Keep on going…

“To blog or not to blog”, that was again the question this week but this time, dear reader, for a much more important reason. On Wednesday I lost the sight in my right eye. And it may be permanent. Pretty shocking, huh? Pretty lousy huh? That’s what I thought too and still do. But something happened since that event that has made up my mind to (for now) keep this blog going. Here’s what happened…

I received a very late comment on last week’s post (yesterday to be exact) from a sweet soul named Nadine who knew nothing of my condition yet in her sentiment innocently included the words, “… keep on even if you do not write nothing.” Well those words in some way touched me, how I can’t tell you, and they made up my mind to try and keep on blogging. Now some might say, “Aw, man, it’s just a silly blog… what’s the big deal?”  Well if you read my “Happy Birthday” post you’d know why I find this blogging stuff a big deal. And why I’ve decided to keep on even if I do not write nothing.

So how did this happen, you ask, this insane turn of events of which I write? Well, I’d like to say it happened after your friendly bartender jumped over the bar to defend some woman’s honor and an errant bottle sent him into partial darkness. Yes, I’d like to say that’s what brought this about but it simply wouldn’t be true, for everyone knows I can’t jump over the bar I have to walk around. (insert chuckle)

No, dear reader, this was the result of an arrow of fate that found its way into an artery and kept on going till settled in the middle of my eye. Forget the technical term for this mess, what it amounts to is I had a stroke in my eye. That’s what happened.

It occurred this past Wednesday as I was sitting having my lunch, thumbing through the New York Times, when this burst of light suddenly flashed into being. Just like that… POW!!! And in a matter of minutes I was off to an ophthalmologist then quickly on to a specialist, and the prognosis at day’s end was that I may never see again from my right eye. There is a glimmer of hope however, at least I choose to think so, as there exists a glimmer of light on the right periphery. But if not, if my hope and intentions fall short of the mark there are worst things in life to endure… fate’s arrow could’ve alighted in a far worse place.

As for now though (as I adjust to this new phenomenon), and because I’m having trouble with depth perception, I won’t be behind the stick this coming week. Or maybe even the next. But I will be back, in more ways than one, you can count on it.

So on a brighter note, dear reader, as we approach Thanksgiving day, we all have much to be thankful for… I know I do.

I am thankful that I can still walk along the streets of New York and see a tot in a passing stroller suddenly flash me a smile for absolutely no reason.

I’m thankful that I can still on those very same streets of New York as I proceed a little further, be stopped in my tracks when I see a dog stop in its furry tracks, wag its tail, wiggle its body and give me one of those big goofy dog grins.

I’m thankful that if I walk a little further, I can still see Joey the homeless guy sitting on his same milk crate, waiting not just for my daily contribution but our conversation that always brightens our day.

I’m thankful that if I walk just a few more blocks I can still see Central Park, during this my favorite time of year, as Mother Nature in a burst of glory sheds the last of her palette, her leaves falling gracefully down onto Earth’s cold carpet.

And I’m thankful that when I get home again, after all these sights that remain a part of my life,  I can still read my favorite authors, still watch Steelers football, still watch Curb Your Enthusiasm tomorrow as Larry David wraps up another brilliant season, and most of all, inside or outside in this great city of New York, I can still see the smiling faces of those I hold dear. Yes I’m thankful, dear reader, that beauty remains firmly in the eye of this beholder.

Happy Thanksgiving and I’ll try and put up something again next week-end.

PS: I’ve obviously not thrown a “pity party” here so please don’t you either if you leave a comment. Okay? Your friendly bartender is doing just fine, believe me. I may not, however, answer your comments (something that’s as much fun for me as actually writing the post) because for now it’s a little hard to be at the computer for long. But you will be read!

PPS: Hah! I just thought of a joke to make sure indeed this isn’t a pity party. I’m reminded of a cartoon that appeared in The New Yorker many years ago and it goes like this (although it’s funnier of course when you see the actual cartoon). A guy is in a hospital bed in that typical traction depiction. You know, his bandaged arm is raised in an L-shape, his leg is raised in a sling, in fact his entire body is wrapped in bandages and the only thing not covered is his right eye. Got the picture? Good. Because the caption under the doctor who is standing at bedside is this, “Hmmm, I don’t like the look of that eye!”  As I said, dear reader, things could be far worse.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ when I see ya’.

Excuses, excuses…

I’m sorry, dear reader, but the bar is temporarily closed for this week’s Happy Hour.

Now I want to say (given the subject of last week’s post) that we’re closed for major repairs and renovation. You know… like sandblasting the walls, repainting the ceiling, and switching to plastic flowers to go in the entryway, but that just wouldn’t be true so I dare not say it. That incident occurred a few months back and we’ve long since been up and running in redolent splendor.

And I’m also tempted to say here (in way of finding an excuse) that age-old favorite, “The dog done ate my homework,” but that would also be false and a baldfaced lie. For the only “dog” I have this week is the Browns who are getting ten points against the Ravens. No four-legged kind.

And last but not least (to assuage my guilt) a part of me still wants to throw out this little gem, “I forgot.” But given the fact that my beautiful memory is always as sharp as a…

… aw, man… what’s the word I’m looking for? Hang on a sec…

… oh, right… tack! Yes, tack! So given the fact that my beautiful memory is always as sharp as a tack, how could I honestly say that I forgot? I couldn’t. So I have to fess up.

See, it’s like this, dear reader… I had a semi-week from hell, my creative juices had turned to vapor and now I sit here with blanks and a bright red face. That’s it… period!  No mysteries. So in way of a little payback, not to mention a lame explanation of how I got here, instead of our usual romp through Bar-land let me at least leave these words which I’ve placed in a poem. Okay? I mean that way I haven’t sent you away empty handed.  So make yourself a cocktail (obviously I can’t) and here we go…

Yes, your friendly bartender sits here / Quite fearing he’ll get no more “hits” here / As he hasn’t a tale / With which he can bail / His sorry ass from the pits here.

So why, you may ask, is he late then / Having nothing to unseal his fate then / Was he out on the town / Downing booze like a clown / And therefore not feeling so great then?

Well part of that theory is true / He did have a cocktail or two / After ending his shift / He let himself drift / To a bar for some late derring-do.

But it wasn’t to get himself wasted / Or as some like to say “to get pasted” / Just freely unwind / From toil and grind / To feel that sweet ease and to taste it.

