All It's Cracked Up To Be

Things you NEVER talk about in the bar

2009-12-23T09:26:00.002Z

Sex, Politics and Religion
1) The first is easy.
You don't talk to people about sex because of one of the three following reasons:
a. you're getting too much and you'll make those around you feel uncomfortable
b. you're getting too little and you'll make those around you feel uncomfortable, or
c. you're getting it from ways unthought of by others and you'll make those around you feel uncomfortable
2) Politics
I was raised to believe one's political opinions were personal. I remember my dad coming home from the polling place and eagerly asking him who he voted for. "None of your damn business!" was always his reply. I choose to quote him frequently when put on the spot; but only because I have a long, sordid history of voting for third party candidates most of you have never heard of. I was even hesitant to write my nominee when we did the mock presidential vote in second grade. For the record, I'm pretty sure I thought Gerald Ford was actually Chevy Chase at the time. Why I was more familiar with Saturday Night Live more than the CBS Evening News, I can't say. I suppose I also have a long history of staying up past my bedtime. Bite me, I was seven. Why did anyone ask me who I wanted to be president anyway? I was more concerned with who got to be first for hopscotch at recess.
But these days people literally wear their hearts on their sleeves. There are many clubs and they all have jackets. One's political persuasion defines them as a person. Helps them get one job or canned from another. The thing that angers me most is that most people don't realize they have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT THE GOVERNMENT IS REALLY DOING! Our federal government is a farce, probably all state governments are as well. There is no such thing as a "news" organization. I don't care where you get your information from, more than likely, it isn't news; it's conjecture and opinion. It's being sold to you us news, as fact; and most of us are buying it.
When I was in college ... let's just call it-not quite 20 years ago but more than 15-a friend had come across a little tidbit in his research for business or something. He discovered that federal tax dollars had been given to some institution to "study the effects of tequila on sunfish." First of all, I'm not kidding. Second of all, does that burn you? It burned me; still does! I can't tell you the dollar amount. If it was more than one, I think it was money wasted. If tax dollars are to be spent studying the effects of tequila on anything, it should be ME and a few of my closest friends. I can do that for about thirty bucks. Hell, I can probably type up a report from memory and maybe just take a little tax credit or something.
THIS IS WHAT THE GOVERNMENT DOES WITH YOUR MONEY!
At about the same time I was doing some research on food additives for a chemistry paper and was sifting through mountains of papers put out by the Food and Drug Administration. (We didn't have the internet when I was in college). Wanna take a guess as to how many rat droppings are/were acceptable in one 16 ounce can of beans? It's 12. I don't know about you, but when I go to the store to buy a can of beans I would put the maximum number of rat droppings that I would personally find acceptable to be contained in that can at, well, ZERO. Any more than that is no good. But our government, that we know and trust, thinks that 13 is bad. Twelve is OK.
THIS IS AN EXAMPLE OF GOVERNMENT STANDARDS!
Now what you have to realize first is that this is nothing new. If you do any in-depth study of the history of our government, you'll find this nonsense has been going on since about the 1780s, even before. We adopted our system of government from the nation we revolted against. It wasn't so much that the colonial elite gentry were pissed that the people were being taxed as much as it was the fact that the revenue was being shipped across the Atlantic to King George and he was making all the rules. They just wanted the money to stay here so THEY could divvy it up and make the rules! Any that's the way it's always been. Second, this is not a Republican/Democrat thing. This is a government thing. They are two sides of the same coin. I have a great deal of fear as to how these behemoth party machines are dividing us; our families, our friendships and our lives. And I don't buy this "lesser of two evils" hogwash. I'm tired of hearing people saying I have to pick a side. They both suck. If I can walk in to a Baskin-Robbins and have over 31 flavors of something as insignificant as ice cream to choose from, I should demand more than one of two options when I elect a person to represent me in Harrisburg or Washington.
(Side note: I personally don't think we even need elected representation anymore. For more information on that, see Part Three of my series, "Three Things the Internet Can Make Obsolete, But Never Will." Unfortunately, I haven't gotten around to Part Two yet and Part One was written a little over two years ago, so, well ... it might be a while).
In closing, if you're gonna be a bleeding-heart liberal, make sure the people you are voting for really, honestly are good people and actually have everyone's best interests at heart. But I assure you, they don't. And if you're gonna be a ditto-head conservative, make sure the people you are voting for really, honestly are good people and actually have everyone's best interests at heart. But I assure you, they don't. That's about all I have to say about politics for now.
3) Religion
My God's better than your god! Nya nya nya nya nya nya!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!
If that offends you, I'm sorry. Didn't mean it. Just go ahead and NOT have a Merry Christmas, that'll be sure to annoy Christians. I hope the celebration of Hannukah was fulfilling or your Kwanzaa is a time of reflection and joy. And for all you pagans out there with your Saturnalia and Solstice and festivals of Mithra and whatnot, you all have fun too, but no more sacrificing bulls, unless you roast me a delicious tender loin with lots of butter!
And that's all I have to say about religion!

Canada Has a Better Health Care System Because If You're Canadian You Get Cheaper Care in America than Americans Do

2009-09-30T04:18:00.004Z

So I'm watching Fox News this morning and the number two top story after the number one which was "Did You Notice We're Broadcasting in Widescreen Format Now?" (I hadn't, by the way, until they mentioned it - about every seven minutes during the forty of my viewing time - mind you) was yet another Canadian who had to come to America for health care. Fox in the past few months has displayed an endless parade of Canadians and Europeans in front of their viewing audience to prove that our system of health care is superior to anyone else's.
So this guy in Ontario waits for an MRI, finally goes to the US to get one and the MRI shows he has a brain tumor. Now he has to wait MONTHS to see a surgeon back in Canada. (We get it; it takes a long time to procure medical treatment in Canada. Keep beatin' that horse)! So he decides to go to Buffalo to get his tumor removed. Viola! He's cured thanks to the Greatest Health Care System in The World! End of story. But not quite.
The whole time I'm wondering how much brain surgery costs and where did he get the money to pay for it? When the news outlet finally devoted an additional 90 seconds to provide the in-depth story (you know, aside from the 10 second teaser they had the bubblehead reading off the tele-prompter every so often for the previous 30 minutes) they finally get down to costs. It turns out that the Canadian man got his brain surgery at a Buffalo NY hospital through a "broker" (HUH?) and it only cost him $28,000. According to the Fox News Johnny-on-the-spot reporter, "This would cost upwards of $100,000 if you or I were getting it through our health insurance plan."

[I have to pause here because this infuriates me even now. It's a wonder I even still have a television. See, at home we have these coasters made out of stone with little fly-fishing lures painted on them. They're essentially four-inch square, 1/4 inch thick rocks. And the sofa is only about eight feet away from the 42" LCD screen. Anyway, back to the topic-]

WWHHHAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!?
THAT'S the story folks. I was waiting for the pleasant-looking anchor of the "Equitable and Impartial" redundancy network to delve into the world of these surgery brokers and explain to me why a foreign national can come into my country and get a 72% discount on a medical procedure. It never happened. It was more important for them to ask their audience if anyone had noticed anything different about their look. Remember the widescreen format? Yeah, I had forgotten as well. Because I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I live in a country with the Greatest Health Care in the World but the only way I can have affordable access to it is if I renounce my citizenship, move to Canada and then come back down here to obtain it through a broker. Best of all, the guy is suing the Canadian Government for his $28,000 back.

I had to go to work immediately after viewing this on TV. I'm not one to clog up bandwidth with mindless OMG! "Twits" and "Facebooking" (I just do it here) so I decided to pick it up when I came home. However, I couldn't find the story on Fox News' website! This means one of two things 1) my search skills are weak, and they are admittedly so, but I'm going with the other option, 2) Fox BURIED the story! And well they should have. They wouldn't want all their tea-party-totalling senior minions to find out that PEOPLE FROM CANADA GET CHEAPER AMERICAN HIP REPLACEMENT SURGERIES THAN THEY DO!!! Jeez, if word about that got out people might actually think that there's something inherently WRONG with the accessibility and distribution of health care in this country.

Furthermore, if media outlets want to compare health care systems and round up people to prove their misguided opinions, lets examine each case carefully to get a proper perspective. I mean, let's compare apples to apples right? For instance, several months ago there was a Canadian woman on the news touting her personal horror story about Canadian socialized medicine. I forget the details and I honestly wasn't paying that much attention, but I did decide to fire up the computer and do a little digging at the time. It turned out that the woman was a waitress in a little diner outside of Ottawa. Interesting. Because, here in America, the likelihood of a waitress in a small mom and pop diner even having health insurance in the first place is, well, I don't feel like typing all the zeros after the decimal point in that statistical percentage. Without insurance, she probably would have never been able to afford (given the crappy tips most people leave waitresses in diners) to see a doctor in the first place. Whatever was wrong with her very likely would have gone undiagnosed to the point of it being untreatable. It's unfortunate she had to wait so long to see a doctor for free. But the reality is that her American counterpart may never have the ability to pay for it.

The guy with the brain tumor I spoke of above is named Lindsay McCreith. He is said to have worked in the auto body business. A cursory internet search resulted in no labor unions specifically representing auto body workers; not that there aren't any, but let's just say that if Lindsay McCreith lived in the US he would not belong to a union and wouldn't have the fat benefits that they offer. Now, since most auto-body shops are small businesses, there's a good chance that his employer would be unable to offer health insurance. Even if it was available, it probably wouldn't be the small co-pay, free ride that those like the executives at Ford or AIG are blessed with. It would probably be the high-deductible, low- yearly-maximum benefit sham of a policy I would call a "discount plan."

Mr. McCreith would very likely have had to pay much of the $100,000 bill (remember, he's a US citizen now, he has to pay full price). Or if he was covered and his crappy insurance company was unable to find some kind of loophole to deny coverage, they could just drop him for the simple fact that they had to pay the bill. And heaven forbid something had happened with his coverage in between diagnosis and treatment ... that would be a pre-existing condition! No one would underwrite that man's head for at least a year. Might as well live in Canada.

I don't want to rail on the McCreith guy. God bless him. I'm glad, for his sake, that an American doctor and hospital were willing to offer him such a steep discount on his life-saving surgery. I'm glad he has the option to file a lawsuit against his government to recover the $28,000 he was fortunate enough to have had due to his wife's inheritance. You'll never see even a DYING American be able to sue the US government because they couldn't afford their life-saving surgery.

He and all Canadians are lucky to have a broker like Timely Medical Alternatives (www.timelymedical.ca) which is able to negotiate such a surprisingly affordable (I mean, compared to what you or I or our Insurance company would have to pay) rate for Canadians to access the American Health Care system. Wow, I wish there was something like that in AMERICA!

Retirement Blows

2009-07-22T19:44:00.006Z

Believe it! I've retired from the ranks of mixing monkeys that inhabit the "other side of the bar." I haven't poured a beer, opened a wine bottle or mixed a mojito (thank merciful heavens) for anyone other than myself or personal company for almost three months now. I awake before noon, my feet don't hurt and I haven't recently found myself drinking Jaegermeister and orange soda at some chick's apartment at 4 in the morning. Though I have to admit, I do somewhat miss the latter.
I decided that bartending - the way I like to do it anyway, fast and furious with precise timing and driven purpose - is a young person's game and that I, not so much anymore in my twenties, am no longer fit to play.

The problem is I forgot one small aspect of retirement. Saving for it. Crap! It costs money to live and when you're not working, and have no retirement income, living becomes quite difficult. You can't answer the telephone and you resort to parallel parking your car between the shed and the camper to avoid the repo man- or so I'm told. The truth is, even if I had properly planned for retirement, I most likely would have invested my money in something stupid like Bernie Madoff, GM stock or pogs.

So now I'm reminded of the words of Ignatius J. Reilly, " . . . a vicious fate it was to be: now he was faced with the perversion of having to GO TO WORK." I find myself poised to enter the real world, obtain a career, play office politics (where I will remain fiercely Independent) and kiss some booty.

Since I haven't typed up a real resume in at least 10 years, I ended up yanking open the bottom drawer of my old metal filing cabinet in the basement, my fingers dancing over such random folder tabs as "Undergrad Thesis," "Thoughts & Quotes," and "Feminist Poetry Criticism" until I came upon "Resumes & Cover Letters." Apparently I saved a copy of every cover letter I sent out accompanying resumes, and some I didn't. That's where I found this gem:

That's the real me! That's the self I know and love. So while I earnestly flood the inboxes of HR people, managers and even suspicious craigslist posters from Philly to Lancaster with carefully crafted letters of my achievements and skills, objectives and work history; I won't forget for one minute that the goal is to be doing something I love. Something that matters. Something that won't make me crack the monitor in my cube with my skull. But for now, there are bills to pay.
Off I go!

Economy? What about econ-o-ME?!

2009-02-19T07:17:00.004Z

"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."
- Dorothy Parker

She's my new hero. And not just because she possessed fantastic quick wit, was a sloppy drunk and knew she was better than most of the swine on the planet, but also ... ummmm ... because ... well ... ahhh ... I'll let you know when I catch up with her!

I'm unemployed. And no, I'm not pregnant again. It wasn't on purpose this time; not having a job I mean. Really, I'm NOT pregnant again. I've been hoping for some kind of circumstance to light a fire under my ass so as to seek more gainful, realistic employment, but really?! Like this? Now I have to abandon my search for a real job and get another bartending job. And the whole cycle will begin anew.

Maybe my job didn't matter. Most of our jobs don't really matter if you think about it. But we've always had them and that's what has kept our economy chugging along. "Jobs. Jobs. Jobs. Consume. Consume. Consume!" We all need to have such great jobs because we have to buy stuff that we don't really need in order to keep other people employed so they can have money to buy things that they don't really need in order to keep other people employed, and it goes on, ad infinitum.

I'm sick to death of hearing about how the government has to "create jobs." How do you do that, by the way? If I could "create jobs" I would snap my fingers and be working tomorrow morning! Hungover. But I'd be there. You think the federal government can do it any easier? Once you start whining to the government that they need to create jobs you get nothing but a vast wasteland of red tape and some mortifyingly retarded piece of legislation like ... like .. that .. oh shit! It passed, didn't it? And got signed into law!

Oh! Then, well, I'll be fine now won't I? Never mind; everything will be great! After I sign up for unemployment tomorrow I'll march into Arlen Specter's office (with some Starbuck's, cause I can brown-nose like that!) and tell him that I am ready for that job he "created" for me! Don't worry, I'll have my handy red-tape cutting scissors with me. Yeah, the same ones the politicians use to cut all the ribbons. By the way, those scissors used to be made in a factory in Indiana, but now thanks to Tom Delay, they are made by nine-year old girls in China who dip the handles in lead paint and 10% of the profits go to Kim "I'm so ronery" Jung-Il so he can try to point ICBM's at us.

Isn't the economy wonderful?

The Bash 2008, abridged

2008-10-08T04:52:00.006Z

Abridged only because this won't be a full account of the night, er, weekend.
All I can say is I saw a bunch of people from all over.
There was drinking and darts.
Shots and shuffleboard.
I was very busy and managed to make some coin for a change.
But most importantly, I have to post these pictures, as promised, for Otis.

#1- Team Al celebrating the Car Bomb Relay Race

#2 - Al & Otis before a one-on-one Car Bomb Grudge Match

#3 - Otis waiting for Al to finish, guess we all know who won that one!

Minutes later, I observed a visibly shaken "chick with the band" walk upstairs where Crystal Roxx was setting up. She had been sent downstairs to ferry a message to Al. Anthony, the Drummer asked her "What did Al say?" She just shook her head and stammered,
"I...I didn't get a chance to ask him. They-they're doing shots. Car Bombs. Lots of Car Bombs. Like one after another. I...I don't understand."

Ef Criss Angel

2008-09-20T01:44:00.002Z

I made money in Vegas last Sunday while I WAS IN PENNSYLVANIA! Beat that, bitches! (Not sure if the small fortune was made at the Luxor, though). One number. 36 to 1 odds. Unfortunately my luck ran out after that. I received a frantic call asking for more numbers but none of them quite panned out. I suck at gambling. I once took $400 down to Atlantic City and blew it all in 15 minutes. And that was shortly after I and my friends pulled up to the valet at the Taj Mahal in a catalytic converter-challenged Cadillac that I'm pretty sure was older than myself, spewing exhaust all over the Jaguar behind us. CMT should do a "My Big Fat Redneck Gambling Excursion" show. I'm just not into financial risk. Physical danger, that's my thing. More later, I have to go to work.

