Merry Christmas, everyone, and happy holidays to you all… your friendly bartender is taking the week off. May the spirit of the season take hold in your hearts and remain throughout the new year.

Cheers,

Scribbler

One of the things your friendly bartender likes about working in New York, is the chance to meet all the different people who don’t… those people who visit. And because we’re often recommended, dear reader, by several hotels in the area, not to mention our good word of mouth from here to Europe, we get our fair share of tourists along with our regulars. And I love that. For it not only gives me a chance to maybe show off what the hell I know about where they should go, but I also get a chance to learn about where they are from. And sometimes, (as I wrote in this old post), an amazing coincidence occurs from one of those encounters. Now here’s another one.

When Tony our revered greeter (all eighty six years of him now) was still able to wait tables, he always made it a point to let me know when he had a customer who hailed from Pittsburgh. My home town. And frankly I’m glad that he did because it often led to a wonderful exchange of info. You know… the places in common, the things in common, our beloved Pittsburgh Steelers, and sometimes a mutual acquaintance on that rarest of occasions. Like this one…

“Hey, Mister Bartender (I swear that’s what he calls me), I got you over here some very nice people from Pittsburgh. C’mere.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I shouted back, “just a sec.” So I finished my pour, I scanned the crowded mahogany to see if it was safe to leave my post without anyone hitting their forehead on the bar weak from thirst, then I made it over to the table-of-five next to Tony.

“Sooo,” I began, ever the gallant host, “where in the Burgh do you nice folks hail from? The last stop for me was a place called Greentree, South Hills.”

One of the two guys at the table spoke up first. “Well,” he said, “we’re actually outside of Pittsburgh from a town called New Castle. Do you know it?”

“Do I know it? I went to Slippery Rock College, for God sakes, just down the damn road. In fact my freshman year roommate came from New Castle. Any of you ever hear of an Eddie (Italian name)?” The table immediately fell silent and all wore Cheshire cat grins.

“I dated an Eddie (Italian),” one of the women then offered, utterly amazed. Now bear in mind, dear reader, this took place rather far from the scene and a good twenty five years after the fact…. we’re not talkin’ last Tuesday just down the road! “Eddie,” she went on, “was the first love of my life, I’ll have you know.” Then all three women giggled as did the men.

“But when did you date?” I inquired, ’cause if this was my guy I had a story to tell.

“All through high school,” she replied, “and all the way through his freshman year of college. As in… Slippery Rock College!!!” Bingo, that’s me roomie. Holy smokes, dear reader, what are the odds???

“Well then all I can say to you is… thank you, thank you for all of that pasta!”

“Excuse me?” she said. Then she glanced across at her friends who were equally perplexed.

I looked back over my shoulder to see if anyone’s head was resting face down on the bartop, which it wasn’t, then I pulled up a chair and set about explaining my statement.

“See it’s like this. Eddie was so lovesick over you that whenever he returned to campus on Sunday after spending your week-ends together, he had no appetite for the food his mother had packed for him. Which I sure did. And because of you and what you did to that poor little guy’s stomach, no one on campus ate better than me Sunday night. And I mean it! His Mom sent along all this amazing stuff…. some stuff I never even heard of… plus all the dishes I knew about like the noodle entrees, the chicken catchatori, lasagna, antipasto, you name it… and by Tuesday I was speaking with an Italian accent. And I freakin’ loved it. It was the best of times and the worst of times… the worst for him and definitely the best for me. So again,” I added with a smile and a wink to the table, “thanks for all of that wonderful pasta and thanks for making Italian my favorite cuisine now.”

Then, after a few more stories in common and a little more Pittsburgh, we all shook hands warmly, I gave Eddie’s Ex a kiss on the cheek then I walked by a beaming Tony who couldn’t believe it. “And thank you, Tony, for the nice heads up,” I added as I passed him by, (Tony who was raised in Turin no less), “how’s that for Pittsburgh with a slice of Italy?”

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

Your friendly bartender posted once about a (place where he used to work), where it was all the help could do to avoid their wine list. Yes, they hated that little nine by twelve cardboard nightmare. They found it too much trouble, too damn fancy, and simply too much not just a glass of beer. But just as dreaded as that “Whine List” I might add, looking back on those days of yore, was the posting of the summer drinks on the overhead chalkboard. For when that fateful day occurred each year as those drinks made their way onto the menu… usually around July first… louder than the chalk heard scratching across slate as the manager scrawled out the list, was the collective groan of the staff in ursine conniption.

And from that day forward (when the boss was out of the building of course), if someone was brazen or foolish enough to ask for one of the selections, and exchange something like the following would surely be heard…

“Ahhh, I’ll have a Banana Daiquiri.”

