The Bar

In an attempt to ramp up for the writingfest that will be November, I give you my last long post for awhile:

I know I don’t write about my life much. I didn’t really want this to be a campfire story time kind of place or a daily log of events in my life, but more a place to express my opinion about the world. There are far better story telling writer out than I, and I will leave the non-fiction to them. I can tell a mean story in person but I don’t think I translate it well to paper. I’m not a detailed enough observer of my surroundings for it. You have to be able to set the scene and make people feel like they are there to be a great story telling writer. It’s the expression of the subtleties of an environment that accomplish this task. I’m smart enough to recognize the need for these subtleties, but not smart enough to actually pay attention. So, when I digress into story, as I probably will, let me apologize in advance for the poor quality and don’t let it distract you from the point. Let’s pray that after I finish my work of literary fiction, I will be a better story teller and writer, overall.

I’ve been reading a couple blogs that center around working in a restaurant/bar (i.e. waiterrant and barmaidblog, two well written and interesting blogs if I do say so myself. I particularly enjoyed this post because it’s hot, and sad, but mostly hot) and they got me thinking about how much I missed working at the bar.

Turning sixteen in my hometown opened a bevy of new job opportunities to me. The minimum employment age everywhere in town was sixteen, so I had been stuck working at McDonalds up until that point because they hired anyone older than fourteen. At sixteen, I was now in the “adult” world of business, or so I thought. I had my choice between the movie theatre, a couple grocery stores, three bars, and various small local shops along the main thoroughfare. I could have switched to another fast food joint but I’d had enough of that line of work and needed to broaden my horizons and get a well-rounded taste of the world. My heart thanks me every day for leaving Mickey D’s. I applied to a garden center that was just outside of town but they never called me back. I guess I wasn’t plant watering material. I subsequently proceeded to perused through local phone book in search of the phone numbers and addresses of the bars in town. It seemed to me, a bar would offer me easy access to the three things I desired most. Beer, cigars and sluts (Just kidding about the sluts thing. I mean there were sluts at the bar every night but I was only 16 and I had a girlfriend in high school and still had morals. Damn morals! Look what you’ve done to me!). Not to mention, working at a bar commanded a certain level of respect from your peers because you could get them stuff, too.

The first position I applied for was bussing tables the local dive watering hole and restaurant, Hyatt’s. Located in the corner of a moderately sized strip mall, along the main road running through town, it looked like you everyday run of the mill restaurant. Certainly not like the place where bottle fights and glass throwing contests were held on a regular basis. In fact, the location it occupied in the strip mall had a history of failed businesses and eventually Hyatt’s was to follow suit. That’s another story and one I’m not familiar with as I had already quit a year before the doors closed for the final time. Currently, that space is occupied by a Panera and I hear it’s doing well, although I’m not sure corporate knows that little corner of leasing heaven is cursed for all eternity.

When I walked in the front door to apply for a job, the place was dark and smoky. It was mid-afternoon and there were maybe three people in the bar area. The bar tender was a tall guy named Denis who had shoulder length dark hair and looked like he had fallen off the pirate ship cruise to Buffett Island and hadn’t taken a shower since he swam ashore. At the Megatouch was an overweight elderly man smoking a cigar and next to him, sitting at a booth, was a little old lady with gray hair quietly reading the paper. All I could think was, I didn’t know the nursing home bus would drop you of at a bar? I walked up to the bartender and ask him if I ccould speak to the manager. He doesn’t say anything, just nods in acknowledgement and points towards the grey haired woman sitting at the booth. After returning from the 5 second trip to the twilight zone, I stiffen my resolve and walk to the booth to introduce myself. I tell the old women that I’m looking for a job as a bus boy and was wondering if she had any positions available. She tells me I’m in luck and that one of the previous bus boys just quit the day before and asks me whether I could be there the next Friday at 5pm. I tell her sure and wham! I have a job.

Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever filled out any real paper work for them. I know I gave them my social security number and name on a piece of paper but other than that, nothing. Not that it mattered, in 10 months of working there I think I had a total of 10 dollars total taken out in taxes, a fact that didn’t escape the watchful eye of big brother. This slight oversight on their part was what eventually became the demise of the institution. As proof of their exceptional book keeping skills, every check I got from that place bounced when I cashed. The bank tellers hated me for months. The words “poorly” and “run” come to mind. Run, especially, because that’s what I should have done the second I set foot in the bar if I were sane. Of we know that I am not and therefore loved it. Yeah, and also “Mismanagment”, but that seems to be related.

The bar was so mismanaged that I’m tempted to call it non-managed, as it pretty much ineffectively ran itself. All the time the old women would send me the grocery store at the other end of the strip mall with cash to pickup vegetables or barbeque sauce or chicken, depending on what they ran out of that day. The actual owner of the bar was the son of the aforementioned old women and the old man who played Megatouch. He was a wannabe hard ass biker dude who was addicted to coke and pretty much did nothing but come in every night at 9 pm, sit at his reserved booth in the bar area and get wasted. One time I was in the kitchen and a couple of chefs caught him taking a line in the little bathroom off the kitchen. I see a memory of his girlfriend, like a picture, every time I hear someone say the word “slut”. She fit the definition of the word to a tee and is the visual manifestation of that word in my head to this day. I worked Friday and Saturday nights and made my own hours. I had to be there around 5ish and would take off anywhere between 9 and close. Technically they couldn’t work me till close because I wasn’t 18, but these people didn’t care much for laws and regulations, so when things were going well and I was barbacking or, in some cases, bartending, I would stick around till close to make some extra money.

