04.24.06

I actually had someone put a spell on me the other night. I’m not kidding (or at least they weren’t kidding). They ordered a drink, I made it, they didn’t like it, and so I made them another. They didn’t like it either, so I made yet another. They didn’t like it and I refused to make a fourth drink when I’ve already made thousands just like it and was pretty sure I had it down. So, they stood up, and began to mumble at me in a strange language. Then told me that I was henceforth cursed. No telling what exactly the curse was though. I hope they didn’t make me 30 IQ points lower, cause then I might believe in magic and really be freaked out.

I used a little magic of my own and made them disappear—at least from the bar.

Now, I’ve had a lot of strange things happen in my day but a magic curse? Give me a fucking break. I’m not a believer in magic or witchcraft or any other tomfoolery. It’s just a bunch of medieval bullshit.

Look, I know some folks are hard-pressed to believe in something to feel special but I just wished that they could keep it out of the realm of make-believe or at least far away from me. And if nothing else, I wish they’d learn what fucking drink they are trying to order before they turn into the Wicked Witch of the West. Besides, if they really knew magic, why not just conjure up your own fucking drink in the first place? That way, it’d be perfect and we’d all be happy. Morons. Magical, pathetic, morons oh my.

A customer asked me the other day if I thought there was any hope of robots taking over my job: bartending. I told her that I didn’t think it would happen anytime soon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s happened somewhere-probably a bar in Japan-but I just don’t see it catching on here for awhile. At least, unlike some customers, I hope not.

I’m sure a robot could recognize a regular’s retina and call them by name and pour their favorite drink or listen to an order and prepare it for a complete stranger. I’m sure it’s possible for a bar owner to save money in the long run because with a robot there are no (or at least fewer) mistakes and heavy pours. There’d be less dipping from the drawer (a habit some unscrupulous people practice). There’d be an instant database to settle disputes. There’d be no human errors or frailties. There’d be not attitudes from silly humans who don’t appreciate being talked down to by those they serve. There’d be no need for tips. And there’d be no need to interact with another human at all while you get a buzz on in a public place. I’m sure some would find this option attractive. Why deal with a human when you have an electronic slave, they might argue?

Machines have replaced humans in many aspects of human life: ATM’s instead of clerks at banks, Voice Menus on the phone instead of customer service representatives, and assembly-line machines that make other machines. All of these things and more have happened with more on the way. Thus, maybe I’m silly to think that I (and thousands like me) won’t be replaced someday by robots. And, I’m also sure the day will come that when only robots serve us, we may end up serving them. Who knows, maybe they’ll be better customers too. Hopefully they are programmed to tip well.

Looking back, I’ve pretty much been writing a handbook for beginning bartenders or clueless clients. Hopes it’s helped. Certainly can’t tell from the responses but you’ll have that. I imagine there is at least one soul out there reading this stuff. If not, at least I get to write a little. It helps to clear the mind of all the built-up bullshit collected after a day or two of serving “the man” or rather, a few hundred Venice tourists and a few dozen “locals.” I put the word in parenthesis (yes English fucking major slinging drinks) because a local in Venice can mean a fuckload of different things. For example:

1. LIFER’S: Folks who were living here when “a dime bag still cost a dime”* These folks have seen some changes and can’t wait to tell you all about the downside of every one of them. Most of them are real cool and have some great stories but nothing you do will EVER match what once was. Ce La Vie.

2. THE FIVERS: People who have managed to survive here for over five years. A lot of these dudes have made it on the boardwalk selling their art (or juggling chainsaws, handling snakes, making sand castles etc). There’s something to be said about tenacity and some of them are pretty fucking talented. You don’t make if five years on this boardwalk without skill or a killer gimmick. You should see this Magician, I know.

3. THE BABYS: People who haven’t been here five years. Most of them aren’t more than yearlings. It’s a tough place to make it. The percentages aren’t high. I’m not saying everyone fails, some just move up, on, or over but definitely out. Lots of spiritual quests and Hollywood hopefuls. Lots of heartbreak but some great fucking parties.

4. THE HOMELESS: These can fall into any of the above but you can’t help wishing that the Senate would come down and have morning coffee with these guys sometime.