Didja ever wonder why . . . ?

2008-08-26T08:49:00.003Z

Am I really starting to sound like Andy Rooney?
Oh, that's just awful.
Am I starting to look like him?
I hope not.
And I'm not trying to buck for his job or anything, but, well, perhaps I can "fill the screen" in a way that can captivate the 45-75 year old white male audience in a way that 60 Minutes has never seen before, but I digress.
Seriously, in looking at online social networks in recent weeks, it seems to me that Myspace is trying to be a lot more "Facebook" these days and that Facebook is trying to be a lot more "Myspace" at the same time. I really don't get either of them but I have accounts on both.
Isn't it kinda weird though that each is trying to be more like the other? Myspace started as a social network for musicians but opened up to anyone. Because apparently there are millions of people who listen to music yet are not aspiring performers. I'm only one, but I've heard there are many more. Facebook started up as a college networking tool and then they, too, started opening up membership to everyone. From what I understand, many Facebook members were really upset about the fact that the network would become open to non-college students. Apparently, they hadn't been alerted to the fact that they would one day GRADUATE from college and if, by definition, one couldn't be a member without a college e-mail, that would leave them in the dust. Huh, huh, college. So here we are.
I don't really have a point to pontificate upon, just wondering if there was anyone else out there was picking up on the irony of all this. Because I can't make head nor tails out of either my myspace or my facebook account. Is there a "grownup social network" that isn't as boring as my 83-year-old great aunt? I've heard of Trig and other artsy, writer-type forums but haven't found anything that suits me. Discuss . . .

Wow, I really should delete this!

2008-08-08T11:14:00.005Z

Imagine yourself at 22 years of age. You have been with the most fantastic person for a few years. Others would say it was your “soul mate” only you wouldn’t say that because you don’t believe in any of that soul mate crap for a second. But it’s an absolutely perfect relationship, except for the fact that you are in school far away from where this person, whom we’ll call ‘One,’ lives and works. The distance hasn’t been a problem though. You’re somehow together a few times a month. You’re not given to temptation and it is widely known on campus that no matter how hard someone else tries to get with you, you’re just not having it. You’re taken.

At the beginning of one spring semester, you’re at the first day of ski class, because honestly who the hell would NOT take the opportunity to go skiing once a week and get college credit for it? You’re on the lift with this person, whom we’ll call ‘Two,’ and you get to talking. It turns out you are from relatively the same area. (Say your college is in the northwest corner of a state but you are actually from the southeast corner of that state, and so is Two). After sharing a smoke on the lift you decide that you’ll both stop at the bar on the road from the Ski Area to the highway to drink beer and Screaming Nazis. You explain that you’re in a fairly serious, steady relationship and Two says, “Oh sure, sure. I’m just looking for someone to party with."

And so begins a whirlwind of going to bars and partying till the wee hours of the morning. You’re spending a lot of time together obviously and find yourself crashing at Two’s house a lot. You’re sleeping in the same twin bed in a tiny closet of a room built into the attic of a ranch style house. You always sleep on the inside, with your face to the wall, your head nestled in the corner where the wall meets the slant as the roof slopes upward. And you always sleep with your clothes on. Nothing sexual ever happens. You’re just friends; drinking buddies. Months go by like this. Until one morning in early April, you wake up and everything is different.

You open your eyes and turn around to find Two’s face only inches from yours, wide eyes staring into your own, beaming a smile. You know at once. You know before you realize you’re naked under the sheets, before your mind starts offering flashes of the previous six hours, before Two says to you with a triumphant grin, “I thought you said it would never happen.” You just fucking know. And you start to feel physically ill as a colossal wave of guilt washes over you. “I did a very bad thing last night,” you say. Two laughs and says it was actually really good. You laugh too because it’s the only thing you can do to keep from crying. What do you do now? What the fuck do you do now? Two assures you it’s not a big deal. It was just a casual drunken thing. So you simply tell yourself that it won’t ever happen again. But it does. It happens over and over and over again.

A month later, the semester’s almost finished. You’ll be going to live with One for the summer. You can just brush the whole affair off like a ball of lint from your favorite sweater. Only it doesn’t really turn out that way. One travels a lot for work. You’re tending bar only a few nights a week and being alone the rest of the time. You find yourself driving One’s car down to Two’s shore house. You’re partying like rock stars. Up all night at the bars then continuing at someone’s house till day breaks. Sleep all day on the beach.

By the end of the summer you realize you can’t go on like this and you vow to break it off with Two as soon as you get back to school. You tell Two right way. You say it’s over. He seems to accept it but it doesn’t even last a week. The claws are sunk into you just deeply enough that it would actually hurt to be let go of, it would tear a little and leave awful marks. There’s a spell over you, some kind of magic. You’re out at the tavern. Two is there. An hour later, you’re in the attic bedroom again. You’re in so deep you don’t know how to get out. You’re drowning in a toxic concoction of elation and shame.

In October you’re at the main campus of your college for a meeting, which is near where One lives. Naturally, he drives down to your hotel. It’s your birthday. You’re given a gift. It’s a small jewelry box and an irrational part of yourself is praying that it’s an engagement ring because that would make it so much easier to tell Two you can’t be with him anymore. But it’s not. It’s just earrings. One is rubbing your shoulders and kissing your neck and it just doesn’t feel right. It feels so foreign it’s almost painful. You tell him you have to talk and then come right out with it. You say, “What if I told you I’ve been fucking someone else for the past six months?”

One is upset, naturally. But practical as well, so understanding that it makes you kind of sick. “I’m sure we can work it out ... blah, blah, blah ... I can forgive you ... blah, blah ... I love you ... blah.” You realize right then and there that the scales of your heart might actually be tipping in the opposite direction of where you want them to be and you then say, “What if I told I’m not going to stop?” That turns out to be a different story. You’re told to make a choice and you don’t want to. But you have to. You really, really have to.

As things turn out, it’s decided that you do indeed love One. You aren’t at all in love with Two. Two is just for getting wasted and sex. You will tell Two that it is over as soon as you get back to school. You’re driving with some professors back to your campus and the whole time you’re rehearsing what you are going to say. You have it down. The speech is perfect. You will probably cry. But you have to do it. There’s no way around it. You get dropped off at Two’s house and walk in the door. Looking around, you realize that the roommates are not home. Perfect. You take a deep breath as you prepare to recite the words that have been swimming in your head for hours, months even. As you exhale, you look into deep brown eyes and then proceed to ... suck the lips right off of Two’s face. You are weak. And a coward. And selfish. Immoral. Untrustworthy. Scum. Absolute shit.

It’s finals week and Wednesday and you have plans to go study for German with some classmates then go to Jimmy Z’s for dime drafts. You stop at Two’s house and find him sleeping in his room. He pulls you onto the bed and asks you not to go. You say that you have to study. He means not go to the bar after. He wants to stay home tonight and for you to stay with him. He drops the L bomb for the first time and you almost stop breathing. You say nothing. He’s waiting for you to speak; to echo his sentiment. But you remain silent. He tells you again that he loves you and doesn’t want you going out to the bar with a bunch of guys. He wants you to be his girlfriend. You remind him that technically you are someone else’s girlfriend. You say he has no right telling you not to go to the bar. And he’s way out of line for being in love with you. That’s just uncalled for. It was agreed from the beginning that it was just going to be a simple thing and now he’s gone and fucked it all up by getting sentimental.

You leave him in his bed, get a case of beer, go to your friend’s house where four of you will drink the case in less than an hour, decide you don’t want to study anymore and then head to the bar. You’re wondering all night what is going on with Two. In 1992, there are few cell phones, the Internet is still little more than a network of EBBs, mostly about Ren & Stimpy from what you have gathered, and text messaging is still the wet dream of some total fucking nerd; (I mean - future millionaire). At last call, you are completely wasted. So you go to Two’s house, take off your clothes, slide into bed on top of him and tell him that you love him too. But you don’t.

Christmas break comes and goes. It’s your last semester of college. Over the previous year, opportunities have been presented and considered. You are supposed to go live in Holland with One for the summer and work tending bar at one of those makeshift cabanas on the beach in Zanvoort. You can also be an RA for smart high school kids at a special camp in L.A. for six weeks; something that may lead to higher endeavors. You really should have applied to grad school but you can’t figure out what for, so you don’t. You’re caught in this emotional quagmire; being pulled in two different directions. When you finally make the decision you can’t believe it. And you can’t believe how or why.

Two had gotten a DUI and had to go to ARD classes or something where they make you bring a friend to prove you aren’t a sociopath, so naturally, you’re the one to go with him. After the last class one night, Two drops you off at your apartment because you actually have some work to get done, you will go to his house later. There are about 10 messages from One and some from your girlfriends telling you that One is in town, he’s calling everyone and driving around looking for you. You’re frantic. You worry about One and Two running into one another. What would happen? What would they say to each other? Would they fight? Your apartment bell rings. It’s One. You buzz him in but stand in the doorway as you watch him walk down the hall. He has a bag with him. He’s smiling. He’s absolutely gorgeous. He tells you that he is moving in. He says that if you need to have someone who is always near then here he is. He’ll sell his house. He’ll find a job near you. He has more things in the back of his truck. The cats are in a carrier in the cab.

One is making the ultimate sacrifice to win your heart completely back. He is fighting harder than anything he’s ever fought for in his life. Harder than you will ever fight for anything in your own life. He is willing to give up everything he has in the world, for you. But you don’t realize it. You are thinking about how hellish it would be to have to see Two on campus for the next four months. Two would definitely make your life miserable. He’s that kind of person. You also don’t want to have to work to earn trust back from One. Not that you would even have to. He’s just told you that it’s not like he never cheated on you, he just never started to have any kind of emotional attachment to any of the girls he’s slept with. Upon hearing this you are seriously pissed even though you have no right to be. You are tired and you want the easy way out.

You tell One he shouldn’t have come. You tell him to get back in his truck and drive the 210 or so miles back home. It’s not going to work. One really can’t believe it, but he’s taking it surprisingly well. He tells you it’s your last chance, that if he walks out the door, he won’t be back, it will be over. You feel relieved because in your mind, he’s the one making the decision. Your twisted logic writes the scene so that he’s the one leaving you. You tell him again to go. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, gives you a long and purposeful kiss, tells you that he loves you, will always love you, and finally goes. You will remember this moment for the rest of your life because it will be the last time you see his face, the last time you feel his hands on your body, the last time you taste him on your lips.

You are completely numb. You watch him pull out of the parking lot and drive away. Immediately, you regret what you’ve done. You race outside and try to chase after the truck but watch it turn the corner out of the complex, out of your life; while a dense and heavy snow covers you completely with your cold, hard fate. You call Two and tell him what happened. He’s ecstatic. Victorious. He’s going to make you so happy. You’ve made the right decision. You tell Two that you won’t be coming over tonight. You want to be alone. You cry all night; long and purposeful like the last kiss from the greatest love of your life.

A few months later you’re almost finished with school. Getting your degree soon. You won’t be taking the job in L.A., you won’t be going to grad school and you certainly won’t be living on the beach in Holland with One. He still calls from time to time, to see how you are. To see if you’ve worked this other person out of your system and are ready to come back to him, but he’s joking. Or is he?

You move back towards home and find an apartment with Two. You get a job. You are still partying a little. But Two is changing. You’re both changing. Growing up some. Christmas comes. You’re offered a big diamond ring. You accept it. You purchase a bunch of bridal magazines and set up a file box with caterers, florists, bands and DJ’s. You collect information for a month or two and then the box just sits in a corner collecting dust. You and Two buy a house, he changes jobs. He’s ambitious. Wants to be a workaholic and retire early. The partying and fun slow down. He wants to put fun aside and just work, work, work so he can enjoy his wealth by the time he’s 45 or so. You still want to have fun now. You don’t get along so much with Two when you are sober all the time. But you want this to work. You NEED this to work because of what you gave up to be with him.

Months go by. Two spends a lot of time at work. Spends a lot of time talking about work when he’s at home. You are sitting in the love seat reading a book when Two comes home from work one day in early October. He doesn’t like that you read so much. Thinks you should be making crafts or vacuuming like his mother does. He sits on the sofa in front of the bay window and the late day sun is streaming in behind him. You tell him you might want to find a part-time bar tending job somewhere to make extra money. He tells you that no wife of his will ever work in a bar. You mention that you really should set a wedding date and he mumbles something you can’t understand. You ask him if he even still wants to get married. You say it like you are giving him an ultimatum. He looks at you like a little kid who just peed his pants and tells you that as a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to get married to you anymore. Your bluff has been called. He’s sorry. He knows you completely rearranged your life for him, but it just isn’t going to work.

When your world comes crashing down it’s more like a volcanic eruption. There’s the initial explosion, but then the lava comes oozing out from the top, trailing slowly downward as you realize that everything you’ve done for the previous two years was for nothing and it’s all just melting away. A waste. You’ve sacrificed a promising future; burned countless bridges.

You will get over it in time. Will actually quickly realize that it would have been a very big mistake to marry Two; he wasn’t right for you. You would be miserable married to him. But you aren’t thinking of that now. Now you are completely shattered. The reality is still sinking in when the phone rings.

You go to the bedroom to answer and are completely shocked to hear One on the other end of the line. He sweet-talked your mother into giving him your current phone number; your mother knows you should have never left him in the first place. Your heart pounds. He’s calling to give you one last chance. And you will say yes, you will go back to him. You want nothing more than to have his arms around you again and you want him to never let go. But then he starts talking.

It’s his birthday. And his present to himself is that he needs to have ‘closure’ or some shit like that, so he’s calling to tell you that he has come to terms with what you did to him. He has finally accepted it and he forgives you. He thought he could never love again, but he has met someone and they will probably be married. He wanted to marry her the minute he met her. He feels really good and is moving forward with his life. And by the way, how are you?

You want to tell him that your engagement just ended about three minutes ago and you want him back. You don’t want him to love this other person, you want him to love you. But you are choking. You are choking and suffocating on your pride, your selfishness, your stupidity, your regret and your rage. You quietly tell One that you are happy for him and that you have to go.

How fitting that One chose the exact moment of your breakup with Two to call and sever his ties to you forever. That was your divine justice. Your karma. Your fate. You just sit there on the edge of the bed for hours staring at the phone wondering what you are going to do now. Where will you go? Who will you be?

Is TV a Side Effect of Stupidity or is Stupidity a Side Effect of TV?