But besides all this easing and drinking / He also was hell bent on thinking / To spring forth a thought / To end this blog drought / To keep him from critically sinking.

For often when sipping and musing / He’s found that it’s more than just boozing / It’s a trip through his mind / Where he’s likely to find / A story that’s ripe for his choosing.

Yes many a post has he written / metrically chewed off and bitten / After thoughts in a bar / Did carry so far / As to purr the next day like a kitten.

So last night was not an exception / As he sat there awaiting conception / Of a tale he could tell / With bluster from hell / To amuse in the art of deception.

But conceive he did not, sad to say / He laments on this  grey blog-less day / That thought he could choose / To rightly amuse / So it’s better luck next week, okay?

Thanks for stopping by.

Over and out from Bar-land… I promise the taps will be running full bore next Saturday.

Put a cork in it!!!

At the risk of being accused, dear reader, of “jumping the shark” too soon (Season Two-Episode One, no less), your friendly bartender leaps nonetheless into that area some might rightly call the lurid, or the low-brow, or the “go to stuff” as the comic might say, or the sophomoric which you might say… but when the shark in this case is alive and well and still a menace in the currents that flow through Bar-land, his story must be told and I’m here to tell it. (But with reluctance!)

So if you’re above the age of twelve, dear reader, or have attained a level of sophistication in your humor that soars beyond the antics of a Benny Hill, or a Peter Griffin, then I suggest you “mouse” away from these words and check out some of those lovely folks on my blog roll. For that’s where you’ll find the grown-ups this week and as for the rest of you… pick up your sixth grade readers and follow me.

Now the first inkling I had that something was wrong was the expression on the woman’s face who’d ordered the Corona. And when she extracted the lime from the neck of the bottle and placed it under her nose and began inhaling, and looked at me with eyes that bespoke pure horror, I knew that ensemble could only mean one of three things…

a) “Was that you?” (meaning me!)

b) “Do you know who it is?” (meaning anybody.)

c) “I don’t care who it is, what are you going to do about it???”

Well of course you’ve assumed by now, dear reader, the “it” assailing this damsel in distress was a colossal trouser-al breach of the first order… or as Shakespeare might say, a fart in the castle most foul… and it wasn’t just troubling this woman but all within scent-shot. For I refer here not to some harmless little “stinker” which garners at worst the snicker and pinch-nosed titter, but a gaseous release of such epic proportions that one wants to search one’s mind for signs of the end times. It was that catastrophic.

And what initially came to my mind, oddly, as I watched all this gasping for breath and heading for cover, was the notion that had this occurred in the Long Branch Saloon in long ago Dodge City, gunplay would’ve erupted forthwith and Marshall Dillon rightly would’ve looked the other away. But this wasn’t the Long Branch saloon so what should I do?

Well, the first thing you do when you get such a look… the one sent your way by Corona… is immediately return that look in kind and shrug your shoulders as if to say, “Who indeed?” Then, your innocence securely in place, you give her a nod that says with aplomb, “Don’t worry, Darlin’, your friendly bartender will handle this .” And you move down the bar like Holmes who has entered a crime scene.

But fortunately this case… “The Case of the Mysterious Stench”… was solved in a matter of seconds as the culprit it turns out was sitting just two stools down. It was a sommelier from a restaurant on the upper westside, a friend whom I’d known for years, and a guy whom I’d always referred to as Jack the Wine guy. So what told me Jack the wine guy was now Jack the Ripper? Elementary, my dear reader, elementary!

See, one’s cheeks don’t balloon that fully I surmised, one’s eyes don’t bulge that greatly, and one’s skin doesn’t redden that brightly unless the owner of all of these traits is suppressing a laugh. And a deep dark secret! And Jack the “Ripper” was awash in all of these symptoms. Where’s my Meerschaum?

“Holy fuck, was that you, Jack?” I asked, but not so Corona could hear, I wanted to give young Jack the benefit of the doubt.

“W-w-w-w-a-s what me,” Jack stuttered, and Jack doesn’t stutter.

“That cloud that killed the flowers over in the entryway. What do you think I mean?”

“Oh that,” he said, rather blithely. Then he fanned his nose and feigned a look of disgust. “Hell no that wasn’t me, Christ that’s awful!” But the smile that was breaking through belied all his acting. For it is written in the Book of Acts (Heinous Acts: chapter 9, verse 4), “… a farter can’t resist laughing at his damage.” Ever!)

“Well, either you or your goddam friend here (a waiter from the same restaurant) have stunk up this place royally so I hope that’s a one time shot because believe it or not I’m trying to make a living here.” Then I quick walked away before I too started laughing. What can I tell you?

Then, a mere two minutes later, after the universe had realigned itself and all seemed right with the world as God had intended, a cloud more deadly than before re-entered the proceedings. And Corona and two of her girlfriends ran for the ladies room.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I shouted in disgust, from a good six feet away, not enjoying the smell of napalm in the evening.  “You mean to tell me you bastards did it a-gain?” And when the cloud finally lifted, I walked back into the zone for one more go at these guys.

“Answer me this,” I said. “Why would two grown men, men who are well into their thirties by the way and who actually work in this business, just sit here and proceed to do this to a fucking bar? Wipe it out like this! Do you realize that if someone had lit a match just now this whole fucking place would’ve blown to smithereens?” Then I started to laugh which clearly weakened my position. “I mean, you’re a wine guy for Christ’s sakes, Jack, you of all people should be able to put a cork in it?” Then at this the three of us collapsed into gales of hysteria. And just as Corona and her girlfriends walked back in. Talk about timing!

But now to make matters worse, dear reader, as if things weren’t bad enough, one of those bastards let go another hellfire. Un-be-l-i-e-e-e-e-e-v-able! So the girls immediately grabbed their drinks, gave us three dirty looks, and asked the waiter to find them a faraway table. And who could blame them? Which left the sorry sight of us three…  Larry, Curly and Moe… Athos, Porthos and Porthole… three grown men alone in a haze of pathetic. Yeah, “Don’t worry, Darlin’, your friendly bartender will handle this.”

But I’m here to tell you I tried, dear reader, I really, really tried, but this was a case of the fart just having the last laugh. As it always does! Which makes me wonder… what is it after all these years (arrested development aside) that makes such a ridiculous event remain so hilarious? It’s a sound, it’s an odor… both experienced thousands of times as either victim or vile perpetrator… yet it never fails to reduce one’s IQ by thirty. I mean look at the British for crying out loud with all their pomp and circumstance, there’s nothing on the planet funnier to them than “the fart”. I’m just sayin’.