Fuck, here I am defining shit again. Oh well. You know what I do. I’m just trying to tell you where I live. More later.

*Willy Nelson in “Half-Baked.”

I’m back. Drum Circle tonight. Wow, love that shit. First off, I’m going to assume that at least one person doesn’t know what a Drum Circle is. Basically, any and every person with ANY kind of drum heads out to the beach around sunset and begins pounding on it. Each person has a beat that blends into some pretty primal shit by sunset and into the night. Lots of people dancing around and lots of people just watching. Some people are fucked up on whatever, some people are crazy high on the rhythm. It’s a good time. I make it every time I can which happens to be about once a month. It’s my lunar cycle. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all a New-ager. I’m not buying any of that crap. Not buying the “Good Book” either. What I am buying is a whole lot of people dancing peacefully and freely around a hundred thumping drums under the stars. That’s been going on a helluva lot longer than any of that other garbage. Yeah, I gotta get up and go to work in the morning but that’s cool, that’s reality. The Drum Circle. That’s a different matter altogether. Viva La Cirque De Drum (or however the French would say it).

Fucking holiday bullshit. How’s that for cheer? We started hanging up holiday shit in the bar today, god damn it. First of all, it’s a tremendous pain in the ass. Second, it’s cheesy as shit. Third, what’s the point? If you’re alone getting hammered in a bar over the holidays the last thing you want to be reminded of is that you’re alone getting hammered in a bar over the holidays. For fuck sake. Am I crazy or is it me? Anyway, we start hanging these strings of bullshit cheer about and a couple of regulars get heated. One of them is angry because we have one that says “X-mas” and that’s like leaving Christ out of Christmas. I told her he hadn’t been in Christmas for a little over 2,000 years and she got bent. Oh well, if she’s a Christian, she’ll find it easy to forgive me. Anyway, next, this guy starts in on how he’s offended at the banner that actually says “Christmas” because he’s not a Christian. I’m not making this shit up, fuck you (it’s like Springer Light, isn’t it?). I tell him that Christmas is a Christian holiday and he calls me out for contradicting myself. I tried to explain that both comments had different context; one was humorous the other was factual. I also tried to explain that one could argue that while Christmas is a Christian holiday it can be said to be lacking in almost anything to do with Christianity. He shut me down like Bill O’Reilly. What a pig-headed fucker. Oh well I didn’t even want to hang the fuckers up in the first place. Choose your battles well. I’ve already chosen mine. Sometime early next year, I’m going down to the basement after close and I’m going to dispose of every box of holiday cheer (except St. Patty’s, Halloween, and The 4th of July).

Strange night last night. I almost got into a fight because I refused to serve a woman who was very obviously pregnant. It’s a strange argument once you break it down. I believe in freedom. I believe in a woman’s right to choose. I believe in drinking. I even believe that having children can be a good thing (not from experience yet). I also believe that I have the right to refuse service to anybody (legally true). I just have a hard time watching a pregnant woman smoke and drink. It’s her body, it’s her baby, but it’s my bar (when I’m tending it) and I just can’t be a part of what it is she’s doing. I’ve had some people agree with me, saying I did the right thing and I’ve had others tell me that it’s none of my fucking business and my job is to serve alcohol to those of legal age who want to buy it. Who knows? What I do know is that something within me can’t or won’t serve alcohol to a pregnant woman. I’m sure she’ll get it somewhere else and it’s not my problem. I guess that’s the sad fact for most of us…out of sight, out of mind. Only this time, it stuck in my mind. Any opinions out there?

It’s that time of year again: Pro Football Season. I love it, it’s good for business and it’s good for people to get their minds off of other things for a few hours a week. Alas, being a die-hard Raiders fan (who isn’t in LA?), it looks like another tough year but we shall see. Football and bars go together like no other sport. Sure NBA Playoffs are great but the regular season just doesn’t pack the house. Sure the World Series is amazing but the day to day grind of 160 games just doesn’t offer much of a chance to get real excited with scores of others. March Madness is exciting…in March. Hockey…well we all know that story. Only football holds the luster. Maybe it’s the comparative short schedule. Maybe it’s the sheer excitement of the game (between lame-ass commercial breaks). Maybe it’s our version of the gladiatorial games of Rome (UFC not included). Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s the right sport on the right day at the right time of year. And maybe it’s simply that I’m a huge football fan who makes a killing in tips every Sunday. Either way, Go Raiders and may football live forever.

