When your friendly bartender stated on his About Scribbler 50 page, “I also reserve the right to touch on anything else that life has thrown in my path,” he was giving himself permission to come out from behind the stick from time to time… to write about things that have nothing to do with Bar-land. Well today is one of those days, and wait til you read what life has thrown in his path. Literally!!!
See, one of the things your friendly bartender really likes to do when he’s not pouring cocktails, or not performing that magical act that makes a woman look up and see stars (hand her a telescope), is to stroll through Central Park… that bucolic oasis a mere four blocks from his apartment. (Jesus, did I say “stroll”???) For Central Park is more than just a respite from honking horns, jackhammers, and that collective roar created by eight million people… it’s a wonderful place to observe more deftly a select smattering of some of those eight million people. Like the ones here to follow…
On the day in question, as I was taking my usual “stroll” along my usual “path”, I was overtaken rather swiftly by a fast walking, fast talking, arm-pumping, brow-furrowed, hot and sweaty Yup-Cup on the march. (Yuppie Couple) Yes, dear reader, even though the term was coined back in the mid eighties, “yuppies” are still alive and well and annoying. And much like the “Single Malt Asshole” who appeared in an earlier blog, these were quintessential yuppies to be sure.
They were in their mid to late forties. They were sporting the obligatory faded, pastel, bill-rolled baseball caps. They had on a week’s worth of my salary in fast-walker, cross-training, logo-laden, kick-ass fucking workout duds. They were flashing those huge black wrist watches that have those huge plastic wrist bands, which not only tell the time in all seven continents, but the smog count in Bangkok while they’re at it. But most important, (and the key to this story), is the fact they were talkin’ finance… big time finance… and that, dear reader, is the icing on the yuppie pastry. God bless them!
So when this seminar in all things costly got about thirty feet ahead, they suddenly came to a stop as He Yup said to She Yup, “You go on ahead, Babe, I’ll get this.” Well, it astounds me to tell you this but the “this” he was about to get was the “that” about to come out of the back end of the Great Dane to which he was tethered. And when I say Great Dane I mean very, very Great Dane… asshole to eyeball Great Dane, for that was the line of vision when this five foot nine inch yuppie dropped to one knee. But what made this scene even more astounding to my unerring powers of observation, was the fact he was attempting to “get this” (as he genuflected behind this Clydesdale), with nothing but a fucking Ziploc Bag in his hand. Can you believe it? Talk about facing Goliath without a slingshot. Talk about catching Niagara falls in a tea cup!
Now your friendly bartender is not what you’d call the proverbial shrinking violet, or one who takes care to err on the side of caution, but if he’d been set with the daunting task of receiving and disposing of this diagonal Mt. Vesuvius, and from this particular four-legged noble beast, he’d have been wearing three pairs of surgical gloves holding at least a twenty gallon Hefty Bag for the manuever. And he’d have worn him some two-ply rubber wading boots (the kind that come all the way up and have a bib), observing warily this profile in courage through a three-inch-thick pair of welder’s goggles in the bargain. And as even further precaution, the more he now ponders, he might’ve topped things off with a fucking helmet. But here was Frankie Finance, sending “Babe” on ahead, about to bravely “get this” with nothing but a plastic sachet designed specifically for a ham and cheese on rye.
Ah, but there comes to mind a metaphor, dear reader, and a serious note to this tale… for your friendly bartender shares this sighting not just to indulge your mind in spotty potty humor, but to share this plausible notion he couldn’t suppress.
Was this singular act of ineptitude, right here in Central Park, a telling example of the bigger picture… the ineptitude so rampant of late down on Wall Street? Is this the same unpreparedness and lack of foresight in general that Frankie and his ilk employed for years causing our financial house of cards to collapse? Is Mr. Frankie “I’ll get this” just one of the thousands of Frankie’s who were granted the crucial stewardship of governing our monetary futures, only to go and treat them like disposable waste? And is Frankie one of the guys down there now trying to “get this”, trying to clean up his ocean of shit using nothing but a tiny, plastic Ziploc bag? A bag more apt in size to hold his conscience? One can only wonder.
And one can only wonder, dear reader, how Frankie Boy made out with his Great Dane clean-up. For, not having yet had his lunch, your friendly bartender’s “stroll” became a sprint the moment Frankie pulled out that bag!
Over and out from Bar-land, see ya’ next week-end!