Oh well, the Lady I fear doth protest too much so he better just let this go, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. But then tell that to Corona and her friends, dear reader, for even though these women weren’t regulars, I haven’t seen hide nor hair since the night of the explosion.

Over and out from Sophomore Central, next week water balloons!

Happy Birthday!

Guess what, dear reader? A funny thing happened on the way to the keyboard as your friendly bartender prepared to write this post… he suddenly realized his blog was due for a birthday. Like tomorrow!!! Yes according to the date on my bio page which was written on November first of 2008… a day before I hacked out my very first post… “Behind the Stick” will have been here for one full year. And I almost missed it! (That’s the truth, it just hit me.)

So rather than go into my usual antics… the good, the bad, and the silly of those who raise glasses… I instead have decided to raise a glass to you. Yes, cheers to you, dear reader, thanks for one of the best experiences of my life! You deserve it. For without you, of course, this wouldn’t have happened and I wouldn’t have kept this going, your feedback is clearly what has made this for me a success… not to mention most rewarding.

Oh, I know, I know, I can hear some of you saying to yourselves, “But, Scribbler, what about the night you saved the queen’s life? That had to be much more rewarding than this, no?” Well, that was different, dear reader, and here’s why…

See, I just happened to be in England at the time, I just happened to be in the palace that night, I just happened to be sitting next to the queen at that dinner when the old bird began to choke on of all things “bird”… a quail she had shot that morning… and I just happened to know the Heimlich Maneuver which I remembered from all my years of working in a restaurant, so I squeezed and saved. But unlike these things which are written in a blog that incident was wholly unplanned and clearly not nurtured, it just happened. “It was just one of those things,” like it says in the song.

And when Bonnie Prince Charles approached me at length with tears in his eyes as he grabbed me by both of my shoulders, and said in a tone that chilled every tea cup in the room, “Please, Scribbler, just grab your hat and coat and fucking leave!” I could hardly call that a moment close to “rewarding”. For this man who would be king would now have to wait longer. Again!

(I promised a little humor last week so that, alas, was it!)

But seriously, guys and gals, dudes and dudesses, without turning this into an Oscar night speech or a tribute to my very own self in my very own lifetime, let me just say this entire experience has succeeded beyond my wildest and in this way, without question, more than any other…

Because of this blog… this connection to the whole damn world as I see it in retrospect… I, Scribbler, a clown who didn’t even own a computer just a few short years ago, have been able to meet (anonymously or not) some of the most brilliant, the most dynamic, the wittiest, the warmest and sweetest people whom I otherwise couldn’t have met in seventeen lifetimes. And I mean that from the heart. You are all kinds of people from all walks of life who have wandered into this bar, have somehow liked what you’ve seen here, and have decided to become a regular to each week’s Happy Hour. And for a bartender (virtual or otherwise), it doesn’t get any better.

Now I can’t go into particular names of the people I’d like to thank, there are simply too many, but I would be remiss if I didn’t say a word to the following. To Mr. and Mrs. Physioprof, thank you so much for talking me into to doing this in the first place… it’s been a joy and, most important, you were right. And to you, Isis the Scientist, thank you as well for all that you’ve done and for all the traffic you’ve sent on so many occasions… you’ve been aces, dear one.

All right, since this is starting to sound like an Oscar night speech and before I thank the nuns for teaching me Spelling, let me now turn to humor where I feel most comfortable.

Remember me talking of Tony in the past, my colleague the walking malaprop? (This guy) Well let me give you another of his gems which might just manage to close this post in style. In an attempt one day to convey to me that since I was apparently well read, I might be able to help him to answer a question. But he made the point of my (erudition?) like this. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bartender, you that you’re very readable…”

Ahh, that Tony!

But as funny as that might sound, dear reader, let’s (in a bit of a stretch) try to validate that wordage. For in all good malaprops worth their salt there is always a grain of logic to be gleaned from the salt pile, and in this case Tony unwittingly might’ve unearthed one. Meaning… I must be “readable”, at least on my blog, or dammit why would any of you ever come back?  So thank you for that, dear Tony, I’ll take it!

And thank you again for all of your support, a happy birthday to us all, and I’ll see ya’ next week when we start on our Terrible Twos!

None of my business…

Perhaps I should state at the outset, dear reader, that this week’s post will not be the usual fare. In other words your friendly bartender will not be swimming in the familiar waters of Bar-land gaffes and kerfuffles… those slips and trips that have kept this blog on schedule… for those waters, alas, have turned this week to thin ice. Upon which he’ll tread lightly.

So if you wanted your cocktail served today with the tingling glee that comes from a verbal joy buzzer, or tears from a squirting lapel flower posing as humor, I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait til next week’s entry when I’m sure by then some pontificating ass, while toasting his very own being, will have poked himself in the eye with the plastic swizzle stick. So let’s get serious…

The shrieking, high-pitched giggle I heard… wind chimes in a gale… preceded her entrance by seconds as it rang down the hallway. Aw shit, I said to myself, who in the hell is this at this freaking hour? I thought we were done!

And I had thought we were done, dear reader… Chet Baker was soothing the room in CD, we hadn’t had a customer in an hour, and I’d just told the waiter to go ahead put up the chairs. I’m not in the mood for this!

But when I gratefully saw who owned that giggle.. someone I’m going to call “Girl” for obvious reasons here… my mood quickly changed and I welcomed this incoming foursome. Good news indeed!

“Girl, I don’t believe it,” I said, “what a wonderful surprise this is!” Then we both leaned across the bar for a peck on the cheek. “It’s been ages!”

“I k-n-o-o-o-w,” Girl replied, in her signature five year-old’s voice, which wasn’t an act but simply the way she talked. “But that’s because we moved, ‘ya know,” referring to her company’s relocation downtown. That should’ve warned me right there this wasn’t her first stop.

“Of course I know you moved, Girl, don’t you remember how sad it was the day you guys held your going away party upstairs?” Then I laid on the bar four bev naps after I said it. Girl was with a woman who was roughly her age, late twenties maybe early thirties, and two guys who were clearly late forties or early fifties. This looked like an after work thing that had kept on going.

“So,” I continued, trying engage all four, “where are you guys coming from?”

