorite because of the people. The barkeep on Monday (not Tuesday) and Wednesday through Friday is Dee and since the very first time I walked in Karl’s and sat down she has been one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. And the same can be said for the clientele. I love a place where I can go catch a buzz and read or talk all manner of interesting topics with intelligent people. For me, from the perspective of my experiences, that’s Karl’s.

This is what you need to have in your corner if you’re a bartender or waitstaff. It’s like ‘homebase’ where you can recover after your own shift pouring drinks. Clubs tend to have industry nights, and that’s when they have special prices for ‘tenders and wait staff. But while this can come in handy from time to time, do you really want to go to a club to unwind after work? If you do, then that’s all well and good, but if you’re like me and prefer a little more mellow most nights after slingin’ poison and dealing with drunks, find a tavern with good people on both sides of the bar and relax. And for god’s sake, if you’re in the business I shouldn’t even have to tell you this, but treat your waitresses and bartenders right, okay? In my experience, other than it being the right thing to do, there is a kind of slippery Magick to bar life, and one aspect of that is a direct correlation between the way you tip and the way people tip you.

You’ve been warned.

Friday, March 21, 2008

What You don't do...

...when you walk into a bar, and I can't stress this enough and that's why I'll underline it with profanity, what you do NOT do when you walk into a fuckikng bar is piss off the bartender. Some would say, 'no shit, that's common sense,' but since when has common fucking sense had ANYTHING to do with the real world?

There was one customer, we used to call this guy Quarters. Wanna guess why? This guy would come in every weekend for the band, sometimes on Wednsdays as well (the mid-week band night) with his pig-ugly woman, what I can only assume via the similarities in facial abnormalities was her sister, and then the sister's boyfriend*. These were the most obnoxious people EVER (I'm probably going to say that every time I describe an obnoxious customer, get used to it. Maybe I should hold a contest when this is all written and done and you readers can email in and vote for who you think is the most obnoxious, then I could tally the results, fly back to Chicago and staple a certificate to that person's forehead. What'dya think?). I mean, they would sit at the bar and make out, tell you to 'shoo fly' if you happened to be anywhere near them while this occurred, exchange and inspect 'adult novelty books and items' at the bar, like they had to try and flaunt the fact that their decrepit asses were getting laid - UGHHH! It makes me sick just thinking about it. Quarters was known to have a generally disrespectful presentation to anyone in the service industry. He'd bark out commands instead of requests. He'd finish his drink and pound on the bar to get your attention. He'd holler "YO! Bartender!~ Can I get a Fucking drink down here or WHAT?" across the bar.** They'd order appetizer platters, mixed drinks, martinis, pina coladas, ALL AT IN THE SAME SITTING. Or the sister's boyfriend, he'd just drink tap white zinfindel most nights (yes, I said it, it's not a lie, we had bad white zin on a tap at this bar. You know where the flow originated? a BOX of wine, several hundred feet away in our walk-in cooler. It was hard enough to keep the beer lines running fresh over all that distance, what do you think already shitty wine must have tasted like? Here's a hint - a once watched it drive a grown man to tears).

Quarters would always order shots of Chartreuse, so he could light them on fire and impress his lady friend. I guess he thought this made him look like a bad ass. I don't know about you, maybe my palette just isn't 'cultured' for Chartreuse, but to me it tastes like it looks (the green one at least). Like someone took rotten mouthwash, mixed it with old, untreated pool water, and then filtered that merry combination ever so carefully through their German Shepard's asshole, letting the results collect in a pothole and then submerging the bottle to fill it. Cap that bitch and BOOM! Instant hatred in a bottle.

As they drank, ate, danced (?) and tongue-fucked they would get louder and louder. They'd par off and go out on the dance floor like middle-aged, over weight white people who came of age in the seventies and reached the pinnacle of personal exploration thinking Linda Ronstandt went well with Fondue and Cocaine would and make complete fools of themselves. I mean, here are the people that paid seventy dollars to see Miami Sound Machine at the height of their 'Conga' phase. These are the people that ruined American culture and drove millions of kids in the late seventies to Punk and millions more in the eighties to Satan-metal posturing. I'd imagine their children slipped away on school nights and sacrficed squirrels in the local graveyard, desecrating Baphomet's name just because one of the assholes in a band like Saxon mentioned it in a song.***

All this, and at the end of the night, when the Chartreuse was gone, the lipstick smeared and the hot wing bones left piled high on the bartop and in the ashtrays, do you know what Quarter's left as a tip?