Also: SWM seeks SWF for halftime sex and post game cuddling. Had to try.

There’s a reason that people shouldn’t talk about politics and/or religion in a bar. If you’re that into Jesus, go drink his fucking wine and leave me out of it. If you’re that into “W” then you should be rich and white enough to go to a better place than this one. Either way, leave me out of the whole fucking shebang and talk about sports or something. At least I have a factual book of statistics to quell those arguments. I’m sick and tired of people getting drunk and laying down opinions like it’s the law. These circular arguments end up going nowhere, impressing nobody, changing nothing, pissing people off, and basically wasting my fucking time and energy. If you’re that into something, start a sober discussion group or buy a related magazine. Watch C-Span or Jim Bakker’s retard hour in Branson, Missouri. Either way, get it out of the bars where people are trying to relax and enjoy a few hours away from the mire you people have cast us into.

I’ve heard it said that Tequila is the only alcohol that is a stimulant and not a depressant. I don’t know if this is true but it sure seems to stimulate those who drink it into doing some stupid shit. I suppose that’s why it’s mentioned in country songs. Tequila comes in three types: Smooth, Shit and Diesel. The first type is the only kind that one should drink without “training wheels” (i.e. salt and lime). The other types shouldn’t even be drunk. If you are of the mindset that Jose Cuervo is “good stuff” then you are either semi-retarded from drinking too much of it or you just haven’t tried anything better. Do yourself a favor next time and, if you must have a shot of Tequila, try something off the top shelf without training wheels. If you don’t like that, then go back to Cuervo, drink it at home and get on some sort of government breeding program. And stop dancing on my damned tables when I’m trying to work…unless you have a tube-top (then audition first).

Some rules of etiquette for patrons:

Don’t shake your ice at me. I’m not your dog. Just push the glass forward a bit and I’ll get there ASAP.

Don’t pound your empty glass on the bar. You might eat it.

Don’t call me Chief, or Sport, or some other stupid name that you feel makes you look like a big shot in front of your bimbo or your 30-something ‘still want to be in a frat’ friends.

Don’t tell me to ‘put some booze in the next one’. I put booze in the first one, it’s my job and unless you’re an asshole, I already pour a bit heavy.

Don’t try to get me to hook you up with the girls at the end of the bar. If you want to send them a drink, fine, I’ll take it—the message however is up to you. I don’t do singing telegrams.

Don’t complain because we only have two types of wine: red or white. I love wine, that’s why I’d never order the house shit in a typical bar; when I want wine, I go where the wine is.

Don’t complain because we don’t serve food at midnight. Wendy’s is down the street and they’re open late. Besides you shouldn’t have skipped dinner to do three more Irish Car Bombs.

Do Tip Well. Thanks for your time.

Tornadoes are drawn to trailer parks and stupid fights are drawn to quarter-slot pool tables. Men who fight over pool are the emotional equivalent of women who marry death-row inmates. Losing a game of pool or your chance in line to be in a game of pool doesn’t make you a loser—only you can do that. And from what I’ve seen in the bar, you’re doing it pretty well. I’m just getting tired of breaking it up so I’m going to give you some tips:

One (or “1” in case you can’t spell and love pool balls because they give you time to practice your keen math skills and clever color coordination): If you’re girlfriend loves you because you can play pool—she’s sixteen, go directly to jail, do not play pool, do not collect $100 a stick.

Two (same parenthetical shit): If she loves you because you beat up guys who beat you in pool—she’s on Meth, go directly to Free Parking and get that bitch some help (if you play by Monopoly Alternate Free Parking Rule number 6-113.96b) or just get some dignity.

Three (ditto): If you are fighting over pool just because you can’t pick up chicks. (A) Get into comic books. (B) Discover a “career”. (C) Look into Internet Porn (with broadband connection and left-handed mouse if necessary).

Thanks for your time, get a life. Or at least play pool without fighting.