“Florida,” barked the one guy… the younger one of the two… and he said it in a wise-ass tone that took me aback. And he winked at his friend as he said it to accent the “wise-ass”.

“Florida? For what, a business trip?” I said. I was still in the un-hip dark, dear reader, thinking they’d been away on some kind of conference.

“N-o-o-o-o-o-o,” chimed in Girl, “not a business trip, silly. We just met these guys in the bar up the street and when I realized we were here in your neighborhood I thought I’d bring them by for a phhh-i-n-a-l, final. ” Girl I could see wasn’t drunk but definitely slurring. And even that she did cute!

“O-k-a-a-a-y,” I said, “what’s everyone having?” I wanted to get get down to business and move this along. So Wise-ass ordered a gin and tonic while his friend went Johnny Black rocks, and both of the women ordered chardonnay backed by two waters. I made the drinks and set them on the bar and that’s when the god damn trouble kicked off in my head. For while gin and tonic and the one chardonnay were chatting and getting to know each other, Girl and Johnny Walker Black were already there. They were already locked in embrace and moving into kiss.

What the hell? That’s pretty fucking fast, I thought, as I watched this thing unfold. Then, son-of-a-bitch this is fast and wrong… that old bastard’s wearing a ring on his third freaking finger. Geez, Girl, what the hell’s going on here?

Now at this point it must be made clear, dear reader (which I hope you already know), that your friendly bartender is far from being a prude. Yes he more than understands hormonal rage at two o’clock in the morning, for many is the night on your side of the bar he’s been that man from Mars, promising a woman from Venus to pick out furniture in the morning… if only he could spend the night en route to that morning. So this wasn’t some case of righteous baloney or Solomon sitting in judgment, this was definitely a “something else” but (what?) I couldn’t figure.

Yet not wanting Girl to sense my dismay I walked to the far end of the bar and leaned against the backbar. Mind your own business, man!

But I couldn’t let it go. “Do you believe this shit?” I said to the waiter who had just come over to join me.

“Believe what?” he said.

“That shit! Girl and that old frigging hump down there muggin’ it up. It’s unbelievable! He’s not only twice her age but the bastard’’s married!”

“What the hell do you care?” said the waiter. “She’s a big girl, she knows what she’s doing.”

Precisely, I thought, she does know what she’s doing, so why do I care for crying out loud? I mean, for all intents and purposes, I really don’t know this Girl except for our long ago exchanges which were strictly customer-to-bartender. And believe me it’s not some deep seeded crush buried deep, deep, deep in my psyche, for just like Johnny Walker Black I’m way too old for her. So what is it? I continued. Is it a big brother thing? Good grief, a “paternal” thing? Am I the moral compass for all little girls out in Bar-land? Well, “Hell no”, to that one indeed… one look into my past would invalidate that notion. So what is the reason this thing is getting to me?

But reason or not this had gotten to me and dammit Girl picked up on it, for just as she turned to gather her water and ungather Johny Black’s arms that were clinging like grape vines, she saw in an instant my thoughts through my furrowed brow. And I cursed myself for that. The whole dynamic suddenly turned on a dime and she looked like a girl who’d just gotten a “D” in spelling. And I was teacher. Her big doe eyes looked straight across the room and hit me right between mine, and carried on their gaze a guilt that I’ll never forget… especially if this was the last time I’ll ever see her. And the guilt that I got from that gaze had trumped hers in spades.

In a matter of minutes Girl had gathered her things, threw me a rather weak smile, then walked out the door with Johnny Walker Black and his wedding ring. No kiss good-bye, no “Glad I saw ya”,  just that enigmatic smile which could’ve borne ten meanings. And she also left behind old gin and tonic and Chardonnay still at his side… unfinished business between them, finished business to be sure between me and sweet Girl.

“Start putting up the chairs,” I said, to the waiter who was glad that I did so, for he’d been chomping at the bit since the four of them walked in the door. And as I looked through the window out onto the street at Girl and Johnny Walker Black sliding into a cab together, not going into (which my mind wanted to do) Maybe they’re going for coffee and breakfast or one’s dropping off the other to save on cab fare, I decided to call this whole fucking affair none of my business. Bar-land stages a drama a night and this was simply one of them, one in which your friendly bartender failed miserably as director.

I handed the tab to gin and tonic whether he wanted to see it or not, then I turned up the lights and the volume on Chet Baker’s CD. There wasn’t a need for “Last call” we’d already had it.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week for a much lighter tale I’m sure.

Ordering!!!

It wasn’t like he was drunk or anything, just young and a little nervous, which is probably why he ordered “an Absolut and vodka”.

“And did you want those in separate glasses?” I asked, with a tinge of tease in the tone, “or would you rather have them one on top of the other?”

His eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is… you ordered vodka twice. You said Absolut and vodka, shouldn’t there be a soda or tonic in there somewhere?”

“Oh, right,” he said, chuckling as his cheeks gained a blush, “better make that an Absolut and soda.”

“You got it, that one I’ve heard of… Absolut and soda coming up.”

“With a lime!” he shouted, trying to recoup his poise.

“A lime indeed,” I shouted back, and I even called him, “Sir”, for your friendly bartender has worn those shoes… he’s shouted an order that has failed to make sense… and he wanted the kid to know it was no big deal.

So I placed the young man’s drink on the bar, we exchanged knowing smiles, then I walked back over to the cash register… (Big Bertha) to those who haven’t heard of her… and I folded my arms and leaned against her in reverie. For my thoughts quickly ran to my gaffe of all gaffes and it didn’t even happen in a bar but a goddam deli. Here’s that story…

See, to my way of thinking, dear reader, there are few things more quintessentially New York than the Jewish delicatessen, and when I first arrived in this great big city (save for the subway at four in the morning) there were few things more intimidating than the Jewish delicatessen. And I mean that. For there’s something about the hum and buzz of those places with everyone savvy and quick…  everyone knowing exactly what they’re doing requesting all this inside stuff… that makes the likes of me feel like an alien. Like a big fucking jar of mayonnaise rolling through the door. Oh sure, I know hot pastrami and I know corned beef, even brisket, potato or tuna salad and bagel, but everything else holds the arcane reverence of the Torah.