I think everyone else there made their own hours too, because I would come in most nights and have no idea who would be working or what job I would end up doing. The wait staff, save the sisters, had the intelligence and charm of Mike Tyson. During my tender the wait staff was made up of: 1) The gay guy who always tried to stick up for a ditsy blond waitress when the kitchen guys would give her shit and mess with her food, 2) The ditsy blond that only lasted two months because the kitchen guys were constantly ragging on her. (Not that this is very nice, but they would call her an idiot to her face and throw food at her when she’d walk into the kitchen. Kind of sad but I’d laugh my ass off every time they did it), 3) The bull dike. She may have lasted the longest by sheer force of will and domineering personality. She looked like a female linebacker. She was on top of her shit though and after the sisters left, she pretty much ran the show. I liked her cause she sold me beer and cigars and always tipped me out well. 4) Saving the best for last, the sister where a pair of girls who were actually sisters but looked nothing alike. One was tall, with an amazing body, dark hair and glasses. She gave off an aura of white trash sophistication if that makes any sense. She’d always make time to talk to me when I’d clock in and she was my favorite of anyone I worked with. Her sister was shorter with blonde hair and an equally amazing body, maybe even better than her sisters. She taught me the true meaning of lust and to this day she’s one of the best looking girls I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. She would wear these khaki shorts that were so tight and short that the crackhead owner actually asked her to tone it down. I catch myself drooling while looking at her more than once. Its unfortunate they only lasted three or four month, because those months were heaven for a sixteen year old boy. I think the older sister, dark hair, shot or beat up her boyfriend or something because one day they were there and next day they were gone and the only thing I ever heard about them was that they were on the run from someone, probably the cops. Of course, it could have just been hear say.

On a regular basis I would end up waiting on a table or two because the actual wait staff was too inept to keep up. Not that there was much to keep up with. We were a bar first and restaurant second. There was a fine dining section that was fine in name only. If you got stuck waiting or busing that section you were screwed and wouldn’t make more than couple bucks that night. One time the waitress who was handling the table I was bussing had done such a bad job that the people at the table wanted to give me the tip instead of her because I had gotten there food and drinks for them to cover the waitress. I gladly took the money and let the waitress get screwed. Trust me, she would have screwed me when it came time to tip me out, so I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse. The customer is always right, except when they’re wrong.

After the sisters left, there was really no reason to stick around and help the wait staff so I decide to bar back instead. The owners didn’t care what I was doing as long as they saw me working every once in a while so it all worked out. Sure, I wasn’t 18 and couldn’t legally carry beer or hold the title of bar back, but my arms and back could still lift a case of bud and like I said, my employers weren’t much for technicalities. Shit, by the time I quit, I serving drinks at the bar. Being bar back paid a lot better than busing because the bartenders made more in a night and were a hell of a lot cooler. Normally, they’d fish me a couple twenties out of the tip bucket and that would be my pay for the night. Compare that to the ten buck I would get from the wait staff and I was in heaven. The bar was always action packed and fun. From bar fights to broken bottles and drunken women to ringing tip bells, we had a good time.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the kitchen staff. The best story about then was when two of the chef’s helpers stole a couple of thousand dollars by clocking out and hiding in the bathroom till everyone had left, then taking money from the safe. Unfortunately, as a bus boy, I wasn’t privy to many of the details surrounding the heist. Therefore, I’ll tell maybe not the best, but my favorite story. I was washing dishes because the illegal immigrant they hired must have missed the boat that day and didn’t show. The head chef, John, yells at me, over the sizzling food and whir of fans, from the back of the kitchen to come help him out with something. This was nothing unusual. I liked John and would help him out in the kitchen when I could if he was short a guy. Did I mention I did everything at this place? I put the dish I’m washing down half cleaned and head to the back of the kitchen where John is standing in front of a small cutting table. He was cutting vegetables and is now holding a small, pear shaped, beige, almost nut like piece of an unknown food in his hand. He holds it out in front of him and tells me to try it. John would make for me all the time. He’d let me try the fried clams, ask my opinion on the bisque, or give me a whole plate of left-over London broil. I trusted him, although this time I shouldn’t have. I take the piece of food from John’s hand and look at it intently. I was smooth and moist and kind of squishy. I look at him and ask what it is and he responds be imploring me to eat it, telling me that I’ll like it. I raise my hand to my mouth and place the nugget on my tongue. Nothing. Well this isn’t too bad I thought, so I proceed to take my first bite. Juice squeezes out of the morsel as my jaw applies pressure breaking it open. My face dropped and I immediately start to gag. If you’ve never eaten a garlic heart, I wouldn’t suggest it. No wonder vampires don’t like garlic. That must have been the single worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. For the next two hours I was running around the kitchen eating anything I could get my hands on thinking something must be able to dampen the horrid taste, which had adhered itself to my taste buds. Ice, sugar, salt, mustard, pickles (which I don’t like), fries, cake, a lemon, you name it, I tried it. For reference, the lemon was the only thing that even put a dent in the flavor. I swore I would get him back for that little prank, but never did. If I ever see him on the street, I’ll be sure to tip him from behind or something, laugh and pint as he lies on the ground and then run off into the sunset.