Guess.

TWO FUCKING QUARTERS.

Habitually. Every time. For real. I mean it.

One time one of the other bartenders actually ran after him and said, 'Um, excuse me sir, you left your change on the bar'.

Now, many of you no doubt have had service gigs. This sounds like a nightmare, right? Well, I'd also be willing to bet that there are people out there, maybe people reading this, maybe people the people reading this know or even wait on that do not realize that this is inappropriate behavior. Inappropriate to the people handling the things that you are soon to be consuming, and frankly just downright inappropriate IN PUBLIC, IN GENERAL.

So there you have what not to do. Now I give you 'why'.

Quarters and his friends professed a love for Grey Goose vodka. They ordered it all the time. LOVED the taste of it with cranberry. Guess what? Quarters might have paid the over-inflated price for Grey Goose, but he NEVER drank it. Nope. I believe the brand we used in the well was Barton's. So in a blind taste test, you might say four out of four assholes choose Barton over Grey Goose.

Maybe I should be going to the Barton marketing with this? Oh yeah, the company's probably run out of someone's sister's house, so probably no advertising there.

Gin? Tanqueray? Nope. Barton.

Tequila (and here's where you'd think he'd know the difference, as good tequila, such as the Cazadores he'd order is a world away, no a goddamn UNIVERSE away from the Montezuma he'd get.

Furthermore, guess who never got a clean glass?

I could go on, but use your imagination.

These are the reasons you DO NOT walk into a bar the first time, let alone EVERY SUBSEQUENT TIME, and treat the wait staff there like shit. You WILL pay. They may not be able to laugh in your face, but they will laugh amongst themselves the following week when they here you talking about the terrible diarrhea you had after the last time you went out, and you just cannot figure out why.

....................

*can you still call a fifty-something year old coouple 'girlfriend and boyfriend? I know people who do but their mostly tacky, irritating people who would trade their souls to be able to re-do the younger years they squandered.

**That actually only happened once on Eye and mine's shift, as she had to put up with alot of his shit, but profanity can still get you kicked out of decent establishments you know. Believe me, I know.

***yes, I just dropped a Saxon reference. Deal with it.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Welcome, what's your poison???

So, I was a bartender for five years. Ahh, five of the best years of my life. Worked about ten hours a day, three days a week, made more than I made at UPS before that (having been there 6 years by the time I jumped ship, so hourly the big brown was giving me somewhere around $15 an hour, but at three, maybe four hours a night, well...) and more than I make now as a full-time supervisor at a corporate book giant. Imagine that. Yeah, so like I said, five of the best years of my life. So, while it was all happening I kept a log. Not from the beginning, but about half way through the second year I just started writing down random incidents because IT WAS SUCH A STRANGE FUCKING JOB. I mean, really, sex, drugs, maybe not rock and roll, but live lounge bands three times a week, so, you know...

But I digress. So as I wrote this stuff down, more and more I wanted to turn it into a book, or a comic or something. I still tell people these stories all the time and they still laugh their asses off. There's just something about the life of a bartender. For one it makes you into a barfly, and barflys always have stories to tell. But when your on the serving side, you get a special view that no one else in the joint gets - they all see cross sections - you see the whole story. You see everyone come in sober and leave stoned. Or you see everyone come in stoned and leave, well, more stoned. Or in a paddy wagon.

So this is going to be a running attempt at putting these stories down. Hopefully it'll get me a book deal or something. Then maybe Oprah will read it, recognize it for the triumph of human spirit it is (really!) and pimp it in her book club, then I'll get rich and open my own bar. I always said, if I ever had my own bar, two rules: 1) Tuesday, Wednsday and Thursday I'd be behind the bar with my old partner in crime 'Eye'. 2) Every single employee there would get the same start-up speech, "If anyone disrespects you, other customers, gives you shit or just generally acts like an asshole, THROW THEM THE FUCK OUT. Or better yet, call me and I'll THROW THEM THE FUCK OUT.*

There, introductions forthcoming, lets move on to the first entry.

Thanks for reading.

*Yes, I know its somewhat hard to believe, but some people do act like assholes in bars. Hijinks are one thing, but mean-spirited dirtbags who like to pick on those of us in the service industry? Cannon fodder as far as I'm concerned. You'll get a much better idea of who does and doesn't fall into this category as we continue on.