So lo those many years ago as a brand new Apple-tonian, and a rookie of the first order in all things deli, when I first walked into the bustling confines of Shapiro’s on West Seventy Second Street, I was even less the gastronome than that just described. I was a raw egg! But my mission on this day was simple enough… a half a pound of tuna salad and two poppy-seed bagels… so I figured I’d get “on line” and give it a whirl. I mean I didn’t need Alan Dershowitz to walk me through this one, right? Wrong! Check out this internal monologue that played in my head…

Christ, everyone really is in a hurry, better not hold things up when it comes my turn. Get your shit together and know what to say, man. Got it, Goyim? You want a half a pound of tuna salad and two poppy-seed bagels… a half a pound of tuna salad and two poppy-seed bagels. Spit that out when it’s time and keep on moving.

Whoa… hold on here… relax, man, you’re getting all tense for no reason. You’re acting like this is a spelling bee and “antidisestablishmentarianism” is still out there. This is tuna and fucking bagels, not rocket science. I mean it ain’t like you’re going deep here, you’re not getting into Gefilte fish or something that requires a prayer shawl and a yamulke. Chill out, Dude!

“N-e-e-e-x-t-!” shouted the guy handling the line movement. Just three more people then me. But at this point, dear reader, (which often happens to your friendly bartender), a song began to play in my head to score the action at hand, and the song that backed up this action was the theme song from “Rocky”. But rather than the words, “Getting stronger…” coming through, the lyrics instead were switched to, “Getting closer…”

Yeah, getting closer, tuna-poppy, three more orders and you’re gonna have the floor.

Then, a few minutes later, after the woman at bat stowed her culinary secrets deep into a big canvas tote, and inquired about an upcoming affair to be catered by Shapiro’s, she trundled off and the man again shouted, “N-e-e-x-t!” “Getting closer… Getting closer…”

Listen, white bread, if everyone’s in such a big hurry around here and you’re worried about holding things up, why don’t you just shorten your god damn order?

“Ne-e-e-x-t!” Jesus Christ! “Getting closer… Getting closer…”

Getting real close!

Yeah, why don’t you just shorten the thing to a half a pound of tuna and leave off the salad part? He knows you’re not gonna buy the actual fish. Plus you can point to it. And then why not just say poppy instead of poppy-seed?  Doesn’t that sound like you’ve been here be-fucking-fore? Yeah, I like that… a half a pound of tuna and two poppy’s… a half a pound of tuna and two poppy’s. Damn that sounds good, someone toss me a yamulke. A half a pound of tuna and two poppy’s. A half…

“N-e-e-e-x-t!”

(In full-blown falsetto) “Gimme a half a pound of tuna and a poppy deli!” What the fuck? Even Freud might have to sleep on that one! A poppy deli!!!

And the guy who was taking my (order?)… the guy staring back through glasses that could stop a bullet… exposed enough teeth to to grille an old Buick, spread out both of his arms and said, “What… you wanna buy the whole store?” And the line behind me like dominoes fell into titters.

“Er-ah.. no, Sir,” I said. My cheeks felt hot enough to fry a whole plate of latkes. “That was A half A pound of tu-na sal-ad… and… two pop-py seed bay-gols.”

“Ahhh, now this I can do,” said the man to much louder titters. And when my order was carefully assembled, bagged and paid for, your friendly bartender then turned and slouched toward Bethlehem.

But there’s a post script to this event which I’d like to share with you. And it goes like this. Remember that episode on “Cheers” when Frazier followed Diane to Europe in an attempt to win her back, hung around with some soccer players, and ultimately failed miserably in his mission? And remember when he got back to Cheers and said something along the lines of, “It was humiliating, Sam, just humiliating! I became a laughingstock. In fact ya’ know know in soccer when a guy misses a kick and lands on his back? That’s now called a Frazier!”

Well guess what, dear reader, (and I swear this is true)… to this glorious day, when friends of mine with whom I’ve shared this tale hear a sportscaster screwing up royally during a telecast, they’ll shout for all to hear, “Did you catch that? That stupid fuck just pulled a poppy deli!” Ahhh immortality!!!.

So I walked back over to “Absolut and vodka”… the young man who started this trip down memory lane… and I asked him if he’d like to have another.

“Sure,” he said, eagerly.

“Another what?” I said with a smile.

“Another Absolut and soda with a lime,” he said with a smile much bigger and sunnier than mine.

Over and out from Shapiro’s… see ya’ next week-end!

Instant Italian

It’s a simple question really, but one your friendly bartender finds elusive. And of course amusing. So while you’re sitting there enjoying your Martini, dear reader, and trying as best you can to forget your day, ponder with me if you would this little imponderable. Do you mind? Good, now here’s our dilemma…

What is it about the word “calamari” that makes a regular Joe… a Joe not even close to a “Yo, Joey”… immediately go “Yo, Joey” when he orders that dish?  Do you know? Any ideas? For “tomato and mozzarella” doesn’t do it, “Margherita pizza” keeps him sane, but add a plate of calamari to the mix and your man is immediately an extra in a Martin Scorsese film. He’s Mambo Italiano from the Ravenite Club. Yet he belongs to the Yale Club.

Yes there’s something about the word “calamari”, dear reader, when spoken by a male in public, that transports his very soul to the set of The Sopranos. For no male, it appears, can say that word without accent. Or at least not this guy….

Neil: When you get a chance?

Me: Of course, Neil, sorry to keep you waiting. You wanted to order some bar food?

Neil: (In precise elocution at home in the halls of Ivy) Ah… yes, my good man, thank you very much. Okay, we’ll have an order of your chicken wings, blue cheese dressing on the side. Two shrimp cocktails, one for the lady and one for me (a smile and a wink at the lady). Hmmm, let’s see, what else? A small order of french fries and… oh, of course, how could I forget? (Cue the theme from The Godfather) And let us have an order of fried c-a-l-a-m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r. (accent obviously on the “m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r”, no “i” in sight)

What the fuck? Is that you, Neil, or did the spirit of Lucky Luciano just do a “walk-in”? While I was looking down at my pad just now and recording your request for “french fries”, did someone sneak in and make you a “made” man? What just happened here? Maybe I should have you repeat it to see if I’m dreaming.

Me: I’m sorry, Neil, what was that last part again? It’s a little noisy in here.

Neil: (music up, cue the don) C-a-l-a-m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r,  c-a-l-a-m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r!

Me: Oh, calama-re-e-e-e, calama-r-e-e-e-e! (accent, in my case, on “r-e-e-e-e” just to rub it in) But it made no difference.

