The bar was already busy without the ladies. I’m not sure what their theme was but about twenty of them came in wearing short skirts. Gator said it best, “I feel like a piece of meat.” Now sometimes I can join in to customers’ reindeer games but I wasn’t having it yesterday. One of them ordered an Amstel Light. I quoted her the happy hour price of four dollars. She peeled a five off her roll and shouted, “Take off your shirt!” The rest of her brood chimed in with, “Take it off! Take it off!” I replied, “No, thank you,” and held back her beer. I believe Tim eventually sold it to her. Another of the gaggle explained that she had a boyfriend in one of the bands that played at our bar and could she dance on the bar. I don’t like to deny customers anything except seeing my areolae, so I said, “As long as I don’t see it.” By the way, there was no way to miss this spectacle. The requisite crotch shot just getting up on the bar was worth the price of admission. One of her friends stood on a stool, bent over, and had another girl smack her ass. Yes, it was on.

The douche bags of the night reared their ugly heads early. They were a dozen or so, I don’t like to use the word camel fuckers because for all I know camels fuck them, so I’ll just say they were a dozen or so sandtards. They crammed into a table for Princess Ahmadinejad’s birthday. I handed them menus and asked if they wanted anything. They didn’t seem ready so I attended to my paying customers. At the third visit to their table, I was asked, “Do you have any birthday shots?” I asked, “How many?” One said, “Just for her.” I asked the craziest question, “What are the rest of you having?”  The birthday girl wanted champagne, I could only assume for free, while the rest of the sandtards asked each other “Do you want anything?” I stepped away and eventually saw their dreams of “when a dozen don’t order, the birthday girl drinks for free” wash away.

It turned out it was a great happy hour if for no other reason than the rugby team. Usually they all vacate and return later but at least a dozen of them put in a solid eight hour shift. I hate to pander but I have to give a shout out to Coach Doug Bratcher. Aside from being a great customer and super generous tipper, he’s a recent reader and a big fan of the blog. I, also, have to mention Brooke Nelson Hughes, who fears over imbibing and getting mentioned in the blog. I’m not bothered by the fact that she knocked over a beautifully prepared Jameson and Ginger, it was the drunken doe-eyed, Stockholm syndrome, thousand apologies response. I miss the Brooke who fights to the death over the nineteen kamikazes she thinks she didn’t order.

I often get customers who feel like they’re being over charged. A few weeks ago, a guy refused to pay for three pints he ordered, because they were too costly. He said, “Why don’t you warn a guy how much drinks cost?” I’m sure at some bars this guy goes to, they do credit checks with each order, but we don’t do that for pints of beer. In any case, one gentleman order two car bombs. I made them, spilled one, not important, and said, “Twenty bucks.” He broke one of my rules and drank before paying. I wasn’t bothered, I said again, “Twenty bucks.” He said something, which my deafness prevented me from hearing and handed me two twenties. I gave him change of one and he left the money on the bar. Now I’m pride myself on my service but it wasn’t twenty bucks tip on two drinks good. I chased him down and gave him his change. Turns out he thought that the bombs were twenty each. I wish we had more customers like him.

There were a couple of firsts for me last night. One was a guy whose wallet had his name “Pete” painted on and below it was a baseball, a basketball, and soccer ball, also, painted on. It’s the kind of thing I would buy my son if A) I didn’t shoot blanks and could have a son, B) he was nine, and C) he was retarded. Negro, puhleaze, you’re an adult presumably trying to get laid to get laid up in here. Are you gonna take a woman home and pull out a Big Poppa Smurf blue condom out of that wallet? I could understand if the wallet said “Peter” and had a picture of a syringe, a pill, and a bong, but lets come to the bar wearing big boy underpants. The other first was a two drink order: a Bushmills and cranberry and a triple Ketel One and cranberry. First of all, I have never mixed Irish Whiskey and cranberry. Second of all, when I make a double, it’s gonna hurt, if for no other reason than you’re paying twice as much, but a triple. I had to leave some ice out of the glass to make that one.

The latter part of the night wasn’t as lucrative as we expected. For every Knox, Sin, Vance, Nelson, Bratcher, Manzo, Manavian, Gobeil, there’s some cunt leaving three on seventy-seven. I guess you take the good with the bad.

Pic by: aj and mh davis

There are little things that can happen in the beginning of a shift that tell you that you’re not in your groove. A woman at my first table ordered coffee and was given some cream in a rocks glass. She wasn’t into it so I removed the glass and hid it behind my back while taking their food order. You ever forget that there’s a hole in the top of a glass? I did and proceeded to pour cream on the back of my shirt. It’s really hard to look cool whilst bathing in day old dairy.