2008-06-27T10:21:00.004Z

A while back a friend of mine told me about how he was watching some awful show on MTV about I don’t remember what kind of banal crap and how the whole time he was conscious of how he was totally wasting his time but just couldn’t change the channel or turn the damn television off. It’s like staring at a horrific twelve car pileup on the Interstate, watching dead, burnt bodies smolder to ash among the contorted metal that used to be an automobile. You know how dreadfully wrong it is but you can’t stop looking at it.
I had a similar experience recently when my remote came upon a show on the Country Music Channel called “My Big Redneck Wedding.” Now, it’s bad enough that I actually chose to click on it after reading the title, because after all, the only thing worth watching on CMT is the Coyote Ugly series - those gals may look real purty and sing and dance but none of them can make a drink for shit and I like to laugh at them as I watch them try - but then I spent ninety minutes of my life watching 3 episodes in a row! Shameful.
The producers of this show have the title all wrong. It should be called, “Couples You Will See on Springer in Less Than a Year.” The one episode was about a couple who were getting married at a demolition derby. On top of the hood of a car. That they were in. During the actual demolition derby. The bride got all bent because she didn’t want to rip her dress crawling out of the broken windshield. Like nobody saw that coming.
When I started railing on this particular rant, the focus of my anger was going to be television. But in light of recent events, which I can’t divulge upon, on advice from my attorney, I’ve chosen to be pissed off at stupidity.
Ignorance pisses me off. In any way, shape or form. Honestly, I don’t care what color you are, which particular deity you waste your time praying to to hit the lottery, or if you like to put your penis into farm animals. If you’re fucking stupid, I hate you. (Although, if you engage in the latter activity, chances are, you’re stupid. And I hate you).
I’ve said for years that I wish there was a place on Earth where we could put all the stupid people. Much like the British Empire used Australia for a penal colony. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bashing Australia-I’m not saying you’re stupid. I think you all got the better part of that bargain. Would you rather be surfing in the sun or living in dreary ole England? I’d be thankful my ancestor stole a loaf of bread to feed his family and then got sentenced to paradise. Paradise with lots of spiders that could kill you, but paradise nonetheless. I'm just drawing a correlation.
Anyway, I wish there was somewhere to put all the stupid people. Maybe we could just jettison them all off into space or something. Set the I.Q. at 130. Well, some of my dearest friends just aren’t that bright, but I love them anyway so maybe I would lower that to 125. Ish. We'll make them go to Delaware for remediation.
Tying all of this together is a wonderful little movie I saw a few years ago called Idiocracy. I don’t even know if it made it to the theatres. I saw it on DVD. Luke Wilson is in it. Stupid people think it’s a dumb movie and smart people think it’s brilliant. It’s major themes are stupid people, the dumbing down of both stupid people and borderline stupid people via dumb television, and on a minor note, “What are we going to do with all the fucking garbage?”
In closing, I’d like to pose a question to my audience. Yes, BOTH of you. There’s a show on TV that I haven’t had the gumption to watch. I’m scared because it’s on almost every channel when I get home from work between 3am and 6am. You’d think that with like 500 channels to choose from, if 300 of them are showing this particular program in the middle of the night, it HAS to be good. But I’m not sure. I almost feel stupid myself for never watching it but I need to know if it’s worth my time. It’s called “Paid Programming.” So if you can let me know if I’m missing anything, I’ll thank you kindly for it!

All Conversations Lead to the Ass

2008-06-16T05:10:00.002Z

I took some time on a Sunday night to visit some friends who were pre-gaming for an annual golf outing the following day. It was a very mellow sit-on-the-stone-wall-and-drink-a-few-beers event. Someone found a random pill capsule in her pocket. It was a boring, legitimate prescription type of pill, nothing illicit or even with the potential to be so. I forget how, but the conversation turned to suppositories and the medical applications thereof. Out came the comment, "Everything works better when you stick it in the ass."

Now as you can imagine, taken out of context, that can lead people to think about all sorts of scenarios and misdeeds. But since we all understood exactly what she meant ... we decided to play with that line for a few minutes anyway. The eruption of comments that followed came so fast and furious, I just can't remember them. I swear I should wear a wire tap every waking moment of my life so that nothing gets lost. If I had nuts, I would have busted one from laughing so hard. These are the times that recording devices were made for. I envision a conversation like this:

Bell: Did you see that Edith Hastings in the parlor earlier this evening? Lifting her hoops and petticoat to show off her ankle!
Watson: Indeed I did. Scandalous! Shocking!
Bell: What a harlot. A filthy, vile harlot.
Watson: I'll wager she'll show her ankle to anyone. I'll bet she has the Consumption!
Bell: Ha ha! I'll wager she's shown her ankle to that Tesla miscreant!
Watson: She gave Nikola the Consumption with her bare ankle! Ha ha!
Bell: Ha ha ha ha ha
Watson: Ha ha ha. That was humorous ... you know Alex, about that telephone thing, maybe we should create a device to record the spoken word. I would be most joyful if we had a recording of that witty exchange.
Bell: Oh, I agree Tom, I agree. But alas I hear that Edison fellow is coming up with a similar machine to do so with musical compositions. It would serve a much better purpose to just be able to record our own conversations.
Watson: Harlot. Consumption infested harlot!
Bell and Watson: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

A few minutes later we were shooing the children inside to play Wii. I told my own kids they needed to follow the rules of playing with the game. As the grade schoolers bounded into the house, slamming the door behind them, our hostess backed up my parental command by telling them, "Yeah, put the strap on!"
[Huh-huh. She said Strap-On!]
Once again an expulsion of lewd comments came from us infantile-minded adults. Honestly, I think the eight, nine and ten-year-olds are more mature than we are.

When we were driving home my son started signing a song, making it up as he went. It goes something like this: "Butt ... butt ... butt-butt-butt."
"Stop saying 'butt!'" I hollered. This kid is constantly testing me. He likes to say "butt" all the time and I need to tell him to knock it off, that it annoys me. But it doesn't always; sometimes I have to reprimand him using every ounce of my being to not break up laughing. I think he might know this too, which adds fuel to his fire. He knows that it's my obligation as a parent to correct his misbehavior, but secretly, I'm trying not to laugh like hell.

So then my daughter let out a Fanta Orange-induced belch. I've almost taught her well so immediately she speaks out,
"Excuse me," in her sweetly delicate little girl voice. Then follows it with, "For farting out of my mouth!"
"Hey!" I said choking on a chuckle, "Don't say that! Do you say that you burp out of your butt?"
They're hysterical in the back seat for a few seconds and then I have to hear, in all seriousness, me son tell me,

"Mom, don't say 'butt.'"

I Love the Bar (Part II)

2008-06-09T05:03:00.002Z

I love the bar. No, I really, really love the bar. Which is why I have chosen to use this title for the second time. See, whenever you walk into a bar, there is so much opportunity to absorb the world of others. I find that I get a feel for the whole of human nature (at least the humans that go into bars to drink anyway) every time I walk into a bar. Tonight I went in to the local place to get a six-pack. And I can honestly tell you that I had no intention of just walking in and getting some beer to go. Nay, I had made peace with the notion, before I even pulled out of the driveway, that I would also sit at the bar for a Jager and bottle of Miller Lite.

When I pulled in to the parking lot that "loser" feeling started creeping into my head. I wasn't really in the mood to socialize with anyone other than the customary, "This weather sucks it's hot as fucking balls outside" comment one feels obliged to make to the other loser sitting two feet away. So as I walked in, I made the choice to just go to the Mega-Touch for some high-scorin' Tai Play.

The first thing I observed upon my entry was a bartender I had never seen before. Then, despite the fact the bar was totally beat, there was a woman already sitting in front of the Mega-Touch wearing a 20 year old black Harley beater. So there'd be no video games for me. I was in no shape to get my ass beat by someone who's old enough to be my grandmother. Correction: who looks like she's old enough to be my grandmother but in fact was probably a senior when I was a freshman. The only other person sitting at the bar was one of the brother-owners. Then at a cocktail table sat the other brother-owner, one of the other bartenders and some guy I didn't know.

I sat. I ordered. I paid. I began to consume.
"John, how's it going buddy?" to the one brother-owner at the bar.
"Ok. Alright. What's new?" Came the reply.
"My pool" I said, "Thanks goodness too with this fucking heat wave we have going." thinking myself oh so clever to have dispensed with both the general acknowledgement AND the weather comment in one simple sentence. Now. just. leave. me. alone.
"How's that bar venture in Phoenixville you've been working at?" he asked.
"Fantastic." I told him. "We're doing really well." Then bit my tongue because I'm sure he wanted to hear that business was shit, looking around at his own bar with only three, maybe two, paying customers at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night.
I really wasn't in any frame of mind to talk to anyone so I tried hard for the first few minutes to not say anything else to anyone. But, nay, it doesn't work that way. I'm the one who has to perk her ears up and listen and then jump into the conversation. They were talking about the end of the world and the whole Mayan 2012 bullshit.

That crap drives me crazy, folks. Listen to me about the Mayan calendar: there was a guy whose job it was to come up with the whole "recording of days" stuff. What happened was, he never brought on an apprentice to help him with it. So one day this guy up and dies, leaving no one in his wake to pick up where he left off. Thus, the calendar simply ends. (Just my theory by the way, but I think it's a good one). Remember when Nostradamus (and Prince!) predicted the world would end in 1999? Remember how it didn't happen? Remember when some programmers didn't have the foresight to use four digits when coding for years and the entire global infrastructure was going to melt down when all the computers wouldn't recognize the year 2000? Remember how it didn't happen? Yeah, well, 2012 is kinda like that. Don't get me wrong, shit will go down, but not in an armageddon-end-of-the-world-kinda way.

Anyway I'm listening to these people talk about this and it's making me totally crazy. So I get another round. I see a commercial for the new Shyamalan movie "The Happening" and I just have to see it. I thought it was coming out on the 20th, but it's out on the 13th. A Friday. SPOOKY!!! I hate scary movies. I go out of my way to NOT watch them. Scary movies and sad songs: Hate 'em. If I had been a Playmate twenty years ago, I would have listed those as my turn-offs. But this movie I have to see. Apparently I need a date too because I can't go see it alone, I will get too freaked out. I need a shoulder to bury my face in when I don't want to see what's happening on screen. Call me if you want to go. Just remember I said a SHOULDER to bury face in, not a LAP!

I had a blast listening to people talk about their stuff though. I think that was the point of this wayward post. How I like to listen to people talk. I'm not sure really. My motor skills and train of thought have been slowly waning. Remember that six-pack I went to the bar for? Yeah well, it's serving its purpose. This is why I don't write anymore. The only time I feel I have something to say is when I've been drinking and by then it's just too late to write with any sense of cohesion.

TYLER JAMES PUB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 210 Bridge Street, Phoenixville, PA 19460. 610-935-7141.

That's all I have right now. Peace.

-T

Tyler James Pub!!!!

2008-01-08T02:57:00.000Z

Well, well, well. So who won the pool for when my next post would be?
I've bid a fond farewell to the Boathouse. It was hard, because I had worked there for so long, but it was time for me. I originally went to go work at a place called Grady David's. A fine restaurant, please go there if you are in the area. Get the Oysters Grady David. They are killer. It just turned out to not be a great fit for me. And I don't like to trash people, but I had a hard time working in bar where I was the only one who had ever worked a high volume bar before. No one really listened to me when I would offer suggestions as to how certain things should be set up and run. Then I have to hear them all say things like, "I've never really worked a busy bar before, we have to figure out how to do this!"
I felt like that kid in the back of the class going "Ohh! Oooooh! Oooooh! I know how! I know! Listen to me!" But the teacher never, EVER picked on me. And all the other kids ignored me. It was ... frustrating.

But all of that is behind me now. I've signed on to help manage and tend bar at Tyler James Pub. The newest bar on the Bridge Street Strip. I'll be hanging out there for a while I suppose. It's a long term investment for me but I think it will pay off. Especially considering the only thing I have to invest is my time. I just make drinks and sometimes tell other people what to do. Plus I'm working with some of the finest people in the biz. This place is going to kick ass. Everyone who has come in so far loves it. You will too. Everyone will! Unless you have issues with digital video feed delay. Don't get me started on that. I figured it out, okay! It'll NEVER happen again, I swear!

We have darts, shuffleboard, megatouch, a digital jukebox and more! Upstairs plans include live music on Fridays and 80's Dance Party on Saturdays. Break out your parachute pants kids!

We have free booze*, dancing girls** and serve food until about 1:30.

* well, if your friend buys, it'll be FREE for YOU; otherwise, you have to pay for it (PLEASE NOTE: it is illegal to give away free alcoholic beverages in the state of Pennsylvania. Don't be a jackass, it's a fricking joke ok?)
** technically we don't have dancing girls, per se; but there might be some girls there dancing at any given moment.
Hey one out of three ain't bad, huh?

There will be more later. Hopefully with far less exposition and far more fun.

Peace!

New Music Coming Soon ...

2007-10-19T05:07:00.000Z

*** WARNING: This post has nothing to do with the bar; or booze, not even a drop! ***

Hi!

So for about 10 years or so, I've have this great idea about something to write entitled "Three Things the Internet Can Make Obsolete (But Never Will)" or something like that. I figured I could sell it to: I dunno, Rolling Stone if people still read magazines; SLATE or something; or maybe Woman's Day cause I'm sick to death of all the recipies and teasers about how I can walk off 20 pounds a week in just three minutes per day.

Anyway, there's a major record release about to happen on October 30th and I hope to the Great Architect that it will prove at least one of my theories correct. Because One of the Three things I believe the Internet can make obsolete is record companies.

When the whole mp3 craze started and the Napster contoversy got hot, it became apparent to me that the internet would be a great tool for unknown bands to promote themselves. Sure it's hard to reach that target audience, but at least they can put themselves out there like no band in the 80's, or before, could have possibly imagined.

I remember back then hearing about local bands in Philly from friends, "I'll get you a tape, you gotta hear 'em," and I only lived about 30 miles outside the city. Yeah, a lot of those bands might have been shitty, which is why they are all selling insurance and working third shift at the Wawa these days, but . . . BUT, think about how many of those bands might have made a name for themselves if the internet had existed 20 years ago! Maybe they would have been a Flash in the Pan, but at least they would have made enough coin to invest in a few Taco Bell franchises or something.

I imagine that might have been what everyone's friend Tom thought when he created myspace. I just never got the gears turning quickly enough to come up with something like that. Otherwise I would be rolling in it and this would be called terrispace.

Really, it might be hard for you kids to imagine, but the only way one could have heard about a killer band in Dubuque, Iowa (unless, of course, you live in the vicinity of Dubuque, Iowa) would be if someone you knew was living there and WROTE YOU A LETTER or CALLED YOU ON THE PHONE to tell you.

At one point, a long time ago, I was listening to a band in Erie, PA where I was attending college. I thought to myself, wow, this band is great, and I'll never, ever hear them on the radio. And for that matter, what about the bands this talented who are playing in Poughkeepsie, NY or Omaha, NE or Seattle, WA? Scratch that last one, at the time EVERYONE was listening to pretty much nothing BUT bands from Seattle, WA. Because that's where all the record companies were sending their A&R reps to at the time.

Now, on the other hand, for the known bands, the internet pretty much sucks. When someone illegally downloads their record, they don't see a dime. Which, by the way, is probably about how much the average artist makes off the average CD that you are paying upwards of $15 for. (And if there are five musicians in the band, divide that dime by five). I have no idea what they really make, but I'm pretty sure it's a miniscule percentage after the retailer, record company, and everyone else gets their take. This is what Lars Ulrich from Metallica got so up in arms about, and everyone thought he was a whiney douchebag because he wanted his royalties. Let me set the record straight. Lars isn't a douchebag because he wanted his fair slice of the pie. Lars is a douchbag because, well, he's a douchbag. Just kidding, sort of, I never met the man, so I can't say for sure.

This is largely why piracy exists; it's our way of "sticking it to the man!" The man being, of course, record company execs, who are nothing more than talent brokers and often find themselves making more money than the talent they are brokering.

No More! Support the artists who create the music you love!

Which brings me to the actual point of this rant:
There's an album coming out called "V is for Vagina"
Hey I didn't pick the title. I wanted to protest because I thought if there ever was a way to NOT sell a record, a title like that is a sure way to do it. Something tells me the creator has a theory of his own to prove. Plus, who am I to question any musician's creative expression? It was done without the "must-have" backing of any record company.