Neil: Yeah, c-a-l-a-m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r!

And as I walked to the kitchen to place the order I was sure I would hear, “Capish?”, or at least the distant strains of mandolins. Ciao, ciao, Bambino!

But what really is going on, dear reader, and what the hell is this thing about ordering calamari? I mean I’d like to compare it to that thing in the Eighties when “croissants” first hit the fast-food scene, when people who couldn’t do the Daily News crossword were  suddenly subjects in the court of Louis the Fourteenth. Remember?

“I’ll have a fresh craw-s-a-a-h-h-h-n-t,” they would say, mouths agape like  baby robins’, butchering their accents in cartoon fashion while sporting a coif that was piled as high as King Louis’s.  Yes I’d like to compare it to that Francophile mess but I can’t. This thing is different. This is gender specific. For women know how to say “calamari”… they add that final “i”… where men take care to avoid it to become “made men”.

Yet I do understand how “Italian” can be cool, even enviable in certain situations, and I certainly did as a fair haired boy back in Pittsburgh. Like in the summer when all my Italian friends were frolicking at poolside with tans, while I was hunkered down safely in the shade with enough zinc oxide on my nose to be spotted from the Space Shuttle. Or as an adult when I first hit the after hours clubs, blinded by white hi-boy collars and cuffs with glittering cuff links poking through them, owned by tutta-leone’s with a doll on each arm. Yes that, I admit, I thought was “cool” in a Dean Martin kind of way, but I never because of that fact tried to be that guy. Which brings us to the present.

If your friendly bartender was ever in a restaurant and pronounced the word  calamari as “c-a-l-a-m-a-a-a-h-h-h-r“, he’d fucking blush. And he’d be waiting for the Dialect Cops to roll in and bust him. “All right, pal, let’s go. You can’t just drop your vowels like that and get away with it. You have the right to remain silent, in fact we demand you remain silent til you get a hold of yourself.” And then off he’d go!

Oh well, no sense in beating this to death, dear reader, I guess this is one of those things we’ll have to put up with… men seeking Tony Soprano in a bowl of squid. Like those assholes who seek Noel Coward in the word “mah-ve-lous”. Or those jerks who seek Jerry Seinfeld in, “Do the math”. Or those full-blown fucking idiots who… woops… I’m sorry, you have an empty glass there. Would you like another Martini? What’s that? You’d much rather have a cup of cappu-c-h-e-e-e-n?

Over and out from Sorrento… see ya’ next week-end.

The week that was…

Well, dear reader, have I got news for you! Here, have a seat and let me get you a cocktail. You’re a Dewar’s on the rocks, right? Huh? Oh, for crying out loud, of course! You’re a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, what was I thinking? Well I know what I was thinking, I was thinking about that thing I wanted to tell you about. Here ya’ go… Maker’s on the rocks. All set? Good! Now check this out.

Yesterday, I’m bouncin’ around the Internet when I get this big heads-up from one of my blog friends… this Brenda who has a site called “Brenda and the F word”. She tells me to go to a certain site and that good news awaits me. Well of course I take her advice but when I get there you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. That’s because, by the looks of what I was seeing (here), I’d apparently just been knighted by the great King James. Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking about James Wolcott… wordsmith extraordinaire over at Vanity Fair. Yeah, that guy. Well it turns out, dear reader, that the man not only mentioned me on his Wednesday afternoon post, he goes and does a whole frigging thing on me. Not braggin’ but I’m talkin’ quotes, excerpts, “Go read this guy”, etc. just like he tapped the sword on each of my shoulders. Can you believe it? And people have been rushing to my site like I’m one of the big boys. Isn’t that the greatest? So listen, if I give you a sloppy pour today or you see me standing here staring off into space, snap me out of it, okay? Just roll up a goddam bev nap and aim for my nose.

What are you doing with that bev nap? Huh? I still gave you a Dewar’s? Aww, for Christ Almighty sakes, see what I mean? It’s been like this all day! Here, while I fix you another drink, and speaking of wordsmiths, let me tell you about a night I was anything but.

It was near closing time. I had one guy at the bar and the couple on Table Four was paying their tab. That’s it, no one else. So while my guy’s chewing on his unlit cigar and swirling the dregs of his Hennessey around in a snifter, I go over and put on my favorite Bar-land CD. It’s called “Let’s Get Lost”, by Chet Baker. That’s always my choice at closing time because his sweet, dulcet tones seem to bounce off the walls like invisible marshmallows. It’s a soothing sound that always mellows me out. And it also kinda tells the customers, “You get lost, too, the party’s over!” But not on this night, dammit, Hennessey calls me over and orders another.

“Yo, bartender, hit me one more time, okay? Then I gotta get home before the Big German kicks my ass.”

Hmmm, I thought, ain’t heard that one before. Does he live with fucking Rudolph Hess’s grandson or something? And as I pour him his final drink I say, “Do you live with fucking Rudolph Hess’s grandson or something? Who’s the Big German that’s gonna kick your ass?”

“Hah! Very funny, bartender, very funny. Nah, I got me a big German woman who kicks my ass into Tuesday whenever I’m late. That’s all.”

“That’s all? That’s a lot where I come from. Sounds to me like a dangerous situation.” And it did, dear reader. Hennessey was only about five-foot-four and one-thirty-five if you throw in the weight of the cigar. “Well she must be something special to put up with that!” I added.

“Are you kiddin’? She’s cream of the crop. This woman is aces. Always been there, hell or high water… even when I was away, if you know what I mean.”

Well, figuring “away” wasn’t a tour of West Point, then on to Niagara Falls for a getaway week-end, I tip-toed in. “When you say ‘away’, you mean away away? Like up the river?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he said, squinting while drawing an imaginary puff on his stogie. “Up the fuckin’ river, oars and all!”

“Can I ask what for?”

“You can ask but I won’t tell,” he said. Then he smiled because this phrase popped into his head. “Let’s just say I had two and a half years of free room and board on Uncle Sam’s dime. How’s that?”

“That’s fine. And you’re right, it’s none of my business. I never should’ve asked. I just figured since you threw it out that…”

“Hey, no sweat, pal,” he interrupted. “Don’t worry about it. Which brings me back to why I love the big German? This broad not only stuck with me the whole freakin’ time I’m away… she took care of my business too, big time!”