Working at the bar was best job I ever had. After I make my first million selling picture of my naked body on the internet, I’m going to quit my current job and go tend bar to make spending money meet people while my money sits in an account somewhere earning interest. God, that would be so sweet. I don’t know why I like working at the bar so much apart from the freedom, the women, the beer, the free food. Ok, so I know why I liked working at the bar. It’s the only job in the world that combines my two most beloved hobbies, sports and alcohol. Since I’m not going to be playing international soccer any time soon, looks like bartending is the next best alternative.

In case you were wondering, word count for this post is: 2,734

Deal or Deal?

So I told the little lady about my plan to participate in the novel writing experiment. Honestly, I thought she was going to hack it up and bury my idea so far down that it would never recover. Fortunately, she was supportive although not enthusiastic at first. That may have been partly my fault for the way I brought the whole thing up.

Calitri: I did something today that I'm pretty excited about but I think you're going to think it's stupid.

Little Lady: What did you do today, Calitri?

Calitri: Hold on, it's nothing bad. What did you think I was going to say?

Little Lady: I thought you might say that were going to go look at perspective places to start the bar.

Calitri: Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just signed up for this thing where you write a novel in a month.

Not a bad idea Lady. Not a bad idea at all.

NaNoWriMo

So, because I'm stupid and bored with tv (just haven't been able to get into the new fall shows) I signed up to write a novel for National Novel Writing Month. NNWM is a unique and thought provoking idea and has the shared experience thing that I like. Basically, I have to write a 50,00 word novel from Nov. 1st to Nov. 30th and submit it to be word-counted before midnight on the 30th. I'm thinking of this as a way to practice and improve my writing. I'm sure others, mainly those who are already good writers, will have other reasons for doing it.

I'm excited to write 1666 words a day, on average. I think the longest blog I have on this site is 3 MSword pages long and a 2 and a half page blog in word is about 1,800 words, so I think the goal might be doable.

I've added a sweet little tracker to the sidebar so you can keep track of my progress, although I might take it down if I fall an embarassingly large amount behind. If I come up with anything good, which is doubtful, I'll post the excerpt here and on the NNWM website.

The Tenative title is: Barfly Must Die (I checked Amazon.com and no one has a published book with this title so I'm good to go. It's so tough to be original.)

Kristen, I know your busy right now, but you should think about doing this. You'd be good at it.
Kid, you and Goose too. Then we could word fight. Doesn't that sound like fun?!

Wish me luck.

Apologies please

This is for my three friends who actually read this blog:

Sorry for my delinquency in posting last week. I know I had a good run of updating there but all good things come to an end. Especially when aforementioned good thing is ended by a need to study for a test which encompasses the entirety of my college education plus. The 10 hours of hell test was last Saturday and yes I got drunk the night after. I can finally relax now and get back to doing what I like doing best, which of course is nothing with a little bit of writing mixed in. In fact, I already have a post written I just never got a chance to edit it last week before the shit-storm of studying descended. I'll try to get that one done tonight.

Peace and blogger grease my friends!

I Want to Suck Your Blood! A Holloween Tribute to the Fruit Fly

I'm not starting a question of the day thing, but there is something that I need to know. Therefore, I'll put it to the internet in hopes that one of the nameless mass has the answer to my question. Answer me damn it!

Do vampires poop?

The origin of the questions stems from a trip to the bathroom today in which I had to drain the lizard. I don't know how pissing and questions about taking a shit are related or how in the synapses in my brain fired in a way to make me think of such things. All I can figure is the environment of the bathroom put me in an excrement thinking kind of state. It happens a lot and, yes, I do think I have a problem. Post post edit: I was thinking about vampires because I had just seen a picture of Kristen Dunst. Enough said.

My first impression was that vampires do poop because all living things poop. People poop. Birds poop. Your grandmother poops, maybe sans diaper. But the longer I wrestled with it, the more I started to believe they don't. First off, are vampires alive or not? When you get bit, do you die and are reborn into the world of the undead or do you make the transition without death and leave the undead gig to mummies and zombies? Someone bring in Bram Stoker, I need a professional opinion. They have to be undead, which isn't exactly alive. In the movies vampires always talk about living forever. That's the perk you get for never being able to see the light of day. I never saw Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise pop a squat in "Interview with a Vampire". Of course, Tom doesn't shit in real life either because he's an alien. The only shit that comes out of him passes over his tongue and through his teeth.

Let's assume for now that vampires do possess some kind of "life", undead or otherwise, as it allows me to continue writing. Since they don't eat, would they have to deuce anyway? Vampires drink blood, they don't eat their victims. They're not werewolves for the love of god. They're civilized. If you're drinking blood all the time, why would you have to do anything besides relieve the trouser snake every once in a while? Do vampires eat regular food just for shits and giggles? They don't have to, you know. They live forever and blood is like their redbull. Would a taco bell burrito give a vampire the shits? I've seen a corpse shit years after eating one smunchy chilupa. There is no magic strong enough, in heaven or hell, to hold back the bowels after heading for the border. Did you know that taco bell is the only food both God and Satan won't eat? Neither created it, it just showed up one day and they're both terrified of it. Especially now that all three are on the same corporate level after being bought by McDonalds.

I wish I knew someone who thought they were a vampire so I could make fun of them.