Most of you probably won't even like this music. You have infantile tastes and are not yet mature enough to appreciate it's aural value. In any case, to learn more about this groundbreaking endeavor (yes, by an already successful artist with more money than most of us can imagine, but that's beside the point; it's setting a precendent) please go here:

http://www.myspace.com/censorshipisacancer

or here:

http://www.puscifer.com

and just to set the record straight, this rant was insired by one of his own:
(begin quote)

"dearest supporters, street teamers, and mailing listers.
thank you for signing up to help.
first and foremost, if you don't like what you're
hearing from this project so far,
don't lie about it out of respect.
if you're compelled to support it in spite of what
you've heard and not appreciated,
then support it because you believe in the precedent of
independence i'm attempting to set.
promise me that much and then we can proceed from here.
this project for me is one part fun,
one part learning experience.
trying to go it alone, without a label to convolute
my efforts is very terrifying, chaotic,
and challenging. but all in a very positive way.
many many dark corners and unknowns. it's liberating but
still pretty damn scary. this is a very very expensive education.
i could very easily lose my ass on this whole thing.
but it's sort of ok. i can afford a new ass.
anyway...
lot's of controversy flying about regarding downloading.
time to throw my 2 cents in. downloading wont effect me TOO much.
but it will affect those bands right on the edge. bands who
could use the hundred bucks to make it to the next town to
play a show (gas and food aren't free. go figure) .
or could use some cash to record a new record.
( imagine that. it actually takes money to record a record.)
i can afford to pay for the recording of my record.
i'm one of the lucky ones. (thanks to nirvana and the
label feeding frenzy, i won the early 90's grunge lottery.)
but those days are history. in order for young bands
to survive nowadays, they need to get paid for their efforts.
touring costs money. recording costs money.
unless you're ok with bands recording their songs on
their Palm Treo. personally i went the extra mile and
tried to incorporate that ancient and illusive medium
known as "analog tape." because, and i can hear the
yawns welling up as i type... because it sounds better.
the machines are expensive and a pain in the ass to
maintain but they're worth it. that is unless people
are just gonna steal your efforts.
then it's a big fat FUCK NO, IT"S NOT WORTH IT.
so don't be douche bags. support the process.
devils advocate...
it feels like the digital landscape has widened peoples
appreciation of new music. it's placed alternative forms of
music in front of those who may not have been exposed otherwise.
it feels like people are more excited
about music than they have been in a long time.
but for fuck sake... pay the man for his song and dance.
otherwise the only people who can afford to record quality
music are the cookie cutter boy bands with their corporate
sponsors and media machines.
(Dick In Box Excluded, of course)
please do your best to support
bands like Autolux, the Burning Brides, Isis, etc...
they need you.
i need you, but they need you more. having said that...
i'm doing this pretty much on my own.
no label support aside from the distributor.
it's a HUGE learning curve.
but if i can navigate it, i will be able to share what
i've learned.
i can make it easier for other bands
that are trying to do it on their own.
make it possible for us all to survive in our little microcosms
rather than fall victim to the seductive song of the sirens...
the expensive and impersonal macrocosm
of the major label dog and pony show.
once again, thank you for your efforts.

m j keenan
professional dumbass"

(endquote)

Everything I've Wanted to Say

2007-09-05T05:07:00.000Z

Someone I work with got the following from a myspace message and I thought it just perfect. Couldn't have said it better myself, ya know? When I read it it I was excited to get to the bottom and find out who wrote it but there was no signature. So let it be known that these are not my words. An heretofore anonymous person wrote the following and he/she is my hero.
I've made some minor editorial changes in terms of outline, and maybe added a comment or two (the ED: in parentheses are mine) but every word is just as I read it. I hope to offer soon an equally detailed message for those in the service industry; because while most of these rules are true, not every bartender is a god. It's a status one needs to attain through knowlegde and good service. For now, for those in the know; enjoy:

Bar Rules

Someone once pointed out to me the fact that there seems to be a micro-economy in the service industry. Restaurant workers take their tip money out to bars and clubs at night and give it to the bartenders, who promptly return it to the waiters and waitresses the next day at lunch (ED: We trade $20s). The cycle is almost self-sufficient and is mutually beneficial. Knowing the pain of waiting on customers, each group tips the other well and never raises a fuss. These people do not need to be educated. The rest of you do.

Many of us have stood in a noisy, crowded bar and asked, "What's a guy got to do to get a drink around here?" Well, you're about to find out. Here are some Do's and Don'ts that will keep the relationship between the bartender and bar patron running smoothly.

DON'T...

Fail to have your money ready
We're waiting on you. Everyone else is waiting on us. Therefore, by the Transitive Property of Equality, everyone is waiting on you. Rule #1: Have your shit together. Not only will following Rule #1 get you served quicker in a bar, it's a good general rule to adopt in life and is especially helpful in Central American border crossing scenarios.

Whistle
This is an absolute No-No. You whistle at dogs, not people.

Wave money
Oh, you've got a dollar!! I'll be right over!! Hopefully I won't break an ankle in my fevered rush to get you your "curz lite." Well, at least you're not breaking the next rule.

Yell out the bartender's first name
There's something deeply psychologically disturbing about hearing your name called out, turning around and seeing a complete stranger. That's one of the reasons strippers use stage names. Bartender's do too. Mine is MANTHUNDER.
(ED: However, in my experience, it seems to help. I just think that I met you once before and have forgotten. Which menas that you perhaps left a non-memorable tip. Up the ante, yo.)

Say "make it strong!" or "put a lot of liquor in it"
Oh, you're one of the rare drinkers that like their drink strong! When you say this, you're assuming I make weak drinks (which is insulting) and you're assuming that I'll stiffen this one up for my new best buddy, you. This is the best way to get a weak drink.

Give the ever-expanding drink order
You want a Bud. I go get it. I come back and now you want a Margarita. Okay, no prob. I come back, and (oh yeah!) now you want a shot of Tequila, too. You really could have told us this all at once. (NO AND-THENS!) See Rule #1.

Pull the redirect (or the bait 'n' switch)
Usually used after the money wave or the whistle, this is when the gentlemen passes his turn to the lady behind him. Yeah, um, don't do that, okay? Chances are she's not ready, and your weak attempt at chivalry just cost you your turn. See you in 30 minutes.

Try the confused, lost look
This is usually accompanied by the question "What kind of beer y'all got?" while looking at all the beers we have. You did know you were in a bar, right? You didn't just appear here, did you? Refer to Rule #1.

Order High Maintenance shooters
Example: "Lemme get an Alabama Slammer, a Red Snapper, two Kamikazes, a Buttery Nipple and a Lemon Drop." Usually followed by a small tip. People, these shooters are fine by themselves, but there are multiple steps involved with each one. Translation: Time Sink. You may get them this time, but you'll probably be waited on last the next time we see your face. Here's a clue as to whether or not you're high maintenance; if two bartenders are working and they see you, and they flip a coin and the loser comes over to take your order, pretty good chance you're high maintenance.

Assume we know you're in the band

We know, we know, you're gonna be really famous, but you're not there yet, tiger. Tell us you're in the band and which band you're in. By the way, if you are in a band and get free/reduced drink prices, feel free to tip, as most bartenders are also in bands! It's not like we don't know how it is. Oh, and our bands will smoke your band.

Assume we know you period
Unless you've followed the first "Do" rule below, we don't remember you. You are one of a thousand faces for us, and when you point at an empty glass or a beer bottle that's invariably facing away from us, your attempt at a shortcut backfires. Tell us what you want.

Apologize for sucking

Don't apologize for not tipping. Acknowledging that you suck is not the same as not sucking. Oh, and don't say "I'll get ya next time." We know all about you.

Assume soft drinks are free
Are they free at McDonald's? Are they free at Wal-Mart? Are they free anywhere? I blame M.A.D.D. for this myth.

Put pennies and nickels in the tip jar
We don't want that crap in our pockets any more than you do. We don't have anything smaller than quarters. Have you ever ordered a drink that cost $3.17?

Be "The Microbrew Aficionado"
Usually a pseudo-hippy who can't tip a quarter but can't bring himself to drink "schwag," and who has to sample some new berry-wheat-harvest-ale that he heard about at Burning Man. "Do you have the new Vernal-Equinox Special Welcome-Fest?" "Does Anyone?" Here's your Newcastle. Go.

Be "The Daddy Warbucks"
Dressed in classic day-trader wear, this loud, boisterous guy smokes cigars and orders Martinis and generally exudes an air of money. Until the tip. We hate you.

Be a "Whiney Baby"
Under no circumstances should you ever whine to a bartender when asked to see your ID. Our jobs depend on them, and when we spot a fake/expired ID, don't argue; we've seen and heard it all a million times before, and it will get you absolutely nowhere. If you "don't have one" or "forgot it," forget it; you don't belong out on the town in the first place. That's the law, plain and simple. If we don't have the law, the terrorists win. You don't want the terrorists to win, do you? Bring your ID. Remember Rule #1, from a minute ago?

Don't tell me the bartender at the front bar hooks it up cheaper
Bullshit because if he did you wouldn't be at my bar gettin it from me! if you can't afford the drinks you are ordering then don't drink!

DO

Tip
Tip heavy right off the bat, and you're the first person we aim for every time you come up to the bar. Did you get that? Go back and read it again. The word will spread to the other bartenders and you'll be treated like a prince. It will pay off in better drinks and the occasional free (It is illegal in the state of PA to give away a "free" drink. It's "Complimentary") one.

Be patient
All you really need to do to get waited on is make eye contact. We see you, and we'll get to you before the guy right next to you waving money and whistling. Remember, this isn't insulin we're passing out here. If you really need the drink that bad, you've got a problem to address, Jack. The meek shall inherit the bar.

Understand
We are human, not machines we know you're there however you are not the only or most important one in the bar...
(ED: Well, you might be, but chances are we know that already)

A World Peace of Bacon

2007-09-01T02:31:00.000Z

So I finally typed this up, too late for the competition, but I was hoping to get an honorable mention in alcanthang's Bacon essay contest. Wouldn't you know I had severe trouble emailing it to Al. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact I was hammered. Anyway, here it is, for what it's worth ...

The Secret to World Peace

The LORD said to Moses and Aaron, "Say to the Israelites: 'Of all the animals that live on land, these are the ones you may eat: You may eat any animal that has a split hoof completely divided and that chews the cud. There are some that only chew the cud or only have a split hoof, but you must not eat them. The camel, though it chews the cud, does not have a split hoof; it is ceremonially unclean for you. ... (Verses 5 and 6 have been deleted, for they are irrelevant, thus spake ... me) And the pig, though it has a split hoof completely divided, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you.’”
- Leviticus 11: 1-4, 7-8 (NIV)

Well, fuck THAT!
Seriously.

Both those of the Jewish persuasion and the Muslims don’t eat any pork products whatsoever. They’ll cry Talmud and Koran to you till they’re blue in the face and even point you to chapter and verse thereof to prove that their particular creator forbade them the comsumption of pigflesh. But the fact of the matter is that it all points back to the above original source.

Now, on the other hand, the Christians don’t have to adhere to such nonsense because when Jesus came around he basically tossed a big “Ef U” to the old ways saying "I am the way the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."
- John 14:6 NIV That’s what gives Christians the balls to not pay much attention to the Old Testament.

Then there’s the atheists, agnostics, secular humanists and all the rest of us who say, “Who the fuck cares! I love bacon!”

So I’m thinking about this at it suddenly dawns on me ...
I have the solution to middle east PEACE!.
It’s so simple ...
BACON.

The whole reason that the region got to be such a hotbed of turmoil in the first place is because of the whole Leviticus thing. Some Assyrian or Babalonian tribes were having a kick ass pig roast and the Israelites got really pissed off because they couldn’t join in the fun, due to the fact that Moses had sprung them from enslavement in Egypt and all, and his Yahweh was like, “No pig-eating you bitches!”

Same with the Crusades. When the Christains controlled Jerusalem, they would wake up every Christmas morning and start scorching up huge chunks of bacon in enormous cast-iron cauldrons. The Mohammedians (as they were called at the time) upon the aroma reaching their nostrils, would think they had reached their paradise and would beg for a taste of the heavenly roast. And then some Frenchman, (who else would have the Gaul) would bring a piece ever so closely to the Muslim’s lips and then cry “Oh wait - it’s PIG! You can’t have any!” I think that’s enough to send anyone on a murderous rampage. Even for a thousand years.

So I think that’s it. No more troop surges, folks. Just give them Bacon! Can you imagine how happy they’ll all be! They just need to get over the whole “God said I can’t eat bacon thing.” Man, if everyone could eat bacon for breakfast every day of their lives, I think maybe anger would cease to exist. Really, I do.

There’s only one problem after that. All the bacon grease. Don’t worry, I have that covered too. Listen ...Grease = fat = oil = fuel.
You know where I’m going here, don’t you? After we all eat bacon every morning, we take the grease and dump it in our auto’s fuel tank (after filtering out the solids, duh). Then when we’re driving to work in that shit-storm traffic jam, all we do us roll down the window and what do we smell?
Heaven!

We Sure Know How to Throw a Party; Even When We Don't Want To

2007-07-10T03:41:00.000Z

Every year, the Saturday closest to 4th of July, my husband and I have a big party. We never really plan it properly, but it's kinda always there. Some years we go all out like last year and make invitations, sending one to every one in the family tree. Some years, like this one, we decide to bag it and not have one. But then someone finds out we are planning to NOT have the party and they whine and cry so we decide, ok, game on. This year it wasn't until the 17th of June that we were told we had to have it. Not enough time to design and mail out invitations, but enough time to ... well, let's put it this way, I was told by my niece that it would be on the 7th of July because "It's always the Saturday closest to the 4th." I guess it's become more of a tradition than I thought.

I look forward to this event like I look forward to work. Which is not very much. At least at work I make tips and have Mexicans to take care of all the food. When it comes to our annual party, I alone am the bartender, barback, Mexicans in the kitchen, managers and that little Asian guy who mops the floor, vacuums and wipes the vomit off the toilet in the middle of the night after the staff has gone.

The day always starts like this: I have worked the night before (as Friday almost ALWAYS precedes Saturday; except on those occasions when Friday turns into Saturday morning and then afternoon and by the time you get to sleep it's still technically Friday to you and you wake up on Sunday without ever having really experienced Saturday. It happens, right?) so I'm tired.
Especially if I decide when I get home to write a TO DO list. If you have read this blog before, you may recall my penchant for TO DO lists. (Take for example the Thanksgiving posts, which will actually come into play later in this post, so feel free to reread or read for the first time, there may be a quiz later).

So I decide that I have to write a list of all the things I and my family need to get done the next day. And I decide that I should open my bottle of Chimay for just a little nip to drink while I am making my list. Well, as a writer, or one pretending to be a writer while she works as a bartender, there is always a need for several drafts of anything I write, even TO DO lists. On this occasion my first draft wasn't that good because I needed to chart the tasks by family member. After I did that, I decided that the chart was a little sloppy so I had to rewrite it. Then I decided that the new list was even sloppier than the one I did before, but as I began my third list/chart I realized that they would only become more and more sloppy as the alcohol I was consuming was affecting my motor skills. (If anyone knows of a good buzz that does NOT make a person lose motor function, drop me a line, you're my new best friend). So I decided to go outside, have a smoke and figure out the next logical step. As I ascended the stairs from my basement lair, I caught sight of the coming dawn, heard the sound of early birdsong and realized the only logical step was bed. CRASH!

CUT TO ...
INTERIOR. BEDROOM
(A MAN LEANS OVER THE BED AND VIOLENTLY SHAKES HIS NEAR-COMATOSE WIFE)
DAN: Terri, wake up. Please ... you have to wake up.
TERRI: ... waffles! ... please make them be quiet ...
DAN: No Terri, Terri, really, wake up!
(SHE BEGINS TO BE AWARE OF HER SURROUNDINGS)
TERRI: What ... what? ...
DAN: Come on, it's eleven o'clock.
TERRI: What!?!? Eleven o'clock!
(HER TO DO LIST SPECIFICALLY HAD EVERYTHING STARTING AT 9 AM)
TERRI: Fuck!

So I basically woke up and started doing shit. I looked through my TO DO lists but they were all completely illegible. Even the first one. So I had to wing it. Basically I began all the food preparation. I was doing that for a while while my husband went out and got ... um, I dunno, stuff from the store. Which included beer and ice. I thought it might be too soon for the ice as it was about 95 degrees but he got backup. So I'm doing all this shit and at like 12:45 my son comes over and tells my husband that the neighbor got the new four-wheeler for his daughter and he needed help help putting it together. I looked at him like "Don't you dare leave this house and all that needs to be done to go put that ATV together".
He tells me he'll be half an hour. Tops. He really should go help the neighbor and I agree but remind him, half an hour. TOPS!