Last night was one of those nights; the slow ones. The nights where time nearly stops and the clock has only moved two minutes since the last time you looked. Normally, it’s BAM six more hours to work; BAM four more; BAM one and a half; BAM done. But last night was like punching in and out on a calendar based on a sundial. It was Hell. Yes, of course I was hung-over but it was a different equation than that; hangovers have a time-space continuum of their own. This was just a slow fucking day. The kind of day that makes you appreciate stupid questions, light beer drinkers, and yes even frozen drinks. The kind of day that makes you absolve the tourists and actually miss the damned regulars you bitch about. It was also a day of low tips but it was more than that too. It was a day in which I was reminded that bartending is at least partly those on the other side of the bar. Don’t worry, I get this way for a day or two and then some bum shits on the bathroom floor and I’m back to my old self.

There are two types of drinkers: Those who drink and those who drink Light Beer. Hey, I know you’re watching your calories but come on already. Low carb, low cal, low tongue sensitivity, low self-esteem; whatever your reason…just stop it. Have a real beer, they taste so much better and they aren’t worse for you. Really, I promise. You might have a few more carbs or calories to contend with but so what? You’re drinking, try to enjoy more than just the buzz or stay at home and sip on a Zima. And is there some law that says that if you drink Light Beer you have to smoke Light Cigarettes? Are you hoping for Cancer Light? It doesn’t come in that brand. Plus, you’ve read the labels: Light Cigarettes are not safer. So, again, if you’re worried about having less TAR in your lungs, quit fucking smoking; none of it is healthy. If you say you like the taste better than you’re lying. In the end, smoke what you want just don’t turn your nose up at me when all I have is the red pack. And never get uppity because you’re from a long line of same brand Light Beer drinkers. There are people trying to enjoy a real drink with adults.

Have you ever been to a bar where the bartenders juggle the bottles? I’m not talking about in Las Vegas—anything goes in Vegas plus they’re really good at it there. I am talking about these chains who insist their bartenders pretend to be trained seals for the glee of people who couldn’t get tickets to Leno. I was in one the other day for reasons I still can’t understand nor explain. It was early afternoon and I was lucky enough to witness the B-Squad Bartenders getting in a little practice. I just wanted to have a stiff Long Island Iced Tea to kill the headache from the night before. I didn’t need Dim and Half the Wit brothers, fumble-fucking their way through a bad circus routine with all five top-shelf bottles. They dropped three. Only one broke but it also shattered two glasses that managed to spray all over me. I flicked glass shards off and looked at the bottle of Crown Royal, spilling its lifeblood across the tiled floor. At least I got a free drink. I stayed for one more round—a rum and coke. Nobody got hurt and they poured in a little extra rum.

If I ever have to juggle bottles for a living, I might. I already bartend for a living. But if I have to do both of them…kill me. And if you do them both, do us all a favor and practice at home. I’ll tip; I swear.

There’s this woman that comes in a couple of nights a week, I’ll call her “Kathy”. Kathy is 42 going on 22 and still has everything in all the right places. She’s simply a knockout. We’ve been playing this little hit on each other game for a long time and it finally ended up being something else—very discreet and totally awesome.

The problem is, Kathy’s 21 year old, gorgeous daughter just moved to town and she’s been hitting on me like crazy. Without making this sound like a Penthouse Forum Letter, I’m sure you get the idea that I have the chance to sleep with her daughter too but I could end up ruining the laid back fun I have with Kathy. Even worse, if her daughter knew I’d slept with her mom, it’d be over before it got started.

It’s all big fucking Springer disaster but help me out folks. There’s no way I’d date Kathy but I would love to date her daughter. How do I handle this without fucking it all up? To Cow/Calf Combo or not to Cow/Calf Combo, that is the question?