Oh When the Dogs Go Marching In

Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you there. I apologize for the nightmares you're sure to experience because of the picture above. You'll be even more terrified to know that I actually took the picture from a video, which you can see here among other places. If you value your life you won't watch the video. Just stay here at let me tell you what you're looking at. It's a workout video of a former fatty turned Popeye (she shows a picture of herself in large human form at the beginning of the video). Just from the look of the things, the "this must be Asian" light and siren should be going off like crazy in your head. But, I'm sad to say, you'd be wrong to think that, as the bitch in the center speaks English. Tough to believe? I know, I had trouble wrapping my feeble mind around the concept, myself. In order to keep the confusion to a minimum, something I'm sure is impossible, I will hereby be refering to tallest bitch in the center with the pink on as, "Master", and the rest of the supporting cast as, "the pack". I was told that one of them was actually a human but for the life of me I can't tell which one.

I'll tackle the the pack first and work my way to the queen bee. Now, i know we, as a society, have made some impressive advances in the field of science over the past century, but I didn't think we had perfected the long sought after crossing breeding of a person and a poodle. I want to meet the guy who fucked the poodle and kick his ass. This new race of poodle-headed munchkins are destine for world domination and I can only assume that this is one of their training videos preceeding the advanced combat and weapons training. They're poodles that can hold guns. I didn't really like poodles before but now I doubt I'll ever be able to look at one again without the urge to kill it to save all humanity. When the bible taked about the end times, it mentioned a seven headed dog. I'm thinking they mistranslated the passage and the actually language should read "seven dog-headed people". Goddamn, those things are frightening. How would you like to be walking down a dark alley when, suddenly out of no where, you feel something brush against your leg. You look back just in time to see a giant white puffball with teeth flying at your head. Awesome halloween costume though.

On to the Master. She may have been human once long ago. In fact, she may have sired the small army you see behind her. Apparently, she was fucked by so many poodles that she became a mutated form of one of them. Just replace puffy leg and arm fur and a tail with muscle. I believe it has something to do with osmosis and being built for speed, not comfort. It's obvious she has a telepathic link to her spawn, allowing them to stay in perfect step with her. She's the ultimate warrior general. Just look at the symbol hanging above her head on the back. If that doesn't look like a hand giving the nazi "heil!", I don't know what does. I believe, if you watch the video you'll see this, she also has some kind of instanteous chameleon power which lets her singlet change color in the blink of an eye.

There's no way I'm leaving the office today lest I run into this obstreperous band of poodleople (poodle+people) and their rabid whore of a leader. Actually, I'm hiding under the desk with my keyboard typing this message. I can't even see the monitor so excuse my typos. No one and no where is safe from these things. I shouldn't say anymore in case they've learned to use the internet.

Air Guitar

I finally got back to playing guitar last night and it felt really good. I had forgotten how much I missed it. I originally stopped playing two months ago for a couple of reasons. One, I think I broke the pinky knuckle on my left hand playing flag football over the summer. I can’t prove that it’s broken because I never went to the doctor or hospital to get it checked out but it still hurts to this day and there’s a bone chip you can see under the skin, so I’m confident in my diagnosis. I’m right handed and I play with my left hand operating the fret board so the injury definitely made it difficult to play. I could feel it every once in while last night, but not enough to affect things. Two, I’m taking a class that meets for three hours at night, two days a week. Needless to say, it didn’t leave me with a lot of free time, so something had to be put by the wayside.

I remember playing in our high school band, “Beyond Recognition”. We had so much fun annoying my friend’s parents by practicing in the basement or his garage. Luckily for us, his dad played guitar and was a rocker at heart so he didn’t mind. Half the time you’d walk into his house and his dad would be downstairs with the amp cranked, belting out classic rock tunes or some lick of his own. He would have the volume up on that thing way past where we would ever venture to go. The whole house shook when he played but he was damn good. He owned the guitar of my dreams. An original red 1965 Gibson SG. The pickups alone are worth thousands of dollars. It is quite an impressive instrument. I pitch a tent every time I think about it. Our bands resume boasted a total of three concerts but it was more about hanging out and having a good time. Plus, the chicks were great.

I always think about starting a band up again but most of my friends who play or played instruments don’t live around me or we fell out of touch. I could probably practice a ton and try to join a band but a) I don’t have a ton of time to practice and b) I’ve never really been that good anyway. It’d be fun to find a couple people to jam with though.

The Yearbook

A friend, who will remain nameless, mostly because I’m embarrassed for him, was talking to a girl through the dating website eharmony.com and found out that she lives in my home town and graduated high school the same year as I did. Last night during MNF, between Shnookums and myself we couldn’t figure out who this girl was and it was bugging us. So, the little lady, who also went to high school with us, goes and gets my high school year book because she thinks she knows this girls identity. She looks up the suspected target and it turns out to be a wholly unattractive girl that we all kind of remember but none of us really knew. She was into drama and, not to sound elitist or anything, that wasn’t the crowd that I was hanging out with. Suffice it to say that our unnamed friend has promised to cut off contact with drama girl from high school upon our urgings.

After everyone went home thinking Arizona had the game in the bag, (silly bastards) I stayed on the couch and peruse the old senior class yearbook. What I found was pretty disturbing and therefore I’ve decide to put all my quotes in the yearbook up here and critique them one by one. Here we go.