Happy hour was busy early then it slowed down then it picked up. I had high hopes judging by crowd that was in. They all seemed to be adults spending money. My first hint that trouble was on the horizon was when a customer came to the bar and asked, “How much is a pint?” I replied, “Seven dollars.” He said, “I’ll start off with a glass of water.” I gave him that glass of water and you know what? I believe he ended with it, too, because I never saw him come to the bar again. You’re in a precarious position. You don’t want to open your doors to mooches who only order water and enjoy the band, in this case, The Ruse, one of the nicest bands we have, and who let me sing “Night Moves” with them last October, but you don’t want to alienate someone who just wants to whet their whistle prior to ordering a dozen car bombs, which is never the case. I just want to brain all the water drinkers with a pint glass.

Speaking of glasses, I had an odd comment from a woman with a European accent. She ordered a rum and ginger ale which I served to her. She stated, “That’s a small glass.” First of all, our rocks glasses are nine ounces, which usually leads to  healthy pours. Second of all, I’ve been to Europe, multiple times, and I’ve taken shits in toilets smaller than our rocks glasses. No offense to my European friends who read this (present count: zero) but I’ve never heard the term “Super Size it” anywhere on the continent. I explained the fluid ounce issue to my new friend, who I wanted to smack in the head with a water drinker, and she said, “I just arrived here today and the drinks I had earlier were in bigger glasses.” I said, “Well I don’t know what part of passive-aggressivestan you came from, but in this country we use our words (and often times cruise missiles.)” I asked if she would like it in a tall glass. She did. I poured it in, added some ice and ginger ale, set it in front of her and said, “Magic!”

The night went from annoying to straight up weird. I only spilled a little cream on the back of my shirt where as Stevie got puked on. He was in the bathroom restocking when a dude who just had a baby, and a few Jaeger bombs, an alcohol he gave up, came roaring in. I guess he felt that it was okay to vomit anywhere inside the bathroom because that’s what he did. Not only did he tag Stevie but he vomited on another dude’s jacket. This guy really took the whole incident in stride though. He asked Gator to call nine-one-one. I’ve called nine-one-one once before because I saw a young lately, crossing the street, get hit by a car. There are emergencies and there are emergencies and puke on a jacket qualified as neither. The barfer’s friend offered to pay for dry cleaning while jacket man wanted his jacket paid for. Since it was slow to dead inside, I stepped out to watch the drama. While standing on the patio, a young guy hurried in saying, “Just came back for my beer,” and darted past me. He was followed by four uniformed cops. This guy got led out of the bar and all I heard was, “It was a juvenile prank.” I heard “juvenile” and all I could think of was that this kid was an under aged drinker. Turns out he put a sticker on the back of a cop car with cops nearby. Now there’s juvenile and there’s idiotic. I believe this prank falls in the stupid as shit side of idiotic.

I looked at the bar across the street and saw a line out the door. I looked on our corner and saw a sea of cop cars dealing with serious crime: stickers and jacket puke. There are those moments when you look at your life and begin to wonder where it all went wrong. After obtaining a bachelor’s and master’s degree, did the University of California fail me? Or did I just make poor choices? As my mom used to say, “If this is the worst thing that happens, your life will turn out okay.” Let’s hope tonight is a much better night.

Pic by: Scabeater

After my age affirming co-worker left, a new record was set at my bar: seven black women bellied up. Now records haven’t been kept and we discriminate against no one, except for the homeless and the cheap, but in a night where there may have been nine African-Americans in fourteen hours, seven at once has to be our personal record. They were lovely women from Dallas and Chicago having a cousins reunion. I love the idea of a cousins reunion. I have three: one in Northridge, one in South Pasadena and one in West Hollywood. I see the first one, once or twice a year, the second one, every couple of years, and the third one I refer to as my father’s niece.

My happy hour shift resembled an hour glass. It was busy in the beginning and got super busy at the end. My favorite customers are then ones who show up after happy hour ends and want some special dispensation. We are one of the few bars that have happy hour from when we open until seven p.m. every day. But for some reason, some people can’t make it in that seven hour window. The conversation usually goes like this. Customer: So what’s happy hour? Me: It ended five minutes ago. Customer: So what’s extended happy hour? Me: Extended happy hour is when you either a) get into your time machine and come back six minutes ago, or b) come back in approximately seventeen hours. In either case, the deal we’re quibbling over isn’t all that great a deal.

This brings me to the idea of anchoring. All of our drafts except for two cost seven dollars. The other two: Bud Light and Our namesake’s Amber Ale cost four dollars. I hate that we have these two beers. First of all, they suck. Second of all, it brings down customers’ desire to spend more money, essentially, “anchoring” them to this lower price. Last night our “House” beer caused me undue distress because I get questions like, “Do you have any four dollar draft specials?” I want to say, “How did you guess? I mean of all the numbers you could’ve chosen you picked the exact one.” Kimi brought up a good one last night. When a customer says, “So, uh, your Amber Ale, what is it?” “It’s an Amber fucking Ale! You said it yourself!” But my all time favorite is. “How is your four dollar house beer?” “It’s four dollars.” “I know how much it costs, but how does it taste.” “It’s tastes like a four dollar beer.” When a customer asks a question like that, it’s akin to asking about masturbation. They just want to know how much they can consume before going blind.