So I'm chopping and dicing and cutting and slicing. I take a break from the kitchen to .... clean the bathroom! Great! I'm looking at the mess that is the rest of the common area of my home and I'm thinking that no matter how unreadable my list is, I'm pretty sure that "PUT THE NEIGHBOR'S FOUR - WHEELER TOGETHER" is most definitely not on it. I considered having a nervous breakdown, but this was no time for hysterics. I had amassed yet another list of "last-minute" items I needed. Finally at 2pm I realized I had to get them myself. I had hoped Dan would have come home by now so I could send him to the store. Because I figured that if one left at 12:45 for something he guaranteed would take 30 minutes, I should see him again by 1:15, or maybe 1:17 given the two minute round-trip trek across the lawn. (Did I mention the party was to start at 3pm? Yeah, that's what he told people. I told them 4. "Four or even later would be better.") Yeah so I at 2:08 I peeled out of the driveway to go to the store, leaving the dog-hair tumbleweeds all over every floor in my house.

As this long, long story is already too long, I'll fast-forward. My sister Karen always come over with way to much food and takes charge of the kitchen and the grill, which offers me a slight break, but as the hostess, there is always someone coming up to me every 30 seconds needing some kind of attention.
"Are there more napkins?"
"Where's the blender?"
"The toilet paper is out."
"Your dog's humping my leg."
"Whose small child is drowning in the pool?"

All I wanted all day long was to get a freaking shower. Finally at about 9 or so, I had found the time to do it. Only there was a stream of guests using the only bathroom in the house. "Hey! You're a boy and it's dark out now, use the freaking bushes!" Well, darkness can only mean one thing. Fireworks! I pleaded for the fireworks to be put on hold while I took a quick shower. But then someone needed a hot dog, so I had to go put hot dogs on the dwindling coals. Someone else informed me that the children really wanted to see the fireworks and I said to finally go ahead, I would have to miss them. Whatever. I made someone else watch the hot dogs so I could get a shower. I was lucky that my two eldest sisters insisted the show be put on hold while I showered and changed clothes even though I told them to go ahead without me. I still got some shit for being the cause of the delay. Even though I wanted to scream at everyone that while they had been having a great time all day eating and drinking, I hadn't had time to sit for more that 30 seconds at a time and not one morsel more than a tortilla chip or two or bit of fruit ever crossed my lips, I hadn't complained and is it really that big of a fucking deal to wait ten minutes while I cleansed the filth of the day off my body, I didn't. I just made one flippant comment to my brother-in-law. Which was the absolute wrong person to make any kind of flippant comment to. He's the one who does the fireworks every year.

It was quite a show. He does a great job. This year was the best ever. He had more and better fireworks than ever. I actually was becoming uncomfortable because THEY WERE SO GOOD I was worried that the police would definitely come around. After that, this boy who's in love with my niece worked some fire of his own. He spins fire. It's called poi. Google it. Better yet, just YouTube it. He does that. It freaking rocks. Anyway that marked the end of my hostessing. I retired. It was my turn to hang out and have some beverages and stuff.

One of my favorite moments of the whole night was when Dan was getting the electric hooked up in our pop-up camper for the kids who were sleeping in there. We're in there and noticed that the sink was full of water, which is actually a bad thing, because if the plug isn't in there, it will leak into the cabinet underneath as the drain hose was not hooked up. So I open the cabinet under the sink to see if it had leaked at all. Alas, there are my two small saucepans! I am now so happy I have my two small saucepans back. (After Thanksgiving, I had been sure they were in the camper. But my husband had popped the camper up to "winter-proof" it and claimed that the saucepans were NOT in the camper. He hadn't looked in that particular cabinet. THERE THEY FUCKING WERE! Dan's all like "You're pissed at me because you said they we in here and I said they weren't." I'm like "NO butthole! I'm just so happy to have them back!" I think I danced with them all the way into the kitchen).

So after that we all hung out by the fire and stuff and it was great. We listened to music and talked and talked and talked until the sun came up and then we went to bed. Amen.

QUIZ:
Q: The highlight of the night for Terri was when ...
A) She woke up two hours late, not hung over, but STILL DRUNK.
B) Her husband spent to much valuable prep time at the neighbor's house
C) She found her two little saucepans
D) She got to hang out by the fire with people she loves listening to great music and talking about all kinds of both stupid and profound topics.

ANSWER: Actually, both C and D above!

Peace out!

It's Not Every Day One Finds A Flaming Vehicle Between Oneself and Home in the Middle of the Night

2007-06-29T08:30:00.000Z

And twice in a lifetime is enough for me. I can't believe it happened again! What's with that lonely, dark and desolated, twisty, hilly, heavily forested, country highway that makes young kids smash into trees so badly that their cars explode? I'll never know.

I'm just thankful that this time the youngster behind the wheel wasn't going 90 miles an hour and actually had time to escape. Because as much as I am enamoured by fire, it's just no fun when the fuel of the flames is Jeep and you know that someone's very, VERY recently deceased body is buring to a crisp inside of it. The poor girl kept going on about how pissed her parents we going to be at her. I just held her close to try to calm her as I looked over her shoulder at the firebomb of a car that she had been driving about 10 minutes before and reassured her that, no, her parents were going to be really, really ecstatic that she was out in the middle of the road and not in the wreckage of her former automobile. You gotta figure that as bad as some parents might be, funerals are way more expensive than deductibles.

That's it. Sorry. I'm trying to get onto a "writing everyday whether anyone cares to read or not" track. But don't hold me to that. So I don't really have a tidy ending to this post. I hope to develop the whole intro/grabber + cantstopreading exposition + wrap it all up in a nice shiny red bow ending = I didn't just waste someone's 10 minutes on the internet package that I somehow feel I should be doing.

Just that I need to go to bed. Or at least I need to go listen to more Kansas! Which is what I will probably be doing till my kids wake up and demand pancakes. Because it's Friday and that can only mean one thing. Last night mommy worked and she has mad CASH, so let's live it up! Seriously, my son's like, "You can buy me a PSP now Mom! And I'm like, "Well, theoretically I could. But then none of us will be able to eat for a few days, the electric will be cut off and the mortgage company will forclose on our house." Then I get the whole eyes glazing over look and he goes back to frog hunting in the backyard. Yeah, that's what I thought kid!

I Love Hanging Out at the Bar

2007-06-24T06:54:00.000Z

"Pennsylvania guys hate us. You know why? Because we have nice hair and play volleyball."
-Some random guy from Cali who bought me a Jaegerbomb

So I finally made it out to Jack Cassidy's, Pottstown's newest bar. Some guy I used to work with is a part owner/bartender there and it's relatively near my house. Plus Jimmy* and Joey*, two guys I currently work with were there working the door and helping to clean up. It's a wonderful little room. There's a big-ass oval bar, a small room of tables, darts, shuffleboard, the kitchen is open late. If I were internet/html savvy, I would provide a link. But, I'm not. Just google it and find it yourself.

I arrived at about 11:15 pm because I pretty much slept all day and woke up at 5:30 and the family had an outing of errands to run, dinner to eat. It was a little slow for that time on a Saturday night, despite the fact there was supposed to be an influx of drinkers attending some volleyball tournament that was billed as "The Third Biggest Volleyball Tournament on the East Coast." Whatever. The crowd consisted of your run-of-the-mill twenty something local people out getting hammered, with an occasional splash of grizzled psuedo-bikers and a token long-haired, old random drunk guy who was both everybody's and no one's friend at the same time.

About halfway into my time there, I decided that the MegaTouch machine was hungry and I had to feed it. In the middle of a ferocious game of Tai Play, my bottle of Miller Lite was replaced with a full, cold one and then a rocks glass almost full of some mysterious dark brown liquid appeared next to it. "No!" I said, "I was going to wait until I was ready to leave to do that!" But Carl,* the bartender would have none of that. I had moved on to trivia and kept eyeing the glass with suspicion. It seemed like an obnoxiously large shot of Jaeger for a girl who was trying to "be good" and had to solemnly swear to her husband before leaving the house that she would not later that night wind up in Atlantic City. Or Chester. Or even at someone's house for a middle-of-the-night poker game. I picked the glass up and realized there was obviously a bit of Red Bull in there, the color was a little light. So I downed it. Yeah, "a bit" of Red Bull was in there, but it was mostly Jaeger.

I decided that I should be going soon and was content to mosey up to another part of the bar near the door to pay my tab and finish my beer. When Carl* came around, he didn't even give me a chance to ask for my check, he just put another fresh bottle of beer in front of me. Fucker! I hate/love this guy! So I'm sitting there reading trivia cards by myself and trying to swill down my beer. I managed to get a check and pay my tab when alas, some random drunk guy to my left starts talking to me. Now, I have long, somewhat sordid history of talking to drunk people in bars. It's stupid. I just don't want to be mean and blow people off. I don't have that in me.

So Timmy* there says to me, "You're drinking Miller Lite, huh? I fucking hate Miller Lite!" And I'm like, "Yeah, well, I'm from Milwaukee so I figure it's my duty. What are you drinking?" He's drinking Coors Light so I tell him that I fucking hate Coors Light and is he from Colorado? No? Then what's his excuse? Ha Ha, now we're the best of friends. He asks me what brought me to Pottstown and I told him, "This bar." He starts laughing hysterically and I'm thinking, What?! Why's that so funny? Then I realize that he thinks that I live in Milwaukee and I came all the way from Wisconsin to hang out at Jack Cassidy's in Pottstown, PA. Not that I wouldn't, mind you. It's a terrific little bar. But there had been no proper segue in the conversation. So I had to explain to him that I was BORN in Wisconsin but moved to Pennsylvania when I was five, etcetera etcetera etcetera.
He asked to buy me a beer but I declined. After talking to him for a few more minutes I gave in and let him buy me a beer. I was a little hesitant because he only had five 1's and a few quarters on the bar. I'm thinking that I hope I'm not taking away from Carl's tip money for this!

Then some guy on my right who had come up to the bar to order a bunch of Coronas and Jaegerbombs says, pretty much rhetorically, "Am I in Pottstown?" I'm a big fan of answering rhetorical questions so I look over and say, "Yes. You're in Pottstown. Pottstown Pennsylvania." He looks at me like I'm ... like I'm some whacked-out nut job who feels the need to answer rhetorical questions, and says "okay" before turning around and taking his Coronas back to his buddies. About 90 seconds later this guy is jabbing me in the back asking me if there's any other happenin' place to go and hang out. I look at the clock and it's 1:48. "Uuuhhhh, no man, unless you can find an after-hours bar. I don't know of any around here, there's one near King of Prussia." I might as well have had a foot growing out of my forehead the way he looked at me. "Bars close at two. You're not from around here are you? "
"No" he said. "I'm from California. Do you like Jaegerbombs?"
"Oh I love them!"
"Do you want one?"
"No thanks, I really shouldn't. I have to drive."
"Ok. You have really nice hair."
"Okay. Have fun! Bye."

I turn back around to talk to Timmy again. He's griping that he's completely disgusted with his wife but he loves her. And she's completely disgusted with him and it's just all so fucked up. When he was in high school he was a great athlete and now he's old and fat. But I'm so cute and am I really 37 because he thought I was 25. Not that he would talk to a 25 year old in bar because he's not a pervert.

I really should get out of here. I have to pee again.
"Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies room."
On my way back I run into Mr. Volleyball Player from California. He's about to do the Jaegerbomb shots with his friends and when he sees me he rips one out of this guy's hand and gives it to me. "Drink it!" I protested thinking it totally rude to take a shot out of someone's hand to hand it over to some blonde bimbo such as myself. But the other guy insisted he didn't want it anyway. So I figured, WTF? Chug! Now, ordinarily in this situation I would feel obliged to talk to the person who gave me a shot of booze. But I actually felt like I would just blow them off. Only they were standing between me and my stool at the bar, so I decided to stick around for a chat.

So we talked for a few minutes about Jaegermeister.
And volleyball. (Apparently these guys were from all over and they just come together for the tournament, they don't necessarily know each other ahead of time).
And Hair. (They really liked my hair and kept touching it. Eewww. People touching my hair skeeves me out most of the time only this time I felt bad for them because I haven't washed it for few days). The one guy used to really like his hair but now there's so much grey in it and he doesn't want to color it. That's when the first guy leans into me and offered the gem of the quote with which I began this post. Classic.

One of their friends spilled her Corona so I grabbed a rag from the bar to sop it up, That became an escape and I found my way back over to Timmy. He kept opening his enormous wallet and seemed to be hesitant as to what to leave for tip. He only had a single and a few quarters on the bar (remember when he bought my last beer)? I told him to just take out one of the 20's and throw that up for tip. I have no idea how much he spent there. But I figured at least a twenty would suffice. The Jackass took out two singles and put them on the bar. Fucker!

I went to the bathroom one final time and then on my way back started to clean up all the empty glassware and bottles. I only grabbed a few but realized that if I stayed any longer, it would probably entail more beverages that I would consume so I choose to just leave. I went the long way around the bar though, to avoid the volleyball players, of course.

* Some names have been changed to protect the innocent (or guilty, as the case may sometimes be).

Dear Mister Vonnegut ...

2007-04-21T07:07:00.001Z

[Blgr note: I've been strugggling for some time about the tone and content of this "weblog" in both a general sense and this particular post. I've decided that I no longer want to be confined to the realm of bar culture. At the same time, I feel that "everything" is just a bit too wide in scope, so I am presently seeking a middle ground of sorts. About that which to waste my time writing, I mean.]
In any case, while I originally thought that the title "God Bless You Mister Vonnegut," would be a somewhat clever play on the man's own words, I also realized that every low-rent local paper and even many major media outlets would have used that same cheap trick. I decided to simply speak from the heart. See it's really all Kurt Vonnegut's fault/angelic doing that I am where I am today.
I suppose I have to take a step back and explain ...
When I was going to a large, major film school in a fruitless attempt to be a great director of cinematic tour de forces, (and yes, I get the whole foreign language subject/verb agreement incongruety because it is a testament to both my Americanness and Dumb Blondedness), I had a roommate who told me I should read this book called "Galapagos."
I trusted her judgment because she was older and wiser than I and it turned out she was right.
At the time of my reading this crazy book, I had been reduced to a "between colleges" state. I had discovered that filmmaking required quite a bit of work, more than I was willing to produce at the age of 19 and besides, there are oh so many distrations for a young girl in the big city. But I latched on to this Vonnegut guy. And I decided that I should read many more of his books.
The reading of Vonnegut caused quite a stir within me. Because at the time, the last books I remembered having read with the same voracity had been the "Little House on the Prairie" series, (which, for my money, should be required reading for anyone at the middle school age). I fully recall the moment, lying on my old nasty tiny futon mattress thrown on the floor of a bedroom that in another time had served as the closet of another, more advanced socio-economic being, that I should really be spending my life reading ... and writing .. for a living.
So I decided to go "back to school" and I figured that I would be an English major and become a High School English teacher, etc, etc, etc because I thought it was so very fucking important to enlighten the world about the simple message that this Vonnegut guy had been trying to educate the masses about with his stories. But I was discouraged by my new advisor at a new University. Told that if I really wanted to teach anything in this lifetime I should get my Ph.D. and all that crap. But that really would be a waste of time and talent and had I considered medical school? Not really. Because blood and fluids and tissues and such were all things I considered pretty "icky" and most likely would never get past an internship.
Another professor told me I was absolutely delightful to direct and such a commanding presence on the stage I really must consider an acting career as my calling.
I'm rambling. I know. And if you have any sense about you, you would realize that this whole damn thing is but an editor's note.
The whole point is this, to the recently deceased: I get it dude, I really fucking get it. And I'm sorry that so many, too many, do not. I'd tell you to rest in peace muthafucka, but I have a really good feeling that you're not done here yet!
Note: I had to edit this a little bit because I was in an altered state of mind when I wrote it.
Oh, all right! I don't even remember writing it. There. Are you happy now?