“I plan to sit back, relax, and not let life pass me by”

- Senior Quote

I hated this one even before I graduated. I think I regretted writing it the day after I turned it in. Being on the yearbook staff, I should have strategically gone through the pile of quotes when no one was looking, removed the sheet with my name on it, taken it to the bathroom and burned it. Maybe that would have been a little extreme, but at least I should have changed it to something classy. I’ve had nightmares about that damn quote ever since it crept out of my mush brain and found its way to a piece of paper. However, looking back over some of the other people’s quotes gave me some respite. Let me tell you, they make mine look like fucking Shakespeare or something divinely inspired by God to be included in the good book. I don’t think it would be prudent to post some of my favorites, so you’ll have to take my word on it. If you really need to see some examples, get out your own high school year book and take a look. I’m sure making up dim-witted quotes is a national problem.

“You should do what your heart truly desires, do as much as you can, and touch as many people’s lives in a positive way as possible.”

- My answer to the question: What is the most valuable thing you’ve learned in school?

Holy fuck, I am gay. Son of a bitch, I can’t believe I didn’t see this early. Shit, I’m surprised this quote didn’t ruin my life entirely, though it does explain a lot of things. For instance, this must by why every time my father addresses me, the sentence ends with “fag”. It’s probably also the reason homeless guys don’t ask me for money on the streets and instead try to avoid my gaze and shake their heads. Honestly, I can’t believe I have any friends at all after that. Even now, I’d liken myself to Chernobyl, blew up years ago but still not safe to return. I’m damage goods. My friends must be infinitely more understanding than I. They make Mother Teresa look like a serial rapist. Apologies to my little but lady, but it looks like I’m batting for the other team. You can’t tell me you didn’t know, you read the quote. Alright Shnookums, now that I’ve come out, I’m coming over to make sweet sweet love tonight. You’re my best friend and I want my first time to be with you and those gently hands of yours.

Putting on the brakes. That was just too heavy. I have to stop now lest I discover that my mother is an alien and my dog hates me. There are a few other quotes and a couple of articles I horribly wrote, laced throughout the yearbook, which I have left out. I covered the cream of the crop. I’m going to go dunk my head in the toilet and drowned myself. Either that or drink myself into a stupor and run through the neighborhood naked while expressing my inner anguish through the majesty of song. See you on the other side.

Congrats to me

As you can see, the nifty little hit counter I installed crossed the century mark today. I am blazing up web with all this traffic. I hope the blogger.com servers can handle it. I'm told that it now takes two normal mice on a treadmill to produce enough power to display the blog. That's a big step up from the one mouse with three legs and down syndrom that was assigned to my account. Nonetheless, it is somewhat of an empty victory because a half to three quarters of those hits are my own page loads I accrued checking to see if one of my three readers left a comment or I was editting past posts with fuckups in them and wanted to make sure the correction looked right. I could change the setting so it only displays one hit for each person that logs onto my page per day but I feel like that would be very depressing. I'll keep it the way things are for now to placate my ego. Before I forget, let me throw a big thanks out there to Kid, Goose and Kristen for commenting. Currently, Kristen is in the lead with two comments but there's plenty of time.

You may have also noticed that I have a real links list now thanks to Blogrolling.com. I'm a fucking HTML wizard over here, motherfucker. You better watch out or I'll cast magic missile on your ass. Weird Al ain't got shit on me. If you have no idea what I just said, neither do I. Watching this video might help, video. I look at the code behind my template and all I can say is, "What the fuck?" Maybe I'll actually look into the whole HTML thing at some point but I hated computer programming in college and this looks way to much like the stuff I did there.

Substitution!

Kristen,

Just wanted to let you that I've found, what I believe to be, a suitable, if not superior, replacement for the now shunned word, "irregardless". I know its built-in double negative is too much negative for you to handle and as much as I like to annoy you, I don't want my writing to be the reason you jumped off the cliff. Hence forth, in all writing posted on this blog, when I want to say, "irregardless", I will type "nonetheless" and possibly "nevertheless" if I'm feeling a little frisky (can a straight man use the word "frisky" to describe how he feels? I think it crosses into a grey area I generally don't run into. Oh well, can't take it back now can I? The little lady is going to be quite upset when she finds out I smoke pole). Hope this knowledge brightens your day, my word-smith friend.

-Calitri

Hey Diddle Diddle

The moon is slung low in the sky. She sits, unmoving, with a glass half empty smile. Her yellowish glow does nothing to soothe my troubled mind. I implore her to tell me her secrets. Tell me who, of the billions of people in this world, is thinking the same thing that I am. Make me believe these thoughts are common. I twirl the toothpick from the bar in my hands. Give up your secrets moon because I need to know. I pass the place where I once faced death. I steel myself againgst the memory. It does no good. The tooth pick falls from my mouth to the dark below. I search but I cannot find it. I think, why me? The good and the bad. I ask the moon and recieve no response. I come to no conclusion.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Bagging a Bar Wench

Alrighty, this one’s for Shnookums and I fully expect him to put my theory to the test as soon as possible. Kid, maybe you can verify if my sure fire plan here actually works. Just a word of warning before I start; I would test this theory myself, but not being in the dating world precludes me. The little lady would be none too pleased with me and all my shit would be out on the street. You say cop out, I say preservation of my way of life. Not to mention, if I were single, bartenders tend not to be my type. Their constant dedication to and association with alcohol is something I hold in high regard. However, they’re full of drama, a pain in the ass to pick up (work which I’m unwilling to do), and on occasion can turn out to be a real bitch. This theory is based solely on observations made living and working in bars since I was sixteen.