I hate frozen drinks. Actually, I don’t mind a stiff top-shelf margarita with a little salt on occasion but I do hate making them. Frozen drinks should be either made at home or sipped on a tropical beach. I’ve got too many real drinks to sling around on a given day/night without having to pause for the three gals from Missouri who each want to try a Pina Colada, Strawberry Daiquiri, and a Mudslide in differing orders. Hey, making drinks is my job (at least part of it) but selling snow-cones is for theme park vendors. Here are a few tips for those of you who like your habit frozen: (1) Know what you want before you order. Do you want salt or no salt? Frozen or on the rocks? And be able to name at least one brand of tequila. (2) Know what’s in what you’re drinking. If one more peanut head brings back their Strawberry Daiquiri because they don’t like rum, they’d better have on a red shirt. (3) Drink it really fast because I love it when the three brain cells you’re using all freeze up casting your face into a Jagermeister Advertisement. (4) Learn to drink like other grown-ups. (5) All will be forgiven if you tip well and smile nice.

I’m going to introduced you to a “regular” and a theory of mine. I’ll call the regular Cliff Claven because that’s who he reminds me of. The guy is the king of know-it-alls. Anything you’ve done, he’s done twice as good in half the time with none of the materials you had to work with. He’s also from Indiana which brings me to my theory. Every single person I’ve ever met from Indiana is a “one-upper” just like “Cliff”. I don’t know if it’s in the water or the psyche or if they’ve all just watched Hoosiers one too many times. BUT they all have to one up any story they hear. What is with this?

Last night, Cliff comes in and another regular is telling a story about how he almost died skiing in Utah last winter. It was a pretty amazing story with a leg injury, lots of snow and ice and even a rescue helicopter. We all paused to take a drink and admire the story, when old Cliff came in for the kill. It seems that he was skiing the year before (earlier) on a higher mountain in deeper snow on a steeper course when disaster struck in the form of the biggest recorded avalanche in recorded history. He spent five days trapped beneath thirty feet of snow living off a half-eaten package of peanut butter crackers and melted snow. Three rescue helicopters, two broken legs, frostbitten toes and four St. Bernards later, our friend, Cliff, was finally freed from the worst experience anyone could have ever faced.

We all stared at him for a moment and then everyone just watched TV in silence for the next hour. Each unwilling to have his story trumped by the king of sling, Cliff, Indiana-Man, Claven. Unreal.

Another regular I will call “Madge”. Madge is an older lady (maybe mid-60’s) who keeps me in cigarettes. She doesn’t smoke nor does she have any idea that she’s my enabler. What Madge does is tip me a quarter for every single drink she has. It may not sound like much, but she drinks 15-20 beers every night; I smoke a pack a day—you do the math. It didn’t take me long to do it and realize that she’s got my smokes covered. There’s a rich dude and his wife who get half my rent but that’s a different story altogether.

Madge is a cool old lady who moved here in the 60’s and has a lot of great stories about how Venice has changed for good and bad. She’s laid back and can stand “Cliff” about as much as I can. One time, after one of his ultimate bullshit stories (that trumped one of her doozies) she simply poured a beer in his lap, got up and left. I bought her a couple of free ones after that and we became buds.

I swear she’s read every book ever written and has a solid opinion on everything—one she can actually back up three questions into an argument. She’s a breath of fresh air in a business where most people just repeat what they heard some dipshit like O’Reilly say and think they have their own opinion. You know the types, the ones who sound off like they know it all and then you question them and they can’t back it up with anything but anger and non-logical arguments. Well Madge definitely ain’t one of them and I like her.

Why shouldn’t I after all, she buys my smokes.

More crazy bar shit. Some bum-looking dude passed out in the bathroom stall after shitting all over the place. Ahh those are the days that try men’s souls. What the hell is going on anymore? Can’t people keep themselves together enough to take a dump IN the toilet? Is that too much to ask? If it’s not these wizards, it’s the guys who try to puke from the 3-Point line and end up like Shaq shooting free throws. Get it together people.

Enough bodily errors. Other than Shit-Man, last night was pretty low key. Had a couple of tourist chicks from England come in and decide to drink each other out of an accent. What a great accent it is too. I just love English from a Brit woman or a Kiwi or an Aussie or anyone else who was once owned by England but us. Ours is cool to them so it all works out. Anyway, these two British Gals were traveling all over the U.S. together and had worked their way by hook and by crook all the way from NY to LA. They said they traveled in over 25 states and were “discovering” what America was all about. It seems to me they were doing it bar by bar—but then again, maybe that is the best way to discover what Americans really think. Get us a little saucy and we’ll pick our own pickled brains for you. At least they actually ‘like’ America. I sure get sick of tourists who always talk about how much better it is where they live. I’m sure plenty of Americans go around the world doing the same shit but I don’t and I’m sick of it.