Most of our clientele was fine but there definitely was a douche bag of the night. I can’t give him a fake name because his real name seemed fake. Alas, he had a semitic last name. Yes, I believe he was one of my people. I don’t know how non-Jews feel but anytime a Jew does something wrong, I tend to internalize it. I figure some Catholics probably cringe every time they hear of a priest banging some altar boy, but then again, after the Inquisition, you may become inured to scandal. In any case, Cock Breath looked like a Meth head, except for the weight problem. He ordered a Stella Artois and asked to close out. I ran his card and saw that another credit card slip for Cock Breath left no tip. Giving him the benefit of the doubt I stood over him and watched him stiff me. I said, “You don’t tip.” He said, “Not tonight I don’t.” I said, “I really appreciate that.” I then saw Cock Breath talking with a couple of ladies. Knowing that he would ruin his game better than I ever could, I decided to stay back, but future douche bags of the night beware, a bartender can fuck up your game with impunity.

There were many high not low points last night but one of the consistent ones is the quality of our food. I used to hate our shrimp salad because the stench of it could knock a buzzard off shit house from thirty feet away. I used to liken the smell to dead pussy but that’s so crude. Now I liken it to a Marlin shitting out a halibut and leaving it to rot in the sun. Classy. In any case, I talked one person out of the dish when she asked but couldn’t do it when another straight up ordered it. The dish came out and it didn’t smell like anything. Chino informed me that we’re now using fresh shrimp. It’s the little victories that keep me going.

Pic by: antjeverena

I could tell you about all the douche bags who feel that it’s all right to tip three dollars on fifty-six or zero on forty-five, but my web hosting only allots ten terabytes, which equals about sixty-two kajillion blog posts, and I’m sure that would bore you. I’m not gonna go into the heroes we had. I will say that our food this year was light years ahead of years prior. In fact, both Kevin and Tim said that the fish n’ chips was the best they’ve had and they don’t smoke weed, so you know it’s legit. The only story I’m going to tell is about the malfunction.

It must’ve been around eleven o’ clock. The computer system gave it’s warning that it was resetting. It said, “Be right back.” Now anytime a change is made to the system, e.g. providing an employee with a new card or a price change, the system must be reset to incorporate this new information. I found it strange that someone was changing the system a few hours before our busiest day of the year was to end, but I let that thought go. It wasn’t until Amanda told me that every tab on the computer was missing its name that I suspected that something went awry. When I receive a credit card, John Smith, to open a tab, I press start tab, then slide the card, and add drinks, food, whatever, then send. When I want to reopen that tab, I hit reopen and scroll to “Smith, J.” When I went to search for a tab this time, there was no identifier except for the number associated with the tab. Alas, this isn’t Bergen-Belsen, we use names and not numbers to identify our customers.

I’m not sure if I can convey how bad this was. I figure in the grand scheme of awful events happening to our bar, it would go in order: 1) Anthrax, 2) Suicide bomber, 3) Hug a homeless person happy hour, 4) this shit. I flagged down a manager and explained the event. I asked who was in the office resetting the system. I was informed that no one was. That leaves either the ghost, that all of our Mexican employees and Kevin feel that haunts our bar, or the system sucks my balls. Since I don’t believe in ghosts, I’m gonna go with the latter. One of our new owners was on the phone with the help desk and he was told that we may have had too many tabs open. First of all, we had more tabs open last year on St. Patrick’s Day. Second of all, why would you sell a system that doesn’t allow a business to, I don’t know, do business? It’s not like we’re loading video with each order. I don’t understand how a sixteen digit credit card or eight letter food order could shut down the system no matter how many times it was replicated. Third of all, fuck you and your shitty system shutting down on the busiest day of the year.

I feel better now.

At one point, I was told that we were only accepting cash. I tried to convey that to disbelieving customers and I said, “Look, man, the worst fucking thing that could happen to our system did.” And you know what they said, “Was it ‘Hug a homeless person happy hour’?” And I said, “Not that bad.” I tried to run imprints of people’s cards and have them sign blank slips. They didn’t fall for that one. Eventually, we had to go by memory and re-ring their cards. By the end of it we realized that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed at that moment. We definitely lost money, but probably not as much as we first thought.