The bartenderess is fabled and mythical creature. Unpredictable and impossible to tie down for more than a night, she prances about in our dreams like a pixie caught in an updraft. The battle to win that one night of lust and fornication will be a long and arduous one. To tame the mighty beast or beauty, depending on what you’re into, one must understand it. The delicate psyche of this flower you are trying to pluck could snap like a twig at the slightest of slip-ups and get you at best thrown out of the bar and at worst pummeled by a group of large men with or without clubs. Let’s delve shall we?

Point 1: She’s heard it all and almost nothing you can say will be funny or original. Leave the stupid jokes and one-liners at home kids, there’s no place for that kind of tom-foolery when there’s serious work to be done.

Point 2: She’s a busy woman most of the time and if you interrupt her and keep her from getting her job done she’ll get pissed and you won’t have a shot in hell. She’ll give you the amount of time she deems you worth of. All you can you do is anything to make yourself more worth or her time.

Point 3: It takes a special breed of woman to be a bartender. The ability to innocently flirt while not getting to personal in order to get bigger tips is a delicate balancing act that few women can manage on a regular basis. She handles highly stressful situation well but generally doesn’t want to add any more stress to her life. She likes sports more than your average women. She’s smart and quick witted, probably more so than you, so you’re going to have to stay on your toes. She can handle her alcohol, again probably better than you can. We need to get you into training right away. Come on.

Now we’ve come to the meat and potatoes of the theory if you will. Let’s call this Plan A (I don’t know why I felt the need to give it a letter considering that there’s only one plan. Wait…I just thought of another one, slightly less intelligent but much more daring. Here’s how it goes down. Park your car in the parking lot and take off at a dead sprint towards the bar. Bypass the bouncer, he’ll probably be fat so you can make it, and proceed, still running, to the nearest opening at the bar. Approximately 3 feet from the bar, launch yourself into the air landing on the bar and sliding off it behind the bar. Pick yourself up and remove your sword, that’s right I said sword. Carefully, yet forcefully, carve your name and phone number into the shirt of the bar maiden you are trying to woo ala Zorro. Sheath your sword, for safety sake, grab the rope in your left hand. Give two firm tugs on the rope and hang on as you’re whisked away to safety. If that doesn’t get her spread eagle, naked, lying on a bear skin rug, in your apartment by last call, I don’t know what will.). Caution. Plan A is not a one night thing. If you want to bag the best lay of your life you’re going to have to set aside some time and your liver right now to get it done (I estimate 2 to 3 weeks for the average man). If you're looking for a quick lay, buy yourself a hooker.

Step 1: Find “The One”. This is the sense that everyone else uses “The One”, right? You know what I mean, pick out the chick you want to pork.

Step 2: Do a background check. Not a real background check (if you have the financial well-being to afford it, maybe), just go to the bar she works at and start gathering intelligence. If you do a good job here, you’ll cut the work to get this thing done in half. The most important things to note are: 1) Single or taken, 2) Her regular work schedule (bartenders often float and have no set schedule per say but there are always days they like working more than others and will request sed days. Friday night is always a good one because it’s generally the night when they get the most customers, between happy hour and late night, and therefore bigger tips. I always worked on Friday nights busing and barbacking for this reason. Plus, the boss normally wants his best looking girls working on the biggest nights) 3) What make her laugh or smile? What are other people saying or doing that amuses her? Don’t pay attention to the fake smiles, and trust me she’ll throw a lot of those, only figure out what people say and do that really makes her smile and laugh. The ability to distinguish between the two smiles is key to this step and you may want to practice as a side project on your own. During the background check stage, make sure not to attract attention to yourself. Take friends with you to the bar, so if she does notice you, she’ll at least see that you’re social and not a complete loser. Finally, when you talk to her during this phase, be polite and pay your tab. No extra conversation at this time. Note: If during Step 2 you discover that she has a boyfriend, I’d advise to let it go and start over and return to Step 1. You’re in for a lot of work and seeing as he’s already where you want to be, there’s no question that he’s better at this than you. If during Step 2 you discover that she has a girlfriend, press on young man, press on.

Step 3: Getting noticed. Look, I hate to break this to you but you’re not the best looking guy in the world and if you were you wouldn’t have any trouble picking up any chick you wanted to, so this post would be useless to you anyway. Therefore, the easiest way to swing the odds in your favor is by eliminating the other players. Go to the bar off peak hours. By this point you should know which days of the week she works so go on a week day, during the day if possible or just at the start of happy hour before everyone arrives to drink their memory of the day away. Catching her when she’s not busy, with few people in the bar, and time to talk is important. This isn’t the step where you seal the deal, so don’t go overboard with the conversation. Nothing cheesy to start the conversation. Something like, “Hi, how’s your day going?” Simple question, but hopefully she gives you something to go on. Carry on short conversations at first, letting the conversation die naturally. Never start to force the conversation as this will create friction. You can throw a little wit in from time to time and maybe a little cockiness (I’ll call if self confidence) but don’t lay either on too thick and absolutely no preconceived jokes. You’re goal here is to get her talking about stuff outside of the bar and to be seen in her eyes as the nice guy. She deals with assholes all day and your presents should be a breathe of fresh air. You can’t be just another nice guy shlub though, you have to be THE nice guy. It’s a thin line to walk but that’s where the self confidence and the witty add that extra spice that makes a blah dish a delicacy.