Anyway, I showed the girls some good American hospitality and a few of our more famous drinks and then continued relations after hours. I’m a bit hung over today but I can attest that American/British relations have seldom been better! Those late night tri-lateral “talks” seem to smooth some things out.

Ah, I love tourists.

How do you folks feel about “Ladies Nights”? You know, the nights when women get to drink for free or on the cheap simply because they are women? Of course the real reason behind this is to bring in a bunch of guys who’ll buy a bunch of drinks because they want to be around a bunch of drunk women. I don’t mind Ladies Night at all, in fact, I kind of like it. You see, I don’t mind being around a bunch of drunk women.
What’s strange though are those nights when it’s NOT ladies night and you see groups of women come in and try to see who can work the most drinks off of guys. I’ve actually seen women have contests to see who can get the most free drinks before they all escape together leaving some schlup with the bill. I’m not a schlup so it doesn’t bother me too much personally but I’ve seen some pretty wicked games out there. It can get sinister.

I’m certainly not implying that women “owe” men something for accepting “free” drinks but I’ve seen some women work some mean systems on guys, promising just about anything and then disappearing into the night when he goes to the john. She got a free ride and he got duped. Oh well, there’s a sucker born every minute, right?

Has anyone ever had their life threatened in a bar? I’ve had mine threatened at least twenty times over my years and every single threat came after I cut someone off from drinking. There is nothing worse than a drunk who doesn’t know they are drunk or won’t admit it. Of course nobody has killed me yet or I wouldn’t be here blogging these stories to you. I’ve had people show up with three friends after I’ve kicked them out but they never killed me. I’m hoping they never do.

These days, bartenders can be held liable for drunk drivers in a lot of states. I think it’s a bunch of crap. I’ll never serve anyone who I think is drunk but there are a lot of people in a bar and sometimes they come into my bar with booze from the last bar that hasn’t caught up with them yet. How can I know everybody’s limit? I like to err on the side of caution when I can—even if it means a death threat or two along the way.

Still folks, be more responsible to yourself and never drive drunk. And quit threatening to kill your bartenders for trying to do the right thing.

I.

Well, Ole’ St. Patty just had his big day. I call it “amateur night”. On St. Patty’s Day and New Years Eve, you tend to get a lot of people who just don’t get out that much and all the sudden think they are drinking God’s again. These are the nights when tips are great but it makes you wonder if the hassle is worth the hustle. People were literally three to six deep at the bar all day and night. You try to take them as they come but you lose track and you just help who you can (or who tips the best). On these nights you stop being a bartender and really become a sweaty octopus who’s the only thing between the maddening crowd and the “Irish” drinks.

And everyone was certainly drinking “Irish”: Guinness Stout, Jameson, Bushmills, Baileys and Green Beer. I even put green food-coloring in a bottle of cheap Tequila and it sold like mad. Green Jello shots were at a premium too. It was nuts. It always is. One drink that I particularly like and sold a lot of was the “Irish Car Bomb”. Fill a shot glass three quarters of the way up with Jameson (some use Bushmills) and the rest of the way up with Baileys. Then set it beside a half a pint of Guinness. You drop the shot into the Guinness and then toss it all back. Tastes great but use caution.

I’m part Irish and I guess nobody has to be to enjoy this night out. Everyone is famous for something and we got stuck with being famous for being drunks. So be it. We’re not alone and we certainly weren’t alone this past March 17th. Hope you all had a good one.


II.

Here’s a St. Patty’s Day joke:

A bartender is sitting with a few customers at one end of the bar. At the other end sits a man by himself. Another comes in, sits beside this loner and orders a Guinness.
(use Irish accents for both)

Man: I’ll have a Guinness.
Loner: I’m drinking Guinness too. Here’s to Guinness.
(they toast and drink)

Loner: Where are you from, Lad?
Man: I’m from Ireland.
Loner: I’m from Ireland too. Here’s to Ireland.
(they toast and drink)

Loner: Where are you from in Ireland?
Man: I’m from Dublin.
Loner: I’m from Dublin too. Here’s to Dublin.
(they toast and drink)

Loner: What school did you go to?
Man: I went to St. Mary’s.
Loner: I went to St. Mary’s too. Here’s to St. Mary’s.
(they toast and drink)

Loner: What year did you graduate in?
Man: I graduated in ‘75
Loner: I graduated in ’75 too. Here’s to ’75.
(they toast and drink).