I feel like I’ve seen a glimpse of the future. Not the future where Godzilla is born from a Komodo dragon at the Fukushima prefecture zoo (too soon?), but one where everything on computers gets shut down. I’m far from a luddite. In fact, if I had to choose between my penis or my cell phone, it’s an easy choice. My cell phone, because you can’t google on your penis and God knows I’ve tried. When I wake up one morning and find that the internet has imploded and nothing works, I will remember that I had a vision of this day. I’ll remember that I was behind the bar on the busiest day of the year complaining that the busiest day of the year should’ve been a whole lot busier.

Pic by: BLW Photography

I knew there was a fifty person pub crawl coming in between two and four. My only hope was that they would postpone until I clocked in. Walking through the back door and seeing the spotless main room, I was pretty confident that I would get my wish. That dream was dashed when I saw Gator behind the bar surrounded by a fortress of dirty glassware. Don’t worry. Turns out that I would have all that I could handle and then some.

Do you ever get to work and do something so stupid that you realize you really should get some more sleep? I had a table of three in the back. I never get why people want to sit in the back. There are no windows and there are enough semen stains in the carpet to start a World Heritage DNA project. In any case, this table of three ordered. I took their menus, thinking I was dropping them in the menu box, released them, a couple of steps later I realized the menu box was in the other room. Turns out I dropped the menus in the trash can outside the restrooms. There’s nothing less dignified than dumpster diving in an empty room save for the three people whose order you just took. On the bright side, our trash cans are far cleaner than our menus.

I was privy to some great conversation yesterday. There were three dudes sitting at the bar, all from Chicago. One dude only wanted to eat dinner at Wurstkuche downtown (where’s an umlaut when you need it?) then go to Jumbo’s Clown Room. Now Wurstkuche I kind of get. Personally, I wouldn’t drive downtown for anything but the world’s greatest blow job, but to a Bears fan, beer and sausage is probably on par with fellatio. But Jumbo’s? Really? I’ve never spent much time there but driving across town to check out pole dancers missing appendages and lap dancers with leprosy doesn’t sound like a fun night out to me.

For those who read last week’s post, Gameless, the SaMoPoPo is under the impression that we are over serving customers as evidenced by the fact that people line up at food trucks on our block. Never mind the fact The Weed is prescribed in California by hoboes, hacky sack champions, and homeless, or that there are two other bars on our block, the over serving is our problem and I put a stop to it last night. This dude had only ordered a Bud Light Draft. When he closed out his tab he looked like had been drinking since the Clinton administration. Couple that with the fact that his credit card slip looked like it was filled out in Aramaic, if Aramaic was written solely by retarded children who constantly had seizures. A few minutes later this enchanter asked for a Hefeweizen. (Professional note: it’s not Hefenweiser and while we’re on the subject, it’s definitely not fucking Harps!) I said, “I think you’ve had enough. How about some water?” It was so busy, I never got a chance to give him that water. He stood there for a good five minutes, flummoxed, trying to focus that thousand yard stare, or at least cut it in half.

I feel like I’ve really matured as a bartender in some ways. Used to be when someone would forage in the fruit tray I would slam their head on the bar, gouge an eye out with my thumb, and yell, “It’s not a fucking buffet! Do you see any tongs?” Last night, I merely raised my voice to a hundred and forty decibels and bellowed, “Please don’t do that.” One woman who actually opened up the fruit tray and took cherries felt so guilty that a few minutes after being chastised, said, “I didn’t mean to touch the fruit.” That’s like me saying, “I didn’t mean to masturbate” while youporn.com is searing a permanent image on my retina. This woman actually opened something that was closed then jammed her filthy fingers in the cherries and had the nerve to say that she didn’t mean it. I know. Life is full of accidents. No need for personal responsibility whilst imbibing.

Since I’m locked behind the bar for pretty much four hours straight, I can only report what I witness. I do have my spies though. Young Bianca, fashion designer, informed me that while she was in the bathroom she heard a conversation. Woman #1: “The one thing about O’Brien’s is that all the bartenders are really funny and nice.” Woman #2: “I don’t know about that bald guy. He’s an asshole.” First of all, this Jew has all his hair and then some. Cancer may be a genetic trait in my family but baldness certainly isn’t. Second of all, you’re welcome.

pic by: Freakgirl

I will never understand the bar business. I can sit in the bar alone, save for colleagues, on a beautiful day and no one will show up. But on a completely shiteous day like yesterday, people will come from all over. I knew they were from somewhere else, but I was surprised to find out they were from Potwin, Kansas. You can read their newsletter here. I was even more surprised to find out that the population of Potwin is about two-thirds the size of my high school graduating class. They were lovely ladies who told me that they lived thirty miles outside of Wichita. The only story I ever heard about Wichita was from a friend went to go visit Wichita State for graduate school. On his way from the airport to the university on Friday he drove by a dead dog. On his way back to the airport from the university on Sunday he saw the same dead dog. That is all I know about Wichita.