Step 4: Sealing the deal. This has to be the culmination of your being if you know what I mean. First, go the bar when it’s busy but not packed. You’ll need the crowd to gage the amount of interest your prey has in you. If she notices you and spends a little time talking to you when you first sit down, you’re golden. Full steam ahead. If not, go back to Step 1 and block out another two weeks of you life in your day planner. Going with the full steam ahead, tonight your going to be a little edgier than you’ve been before. Put your wit and self confidence in overdrive. Maybe insult her a little bit over something inconsequential. For example, “Wow, you really suck at cutting those limes.” It has to be about some stupid and meaningless but that you’ll get a reaction from. This may seem like a bold play and it is but tonight was meant for the bold not the weak and you didn’t put in all this work for nothing. It will get her thinking maybe your not just the nice guy she thought you were. Depth of your character and intrigue on her part are vital. If you screw up and do actually insult her and piss her off, go back to Step 1 because you’re fucked and not in the good way. With great risk comes great reward, my friend. A classy move, which never occurred to me until I read it the other day, is to bring a single rose to the bar for her that night. Its draws positive attention to her, reassures the nice guy thing, and declares your intentions, maybe not your actual intentions but at least the intentions you want her to think, without saying a word. I don’t think I should even have to mention this but it has to be red unless you know what her favorite color is. You’re in for the long haul tonight buddy and hopefully you’ll be fucking as the sun come up so it’s important to pace yourself with the drinks. It would be ashame to get all the troops lined up and then not be able to come to attention at the proper time. Have a shot or two with her to loosen her up, but other than that, keep the drinking to a slow and steady pace, just enough to get her to come over and talk to you every once in a while. Stay till last call and at the end of the night ask her if she wants to meet you for a coffee after she gets off. If you get denied or don’t think your going to have a chance of docking the plane in the hanger that night, just ask for her number. Getting her number is about as good as getting in and it’s basically a rain check for later so don’t get all impatient on me. Of course, there are always other ways of playing the seal the deal night. For example, there’s “sad guy”, where you act like something is wrong in your life and you’re in need of the consolation only your bartender friend can offer. And of course many others. It’s all about reading the defense and calling the right play.

There you have it. Now go out and put it to good use. Get those bartenderess’ laid! Heya! Actually, this post ended up sounding like a poorly written Maxim article. If you’ve ever read Maxim, then you know how large of a cut down I just laid on myself. Self-deprecation hurts. Oh, and let me know if the theory works or not. I’m fairly certain, if executed to the tee (should that just be the letter or the word?), the plan is fool-proof. Any personal experiences anyone would like to share? Any other theory, more or less proven, out there anyone would like to throw into the ring? I’ll take’m.

5 Questions

So I’m sitting here drinking a pitcher of beer by myself (yes a pitch, but it’s ok because I’m pouring it into a San Diego Padres pint glass, which I cried into last night) and waiting to head to the bar to watch the Ravens hopefully whip up on the Broncos. Irregardless, I wanted to write my idea down before I forget it. So here it goes.

ESPN the magazine did an interview with Kris Benson and, by default, Anna Benson. I can’t remember which issue it was exactly but I’m pretty sure it was the first issue that I got after signing up for insider. I read the aforementioned interview and came to the conclusion that Anna is a total whore bag, skank, bitch who barely lets her husband answer a question. Now that were into postseason baseball and, as usual, the Orioles aren't a part of it, I’ve been reflecting on the season and I decided that the only fitting thing to do to honor the O’s abysmal season is to come up with a list of questions I would ask Kris Benson about Anna. I therefore give the following the dubious title of, 5 questions for Kris Benson about Anna Benson:

1. When out in public, if Anna hears any AC/DC song, does she randomly break into a stripper dance? Does she beginning to gyrate uncontrollably, grinding up against anything that moves? Does she present her floppy tits and make 8 year old boys motorboat them? Does she swing upside-down from street signs and light poles? Because, I can only imagine that she does. I can see it now. Your walking with Anna through the grocery store and AC/DC’s “Givin The Dog a Bone” comes on over the loudspeaker (I know they don’t play AC/DC in grocery stores but it’s my dream world damn it!) and Anna grabs a cucumber and deep-throats the fucker. Then she begins pole dancing on an old man’s cane as she rips her clothes off while touching herself. Damn that’s a sweet dream.

2. How desperate were you when you went to a strip club and attempted, successfully, to pick up a stripper to date and eventually marry? Seriously, you’re a major league baseball player. You can throw a ball over 90 mph. You make serious bank for doing something fun and have a life that most men would envy, Anna aside. Did you commit this act of desperation before or after you contemplated/attempted suicide?

3. How much did your buddies pay you to go home with the stripper? I can see banging a stripper on a one night stand to impress your comrades. I can even understand if maybe you had some trouble shaking her after that initial night. Maybe, she was a crazy bitch and stalked the crap out of you. Maybe, you had to get body guards to fight her, her love letters and her calls off. But really, how much did your friends pay you to marry the bitch? It better be ten’s of millions for a guy like you. A normal shmuck like me, I’d do it for 10 grand or so, that’s a lot of money for me. But for someone who makes millions, you should own someone’s soul for this one. You may have pulled off the greatest bet of all time.