I Need A New Career

2007-04-17T05:24:00.000Z

There are slow nights.
There are steady nights.
There are busy nights.
There are nights you are slammed and nights you are clobbered.
Then there are nights that reduce you to tears and you start throwing things and punting boxes of ashtrays out from behind your bar.
It was long enough ago that I think I can actually write about it without convulsing.
Holy Thursday as it's known should now be known as "Holy fucking shit Thursday" (Sorry Mom).
I was all alone at my little basement bar, seemingly convinced that it would be a routine slow-but-steady-busy-happy-hour-then-slow-till-the-end kind of night. About ten minutes before I was scheduled to open the door, I was getting reports that people were at the upstairs bar clamouring to make their way down to mine.
Server from upstairs: "When are you going to open?"
Me: "What time is it?"
That same kid: "Ten of 5."
Me: "OK. In ten minutes."
At that time I was sitting down cutting fruit; which to this day I maintain is technically "food preparation" and should be the responsibility of the Mexicans in the kitchen. But alas, to this day, the bar staff still has to do it.
I sliced through what I could but it was time to open the doors. After someone turned they key to the door at the bottom of a stairway beyond my field of vision, I stood in wait and as the first few people made their way round the far corner from the hallway (about 25 yards away) I realized that the DJ was not there yet and my iPod was still charging. You have to be at least seven feet tall to work the stereo system so I have to jump up balancing one foot on the corner of a counter and one on the corner of the waitress's ice bin and when you're up there you can't really see the other side of the bar. After taking about maybe 20 or 30 seconds to plug in my iPod and select a playlist, hit the proper button on the tuner and adjust the mixer volume, I jumped down to floor level and saw my bar was three deep.
I almost panicked until I realized that all these poeple came from the upstairs bar and surely most of them would have full drinks in their hands. It took about a nanosecond, wait, maybe TWO nanoseconds, for me to realize my mistaken assumption and that the fact of the matter was, everyone. there. wanted. a. drink. NOW! So I panicked, but only on the inside. Hey I'm a professional, so I try to act accordingly. The problem is, when you go down like that, (and by "go down" I mean, get behind, weeded) it's really hard to correct yourselfwithout the proper support system one might find in a situation such as this. I just figured it would be a little hectic at first until everyone got their drinks and started to settle down. But they never let up. I never got that moment of reprieve. My one manager jumped behind the bar to help me out for a few minutes ... but that turned into several hours.
At one point I turned to the back side of the bar and realized that I never had time to clean up from my fruit cutting endeavor. There, in the middle of the bar, lay a cutting board with a multicolored mound of the ends of citrus fruits and sitting very coyly next to it, the knife. Brilliant. I'm lucky no one had grabbed it and tried to stab me with it. And that was at about 5:20!
See, no one had the foresight to realize that a lot of people have off work on Good Friday. And every single one of them came to my bar. I could have used a barback at least; if not another bartender.
These are the times when it is important to know how to get a drink. When all my tips like "Know what you want" and "Have your money or credit card ready" come in handy. Oh and one more thing, don't ever interrupt a busy bartender and say, "When you get a chance..." NO! I told more than one person that night that they'd be lucky if I "got a chance" by midnight.
And if you're standing at a busy bar and the guy next to you just ordered ten shots of SoCo Lime, two Lagers, a Bass, three Miller Lites, a gin & tonic and a Cosmopolitan, it's not quite the right time to tell the bartender that you had this delectable drink in Tucson last month but you don't know what it's called or what's in it, but it's pink or maybe orangy and can she make you one? Because the answer will be NO!
At one point I was trying to clean up all the glassware piling up and I was putting it at the station where my manager was working. Our wine glasses suck. They are cheap and fragile. The stems are about three millimetres wide. So when I put one down at his station (ever so gingerly, I swear) in an effort to get him to move them to the service station where they would be washed or, at the very least, not sitting on my bar anymore, it snapped in two. Right above the ice bin he was working from.
He looked at me with a face that if I had been another person, I would have thought I was about to get bitch-slapped. But I knew better. I just told him we had to burn that ice and get more. The whole process took, well, way too long, if you were one of the people down at my end of the bar waiting to order a drink. But when I finally got back to my post, I was confronted by about eight people, eyes ablaze with an eagerness for me to pick on them.
"Who's next?" I said, because bar fights never, ever start when someone jumps in front of another to order a drink, right?
They all started looking at each other and no one spoke for about ten seconds, which when you're cranking out about 20 drinks in a minute is like, well, three drinks that I didn't have time to make. Finally one guy shouted, "Guiness please!"
"Thank you!" I retorted. Then to the dumbfounded others, "He knows how to play the game!"
(At least he didn't ask me for a Genesis, right!)
So anyway. I, as we say in the business, "got my ass handed to me" worse than ever before.
I think I made a decent amount of money, I'm sure because I left money for all the people who helped me out. But when I got home (and cried for the third time that night) I put my money away in the spot I always do and when I awoke it was gone. My husband took it to the bank. Again. To pay bills. Again. Drat! Work might be more fun if I didn't know I was doing it to pay the freaking bills.

Have you ever gotten a $1000 Tip?

2007-03-02T05:04:00.000Z

Yeah, me neither. But a guy I was working with last week got one and as per the rules of splitting tips, he had to hand $500 over to me.
Cha-fucking-ching.
(This post brought to you by: that baby in my myspace pic that wanted me to write another blog post. There. Now go study.)

Would it help to know that I actually think of updating this blog from time to time but I can never remember my username and password? Yeah, I didn't think so. That's a pretty lame excuse.

Ok, so here's more:
Don't watch the movie The Covenant. I just wasted about two hours of my life (which would have been better spent watching the casting out at Rex's bar in West Chester {http://www.myspace.com/thecastingout}) watching that dumb movie because my husband (actually, his thumb) accidentally ordered it on Pay-per-view. If you are a girl, or a boy who likes boys, the only redeeming qualities of this movie are a few washboard ab shots of the lead characters. (The longish-haired guy is totally cut) And there's one locker room scene where you see some butt through a mist of shower steam.
It's not scary at all. I have discovered that the only thing that really scares me on this plane of existance is when I see eyes that are all black. That really freaks me out for some reason because it's just not right. As it happened, there's a lot of that in this movie, but it didn't scare me at all because it was really cheesey the way their eyes turned black. It wasn't scary at all.
What's the exact opposite of scary?
Tacos!
Yeah. It was that.

PS-can someone teach me how to post url's as hyperlinks? I'll buy you a beer!

How do you spell A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C?

2007-01-27T08:30:00.000Z

I spell it R-U-M-P-L-E-M-I-N-Z-E.
Vile. Just vile. As if Peppermint Schnapps itself weren't the most ungodly of spirits to concoct, someone had to go and distil it with 50% percent alcohol (100 proof for those in the dark and the mathematically challenged). Is that really necessary? I suppose it is. Because when I came home from work and discovered no beer in the fridge I decided that I should go out to the shed and see what kind of spirits were dwelling there.

Aside from the fact that we don't much keep soda in the house, as a general rule, and thusly I knew there would be no mixers to accompany what ever I should find, I somehow found it within my power, nay, my god-given right, to imbibe SOMETHING as a "nightcap" to the brutality that was my night of work behind the bar. And it was Rumple Minze. It's cold, I'll give it that; the temperatures these days are finally somewhat average for this locale. But honestly, I can't remember the last time Rumple Minze ever crosssed my lips without mostly Jaegermiester mixed with it. (Dead Nazis at the little bar on the way back to school from ski class, that's a shout out to ya', yo!)

NOBODY drinks Rumple straight. But for a select few. And I have a funny story about that but I won't relay it here. Now. It has to do with the chance of psychic powers and planetary alignments that anyone reading this will think is very crazy or ... crazier still. And I don't want to be committed to a mental institution. Yet.

Jane Smoe Dies

2007-01-17T08:44:00.000Z

Even if you happen to know her real name, you probably won't be reading her obit. When it even is ever published, what the fuck will it say? I'm no one to talk badly about the dead, but really, when is the last time you saw "Junkie Crack Whore dies at Age 33" headlining the obit page? Probably never. Which, for all intents and purposes it should probably say something differently, but the fact of the matter is that the obituary for this particular girl I have yet to read. In a fair world, I should never be reading it. As a matter of fact, if you would have talked to me fifteen years ago, I would have told you that SHE would be writing MY obituary. And she would have wrote about me, "Junkie Crack Whore dies at age 33."

Yet here I am and here she is nought; no more.

The truth is, she had the world at her feet. Talented, smart and beautiful, she just didn't know what to do with what she had. Hmmmm. Sounds kind of familiar to me?!?!?!?! I guess the main difference between myself and her was, I NEVER DID HEROIN! You know why? Because I knew I would love heroin so much, I would be an instant junkie. I would love it more than life itself. I would love it more than some stupid boy; more than I would love the sun at dusk or the moon at dawn. I knew that I would love Herion more than the very face of god upon me at any given moment. So despite having done, probably MOST drugs, including some derivitives of Opium, I never, ever, did herion. I guess I just knew myself too much. She got herself hooked before she had a chance to figure that out. And we were all left holding the fucking bag. There was so much trying to get her clean. There were so many second and third and tertiary chances, but, heroin ALWAYS wins and there comes a time you just have to let it go. And we all did.

I really don't know what to say about this. The ramifications of this girl's passing are only right now beginning to hit me. And even still they are like very weak left hooks, all of which I see coming from miles away. When it really sinks in, when I begin to understand, despite the years of distance and "not dealing," then I imagine I wil be really fucked up about it. I will probably be knocked out cold. If there is proper balance in this world than I will soon be a herion junkie. (I'm totally kidding - if there is justice in the world than no one I ever come into contact with in this lifetime will even look at heroin and consider it). She's the little sister I never had. She was so much better than me. And now she's gone.

I talked to a friend tonight who said, "Can you fucking believe it?" And I was like "Yeah, how can you not?" I mean, we're talking about Herion after all. It's just a matter of time. I didn't mean to be so callous. But that's how it goes.

Merrie, baby, RIP. I hope your love and light shines on! You had much more for this world than it had for you!

-T

I am not a real "Blogger."

2007-01-12T08:51:00.000Z

Real bloggers post every day.
Real bloggers don't still have fucking dial-up access.
Real bloggers are insightful. And witty. And, uh, other crap that I am not.
So I think that about sums up my experiment with this medium. It wins.
Kudos to all who do it and especially those who do it well.
Some write about poker. I don't play.
Some write about politics. I don't play that either.
Others write about popular culture. I can't imagine having to know every day of my life if Paris Hilton was wearing Jimmy Choo's or Maud Frizon's. I'm much more concerned with, "What did she drink?" and "How many" and "Did she leave a decent tip at the bar?"
Maybe...hmmmm, I'm thinking about this here ... maybe I should start a website that rates celebrity tippers. Great. I just gave away my idea. I won't do anything about it and then I'll hear in two months how some jackass sold his "Celebrity Tipping Website" to Google for a few billion dollars. Just my fucking luck.
The way I see it, celebrities are given way too much, especially when you take into account that THEY HAVE ALL THE MONEY! Years ago I worked as a cocktail waitess in a nightclub in PHI---(a large metropolitan city). One night all the girls raced back to me when I was waiting for drinks at the back service bar and started jumping up and down around me chanting "You have the Six Million Dollar Man at your table!!!!!" Whatever. He was there with a friend who was with the administratve arm of a certain organization of a certain West Coast (AFC) football club. Anyway, they had like four drinks apiece and towards the end of the night when they asked for their bill and I was printing it, my manager came running at me screaming, "What are you doing? Don't give them that check! I'm going to COMP it!" I was like, "Why? It's only $33 and he's the fucking SIX MILLION DOLLAR MAN!?!? He can afford to pay a $33 check!" That's when I realized that celebrities are special. So much more special that you or I.
A few weeks later I almost had to blow my mamager to get him to buy a few drinks when the Buffalo Sabres walked in to my section at the bar. Unfortunately their current superstar (Pierre Turgeon) was not present because, as Phil Housley told me, "He's only 19 and couldn't get into the bar." But they had a great time and lost to the Flyers the next night, thanks to me!
Maybe I just need to find my niche. I would like to write about Ren & Stimpy. Why can't I find Ren & Stimpy on DVD? I guess Viacom wont give up to the rights to THE FUCKING ARTIST WHO CREATED THEM, huh? Maybe it's something else. I dunno. Anyway. Sigh. I'm out of ideas. For now.

Always about this tipping thing

2007-01-06T05:10:00.000Z

Ok. I had a group of people tonight running a tab. The total bill was $269.70. The guy left me a $30 tip. I was expecting almost twice that amount. The guy who paid the bill was German. Now, I have nothing against Germans. I am of German decent. I know Germans. Wie gehts? The thing is, it is my understanding that in most, if not all, European countries "gratuity" is built into the cost of food and beverages; the service personell are paid a living wage; and there is no "tipping" required.
Now listen VERY carefully, especailly if you are a European who dines and drinks out anywhere in America. Here, you are not paying for the service you receive, you only pay for the food and beverages you consume; employees of bars and restaurants are NOT paid a living wage (I, for example, make $2.85. Yes, that's two dollars and eighty-five cents an hour); and it is customary to tip 15-20% of your bill as payment for the service you receive.
I'm required to report at least 12% of my sales as tips received. So if you leave me less than that, then I am essentially paying taxes on money I didn't even make. Thanks jackass, you're a fucking prince.

Happy New Year

2007-01-01T11:00:00.000Z

I actually worked New Year's Eve. Here's how the conversation went a few weeks ago:
MY BOSS: Terri, do you want to work New Year's Eve?
ME: No. Not really.
MY BOSS: Come on! I'm trying to book a party.
ME: That's cool. I don't really want to work. If you can't find anyone else to work I'll do it.
(Five minutes later)
MY BOSS: So Terri, can you work New Year's Eve?
ME: I already told you, if you can't find anyone else, I'll do it.
MY BOSS: (Indignantly) I need a yes or no answer!
ME: Ok. NO!
(Ten minutes later)
MY BOSS: I can't find anyone else to work. Can you do it?
ME: FINE!

I didn't really know what to expect. I finally learned that the guests would be comprised of about one hundred 21-25 year olds from the Main Line. Great, I thought, a massive influx of snotty, rude children who don't know how to tip.
What a surprise! As it turned out, the one hundred 21-25 year old children were not so childish after all. They were respectful, curteous and exteremely well-behaved. (I can only pray that they remain that way and not succumb to the snotty, rude ways of their parents). Oh, and they knew how to tip, some more than others, but suffice it to say, I went home with more cash in my pocket than I had anticipated.

Shortly after we poured a 100 person champagne toast and the DJ was playing Auld Lang Signe (SP?) I started crying that all I wanted to do was take a few minutes and call my family. But I was still dutifully serving the masses. Then as one guy ordered yet another vodka & Red Bull (OH and we must have poured a few hundred of those fuckers), his friend berated him and said, "Didn't you hear her? She just wants to take break and wish her husband and kids a Happy New Year! Can't you wait five fucking minutes for your drink????!!!!" I certainly made the man's drink and then looked around sheepishly before running off the bar to make my phone call. But I loved that guy who stood up for me; who gave me few moments of reprieve. What a good guy.

I'm sorry if you were hoping to hear stories of how I had to teach people the ways of the bar. But I really didn't have to. As I said earlier, I wish those kids would teach their parents how to behave at the bar.

2006-12-30T07:56:00.000Z

A few things that people have asked from me as a bartender:

1) "Get me a Genesis please"
You know how things go on in your head much faster than they do in real time? This was one of those moments for me. I was thinking, primarily, Geez, that's a new one. What's in that shot? And also, would that be Peter Gabriel Genesis or post-PG Genesis? And even still in that split second, supposing I did have a direct connection to the Godhead, is it actually possible that I could manage a real genesis all over again? (I was really thinking about how I might be able to pull that off, by the way, which should give you a good idea of my level of insanity). What would the repercussions of such a move be? Haven't we learned from the first one that the experiment has gone completely awry? I was thinking about how to cleverly respond to this demand while still politely asking him what was in this new drink when he must have read the look of total confusion on my face and condescendingly repeated, "A Genesis!" and pointed to the large brown tap handle on the far side of my beer tower. Before I even had the chance to give him the verbal equivalent of a total smack-down, his friend knocked him on the head and said, "Do you mean a GUINESS, you idiot!?"

2) "I need another Limbic"
Yeah, I thought, I'll bet you do. Your brain is obviously not wired properly because you don't know the difference between a system comprised of certain brain matter and nerves and a fermentation style of Belgian Ales. Luckily for this jackass, the only LAMBIC I had was a Lineman's Frambois, so I knew just what he really wanted. For that chick he was with. Who was not going to put out for him. At all.