No, dear reader, I didn’t ask, “What Business?” I’m thick but not concrete in the cerebellum department. “Well, she sounds like a fine woman,” I said, ” and based on what you’ve told me I can surely see now why you choose to stick with her.” And I said it with an, “Okay, we’re done here,” inflection.

“Let’s get lost … da-da-da-da-da-da-dah…. Let’s get lost… da-da-da-da-da-da-dah!”

But he wasn’t done. “Shit, fine woman you say? Believe me, she’s a hell of a lot more than just fine, my friend. Just like my sainted mother, who treated me like the sun rose and set on me, I never been treated better by a woman in my life. And that’s sayin’ somethin’ when you think how terrific mother’s are!”

Enter “wordsmith” in all his linguistic glory. For trying to get the image out of my head of a six-foot-four Brunhilda with braids and a rolling pin, I decided to drop this pearl about sainted mothers. Check this out.

“Can I tell you something, my friend, about mothers?”

“Sure ya’ can,” he said.

“Here’s why mothers are great and nothing less. No matter what you do in life, no matter how many times you screw up in life a mother’s love is always and forever unrequited!”

Of course I meant “unconditional” but before I could correct the madness Hennessey jumped in. He took his cigar out of his mouth, got the beginnings of dew in his eye, slammed his palm on the bar and said, “Jesus Christ that’s beautiful, I couldn’t-a said it better myself!”

Well, to say I started to laugh is clearly inadequate. That’s because “high-pitched delirium” puts it better. For whether it was the time of night… that time when you’re tired and a laugh can literally own you… or the fact that I saw in my mind’s eye Leo fucking Gorcey and Huntz Hall here, I’m not sure; but what I can say for sure is I feared I’d be leaving Bar-land strapped to a gurney. That’s how bad I lost it. And I couldn’t go back and say, “I meant to say ‘unconditional’, too late for that. That would be saying he slammed his palm on the bar and agreed to nonsense. I was simply stuck with it. A mother’s unrequited love… a bartender’s fucking unconditional idiocy!

So as I continued choking on my laugh, he kind of chuckled as well… but with a wary eye as to what was really going on. So I tried to bail. “Sorry, friend, I don’t mean to laugh here but I just thought of something funny that happened earlier. It’s not us.” And thank God he didn’t ask ’cause I had no story.

“Hah, no sweat here” he said, “shit happens.” But then when he said, “Give me my check before the Big German kicks my ass,” it was hoots and Jello again but this time worse. Surreality cubed! I all but crawled to the register to tally his tab.

This is insanity, I thought, and also maybe dangerous if you ponder the circumstances. For even though Hennessey was only five-foot-four and one-thirty-three sans cigar which he left on the bar, it didn’t mean he was completely what you’d call harmless. I mean he did do a stretch in the joint, right? Which means he is capable of doing something illegal, right? Which means he might just be “connected” meaning he can get someone to do something illegal to me, right? Like break my cute dimpled knees some night when I leave. So when he looked back over his shoulder and gave me the oddest look when his hand went to push on the door… my laughter slid into the ethers along with this guy. “Good night,” I shouted cheerily. “Have a good one!” I added, hoping he bought it.

Let’s get lost… da-da-da-da-da-da-dah…

But isn’t that nuts, dear reader? I mean the whole damn thing. Here, let me get you another Dewar’s on the rocks. What? Oh shit, that’s right, you’re a freakin’ Maker’s Mark. God damn Wolcott!!!

PS: But seriously, Mr. W., let me say here publicly… if it’s not the word “King” then Prince does apply. Thank you, Sir.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next weekend!

Babes in Bar-land

These girls were young.  Of legal drinking age but definitely young. But what struck your friendly bartender as he coaxed from each the adult beverage of her choice, was precisely how “not-so-young” all three tried to act. They were polite, they were poised (why they even called me, “Sir”), and when it came to ordering their drinks they were downright adult about it. But when girl number one lingered a bit too long on the final syllable of her order, “Stella Artois”, both of her friends screamed in girlish delight, “A-r-t-w-a-a-a-a-h-h?” The girl blushed and giggled.

And after I placed a glass next to the Amstel Light which girl number two had ordered, and she pushed it away saying, “Actually I don’t need a glass, per se,” both of her friends giggled wildly and echoed, “Per s-a-a-a-a-y-y-y???” Hilarious!

And then finally, when girl number three had reached a verdict (and not without caution I might add), and asked for a Stoli on the rocks with three wedges of lime, I waited to hear, “Three l-i-i-i-i-m-e-s???” but it never came. She just got a rolling of eyes which I thought was sweet.

And as they sipped their drinks in lady-like fashion I couldn’t help thinking as I made my way down the bar, What a wonderfully refreshing sight are these three young ladies! Stella, Amstel and Stoli… women but definitely girls which nothing could hide. They came, they saw and damn near conquered. But they also reminded your friendly bartender of a trend now afoot out in Bar-land… of young people not behaving badly in grown-up bars. And that’s a good thing.

For it appears, from what I’ve been seeing, that not every member of the youthful set chooses to suck his booze through a hose while held upside down by his ankles to a chorus of “Chug!!!”. Or to imbibe by downing concoctions of all stripe and color. And for those who do like to party this way I’m not over here passing judgment, I know it’s part of being young and blowing off steam. But for those who don’t may I say, “Good show!!”, and not just for behaving so well but for ordering so well.  For I’ve noticed a return to the classics these days when it comes to the young drinking old, with martinis, Manhattan’s and sours drinks back on the table. Why even the famed Old Fashioned.. a drink I used to make ten times a year… is now front and center and rolling out right on schedule. As are Rusty Nails, Rob Roy’s and vodka Gimlets. Whatever the reason (and thanks to the young), the old is once again new and back in vogue.

In fact just last night I had a couple at the bar who fit this description to a tee… young people ordering the old, in this case Old Fashioned’s… and I asked what they thought was the reason for this current revival. Without missing a beat the guy spoke up and credited the TV show Mad Men saying, “Young people love that show, man, and a lot of us are really looking for the stuff that’s classic. And that show is loaded with it!” His date then smiled and agreed and so did I. But not so much on the part about Mad Men, at least as the sole reason, but definitely on the part about young people seeking what is “classic”. I did it when I was young… scoped out the “cool” I saw in the past and added it to my arsenal… it was a rite of passage. Change is good but so is preservation else why have a thing called Archives, and thanks to the many who get this point classic drinks are now pouring their way out of the Bar-chives.