I spoke to one customer who told me he was in the film industry, working on the same film, in the same department as my friend “Eric.” I asked if he knew Eric and he said,”Yes. Eric is a wild man.” I texted Eric. Eric wasn’t sure who I was referring to so I got more specific. Eric texted back, “Oh, yeah. Kind of cool, kind of not.” I told the customer, “Eric says, ‘Hi.’” The customer responded, “What did he really say?” Signs that you’re probably a douche bag: number one, when a person says that a friend says, “Hi,” you doubt the sincerity and esteem that came out of said person’s mouth and presume only bad things were said about you. Perhaps I’m a bad liar or perhaps somewhere deep down inside you know you’re a douche bag. I understood more of the “kind of not” when I heard the customer say to the woman he eventually left with, “L.A. is the meanest city in the U.S.” Now I haven’t been to some of the projects in the South side of Chicago or some of the bombed out city blocks of the Bronx, but from my bubble in Santa Monica people seem pretty nice. In fact, just by bad mouthing my beloved city puts you on the short list for douche bag of the night.

It was said in passing, in almost a whisper. I may be deaf but I heard, “We have no hot water.” This has happened twice on my watch. The first time I called a plumber who said it was an electrical problem, so I called an electrician who told me it was a plumbing problem. No, I’m not paranoid but sometimes I believe that members of the repair arts fuck with me because I firmly believe that my people built the pyramids and any sort of construction or repair should be done by gentiles. In any case, Stevie got our hot water going again. He explained that he unplugged something, then reset something, then lit something. I couldn’t have been more impressed if I saw Middle Paleolithic man first boil water. Also, I don’t know what he did, because I forgot to ask, but he stopped the leak. I don’t know if he always carries around a putty or just jammed some Shepherd’s pie into that hole but it did the trick. Last night Stevie was a life saver.

Even though customers can be douche bags they sure can entertain. Kimi was asked by a customer about a group of four, three guys and a girl, who she served on Monday night. Kimi explained that she only exchanged goods and services for currency and/or credit so she couldn’t vouch for their moral turpitude. This guy tells her that he made out with the woman in the group while the dudes roofied his friend, a guy nonetheless. Kimi asked the obvious, “Why would they roofie your friend?” He looked at her like she just asked if the sky was blue, and yelled, “Because they’re BI!” I didn’t spend time with these dudes but the most bi thing they did at the bar Monday night was fist bump. Now somehow this wizard deduced that because his friend was “puking” that he was indeed roofied by the bisexual bandits. Kimi did the right thing. She went to the roofie section of the filing cabinet, got out a roofie report and filled it out.

I don’t presume anyone to be stupid by the way they sound, but some Australians have that just fucked a Koala bear accent that makes me wonder. He ordered, “A Jack Daniels and coke and two yellow tequila shots with lime.” Now I’m no tequila expert but the only colors I’ve heard of are white, silver, and gold, while Anejo has a brown tinge, but no one says, “Gimme a shot of Cuervo Brown.” I poured him two shots of gold tequila to which he asked, “Is that yellow tequila?” I said, “Listen, Homes, I have no idea what the fuck yellow tequila is, and I’m no colorist, nor do I have any color swatches on me, so this is as close as we’re getting.” He accepted it. Today I googled “Yellow Tequila,” and this is what came up. Turns out the top link discusses yellow tequila. Of course, the top link is also an Aussie blog. You learn something new every day.

For those of you who need a refresher on the Golf Pub crawl or Bar Golf, you can read about it here. I was having my coffee waiting for my shift to start when they came in. I figured since Stevie had a slow day, I would let him have this group. They were pretty easy. One person would order ten vodka sodas and be done with it. I was a little disappointed because I figured that Stevie got the only action of the day. I was wrong. Not more than an hour later did a second group of Golfers come in. Now I was excited to have a crowd on a rainy day, but I was concerned because in forty-five minutes, my friends Julie and Mary were coming in with their families. The last thing I wanted was for some Payne Stewart look alike throwing up on my six-year old friend Sarah, because First Presbyterian would probably have my “in case of emergency” contact status revoked if they found out that I spent the evening removing vomit from one of their students hair.

Luckily, no one threw up on my watch. The rain kept coming and so did the customers. I don’t know what propelled them but the whole place filled up. I have this thing where I don’t write down table’s orders. I figure I have a good enough memory people only order eight things on the menu so I go with it. Alas, my friend Gretchen chose to jinx me when I was taking the order for Silver Connelly party of twelve. Gretchen asked, “Are you one of those people who don’t write anything down and can remember it all?” Turns out I used to be one of those people. With her curse, I forgot to put in her husband’s club sandwich.

