I nearly forgot! Last night's Customers of the Night:

1) A young lady with whom many people on the staff were obviously familiar. She looked remarkably like Sarah Vowell, which might be the only thing that kept me from choking the shit out of her for being a condescending cunt. The girl who was training me was, as I said, very sweet, and though she was not terribly well-spoken, did her best to convey certain facts pertaining to the Young Lady's order. The Young Lady responded by being simultaneously smug, condescending, and unhelpful. She talked on her cell phone at the bar, which I already find kind of grating (and rude), but the volume was preposterous and the subject matter- again, fucking smug. Trying to make a big show of her worldliness, she was. She even went so far as to question whether we had given her "real" B & B. Fucking seriously. As if we might have somehow mistaken the letters (and also as if she hadn't fucking watched us pour it from the bottle two feet away from her). Not to mention that if you aren't my dad, or at least my dad's age, do you really even drink B & B, much less critique it? Seriously? My Trainer was completely oblivious to the attitude she was being shown, and I didn't bother to point it out to her. I mean, why burst her bubble, right?
2) This guy wasn't even a customer of mine (er- ours. I was training). He came down after we had already closed and the only people in the bar were myself, My Trainer, and a chef whose name I have forgotten- I'll call him The Tall Chef for now. The guy was slightly inebriated, and loudly but politely asking to see a manager. I told him I would find the Manager right away, but as I was turning to go he started to tell me why he wanted to see The Manager. It seems that the man's waiter had spilled a beer in his lap.
"But I'm not even mad about that. No- I have worked in places like this before, so I know how things can happen. And he cleaned it up right away and he was great. And he got me another beer and everything. The thing is, my bill came-" he paused here, either for effect or to belch, I couldn't be sure-" and he charged me for the beer."
"I'm terribly sorry sir. I'm sure it was an error. We'll take care of it right away."
"No. He took it off the bill. He took it off before he ran my credit card. But the thing is, it should have never been on there."
"I'm sure it was merely an oversight. You know, accidents happen, and people get flustered. I'm really sorry that it happened. I will get The Manager."
Except I couldn't get The Manager, because I had no idea where he was or how to page him. So I asked My Trainer to. She made a couple phone calls.
"He's on a break," she said, loudly enough for the man to hear. (Remember the thing she did with the milk? Yeah.)
"But he's on his way here, right?" I said, looking at her and flicking my eyes at The Customer in a wink-wink nudge-nudge fashion.
"Uh... yeah. He'll be right over."

Luckily The Customer and His Wife were feeling celebratory. So I went on about my business, wiping down and cleaning up the now closed bar. The Tall Chef ordered another beer, and when The Customer noticed his chef's uniform, started chatting him up.
"Aw, man," he slurred. "You the chef?"
"I'm one of them," replied TTC.
"Aw, maaan," he slurred again. "The food tonight was eexlnt."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"Yeah, the meal was perfect. I have no complaints about the meal."
"Thanks," replied TTC, turning slightly in his seat in a useless attempt to close the conversation.

I can't remember the details of the conversation that followed, mostly due to exhaustion, but suffice to say that it was long and jovial, and we discovered that The Customer and His Wife (who was standing in the background smiling uncomfortably and looking at the exit the whole time, and who, it is worth mentioning, was never introduced or brought into the conversation by her new husband) were on their honeymoon, that they were congratulated by each one of us when he announced it (four times), and that by the time The Manager had returned (probably from smoking, but I don't know for sure), the guy was considerably deflated. In fact, The Tall Chef was in mid sentence when The Manager returned, and The Manager spent a minute or two poking his head around corners looking for an angry customer before one of us finally cut in and introduced them.
The end of the story is rather boring. The guy repeated his complaint several times, each time stressing that he didn't "expect anything," but that he "thought we should know" because he has "been in the business." What he got was a business card from The Manager and the promise of a free meal should they ever return. Thank the gods they live a few hours away. Hopefully we'll never see them again.

Customer of the Night#5410: The Prioritizer.

"I love that (Random Napa Cab), but it's sixty bucks. That's like a gram and a half."

It's funny how differently people talk to me at work depending on how I am dressed. I got called in on my day off again, and we're still broke, so I agreed to work. I was wearing an Okkervil t-shirt with a weird and somewhat scary drawing on it and a pair of jeans, rather than my usual button-down shirt ensemble. The guy told me it was his birthday and that he was looking for a nice bottle of red wine. We wandered over to the proper area and he stood gazing at the upper shelves, declaring his love for several of the pricier bottles. But one does have priorities, especially on one's birthday, I suppose, so he got himself a twenty dollar Chilean instead (and presumably made straight for the G@ bar afterward).