Which reminds your friendly bartender now about music. About how a Harry Connick Jr., for example, back in the 1990’s, reintroduced song classics to a whole new generation. Now I’m not saying Connick was solely the reason for music appreciation 101, but just like Mad Men the man did have an impact. And his generation paid attention. For when you look at the juke boxes out there in Bar-land and see what is still being played… Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong and my favorite, Nat King Cole… you know that the young are still seeking “classic” in music. And that’s also a good thing. Yes, just when you thought all this stuff would be lost… the best of what came before us… “Encore!” is shouted aloud by the next generation.

I went back to the Babes in Bar-land after I saw they were were out of fuel, and asked if they wanted to do it again, same way. And they did. But unfortunately they weren’t using accents this time which severely reduced the humor factor, now they were who they were and fully relaxed. And an hour after that they were really “relaxed” as some clown kept sending them rounds of lemon drop shots. Which they accepted.

“Wooooo-oooooh!” they shouted with glee, slamming their glasses on the bar after each new belt, followed by a tinkling of giggles along with the slam. Yes the party was on for my party of three…  Stella, Amstel and Stoli… just as Lemon Drop dreamed and hoped it would be. But eventually it started to move into crazy and I began to fear that all wouldn’t turn out well. The shouting was getting louder, Lemon Drop was getting more brazen, and I wondered if I’d have to step in and play the big brother. But the girls it seemed were still in control which Amstel assured me with a wink, “Girls just wanna have fun!”, so I let them be.

Then fortunately, when it was time to leave they righted themselves and prepared to depart in good form, proving in spades these babes in Bar-land could drink. They got up, gave me a trio of smiles, pointed to the generous tip on the bar then wobbled to the door with a final “Wooooo-oooooh!” for good measure. And it was clear to me as they made for the street that a good time was had by all, except of course for Lemon Drop… the guy left behind much wobblier than they, per se!

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!

It’s my “serve”…

Hey, welcome back, dear reader, you’re here just in time. I need an opinion. See, your friendly bartender has this crazy theory and he needs a friendly ear to test it out on. You know, to give him a yea or a nay. It’s all about heaven and how the hell you get there.

I know, I know, not what you were expecting. Heck, I wasn’t expecting it either but I was standing here cutting some limes just now when this crazy thought just popped into my head. Here, let me get your drink first ’cause I don’t want to get distracted once I get into this. Maker’s on the rocks, right? Good.

Okay, here’s the theory…

According to many of these spiritual disciplines and more than a few Bible entries, the surest way to heaven is to serve others. Like this Mother Teresa for example, I think she’s already got a foot and a half in the door. And look at the ones who are already in… Frank from Assisi, Terry from Avila, and Cathy, of course, from Siena… they all spent their lives in the mode of serving others. Why even Dylan espoused this message when he sang “You Gotta Serve Somebody”, not that Bobby’s rockin’ under a halo. But the point according to most is simply this… serving others is how you get into heaven.

Well if that is indeed the case… “we gotta serve somebody”… then my job by it’s very description puts me in. I’m a server! I pour therefore I serve, no? And just because I pick up tips for my service shouldn’t stand in the way of canonization. Hell, even the Apostles had a tip sack when they bounced around. Wow! You’re ready for a refill already? Sorry, man, I know this is heady shit but I gotta get this out. Hang on. Okay, here you go, Maker’s rocks, my friend. Now, where was I? Oh yeah… here’s the big part… the part where I’m not just serving drinks but I’m serving mankind in the bargain. Like in those beatitudes or platitudes or some damn thing I heard or read somewhere. To prove it let’s do a check list.

And He said… “Comfort the sick.” Well, dear reader, I can’t tell you how often it’s been that your friendly bartender has obliterated some of the the nastiest hangovers in New York City with one of the best Bloody Mary’s in New York City. And how many Bar-land hic-cups he’s cured by serving his fool-proof Angostura-lemon concoction. Inestimable! So… comforting the sick? {Check}

And He said… “Embolden the meek.” Got it covered. For how many times has one of my servings bolstered the courage of the meek… has enabled some guy who is trembling in his boots to walk across the room and say hi to some woman? Well I’ll tell you how many times, one hell of a lot! Yes, many is the night my stiff Rob Roy has turned some stiff named Rob or Roy into Don Juan. Or one of my perfectly mixed Cosmopolitan’s has turned some shy country girl into a real Cosmopolitan. So… emboldening the meek? {Check}

And He said… “Give succor to the poor.” Got this one covered as well. At least once a month one of my regulars (and you know who you are) hands me a card which when swiped comes up DECLINED! But being your most friendly bartender (St. Scribbler to be more precise) he doesn’t put that person on the spot or direct him back to the dishwasher, he simply says, “No sweat, I’ll hold your tab.” Positively beatific! So… giving succor to the poor? {Check}

And He said… “Comfort the poor in spirit.” Well, Holy Christ indeed, at least once a night your friendly bartender, after pouring for the poor in spirit, listens while the poor in spirit pours out his life. And does your friendly bartender ever turn his back on this person… this person with myriad problems for which he seeks counsel? Of course not. He stays (and in saintly fashion) listens to the man. And listens… and listens… and listens… until this person who was poor in spirit becomes richer from the experience. Or in some cases downright giddy if the truth be known. So… comforting the poor in spirit? {Check}

And He said… “Abide your enemies.” Covered like a blanket. At least once a week some customer comes in (not a regular, thank God) who tries to turn your bar into his court. You know, the customer who’s widely thought of in Bar-land as an asshole. He’s loud, he’s opinionated, and in general someone you want to run right out the door. But… but… instead of 86-ing, he abides. And abides… and abides… and {Grrrr!} abides! Because that’s the gig, dear reader, the “hospitality industry”. Yes, unless Sir Asshole breaks some rule he can’t be thrown out just for being… well, an asshole! So… abiding his enemies? {Check} and fucking {Check}

Okay, I’m finished. Of course there’s a hell of a lot more to this but the point, I think, has been made. And that point is this. Simply by doing his job and doing it well, your friendly bartender might’ve served himself into heaven. Whaddaya’ think? Woops, empty glass again… will ya’ have another? You won’t? You’re kidding. Two and done? That’s a switch! What’s that? Instead of sitting here drinking you’d rather go out and serve your fellow man. Damn, that’s a fine idea… give me sixteen bucks and we’ll call it a day!

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next Saturday.