At the other end of the bar another customer asks the bartender what is going on to which he looks down at the two men and then replies: “Oh, the fucking O’Malley twins are drunk again.”

(hope it translates as well written as it does said.)

A fight broke out in the bar last night. It was a cat fight which meant that it was about a guy. When two women fight, it’s always about some guy they both dated. It doesn’t ever matter if either one of them has seen the guy for three years. Sometimes men fight over women but that’s not as common. Usually, men fight over being looked at wrong, getting bumped into or losing in pool. Women always fight about a guy. This one was no different. It appeared that one of them had dated him and the other was dating him.

Usually with guys, you can see it coming. It bubbles up slowly with looks and stares and posturing which means, if you’re alert, you can nip it in the bud before it becomes a whirlwind. With women, it just erupts like Mt. Vesuvius. The one last night did.

It started off as usual: Female A (the ex) decided to punch Female B (the current) in the face as she walked by her. Then Female B grabbed hold of Female A’s hair and held on for dear life pulling her to the ground. After that, it was a whirlwind of claws, hair pulling and expletives. Women are hard to separate in a fight because they simply won’t let go of each other’s hair. These were no exception. There’s also the fact that they won’t stop just because you’re in the middle and a lot of times, they want to include you in the scratch-fest. I’ve had my face torn and bloody a few times from women I was trying to break up. Usually, men can be separated and they won’t take a shot at you unless they think you’re coming in to take a shot at them. Women don’t care. They know you won’t hit them and they’re usually so insane at that point they’d claw a tiger.

Last night, I let them tire out a bit and then made sure I had plenty of back-up. Then, covering my eyes and my nads, I went in like Jim on Wild Kingdom. Myself and a few patrons finally got them apart while the boyfriend sat there like fucking Marlon Perkins. He was probably still sleeping with both of them and didn’t want to take sides and ruin one or both booty call situation. Asshole.

Well, I kicked them all out. Female A out the front and then after five minutes, Female B out the back. I also told them to never come back. That usually lasts a few months and then they’re back and sorry as hell and wanting to be reinstated. The boss usually says okay but if I had it my way—anyone who starts a fight would be out forever. And I’m equal opportunity on that—men and women are the same.

Here’s one of my favorite bar stories: A guy, maybe mid-twenties, strides into the bar and tosses a wad of bills on the bar. The only other customers at the time were three men in their forties, sitting together. The kid says, “Keep my glass full, get yourself one and get a drink for those old guys at the end, if they can handle it.” Those ‘old guys’ didn’t really appreciate being called ‘old’ I guess because they started sending this kid shots of bourbon and had me pour them equivalent shots of iced-tea that looked like bourbon. They just kept pouring them on and this kid kept pounding them back and telling them how he was going to drink them under the table. About ten shots and thirty minutes later, the kid was passed out in a cab, with just enough money to get home. Then we all had a drink on him. I guess there is something to be said for age and wisdom. Never mess with an old dog when you don’t know any tricks.

I’ve got a great drinking trick I saw a guy pull on another one night a few years back and I’ve made some good money from it. The bet is that you can drink two glasses of beer before the other person drinks five shot glasses of beer. The only catch is that you can’t touch each other’s glasses. Here’s the trick: Say go, pound back one glass and turn it upside down and place it over one of the full shot glasses. Then, take your money, kick back and enjoy your second drink. Try not to gloat, some people like to fight after being duped.

Anyone else out there have any good tricks to share? It’s a good way to make extra money or at least to entertain yourself.