We went down to the Watt on Monday night for Garbage Island (featuring their newest member, Patterson Hood). It was nice to be out but I really am a morning person now so we didn't stay late. I do love to watch Craig play, though.

Still waiting on loan info. Still going crazy.

Customer Of The Night #8723: Nauseating Redneck.

The Punisher was not great. It wasn't terrible, but I really cannot recommend it. Which is a shame, because i adore both Ray Stevenson and Dominic West. A lot of people said this movie was really gory, but the way they did it- all quick cuts and choppy editing- it wasn't really that disturbing. Frankly, the Standard Nutjob Guy just wasn't scary. And the script was kind of... meh. So yeah. I don't recommend it.
I do, however, recommend Coney Island's Human Blockhead, the hoppiest lager I believe I have ever tasted. I would never have purchased it (I am not a lager lady), but a co-worker had one and allowed me a sip and I was sold.

On Sunday I had a wine tasting at Harry Bisset's. Eight wines, all white, and about half of them were perfectly drinkable (to me), but they still don't really float my boat the way a good red does. I had to work, but since several friends were there celebrating a birthday I got to wait on them and it was a pretty good time. When I got home the b.h. had finished making manicotti for our dinner party and, as an added bonus, had also made homemade granola bars a la Alt0n Br0wn. Fabulous. I changed clothes and packed up a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and we headed for Casa Del D & S.
Dinner was wonderful, and again the conversation was very animated- we went from the cycle of life and death to goat testicles and back again. I am starting to wish that I could conceal a tape recorder under the table for later use in a screenplay.

Monday I ran some errands, paid some bills, and walked the dogs. I got called in to work because my manager injured himself in a skate-boarding accident and they needed a cash-register monkey and I need money so it worked out well for everyone.

Early on in the evening, while the day crew was still there, J and I found ourselves together behind the counter when a very sketchy, very drunk guy came in asking the price of a half pint of shitty whiskey. I told him. He asked the price of the full pint. I told him. He fumbled through his pockets, counting out three dollar bills and then a large-ish pile of change. He was fragrant. J was waiting on him, but I was standing several feet away in an attempt to provide moral support and an out if the guy got too chatty.
"You take this? How much is this worth?", he cackled, placing a large chunk of gods only know what on the counter. We ignored him and waited while he dug for more change. He was a few cents short, and in my desperation to stop smelling him I told him we'd manage.
He picked up the chunk again, asking
"How much'll you give me for this?" and handing it to J, who put his hand out.
"What is it?" asked J.
"It's a tooth." Jay jerked his hand away like he had touched a hot stove, fortunately missing the dropped tooth.
"Where'd you get it?"
"It's mine. It came from right here." I turned my back, gagging a little and making myself busy looking for nothing in particular as the guy pulled his cheek open with his filthy fingers to show J a gaping hole in his mouth.

Fucking thing wasn't even gold. What a cheapskate.

Customer of the NIght #889: Fiesty Old Broad.

She was wearing a black velvet top hat (the kind that's scrunched down a little), with a cool coat and wire-rim glasses. She looked like she probably had at least a couple of cats. She was smiling and waiting patiently in line, and when she finally got to the counter, she set down a bottle of pre-mixed Bellinis, a bottle of bubbly, and some kind of fruity something.
"This looks like a fun night waiting to happen," I say, grinning encouragingly.
"These ladies I'm drinking with, they're such pussies," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "This is for them. I'll be drinking my single malt. They've just never acquired a taste."
"Well, good for you. I guess they're a cheap date, huh? And no wasting the good stuff."

She laughed and I laughed and she waved on her way out the door. I suddenly wanted desperately to go with her.

Customer of the Night # 651: The Shrieking Bitch.

This one's from a couple weeks back, actually, but I just found a note in some pants while I was doing laundry and I thought I'd go ahead and blog it.

I was working with W. It was a slow, slow Wednesday night, the kind that calls to mind the movie Clerks, and I start looking up random shit on the internet only after I have already cleaned every possible thing behind the counter.