4. Are you ok with the fact that, to the public, it looks like she has your balls in a lockbox she wears around her neck? There have been a lot of powerful and influential women over the course of history. But being dominated by a stripper, not a dominatrix, but just a regular, run of the mill, white trash stripper. You’re subjugated to a woman who will take her top off for a dollar. I probably have more control over your wife than you do because she already has all of your dollars. (Sidenote: Michele Tafoya, no. No, no, no, no, no. Sideline reports are supposed to be hot, or at least not made for radio. Sorry, I'm watching Monday Night Countdown on ESPN.)

5. How in the hell does it not kill you that your wife has fucked the amount of people it would take to fill the Grand Canyon? What, you think you were the first rich moron she snogged looking to get in with the money? Her website plays Kayne West’s “Gold Digger” during the intro for the love of god. And that's after you married the bitch. Did your kids just fall out of her when she stood up? How do you even know they are your kids? Is her vagina the place you go when you feel alone because you fit and it’s dark and warm?

Alright, I realize that was technically more than 5 questions, but some of the questions were multipart and therefore count as one. I was thinking of writing the responses that I wished Kris had to these questions but I don’t want to put words in his mouth. Anna does that enough for him.

That's Me

Just in case you were wondering the answer is yes. That is me (Jean-Claude Van Damme) pulling the sweet moves in my profile picture. Don't you just love my black low-cut singlet. I feel so sexy when I wear it, I just can't help but start dancing. I wish those two dudes and that bitch didn't step into the shot so you could have a better shot of my package. I'll try to get closer to the camera next time so no one can get into my shot. Enjoy everyone and tell your friends to come see my man pouch.

Just a Thought

Preface: This entry is not perfect. I don't think I will ever be able to make it perfect or express exactly what I'm trying to say. Irregardless, I'm still posting it because it's the effort that counts, right? Plus, I'm sick of editting it.

So I’m sitting in class last night trying to think about anything but what the teacher is talking about. I take a quick glance around the room at my fellow students, when it strikes me. Everyone in the room is sitting according to their race. There is a group of three or four black people in the front right of the classroom and a couple of citizens of the Asian persuasion seated directly in front of me. I turn around in my chair to find another small black community sitting one row back and to the right of myself. They must have gotten there late. The rest of the class room was an assortment of different looking white folks. We’ve all seen this type of thing before. Whether it’s in the high school cafeteria, the college classroom, or the work lunchroom, it’s always the same. This trend got me to thinking about exactly why people exhibit this type of behavior and how this behavior impacts social interaction between people of the same race and relations between races.

People tend to gravitate towards others who are of like mind and body, that’s just general social law. I think there’s a certain comfort in being around people that at the very least have one thing in common with you, your outward appearance. Segregation, in and of itself, is a natural process. Different kinds of birds don’t usually hang around together. I’ve never seen a goose flying with a pack of seagulls. It just doesn’t happen. I know that’s an elementary example but I still think it has meaning. There is a certain inherited comfort in being around people of a similar race, a similar look. Does that mean that because it’s natural, we should all segregate ourselves to groups? No. We are not birds. We are more advanced, though sometimes we decline to use our superiority to its utmost. There are valuable things we can learn from interaction with people no matter their race. However, to get to the point of sharing and learning, there are social boundaries that must be crossed, which can be difficult. As a side note, one of the reasons I believe the internet is such a powerful social tool is that everyone is faceless if they choose to be, and therefore it is merely our personalities floating on an electronic highway, bypassing many of the social roadblocks normally associated with person to person interaction.

Being a white male in his mid-twenties, I can only speak on personal experience and observation on my next point. And to be honest, maybe it’s just that I’m not a social butterfly unless I’m drunk but I’ll say it anyway. It’s more difficult for white people to find commune in a group of strangers than it is for any other race, assuming all races are represented by two or more people in the group. In general, when I white person enters a room or group, he’s in the majority. Obviously, that’s not the situation in all cases, but being the majority in the US, I’m going to assume that it happens more times than not. Inclusion in the majority is being part of a non-group. The majority is like a piece of paper and the minorities are the words written on it. The words have order, place and purpose. They form sentences and paragraphs that eventually represent thoughts and ideas and expression. The paper is more of just a background. Being this background offers no innate sense of belonging to anything around you. You’re not in with the words and there’s nothing that distinguishes or draws you to the section of paper next to you or in the top corner of the page or anywhere on a given sheet. When I walk into a room of strangers, I’m not compelled to talk to anyone, white, black or other. Generally, I’ll just keep to myself, get done what I need to do and head on home. Maybe I’m not social enough but I’m jealous because it seems like people of other races have an instant kinship with eachother that I’ll probably never know. Is it the same if you reverse the situation, like at a school with a primarily black population? Is the sense of instant togetherness lost? Do they then become the paper? I don’t know, but it would be interesting to find out.

Being a member of the majority can create a feeling of disjointed loneliness between its patrons. There is no initial bond shared between people in the majority when meeting for the first time. No common ground from with a relationship or even an interaction can grow. This lack of belonging to anything other than the bloated and nameless majority breeds isolationism. It makes you think, “What’s the point in trying to connect? It’s too much work”. And really, it is true that it’s hard to take the time and effort to get to know someone and without an initial social draw, race, looks, money, whatever, it’s even harder to try.

If there were a single race in this world, would it make things easier or harder? Would we lose the camaraderie born of being a minority? Would we be able to relate to each other and make the effort every time if we had to? I don’t know, but I don’t think that I’m going to have the chance to find out any time soon.