“No you won’t, we’re out of bananas.”

“How about a Strawberry Daiquiri?”

“Sorry, the strawberries went bad.”

“Hmmm… well then let me just have a nice Pina Colada.

“You know what? Let me check in the back, I think the goddam blender broke last night. Hold on a sec.” And gone he would be maybe never to return.

Get the picture? No “soup” for you if it has to be chopped, sliced, minced and it goes in a blender. But there was one on the staff, I’m happy to report, who was clearly different from the rest… the guy from that previous post named Louie the Cigar. Now granted, Louie also had no intentions of ever making a blender drink, but the way he went about that avoidance each time was priceless. For Louie was a politician, dear reader, a schmoozer of the first order, and he always chose a massage over the body block. Here’s an example…

Three young guys came in one day… one hot-ass summer day… and took a seat at a table right near the bar. These guys were sweaty and tired and ready for a liquid cool down. But when the biggest guy of three looked up and saw the “Summer Drinks” sign, Louie was over at the table so fast you’d have thought his mission was to deliver the life saving Heimlich Maneuver.

“Soooo,” said Louie, trying to run a diversion, “are all you guys football players or what?” They were taken aback at first when he said this and the two smaller guys looked surprised, while the big guy just kept staring up at that drink list.

Then the littlest guy of the three finally broke the ice. “We’ve been known to toss a ball around,” he said, “why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, because yuz’ look like a coupla’ athletes to me, that’s all.” Louie was laying the groundwork with a sharp pick and shovel.  “So what kind of beer do yuz’ want,” he went on, “you look like you could use a nice cold one.”

At which point the big guy, the only one of the three who not only looked like he’d tossed a ball around but had actually carried a ball in full pads into an end zone, took the lead and not to Louie’s liking. He said, “I don’t know, I was kinda thinkin’ about one of those summer drinks. You know, like a Banana Daiquiri or somethin’.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there,” said Louie, feigning shock and kerfuffle, as he walked around and grabbed the  guy by his bicep. “Jesus, man, that stuff’s not for you, a big strapping guy like yourself, that shit’s up there for broads if ya’ wanna’ know the truth. If you want my advice, and believe me I know what I’m talking about, you’re better off stayin’ away from a drink like that. I mean think about it!”

And by the look on the guy’s face after he’d taken this whole thing in, one would’ve thought that instead of summer drinks that list had contained seven cute outfits for Barbie. And one for Ken!

“Well I don’t know about these guys,” the littlest guy broke in boldly,  “but I’m having me a nice cold bottle of Budweiser.” Louie gave him a wink.

“And so will I,”  said the middle guy, also middle in size, “a Bud’s exactly what I feel like having right now.” Two down and one to go!

“Now yer’ talkin, fellas, now yer’ makin’ sense. That’s what yer’ supposed to  do in a place like this. Two Buds comin’ up.” Then he turned to the big guy with hopes of a clean sweep.  “And what about you there, Moose, should I make it three?”

To which the big guy said forlornly, his manhood fairly at stake at this point not to mention his sweet tooth turning more sour by the second, “Ahh, yeah, sure, I’ll have a beer as well… yeah, make it three.” But not wanting to appear a lemming he added, “but make mine a Sam Adams if you would, okay?”

“You got it, pal, Sam makes a hell of a beer… you made a good choice.”

And as Louie marched away from the table having run yet another successful anti-blender campaign, he winked one more time at the little guy… the one in his mind who’d taken the lead… who’d caught Louie’s pass and taken his team into the end zone. And the little guy, smiling in conspiratorial glee at that wink, gave him a wink right back… he was, for that moment in time, the big guy at the table. Yes, a sweet sight it was indeed… the little guy, for a change, scoring the touchdown.

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

Hey, gang… guys and gals, dudes and dudesses, all who come to this bar… just a simple message this week from your friendly bartender. And that message is this…

Thank you all so very much for the wonderful comments last week, you have no idea what a spiritual lift you have given me. Unbelievable!!! Especially those comments where someone came forward who experienced a similar setback (or knew someone who did), the amount of encouragement from that sharing is truly inestimable. For this is indeed just a bump in the road in the ongoing journey of life, and one I’ll surely drive over with a little more time. 

But until I do get over that bump and blog with my usual (a-hem!) flair, let me propose this toast to you if I may. ‘Cause it’s my turn.

Cheers and love, dear reader, good wishes and health to you all… the best is yet to come if only we let it. Hope you had a great Thanksgiving!

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

PS: Though I’ve put on a positive face, I still have to say that I’m pissed… my dreams of becoming a diamond cutter are over! Fuck!!!

“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’.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!