The only trying moment of happy hour came when this couple unknowingly each ordered two Scotches. They were quite lovely and she had a ninety dollar tab which included others in their party. She asked to close out and I obliged. When I picked up the tab, another woman in her party said that her friend was drunk and that the sober one wasn’t going to let her pay for the whole tab, so she tore up the receipt. When it came time to pay the tab, the sober one wanted me to put thirty dollars on her card and the rest on her “drunk” friend’s card. Alas, the drunk friend’s card was no where to be found. Last I saw it, it was in the check presenter. After accusations that maybe, I, who hasn’t had a drink in fifty-one days may have lost the drunk girl’s credit card. The credit card was found. You know where? In the drunk girl’s purse. Funny how I lost it there.

The night was much better than Friday but it still wasn’t crazy. I didn’t know the record setter was there until Tim said, “Sullivan’s here.” Aoife noticed it, too. He was with a guy who ordered two Long Island Iced Teas. Now I know that giving this guy a Long Island Iced Tea is like dropping a gram of crystal meth in a pedophile’s coffee before throwing him in the bouncy castle at an eight-year old’s birthday. It’s not a good idea, but you have to entertain yourself some how. There were two women sitting at the bar and Sully’s buddy was talking to one while Sully rained down halitosis on the other. I saw the look on her face and asked if she was okay. She said, “Aside from what he’s saying and the smell of it, yes, I’m okay.” I told her that I would be happy to have him removed but she said he was alright. He and his friend were leaving but not before he could fight with this woman from Dublin over “Who is more Irish?” Listen Sully, alcoholism, cirrhosis, and social retardation does not an Irishman make. He glommed on to Gator and I got a door guy. I was explaining that Sully is never admitted again. Gator walked away and I had him removed. Sully looked like he was gonna hock a loogie in my face. I could see the phlegm globber rolling around on his tongue. Yes, ladies, he’s single.

I wish Sullivan was the low point but he wasn’t. She ordered two shots of vodka. I quoted her a price of fourteen dollars to which she replied, “You’re gonna hate me, but I only have fifteen dollars.” I explained that I don’t hate anyone who tips only a dollar, unless they have a black Amex card and a four hundred dollar tab. But for some reason she referred to me as, “The Bartender who hates me.” As in, at the end of the night, “The Bartender who hates me, can I buy a shot of vodka for a dollar?” I said, “But it costs seven.” She said, “I know but I’m a college student and I don’t have a lot of money.” I’m sure some think that taking a class in perfecting fellatio from a tranny at the Learning Annex qualifies them as a college student but this thirty year old wasn’t snowing me. I said, “Don’t you have a credit card or ATM card?” She said, “I don’t. I just want one shot of vodka.” I said, “So you’re just gonna beg.” Ladies, there’s a lesson here. With the exception of sex, begging will get you no where, unless you want to be crowned douche bag of the night.

I knew this shift was gonna blow just by looking at the weather. A storm was coming to Los Angeles and planned to touch down one hour before I clocked in on Friday and it was scheduled to end when I clocked out on Sunday morning. One of the most demoralizing aspects of working on a rainy day is the drip coming through a vent behind the bar. It’s a form of Chinese water torture and coming from our roof I’m sure it’s as clean as the water in China. If I get skull cancer or cooties in my yarmulke region, you’ll know where I got it.

Not expecting anyone to walk in the door, I was pleasantly surprised when a family of six sat down. You can kind of tell when people are from out of town by the look of them (the parents looked like first cousins), but it was confirmed when the father asked, “Is there a normal grocery store around here?” I went out on a limb and asked, “Is Whole Foods not a ‘normal’ grocery store?” He shook his head. I told him, “You can stock up on pesticides, chemicals, and trans fats at the Ralphs on Lincoln and California.” He seemed pleased. My least favorite customer was the Irish woman who led with, “Are there any real Irish people working here?” I said, “Does Mexican count?” She wasn’t amused. Her next question was, “Are the fries made from fresh potatoes?” I replied cheerily, “Not a chance.” She mumbled, “What kind of Irish Pub doesn’t serve fresh potato fries?” I’m always fascinated what Irish people feel that a “real” pub needs to be a real pub. My friend Danny was in Italy for St. Patrick’s Day and the Irish pub he was at didn’t sell Guinness. Now I get that he was disappointed with that because I find that Guinness is somewhat iconic, but fresh potato french fries? I’m not on board with that one. She ended up ordering a bottle of Heineken. I wondered if a “real Irish” person would’ve opened it better than I.