Now, a quick shout out to the bar owners. I’m not talking about the chain restaurant bars where the owner never shows up; I’m talking about the real bars where that bastard (or cool dude as it may be) shows up everyday to count money and chew ass. I’ve worked for both and I’m going to have to go with the owner who still has some hands on and some sense left. Let’s face it: owning a bar is the #1 fantasy of men under 30 and the #2 fantasy for those over 30. Lot’s of misconceptions here. First off, there are two types of bar owners: those whose profits go into cute chicks, fair-weather friends, and themselves AND those who don’t go broke in two years. You can mix and match but you’d better have your shit together. You’ve gotta run a bar like you know you can get laid. If not, you’re busted, broke and will never get laid again. Owning a bar is for the weak and stupid or the drunk and brave. Every bar owner drinks; they just don’t all drink their mortgage. Thus, I have to give a shout out to those who have managed to make a fucking living in the roughest business in America (other than madam of cheap whore house and sometimes---what’s the fucking difference?).

That being said, we’ve all worked for bad asses and fucking weasel fucks. You know the difference on day one and you work accordingly. Like I said before, I’m here for the tips. There has got to be an equation (and I’d like to see someone better at math than I am figure it out) that shows the ratio to bullshit a bartender will take from their boss before purposefully breaking glasses on the floor and throwing the door key at their head hoping to hit an unguarded eyeball. That doesn’t even include the bullshit we take from customers but that’s not the point right now. We all have our price but we all have our dignity too. If our boss has our back, our dignity can hold out a bit longer.

If you find yourself ready to complete that ultimate male fantasy and buy a bar one day, here’s some advice: Marry it. Work that bar everyday for five years. Don’t drink. Save every penny. Sell it after five years and get into something that will keep your liver and sanity intact. That’s just my opinion and my plan someday.

I am convinced that every facet of human existence is alive in a bar. Every facet of human drama is shown each and every night within its confined spaces. A bar is humankind, whole and incomplete within their triumphs and defeats. And we, as the bartenders of the world, have to soberly see it all (unless the boss is gone or allows us to get a good buzz through the whole mess). Every bar/restaurant is a mini-soap opera complete with every type of character you can imagine (some even have the evil twin). And every bar has its regulars. A regular is basically someone who feels comfortable getting drunk in your bar every day. Many regulars are cool but some you just tolerate and move on down the bar to talk to the tourists. Sometimes you just want to pour drinks in silence or turn up the tunes and plow through the day.

One thing that has always blown me away is how quickly people open up after a few drinks and spill their life story all over you like they were on day TV. I’ve met a few people who could’ve done a week on Montel by themselves. Be careful what you say to your bartenders folks—it could end up on a blog somewhere.

I’ve never ‘blogged’ before but I’ve bartended a lot. I figured this might be a good place to toss some bartending stories around. I’ve bartended for over 8 years and the last 4 of those on Venice Beach—one of the craziest places on this particular planet. I won’t say what bar because I’d like to keep my job and I’d also like to be honest on this blog; I work for tips—just like the rest of you.

A bartender in general is a cheap therapist, a keeper of the peace, the settler of disputes, an adult baby-sitter, and the guy (or gal) who ultimately controls the alcohol supply and the remote control: a very powerful figure to say the least.

We also make some decent cake (always got cash in the pocket), drink the good shit for free (when the owner ain’t around), and have a reason to talk to all the hot chicks that roll through that door. You can also meet some pretty cool people and make some good connections. That’s all balanced out though because when some drunken moron decides he wants to start shit with some other knucklehead, you’re the guy that goes in first.

Anyway, this place where I work in Venice is right down on the boardwalk. Something like seven or eight thousand tourists a day decide to come to this human zoo. It’s nuts. The people who make their living on the boardwalk are the craziest displays by far. There’s everything from great artists and musicians to other people that you just can’t figure out what the fuck they’re doing or why the fuck they’re doing it. There’s actually a guy in a speedo who stands around juggling ONE ball. He keeps a fishbowl for tips and if you take his picture, you’d better deposit some jack, Jack.

All right…I need to get back on track. I guess what I’m trying to say is that bartender’s always have the best stories. I’ve been collecting mine and I’ll be sharing some from time to time here.

I’d love to have comments or other members of the Bartending Brother/Sister Hood write some of their experiences. Especially any who’ve ever worked Venice.