So this girl comes in, obviously drunk, looking like a low-rent Par1s H1lton in a pink sweatsuit jacket and too much eye makeup. She is over-friendly and chatty and obviously stupid in addition to being half in the bag, and when she comes up she hands me a credit card with a guy's name on it.
I check her ID and tell her that I can't take the credit card.
"Why not?" she asked, still maintaining a sweet and innocent vibe. "It's my fiance's."
"Well, I have no way of knowing that, now do I?"
""So what do you need? A marriage license?"
"No, I need him. With an ID."
"He's out in the car, but he doesn't have an ID. He only has a military ID because he got a DUI."
"A military ID is fine."
"But we're MARRIED." Now she starts to whine. "I'm just having such a bad day." Faking breaking down in tears, she drops her head and goes outside. She returns moments later, after a loud and obviously heated exchange in the parking lot. Now she's pissed. A minute later a guy walks in. He is obviously drunk and likely underage. He mumbles something about not having his military ID, and she flips out.
"Where did you put it?!" Then, looking back at me, "This is bullshit anyway. I'm taking my business somewhere else." She slams her bottle of vodka on the counter in front of me and stalks to the door. "Fuck this place!!"
Smiling at a customer who is approaching the counter, I turn and wave.
"Have a nice fucking night!"
We watch as they weave drunkenly down the road away from the store. Since we didn't get a license plate number, we couldn't really call the police. Instead, W called the next liquor store down the road.
"Yeah, white car,m pink sweatsuit. Drunk and very dumb. Probably a stolen card."
I can't imagine how far she had to drive to get a drink.

Customer of the Night #193

This kid seemed a little dim from the word go. He was young, kind of beefy, and bearded. He had come to see one of the bands. He opened a tab and asked what my cheapest beer was. (This, for those of you who are not in the service industry, is almost always viewed as Not A Good Sign by those of us who are. Unless of course, you are in a place where tipping is not the cultural norm. I don't know what those folks think).
Anyway, COTN 193 proceeded to order six of my cheapest beer, one at a time, over the next two and a half hours. When his friends were almost through playing, he came up and closed his tab, leaving me no tip whatsoever. Whatever. I did not react, but merely continued closing down the bar. About five minutes later, a guy I know came up to the bar and told me that COTN 193 was smashing a beer bottle under the table where he was sitting. He hadn't just accidentally knocked it over (which would have been understandable after six beers), but was in fact smashing the broken pieces even smaller with his boot heel. His friend looked on in what appeared to be mild amusement. I thanked the guy who told me and went on closing the bar. When the band finished their last song, I went back to the supply closet, retrieved a broom and dustpan, and brought it out the COTN 193. Shoving it at him, I explained that he was now "Going to clean up that bottle you just smashed all over my floor."
He took the broom and dustpan without a word and went to clean it up. I followed him, shouting across the bar for D to turn on the lights so that COTN 193 could be sure to get it all. His friends looked puzzled, then embarrassed. They started loading out their gear.
After he finished, he handed the broom and dustpan back to me and said "I left you a good tip." As if this was somehow going to make up for his general stupidity and utter lack of manners.
"Actually, you didn't. But that's beside the point. You're acting like an asshole. Stop it."
I went back to cleaning the bar.

Customers O' the Night(s).

There have been so many recently that I couldn't possibly keep up. Here are a few examples:

#123: The Fat Mouth Breather is becoming a bit of a regular. I would normally ignore a person's weight and possibly even the fact that they were constantly walking around with their mouth hanging open if they were not the sort of person who insisted on Talking To My Tits whenever they were at the bar. Honestly, this guy has never once made eye contact with me while I was close enough to take his order. He also likes to hold on to his money for longer than is necessary, presumably to extend the amount of contact that his hand has with mine. He is vile and creepy and I do my best to avoid waiting on him whenever possible.

#486: A few weeks ago, we were closing up and a drunk chick wandered in alone at around two-thirty (We close at two, but are not required to empty the building until quarter to three) to use the bathroom. I normally try to stop people from doing this if they were not actually customers at our bar, but I was particularly tired that night so I let her go. I continued to re-stock beer and clean up. At around three, I was summoned by the door guys to the bathroom. The girl was passed out, panties around her knees and skirt around her waist, bent over completely so that her hands and her hair were on the floor in front of her. She was fast asleep. And snoring.
I started talking to her, tapping her on the shoulder and eventually shaking her to try and wake her up.
Eventually I raided her purse, found her cell phone, and dialed the last number that had called in (which was twenty minutes before). The girl who picked up the phone was confused at first, but I managed to convey to her that I was in the bathroom with her passed out friend and i needed help getting her out ASAP.
"I can't come and get her because I am at a party right now and I have been drinking and I am under age and the cops are outside. I can't leave." Great.
I found out her name (appropriately stripper-like, it was), hung up the phone, and pulled her to a sitting position, slapping both sides of her face gently while repeating her name.
"Pull your panties up sweetie, it's time to go." She didn't want to go. She didn't want to wake up, but she did have the good sense to cover herself when I sat her up, so I knew she was at least that aware of her situation.
Luckily there was another female bartender on staff that night, because this girl was BIG- Not fat, mind you, but a head taller than me and a good bit meatier. Once we got her to cover herself, it took both of us to hoist her off the toilet and onto her feet. From there she seemed to take control for the most part, and we just steered her (on her high heeles, of course) out of the loo and up to the front door, where she turned and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek and told me that i rocked and that she loved me and that I was her hero.
It was bizarre. She seemed perfectly coherent, as if she had just woken up from a nap (which I guess she had) and was a bit groggy but in total control. We watched as she crossed the street and tried to hail a cab. Two bike cops were standing on the corner and ignored her completely. Eventually I flagged down a cab and sent it over to her.