My first glimpse of the gameless knuckle heads populating the pub last night was when “B-Cubed” from Pepperdine came in. These two seniors are nick named, “Blue Ballin’ Bitches.” One explained that skeevy dudes grind up against them at parties and when they choose to walk away rather than be dry raped, the guys say, “You gave me blue balls.” Lads, if you have to rub up against a woman in public to get your nut, you shouldn’t complain about blue balls, you should be grateful you haven’t been kicked in the balls. B-Cubed was at the bar when a couple of playahs decided to creep. I could tell it wasn’t going well when one of them looked at me like someone just fucked her cat. Turns out when the ladies told the dudes that they were from Texas, the dudes decided to shit all over Texas and people from there. Now I’m sure this method works for some guys, the ones with roofies, but Lads, if you want to get laid, try listening.

Two other female regulars, the Sabol cousins were in for Friday Night Pints. They were having a great time until one of our creepier looking customers decided skeeve Jamie. Lauren said, “This guy is creeping Jamie out and we’re gonna leave.” I trailed them out and apologized for my Midwestern friend. They explained that Creeper Creeperson felt that touching Jamie was the way to her heart. Nothing is better for business than attractive women sitting at the bar. It’s too bad that one gameless dude can change that.

One regular, Greg Weber, who has a ton of game, was privy to a painful first date. There is nothing better in a bar then hearing a first date conversation that has a better chance of leading to suicide than a second date. One of this dudes lines was, “I may be a Stanford grad, but I’m no genius.” Why don’t you wear a Stanford sweatshirt and carry around your diploma, you douche bag? Because truth be told more women are interested in geniuses than Stanford grads. The pretension express rolled on with, “What’s your favorite book?” She must not have been a Stanford grad cause she said, “What about movies?” The King of Cardinal said,”Alright, my favorite is Casablanca.” Maybe Casablanca is his favorite film, but that’s up there with a dude saying Valentine’s Day is his favorite holiday.

At the end of the night, one of our new owners complained to the cops about the food truck parked outside and the crowd around it. The cop replied, “It’s because you’re over serving them at the bar that they’re here.” Now that is about as specious as reasoning gets. I’m not saying that he’s incorrect about the over serving. (Keep that on the down low because over serving is not exactly street legal.) Now we’re gonna have to take an alcohol education class. I guess the class is all about over serving. If we stop over serving, what kind of game will these dudes have then?

I got to work early and saw that it was busy. I jumped in to help out Stevie. Every customer seemed to leave when Stevie clocked out. Now, I know that Saturdays can be funny early on. Mortals seem to use Saturday as a day to run errands. I’m not an errands guy. There’s shit I have to do: wash my car, laundry, grocery shop, but that’s more of an annual thing. Gator got in at six and said that traffic in Santa Monica was crazy. I don’t know if we had Ebola but perhaps everyone was fleeing O’Brien’s. We eventually got hit at around six thirty and got hit hard. Thank Christ! Everyone seemed to sit at once and everyone was eating. I had some great customers save for one table.

I’ve found that if I don’t expect a tip, then I will always be pleasantly surprised. Alas, table eight even broke that rule. I knew they would be a problem. Chino took their order and said, “She wants a Kobe burger with onion rings on the side and a side salad.” I said, “Charge her two bucks for the salad.” He said, “She doesn’t want to pay more.” Now our menu is pretty straight forward. Sandwiches come with fries AND cole slaw OR  side salad (my caps.) I have no problem subbing onion rings or mashed potatoes for fries but I’m not here to provide everyone with their fourteen basic food groups for free. She was notified of our policy and ordered the burger and onion rings. (By the way, this obese pig needed neither.) At the end of their meal he had some food left, so I offered him a to go container which he accepted. She barely touched her burger so I offered her the same. She said, “No, I didn’t like it.” In most situations, if a customer doesn’t like something I feel it’s my job to get it out of their face as soon as possible and get them something else. In this situation, I wanted to pick a hole and jam it in. Their tab was thirty-two dollars and sixty-four cents. They left an even thirty-three. A Japanese tourist left me zero at the same time but that didn’t bother me because he may not tip back home, but these people were American. They know that  one percent does not a tip make.

Most of my customers closed out when I went to dinner, so I was quite surprised to return to a full bar. Alas, it was a bar full of a golf pub crawl, or as I call it: golf douche. Most golf pub crawls consist of a method of scoring. One receives points for the number of times one stops while downing a drink. The one with the least points wins. These fucktards just wanted to dress like assholes. My favorite, aside from the midget with the whistle (p.s. whistles should be outlawed in bars), was the guy who enjoyed grabbing his buddy’s nipples. Now I know women who will make out with each other just to get the attention of men. (Actually, I don’t “know” them personally so if you’re out there come on down.) But no where, outside of bizarro world, does one dude playing titty twister with another turn on anyone. The one with the sore nipples laid down the law with, “Dude, fucking cut it out, bro!” Mr. Twister stopped only to force one of his bros to kiss his flexed bicep a couple minutes later. I don’t know this dude personally, but I’ll bet he gives one voracious blow job.