3) "Can I get a ling-ling?"
Me: NO! If you can't say it, you can't have one.
It's Yuengling

I Told You So

2006-12-20T06:06:00.000Z

As so predicted, I knew the past few weeks would bring (the most unholy of) hosts of tidbits with which I could extrapolate upon in terms of how one should behave and not behave when they are at the bar. As I was working, I would come upon one situation after another that I deemed worthy of writing about. There have been several nights and several parties that produced enough fodder to keep me going well into the New Year. So you might be thinking, "Finally, she's updating that stupid little blog of hers and she will entertain me with her observations, sarcasm and wit for days to come!"

Well, uh ... you don't know me very well, do you? See, I forget a very large majority of the things I was so anxious to post about. At times I thought I should write them all down as they happened; taken notes, if you will. Of course, what you may not realize is that anything I write down when I am bartending goes either a) into my pants pocket to be eventually washed out in the laundry tub because the only thing that's important enough to take out of my pockets after work is the cash that I made or b) stuffed into my work bag which is basically akin to jettisoning something off into space, i.e., I'm never going to see it again, until I perform my twice yearly (Spring and Autumn) "Cleaning Out of The Work Bag Ritual" at which point all things I've written on little pieces on thermal paper have been rendered completely useless.

So that's where I am. I've posted, so there. But it may not be what you wanted to read. Sorry. I guess I'll go ahead (just because I'm not finished my beer yet) with some of my general, long-standing observations. We'll do this in standard outline form, complete with Roman numerals, upper and lower case letters, etc., just because I feel like it and I haven't done it since high school.

HOW TO BEHAVE AT THE BAR

I. Know what you want
A. Don't ever, ever, EVER get the attention of a bartender unless you know what you and/or your companions want to drink.
i. The main bar where I work is probably about 45 feet long (I have spatial issues, don't sweat the measurements) and I can't tell you how many times I have been at one end of the bar and noticed some guy way down at the other end doing jumping jacks and screaming "Hey! Hey You!" and then once I get down there and ask what I can get for him he just shrugs and says, "Uhhhh ... I dunno," then turns to his buddy and asks, "What do you want?" NO! No, no, no, no, NO! Bartenders don't care if more people are meeting you at the bar later, they don't care if you're not sure that chick with Jerry wants a Coors Light or a Miller Lite, they don't care about that time back in college when you and Smugly did thirteen rip chords apiece in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Bartenders want to know what you want to drink. They want to make your drinks and then they want you to pay for your drinks(II. below) and then they want you to leave an appropriate gratuity behind (III. below).
a. If you cannot comprehend the whole Order+Pay+Leave a Decent Tip=You're Not a Jackass equation, then I suggest you stick to doing rip chords in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Loser.

II. Have your money ready.
A. Don't fumble around with your coat or your wallet after you order drinks. Your payment should be in your hand before you even think about getting the bartender's attention.
B. It's like this: when you buy something, you pay for it. It's a very simple capitalistic transaction.
i. Would you walk into a Lexus dealer and ask for the keys to a GX SUV and then expect to drive it off the lot without some kind of monetary compensation? Would you go into Macy's, or WalMart for that matter and just grab something off the shelf, and try to stroll around the other stores at the (strip)mall? Do you ever buy something online and hit the "Okay, I'll just pay you later for this" button? I didn't think so. You buy, you pay. Simple, right? When you order a drink in the bar, don't look at the bartender like a leper begging for change. Pay Up!
ii. You want to run a tab? Super! That's fine. Just give us a credit card to hold the tab, okay? It's like insurance. Sure you and your buddies are all going to pitch in and pay cash at the end. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that .. well, okay, I don't trust you. But even if you are well-meaning, that still doesn't mean you won't all lose your heads and forget to pay the $115 bar tab after slowly slinking out of the building one by one.

III. Tipping
A. Is not a city in China
B. I obviously have a lot to say about this subject, but I'm not ready to do it on this post. Remember that beer I wasn't finished with earlier that stared this whole thing? Well, it's gone now and I don't want another one. If there's anything that bartenders crave other than a little understanding and heavy tips, it's bed. The sweet sanctity of sleep and dreams. And I need to claim a few hours before I wake up and do it all over again. So bye!
Happy Solstice/Yule!

Terri's Tip of the Day: Just sleep will you? If it's late at night, log off the computer and go to sleep. If it's early in the morning, go back to bed. If you're at work, snooze in your cube. If you're at the bar, find someone to take you home so you can go to bed. All I Want For Christmas Is Sleep.

On the Intention of Boys, Why I Drink So Much, and Malfuntioning Breathalyzer Equipment

2006-12-01T10:10:00.000Z

(This is an old post from an old source but since I know that Mom might be reading, I've cleaned it up. A little. Though not nearly as much as one might think I should, knowing my mother will be reading this.)

So I was in the bar where I work enjoying some adult malted beverages, which I think sounds a bit more sophisticated than "getting hammered" which is what I was actually doing. Almost every time I am at work, whether actually working or patronizing, I end up talking to someone, usually male, about all kinds of facsinatingly interesting stuff. I can’t help it. I actually brought a grown man to tears one night. His friend, who was driving him home, told him it was time to go. He said to me, “You’re blowing my mind with the things you say. I don’t want to leave you!” I’m like, Whoa dude! Whatever. Beat it. I have to leave soon myself or else my husband is going to be pissed.

See, inevitably the fact that I am married and/or have children enters into the discussion. More often than not, that pretty much puts an end to the conversation. I was talking to this one guy a few months ago for about forty-five minutes in between waiting on other customers at the bar. Someone I know came up next to him and asked to see a picture of my kids. I brought it out. The guy looked at it too.
GUY: So you have kids, huh?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Are you married?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Happily?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Well I’m going to let you get back to work now. I’m going over to talk to my friends.
ME: Bye.

The guy usually thinks he just wasted so much time working towards getting himself laid only to realize that it won’t be happening with ME. I’m thinking that you can’t really fault me for anything. Am I supposed to wear a sign that says, “Will Talk, But Will Not Fuck You For a Million Dollars” or something? No. That’s not fair. I think HE should wear a sign that says “Only Looking To Bang Some Drunk Chick. Please Don’t Say Anything To Me Unless You Are Willing or Might Become Willing if I Get You Completely Wasted.”

My point is this: Why can’t two adults simply engage in enlightening conversation? Why does there always have to be the hint of potential copulation lurking in the background? It’s really disheartening to me. I think that we would be more productive as a species if we could have a healthy exchange of ideas and a reasonable dialogue to make changes in the world without some guy nodding in earnest at some chick but thinking in his head, “Wow, this girl has some crazy ideas about how we can improve the lives of farmers in impoverished nations. . . I wonder if she’s this crazy in the sack?”

Like this guy Wednesday night. He said he was from Panama. I’ll give him credit, at one point he flat out asked me what I was doing later, that the only reason he was out here was because some other guy said there would be a lot of drunk chicks. As it happened the bar was beat that night. I think I might have been the only drunk chick in there. We were just talking about all kinds of crazy shit. But like I said, about halfway through the night, he was straight up honest that he needed to be having sex with SOMEONE that very night. I made it glaringly apparent that he would not, under any circumstances, be having it with me. That didn’t stop him though. He started getting touchy/feely, which really skeeves me out. If you don’t know me, don’t touch me.

So I started talking about how Panama used to be a part of Columbia and the only reason they even got to be a country was because Teddy Roosevelt needed a place to build his canal. I thought maybe it would bruise his patriotism, make him not like me so much anymore and back off. Nope. I went over to the back bar where my friends/regular customers were sitting; he followed me. I went upstairs; he followed me. Man! This guy was persistent. At one point I was telling him to be careful driving back to his hotel, as the particular stretch of road upon which he had to travel was fascistly patrolled by one rookie State Trooper who does everything ‘by the book.’ He asked me if I felt safe going home and I told him I did. Then he laid his hand on top of mine and looked me in the eyes and said, “You really feel safe? You feel safe walking out of here tonight?” That’s right about when I fled upstairs to completely get away from him. I mean WTF? That seemed like a threat to me. Ef that. Freak. He finally left. For that I was most thankful.

I guess it serves me right, I shouldn’t talk to guys in bars. Ever. It’s just that I like hearing other people’s points of view, their thoughts and feelings and ideas. I’m completely facsinated by what goes on in other people’s brains because I don’t think like normal people. Aside from the mess I got myself into described above, I had a pretty fun night. I was actually talking to lots of different people about lots of different things.

I’m beginning to become concerned with this talking to people in bars thing because my worst fear is to say something stupid. Unfortunately, I tend to do that all too often, but mostly when I’ve been drinking. At another point of this particular Wednesday I was with a guy I work with talking to this older couple who were boozing at the upstairs bar. The next day, the guy from work said to me, “We were talking about some serious shit” [or something like that] “Do you remember what we were talking about?” And I’m like, “SHIT! NO! Did I say anything stupid!” He claims I didn’t. I can only pray . . .
But this all brings me to the second phase of this post; Why I Drink So Much. It really is a problem. And I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to be a full-fledged alcoholic or worse yet, a recovering alcoholic. I can’t imagine never drinking booze again. That would flat out suck.

I just don’t seem to know when to stop. Correction: most of the time I DO know when to stop, I just keep going anyway. And I think I figured out why I do this. I am SO afraid of saying something stupid that I figure if I am frequently engaged in the actual act of beverage comsumption, I can’t possibly be speaking. That’s why I feel I constantly have to have an inverted bottle of Miller Lite in my mouth or my bottom lip supporting the rim of an overflowing shot glass.

On this particular night in question I didn’t really have THAT much to drink. I started with an abnormally large shot(s?) of Jaegermeifster. Then I had two pints of Troegs and a pub can of Chocolate Stoudt. After that I figured I better lay off the alcohol. So I had a Miller Lite. And then another. And then another (and a shot of Jaeger). Then a few more Miller Lites and maybe another shot or two and possibly another Miller Lite. I remember being really tired so I lined up three bar stools and to lie down. My ususal M.O. is to crash on one of the pool tables but I think there may have been actual patrons using them at the time. My co-worker/the bartender asked if I was okay because apparently I was on my back with my arms sticking straight up in the air. Like a dead bug. [This is an actual Yoga pose. Though for me to honestly say I was doing Yoga at this point in time would be, well, false.]

I finally left, after getting a walk out from my friend (because I envisioned that creepy Panama guy jumping out from behind a tree), got in my car and went home. Without incident. Again.

I’ve got to tell you, the gods of drunk driving have looked down upon me with favor too many times to count. Sure, I might have put a dent or two in a vehicle or two (or as one friend once said, “What happened to your car? It looks like you’ve been running Nascar or something”). But my record is untarnished by a DUI. I’ve never had to call my husband from jail in the middle of the night. And I was thinking all day Thursday how sooner or later the gods WILL ask me to pay up if I step over some invisible line, which is unmarked and unknown to me. That brings me to the third and final phase of this post . . .The Malfunctioning Breathalizer.

I worked Thursday night and got done at a reasonable hour so I decided to go and see my friend’s new apartment. Upon entering the place I was greeted by a Jaeger Bomb and a Miller Lite. We were hanging out and someone had the brilliant idea that we should go catch last call at the bar down the road and I should, actually was, the only one with the capability to, drive. The Voice of Reason in my head (man, I freaking HATE that thing) said, “Nope. Bad idea. Just stay here for a bit. Then be on your way home.” When I opened my mouth to repeat the words of The Voice of Reason, the weirdest thing happened; this is what came out: “Good idea, come on, let’s hurry.” FUCK! What did I just say? I’m absolutely RETARDED! When we got to the bar the bartender just shook his head, as in “No Way. You missed last call. Too late.” But we’re in the business. We know the rules. It was still before two. The boys talked our way onto barstools complete with drinks sitting in front of us. We dropped the name of a mutual friend and I think it maybe also had something to do with that Andrew Jackson guy. And his twin brother. I only had one Miller Lite (I think) and a few (I think) sips of a Jaeger Bomb. Then we were on our way back to the apartment.

Let me tell you something about Malvern. I used to spend a great deal of time with the wrong crowd loitering in Malvern as a young teen. There was an arcade and the Mobil station sold cigarettes for eighty-five cents a pack. This was a time when the government wasn’t all that weird about selling cigarettes to fourteen-year-old girls. Maybe if there were such restrictions then as there are now, I wouldn't be as close to death as I currently am. Anyway, back then Malvern was known as a One Stop Light Town. These days Malvern is known as a One Stop Light and Four or Five New Stop Signs Town. It was one of these Stop Signs that very nearly brought my life as I know it to a screetching, sobering halt.
We were pulling into the apartment complex when I noticed the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I immediately thought, “Thank merciful Jesus I’m not completely wasted.” But then it dawned on me that I had been drinking and very well could be over the legal limit. That fight or flight response kicked in to the point that my Blood Adrenaline Content could very well surpass and nudge out the Blood Alcohol Content.

Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: No officer, actually I don’t.
Cop: You failed to make a complete stop back at that stop sign.
My friend in the passenger seat: {cough, cough} BULLSHIT!
Oh hell! Here we go! I’m FUCKED! In my friend’s defense, he obviously had more to drink than I and was still reeling from a previous encounter, involving alcohol and the operation of a motor vehicle, with that rookie State Trooper I mentioned earlier in this post. The cop shined the flashlight in his face and gave an obligatory “Excuse ME!?!?” But luckily that quickly blew over. I looked over and my friend had a picture of my grandfather in a swing chair on the porch of his home in the midwest. My friend just explained that he thought it was bullshit that the man in the photo was my grandfather. Good cover Pop Pop!

I told the cop I was dropping off my friends; we had been at work and stopped at the bar for a few. I had to get out of the car and do the Breathalyzer test. As I said, I was about 50/50 here. A little nervous but also somewhat confident I may actually be under the limit. I blew the first time.

COP: It doesn’t look good Teresa.
Me: No?
COP: No. It says point-one-two.
My blood pressure started rising.
COP: We’re going to do this again. You really have to wrap your lips around it tightly and blow really hard.
Hmmm. That sounds a little sexually suggestive. Maybe I can sue him for harassment. I blew again. I see the little display read: .88
ME: Shouldn’t I be dead? That CAN’T be right.
COP: Yeah something’s wrong with this thing. Hold on.
He started shaking it and tapping it and whatnot.
I blew again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
He released the little plastic thing you put your mouth on and let it fall to the ground. The tree hugger in me was appalled.
ME: Oh! Don’t litter. Can I pick that up? I’m going to pick that up.
COP: Leave it alone! Don’t touch it!
He got a new plastic thingy and put it on. As if THAT had anything at all to do with why his shit wasn’t working.
Again - .88
Again - .88
COP: Let me ask you something. After you drop your friends off, where are you going?
ME: Well I was going to go home, but I guess I’ll stay for a little while and give myself some more time before I drive.
COP: No. You’re staying till morning. Park your car right over there. I’ll be checking on it and if I see it gone, I’ll find you.
ME: Yes sir.
And that was that.

I remember thinking during the whole thing how hard it would suck if I actually got busted when I wasn’t even really fucked up. I felt like saying to the cop, “You should have nailed me last night, because I was out of my fucking mind! I would have blown a .2 AT LEAST! I barely remember driving home for shit’s sake!” I don’t feel like transcribing the whole coversation I had with my husband immediately following this scene but it started like this: “The good news is I’m not in jail. But the bad news is I’m not allowed to drive home.”

So I guess that was my final wake-up call. I hope it was anyway. I’ve seen DUI charges majorly fuck with the lives of people I care deeply about. I really can’t afford it. In any sense of the word. I mean honestly, how bad would it look if I had to send my children to school with a note that says, “Please excuse the kids for their absence yesterday, but they missed the bus and I couldn’t drive them because my licensce is suspended for driving drunk.”
Yeah I think the party may be over. At least in the sense that I have to be more aware of the whole drinking/driving aspect. It’s time to be responsible. I have way too much to lose. I’m going to have to restrict my heavy drinking to times when:
a) I’m at home.
b) I’m out with friends and someone sober is driving me (which is never).
c) I can just crash for the night where ever I am (which, according to my husband, is never. Unless of course an officer of the law has ordered it, but I don’t ever want to be in that position again).
That or maybe there’s someone out there who wants to just drive me around and take me home when I’m plastered.
I can’t pay you.
But I’m very fun and interesting to talk to.