#222: Game Day is my least favorite day. Worse than New Year's Eve, Fat Tuesday, or even St. Patrick's day, Game day is Amateur Night with 85,000 performers, most of whom have been drinking for at least eight hours by the time I encounter them. Last night I got to deal with my first amateur foursome as soon as I got in the door. They were loud, they thought they were cool and funny, and they were demanding. The Jackass Group Leader kept ordering drinks and shots for himself and his three friends even though they obviously didn't want to drink more. What happened is what often happens in these situations: his friends don't have enough balls to tell the guy that they are done. Nobody wants to be the "pussy" that gives in first, so they all keep buying rounds. Jackass Group Leader decides to chat me up, since the girl who has been serving them all day has already given up on getting them to close their tabs and has moved on to the "ignore them and hope they'll go away" stage of customer service. So the guy remarks on my shirt- which, like most of my shirts, is a band t-shirt.
"Are they any good?"
"No. They suck. I try to make a habit of advertising for bands that I hate." I was smiling when I said this. The smile was an indication that I was joking, but that he knew the answer to the question before he asked me and that I was "on" to his game- trying to engage me in conversation that wasn't going to go anywhere. I am not flattering myself. I had already seen him chatting up two other chicks who had the ability to walk away from him and did.

"Ah HA!" he replied, a bit more angrily than was necessary under the circumstances. "Smart ass bartenders don't make good tips."

Okay, so what I should have said here was something like "On the contrary, sir, I make a lot of money from people who are smart enough to understand when a person is playfully kidding and confident enough not to take themselves too seriously. In fact, most people like it when you are a bit of a smartass, since they are so used to being Bullshat in their everyday exchanges with service industry people who are required to exchange specific pleasantries and pretend that they give a shit about customers."
That is not what I said. I believe I said something about having already written the day off due to the number of drunk idiots I encounter on game day. He insisted that he was a good tipper. I didn't believe him and I didn't care.
He went on to "compliment" a door guy about his hair and fashion sense (which he described as "totally rock and roll, dude"), and then try to engage said door guy in a conversation about music. "I'm a drummer, dude, so I know." What he knew I didn't quite understand. What he obviously didn't know was when to shut the fuck up and go home. I switched into uber-polite mode, encouraging them to try out the strip club or perhaps get something to eat. It worked and they left. His friends tipped me well.


#357: Dirty Diana is a regular. Until recently, her identity has not been known to us, but her prolific use of a sharpie marker in our ladies' room has made her a subject of regular discussion. "Dirty Diana Loves Teabags!" has adorned the wall of the first stall for so long that I can't remember when it got there. And of late one of my co-workers has made it her mission to remove D.D.'s scrawlings from said wall on a regular basis, since we often have an older more mature crowd during football season- including the owner's parents.
I do not, as a rule, consider graffiti "art" or even "free expression." (I make an exception here for Banksy and others who paint murals and interesting stuff to look at- they've helped me pass the time on public transportation many a time). It is, in most cases, pure and simple vandalism, and it is a big pain in the ass to remove from the walls. When the walls are clean, they usually stay that way for quite some time. Once somebody writes anything up there, though, it's game on, and within a week or two he whole thing is a mess again.
Occasionally, somebody writes something that I find particularly clever or funny ("Sodomatic for the People" and "Lester is Coming- Look Busy!") spring to mind), but for the most part people are generally ignorant and crass. In any case, The D.D situation was reaching a boiling point for my diligent co-worker, and when I finally identified D.D. my boss approached her and politely asked that she stop writing on the walls. She seemed embarrassed, but by her reaction I could tell that it was never a malicious thing- she was making a joke with her friends who are also regulars, and (I suspect she thought), with us as well.
This was about a week ago. Last night after close, one of the door guys came to get me and asked me to come with him to the ladies' room.
"Fuck! Is somebody passed out in there again?"
"No. I need you to see this."
I was expecting to find something broken, or a leaky toilet, or a pint glass in the bottom of a bowl. What I found instead was about twenty post-it notes, scattered in the first stall, each one adorned with the same message in hot pink sharpie: "Dirty Diana Loves Teabags!" Now that, my friends, is art. Or at least it is a very funny practical joke. I think I like this Diana.