After the douche bags left, it just died. I really missed those douche bags. When I say it died, it wasn’t an issue of half-empty versus half-full, it was three-quarters empty. Luckily, it only lasted an hour. During this busy time, I got to crown a douche bag of the night. Now this guy wasn’t supremely douchey but he did make one comment which earned him the crown. He ordered a Stella Artois and asked to close out. I used to hassle customers for a ten dollar minimum but it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I handed him the credit card book and he said, “Did you charge me twice?” I said, “Um, no.” He said, “But I saw two receipts come out.” I explained, “Actually, there were three: the sales slip, the original credit card receipt, and the duplicate.” This guy wouldn’t let it go. I don’t know if he caught a case of the Asperger’s but he went on and on. I finally said, “We aren’t in the business of double charging people. If you have two charges, call us.” He ended with, “I’m not trying to be a douche bag…” Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!

The low point of my night was when a guy ordered two Jack Daniels and Cokes and one Jack Daniels and Diet Coke. I set them down and he asked me to put a lime on the diet. I grabbed one from the tray and I’m not sure from which quarry we got these limes but I was pushing down when the the glass flipped and shattered. No one was hurt but you don’t feel like more of any asshole than when you break a glass attempting to secure a lime to it.

Nothing sends chills down my spine more than an Australian accent. I could get a voice mail from Osama Bin Laden putting a fatwa on my head and it wouldn’t scare me as much as an Aussie saying, “What’s your cheapest beer?” Osama didn’t call but we had one of those Aussies. It pretty much summed up the night.

Pic by: Jeff the Trojan

There are some customers that you know have money but you don’t know how much until they ask you a question like, “What should I buy: a Ferrari California or a Maserati Granturismo? Now my knowledge of cars doesn’t extend past the thirty thousand dollar range, but his question exposed a rift in our socio-economic status that was about the size of a small universe. It made me wonder what stories I tell that people hear and think, “That guy is loaded.” I figure I would have to get some peasant from the Crimean War and regale them with my dilemma of whether I’m gonna order Domino’s or Papa John’s. I said, “I really don’t know what they look like?” He said handing me a key, “The Ferrari’s outside. Take it for a spin.” Now I know there are people who would jump at that chance, I believe they are called, “Men,” but I’m not one of them. I’ll tell you why. I was at the gym on Thursday when a friend was having trouble with her son’s Beats by Dr. Dre headphones. I put them on, listened, heard the problem and took them off. I changed songs. Spread them apart to put them over my ears and I heard a loud, “Snap.” She said, “Did you break them?” I couldn’t have felt worse if I were making punch in Jonestown and those headphones only cost two hundred dollars. This Ferrari, albeit a rental, cost two hundred thousand. If someone wants me to house sit their condominium at the same price, fine, I probably won’t crash that, but this car wouldn’t stand a chance with me.

My favorite customers were two smoking hot, young stoners. How did I know they were stoners? Because they couldn’t have reeked of weed more if they unloaded a six-shooter, from a five-footer, four inches from my grill. These ladies smelled like Tommy Chong’s gums. They were quite indecisive, go figure, eventually landing on a couple of brews. And in true stoner fashion the hotter one ordered stuffed jalapenos and chicken strips. And in even truer stoner form, she came up to the bar a few minutes later with buyer’s remorse. You see a stoner might have ten minutes with a menu, but all ten minutes will be spent poring over six items in the happy hour box. Only later will they turn the menu over and say things like, “Can we change our order to a burger?” Oh, to be young, hot, and baked. I made my obligatory trip to the kitchen knowing that their food was being prepared, because for all of our kitchen’s failings, getting food into the deep fryer at the speed of light isn’t one of them. I had to break her stony heart.

The first band that played was excellent. They were an all chick band called Sage. They reminded me of Hole. It didn’t hurt that when their lead singer walked in you were hoping that her guitar would magically turn into a stripper pole. She had legs that could wrap around my neck twice and still be able to kick a soccer ball, my kind of lady. As usual, the night picked up around eleven-thirty. It was never crazy but it was steady enough, alas, too little, too late.

The high point of my night was when fellow blogger Lesley Balla of Chow Balla fame came in. I say “fellow blogger” like I say Steve Zallian is a fellow screenwriter. I recently friended her on Twitter and Facebook. I know that people read my blog, it’s just that I never know if my blog is an O’Brien’s newsletter or something bigger. (I’m shooting for the latter so if you enjoy anything that you read, please pass it on.) When I saw Lesley’s name on the credit card she handed me, I got a glimpse that perhaps this could be the latter. Although we aren’t the center of gravity on Main Street right now, I’ve gotta take my wins where I can get em’. Having a fellow blogger come in was definitely a win.