Terri's Tip of The Day: My mother just read this. Think about that. If you, for whatever reason, think that you have some kind of story to bribe me with, forget it. My mom has the most salaciously juicy stories about me that are possible. It's not a matter of what you can dig up to bribe me to keep from my mother; it's how much I can come up with to keep my mom from telling YOU!

I Came, I Saw, Used Your Computer and Drank All Your Beer

2006-12-01T07:48:00.000Z

Work tonight was decent. Corporate bar tabs rule. I even was finished in time to go to the bar down the road. But after I had one beer, all of a sudden, I had missed last call and couldn't get anymore to drink. (Long story really, not getting into it here). But then I thought to myself, "Where can I go get drink at this hour?" And it dawned on me. Mom's! I went to my mom's/sister's house and since mom is in Boston (Hi MOM! How are the Brandy Old Fashions up there?), I didn't really feel badly about waking anybody up.

I didn't wake anyone up mind you, I just wanted some high-speed internet access (we still have dial-up at home) and a nightcap. I managed to finish the previous post and scour the refrigerators for something to drink. It was somewhat disheartening. Sis gets growlers, which are big jugs of draft beer, to go. Lately she's prone to a jug of Bass and a jug of Guinness to mix black and tans. I was met by just that. Only it was the last little bit of Bass and the last little bit of Guinness in the fridge. My heart sank as I realized that it would be both totally inconsiderate and downright rude of me to drink the last of both sources of beer. But then I figured that, as Scarlett O'Hara says, "tomorrow is another day" and she can just come get more beer. From ME! At MY bar. So there was no more morality playing into it. I'll be seeing her tomorrow.

TerriTheBartender

Terri's Tip of The Day:
If you live between where I work and where I live, and you have booze, and I know how to get into your house, expect me. Eventually I will be there.

More Fodder

2006-11-30T02:45:00.000Z

I got another job (as in, additional to the one I already have) yesterday. Actually I got two. Awesome! I now have three jobs. And I probably won't make enough money at all of them to qualify as one real job. I got hammered last night. Full on loaded, total blackout, my head was pounding in the morning like it hasn't been in a long time, drunk. And I totally forget what I was drinking. Something about a tattoo guy. It was some kind of spiced rum because the Captain Morgan bottles were gone and this one was the same price, ergo, I figured it wasn't "generic" plus it was 92 proof (more than Cap'n at 80) so I'd give it a shot, or three-fourths of the bottle as it was. Back to the issue, or point, if you will, as it now stands, I will be working at several different places and will have lots and lots of stories in the future. I think that was the point of the post.

TerriTheBartender

Terri's Tip of the Day:
If you go to the liquor store to guy a specific brand of liquor, and they don't have it, but there is something similar on the shelf next to the emptiness that is what you had intended to purchase, don't buy the new stuff "on a whim" because there is probably a really good reason why you have never heard of that liquor before.

People are Savages

2006-11-25T09:29:00.000Z

I worked a party that was a 25th year high school reunion. Despite the fact that they all crowded the bar for the first few hours, while I sweetly reminded them of all the food they had at the buffet table, tipping was somewhat mediocre. We got some quarters. Quarters aren't bad, per se, but when they are the only change remaining after paying five dollars for a beer that cost $4.75... um, let's just say that's not even 5%. My co-bartender even relayed a story about how one guy paid for a $4.25 beer with a five, waited for his seventy-five cents change and then left two quarters on the bar, slipping one of them back into his pocket.

These people had gone to a fairly affluent school, mind you. Though my coworker remarked more than once that his high school had repeatedly kicked this high school's assess in all major athletic endeavors. I, myself, had once attended this particular school they were celebrating the 25th year of their escape from, but only my freshman year. I had issues with demerits, and if you are not familiar with any kind of parochial school disciplinary code, think of them as "little written spankings." I would get demerits for such egregious behaviors as not wearing my knee socks pulled up to my knees, not wearing my name tag or my little '87 pin that pegged me as a freshman or threatening to beat the shit out of that Missy chick just because I thought she was "a stuck-up priss." Apparently I had accumulated enough of these demerits that Saturday detention was necessary. This is now commonplace but 20 years ago it was not. I could not fathom going to school on a saturday, so I never went. Needless to say, one year was enough for me. I had been in the Honors program and went from A's and B's first marking period to low C's and below by the third. But that's enough about me. I need to tell you about the savages.

Forty-three-year-old savages. Savages who think they are very grown up and mature because they have good jobs and lots of money. Yet not enough money to properly tip a bartender who makes less than three dollars by the hour.

Things I found on the buffet table:

Shrimp tails: There were two different shrimp cocktail bowls and in both of them I would find tails that obviously had had their meat eaten and the tails just thrown back into the bowl. Class act. Your mouth was on them and you threw them back in a bowl of other shrimp which other people are going to put in their mouths. Plates and napkins abound on the buffet tables, mind you!

Wing bones: a plate being used as a tong rest for the tongs that people had to use to put wings on their plate was full of gnawed-upon wing bones, which were piled on top of the actual tongs! Again, there's this whole mouth-to-object-to-another-person's-mouth dynamic that I find quite sickening. Did I mention that there were plenty of plates and napkins on the tables?

Cigarette butts in glassware: This is one of my biggest pet peeves. Everybody listen up: if you do not see an ashtray and do not have the sense to ask an employee of the establishment you are patronizing to get you one, or if your ashtray is full and none of the help has come around to empty it (which they SHOULD be doing), plus you don't have the wherewithal to reach over and empty it into that trash can that's two feet away from your table, then just use the floor. Seriously. Unless it's carpet. We would rather sweep cigarette butts off the floor than have to dig them out of glasses that people have to drink out of! Sure, they're washed at temperatures that burn our hands every time we empty the glass washer and sanitized with chemicals that are probably killing you slowly, but that's just foul to look at a glass with butts floating in it and think, "Great! I wonder if next beverage will be served in that!"

SAVAGES!

TerriTheBartender

Terri's Tip of the Day:
If you are approaching middle age and plan to go into a bar and boast loudly about how successful you are and how much money you make, please be prepared to back that up. With cash. Bartenders are not impressed by anything you say about yourself. They are impressed by how much money comes out of your pocket and into their tip jars.

My Son is Thankful for the Dallas Cowboys

2006-11-24T03:39:00.000Z

I'm hungry.
I mean it.
You'd think with all these leftovers I would easily be able to satiate my hunger, but I just want a pizza or something.

I cooked this year. My first Thanksgiving meal. It was easy because I only had to cook for myself, my husband and my kids and they don't eat anything. I also took the time to carefully plan my cooking strategy:

AM
Make Breakfast
Clean Clean Clean
Make sure counters are as clear as possible
[note: I have about 3 square feet, tops, of counter space to prepare food and another 1.5 for stacking up the various bowls and knives and measuring spoons to dry. I have the smallest kitchen in the world. It's about the size of your bedroom closet. That being said, you can surely understand that a proper game plan is essential in order to make several dishes simultaneously, using an oven that doesn't work so well and only the larger two of four saucepans because the smaller two are stuck in some storage cabinet in the pop-up camper which at this time is popped-down.]

12:00 make carrot dressing refrigerate
12:30 boil sweet potatoes, set aside to cool
12:45 toast walnuts
1:00 Make green bean dressing let stand to blend
1:15 start stuffing and put in oven
2:00 peel potatoes (start boiling), prepare carrots and green beans, warm gravy [because, yes, the gravy came out of a jar]
2:30 cook carrots/beans
2:45 make sweet potato syrup and put them in broiler

You may be wondering, what about the turkey? Aha, see that was my husband's job. He flash fried it in peanut oil outside on the deck. That thing cooked in about 40 minutes. We sat down to eat later than planned, because of complications with the turkey. But everything turned out well. The kids ate a few bites of turkey and I think my daughter might have swallowed the few slivers of carrot that stuck to her teeth after she spit the larger portion back out onto the plate. My husband and I had two plates each. Dessert was Apple Crisp and Breyer's Vanilla Ice Cream. No I did not make apple pie. I made apple crisp because it's easier and quicker. Sure I could have bought those pre-made pie crusts, but what's the point. And you certainly don't remember seeing "make pie crust pastry dough" on the flippin' schedule above did you?

I'm going to hunker down with the cheese and crackers I had bought to use as "appetizers" but forgot to put together earlier in the afternoon. I guess I should have put that on my schedule! They will go well with the wine I am drinking, which is terrible. But at least I won't go to bed hungry!

TerriTheBartender

Terri's Tip of the Day: If the Turkey is not progressing as planned because, a) the oil is taking longer than anticipated to heat up or, b) it didn't cook through in the allotted time and you had to throw it back in the oil or, c) both a and b above, please remember to take the stuffing out of the oven so the bottom doesn't burn to a hard crust. It may really upset you that the stuffing, while still mostly edible, did not turn out perfect. Especially when you were so psyched to find that artisan Cranberry Walnut whole grain loaf that you just knew would make the best stuffing ever.

Amateur Night

2006-11-24T02:35:00.000Z

Ahhh, Thanksgiving Eve! The night before the great feast has become a time to pause after traveling near and far, a time to catch up with relatives or reconnect with friends you haven't seen since high school, a time to prepare for the day of sloth and gluttony that awaits on the other side of the night. For many, it's a time to go the bar and get hammered.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is known as the busiest night in the bar industry. Everyone goes out. Especially people who don't ever patronize any kind of watering hole ever. Amateurs don't know how to behave, they don't know how to properly order a drink, and they certainly have no clue how to effectively compensate their bartenders and servers with adequate gratuity. But they sure do act like drinking in the bar is their JOB!

This night is actually the kickoff to what I call "Amateur Season." It's the time between Thanksgiving and New Year's, inclusive of both, when hordes of people who wouldn't set foot in a bar at any other time of year, can be spotted in bars everywhere soaking up their share of the Holiday Spirit. Maybe it's the annual Office Party that brings them in, maybe they are meeting acquaintances or family at a neutral location. Or maybe they just have a hankering for a Bailey's on the rocks and don't know where the liquor store is.

I missed this year's Thanksgiving Eve festivities. I didn't find myself on either side of the bar. The particular establishment of my employ has in recent years somehow avoided these teeming masses. For good or ill. Plus I'm not presently working Wednesdays as a matter of course. And I didn't even venture out to knock back a few. I decided that I would rather stay home, go over my recipes and the write out a schedule so as to have the entire Thanksgiving meal perfectly prepared and timed to commence at 3pm sharp. Finally by the fourth draft, I had it down.

The other reason I stayed home was because I had gone to the liquor store for some wine and also picked up a bottle of authentic Pennsylvania Dutch Egg Nog with rum, brandy and whisky already added. That was a ruse. If you see this product, don't buy it. I prefer to mix my own drinks, thank you. I don't doubt that there was booze in there, it just wasn't nearly enough.

So I have no Amateur stories from that evening. But there are surely some forthcoming, due to all of the Holiday office parties I will be working in the next four weeks. Maybe I'll do a Thanksgiving post. Maybe I won't. Hope you all had a wonderful day!
Cheers!

TerriTheBartender

Terri's Tip of the Day: Don't ever go out the night before Thanksgiving. If you must socialize, host a cocktail party at your house. Or just invite yourself over to someone else's.

The DaVinci Code movie sucks

2006-11-22T03:44:00.000Z

I realize this has nothing to do with the bar, which is why we don't discuss themes of a religious nature whilst imbibing alcohol, presumably when in the probable company of others of many different (or none whatsoever) religious beliefs. My point is this: The movie sucks. I knew it sucked about three and a half minutes into it. It should have never been made into a movie as it was only a mediocre book. My problem is this: it (movie and book) blends some really important histoical fact with a great deal of fiction. Note to the unlearned: Novel=fiction=not real. See, all the furor that surrounded the book had to do with the fact that there arose a "cult" of sorts of people who decided to take the words of this book as some sort of Gospel. I'll refer you again to the Novel=fiction=not real equation above. IT'S A BOOK JACKASS! And they made it into a shitty movie that can't even hold a candle to the book. But since we have to discount it as fiction, smart people, whom it may behove to think otherwise, now think that ALL of the stories of the book/movie are untrue, which they aren't.

For my money, "Angels and Demons" was at least, as a literary piece, much better than The DaVinci Code. It was the book Dan Brown wrote before he wrote "The DaVinci Code". Don't wait for the movie. Aside from the fact that it will probably never happen, you can probably pick it up at your local library. You know what a library is, right?

Terri's Tip Of The Day: Craft breweries that make decent beer: Victory, Rogue, Dogfish Head, Flying Fish, Troegs

From the Beginning

2006-11-22T00:14:00.000Z

Day 1, Post 1
I guess I should start where it all began. I was fourteen years old and heard about this sleazy little dive seafood "restaurant" that paid five bucks an hour (under the table, obviously, note my age at the time) plus tips. It wasn't even really waitressing or "serving" as it's now, gender-neutrally, known. The people would come in and order their dinner at the counter. They would then get a clam shell with a number painted on it and find their own table. When their food was ready, my job was to walk out to the tables and scream "Number Seventeen!!!" and find the table with the clam shell that had a number seventeen painted on it and drop their plates of food in front of them. Of course, I would have sometimes also served their sodas prior to that, but it was a B.Y.O.B place and, trust me, most people brought their own booze into this joint. When there weren't any tables to wait on, I would be doing food preparation in the back, buttering garlic bread, breading shrimp, stuff like that.

Now I don't want to give away my age but let's just say this was back in the '80's. Now after many (MANY) years, at least twelve restaurants, hotels and bars, two colleges, one bachelor's degree, a REAL job (if you call sitting in a cube under flourescent lights a real job - I call it SLAVERY!), a husband and a few kids, I've found that I am still doing what I was doing when I was fourteen (job-wise, I mean, if I was still doing now what I was doing then, I'd probably be in jail --- or dead) and that is: serving food and beverages to people of whom 95 percent feel that 1) they are smarter and better than me, and 2) I exist for the sole purpose of being the person they metaphorically shit on whenever they have the need to feel better about their own pathetic lives.

All I have to say is, thank heavens for the 5 percent. The ones who treat me as a human being, realize that I am actually a person with her own set of hang-ups and problems and accomplishments. And especially the select few who pay the electric bill and inadvertently buy new shoes for my children, take me to Tool concerts and let me make an ass of myself. If it weren't for that 5 percent then, well, remember that guy who took target practice from the tower at the University of Texas back in the 60's? Right, of course you don't, you sniveling little child of the internet age. How about Columbine or that DC sniper? You remember them don't you? Well, if it weren't for the 5 percent, you wouldn't know the names Eric Harris or John Lee Malvo either. You would only know mine. (Side Note: The DHS has already flagged this blog now hasn't it? And on my first post! Whoo-Hooo).

For about ten years now I've been threating to write a book about how to behave when you are out at a bar or restaurant. To be fair I've wanted to pay equal time to educate those who work in the service industry as to how they should be treating their guests. Cause I go out too. And I get shitty service too. I'm just blessed to have worked for the last several years along side of many true professionals who know what they are doing in this business. I realized that no one reads books anymore. Except for me and, hopefully, the people whom I give books as gifts to. Everyone just reads the internet. Here you may be educated, here you may hopefully laugh, here you may disagree and send me nasty comments, here you may learn the secret to the perfect margarita. So, welcome to my blog.

TerriTheBartender

Terri's tip of the day: You know, I wanted to start this out on the right foot by giving an actual tip that would help people as they weave their way through the game that is bar culture. But halfway through lunch today I picked up a credit card slip that had a total bill of $22 and change. The bill was signed for a total of $25 (that's a $2 and change tip) and I thought that really sucked. But my actual Tip of the Day was ZERO! ZILCH! NADA! Another check of $23.42 with a big slash mark through the tip line. And no cash accompanied it. Gosh --- I hope that lady didn't get into a horrific disfiguring automobile accident after she left the restaurant. I sincerely hope that she doesn't go to the doctor tomorrow and find out she has an aggressively untreatable cancer and won't live to see the new year. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even the worst waitress in the world.