12 days of bartending. And a beer... in a tree.

And that's all she wrote. This last night found me agonizing in the back, worried at first because the show was delayed (all three bands got lost in Jersey City and showed up 45 minutes after the advertised start time). I still managed to finish up by 12:30. A friend showed up and again, I got home maybe a little too late. I'm sleeping in tomorrow! Cleaning, laundry, organizing, etc. Can't wait! Nothing makes me happier than creating some kind of organization. And then... bottles of Tempranillo and Malbec await. And some cheese. Le Marechal (my current favorite!), St. Andre and Humboldt Fog. Mmmmm. Day off.

12 days. And I'm stilll broke. And completely exhausted. The end.

12 days of bartending. Day eleven.

Danny Wood from New Kids on the Block was playing. K called out because ticket sales were sluggish; they didn't need a back bartender. Indeed. There were about 20 girls (D, sound lady and rocker-chick extraordinaire, counted extactly 17). A joke was made that we should have charged by the pound. Ugh. All the ladies were drinking some form of non-alcoholic concoction: A soda with a splash of cran and Sprite? A diet cola with a splash of lime? A soda with a splash of ginger please?

I popped back twice to see what the old New Kid was up to; I was curious to see if he actually had any musical talent, to be honest. Both times, expecting to hear something melodic, I was met with some hot-aired anecdote, which took at least ten minutes to tell.

And so, dear reader, this is my rendition of the show:
Danny: So, I was on tour with the guys and we went to Boston. I loved Boston. It was great. Any questions?
Audience: What was your favorite restaurant in Boston?
Danny: Legal Seafoods. Hands down.
Audience: (Loud clapping and woo-hooing)
Danny: What else?
Audience: Can you play [a NKOTB song]?
Danny: I've already told you guys. I'm not doing any NKOTB. If you really want to hear that song, you're gonna have to come on stage and sing it yourself.
(five willing ladies jump on stage. Danny reluctantly plays said song.)

After the show, DW hung out in the front with a large table of groupies. And, by the way. NONE of them tipped. Not a one.

While this was all going on, it was apparently "industry night" at Maxwell's, unbeknownst to this bartender. I felt kinda flattered by it, though. Like, after a crappy shift, everyone comes and hangs out with me, at Maxwell's. It was a lot of fun. And I got home maybe a little too late.

12 days of bartending. Day ten.

Sunday night again at the Nag's Head. The usual crowd visited, and a friend stopped in to drop off a new wine for me to try. I will try it this week, on the one of two nights I have off, tucked under a blanket and with a pile of movies to watch. Eye on the prize.

12 days of bartending. Sucks the hiney hole.

So rather than bore you, dear reader, with the tiresome details about how much money I didn't make (yet again) on a Saturday, or how awful all the people are that come in, or how I'm sick of dealing with drunken losers that tell me I look like the chick from Friday Night Lights (yeah, maybe in ten years!) or the Gilmore Girls or fucking Racheal Ray (?!) or "Did you ever date David Coverdale? You know, from Whitesnake?" ha. ha. ha.

I will instead explicate some of the drama of life behind the scenes of this friendly (sometimes a little grumpy) neighborhood bartender. Truly la vida loca.

I found out my soon-to-be ex-husband has a girlfriend; I had my apartment destroyed by a platoon of unexpected overnight guests (sisters, et al); my local family all came in for a surprise dinner at the place in which I work (which was both wonderful and awkward); the cat I'm watching, though adorable, is a shit machine; I got three new freelancing gigs; and ... well, some other things, but it has truly been a trip.

12 days of bartending. Day eight.

Finally! A good night. I filled in at the Nag's Head, and while it wasn't a stellar night overall, the tips weren't divided among three people as they would have been at Maxwell's. It was all me. I'm tired.

12 days of bartending. Day seven.

I was on call for working at Loews and hung out at Maxwell's. Love it. My sort-of one night off and I go and hang out at the bar I work at. Nice. Luckily I wasn't called in as I was made to drink some pretty stiff drinks. Makers and soda. Well, Makers. And a splash of bubbles. I'm not drinking for a while. Oh and yes, my prediction that my sister would make more money from this show than I would in six days of bartending has been proven fact.

12 days of bartending. Day six.

My dreams of paying down all my bills this month are taking a meteoric dive into a depressing reality of unrelenting debt. I thought this incessant work schedule of mine would catapult me ahead of schedule. Instead, I am leaving each night with only a sprinkle of cash and a smattering of annoyed.

Heartless Bastards played tonight; they sounded great. After the show, with two people at the bar, I called it a night and was home by 1AM. I had to stay up, though, to wait for my sister, who was playing runner for The Decemberists. Apparently, though I'm not a huge fan of the music, they are really funny and super-nice! Sadly, my sister will make more money in the two days she is working for them than I have in the past six days. Sigh.

12 days of bartending. Day five.

Tuesday night. Working the back. The bands were fun; I always seem to get on well with the bands. It was interesting: Mark Burgess' (Chameleons UK dude) band, Bird, and Rescue Mission played. It was a total gothfest. I was thinking that, if this were 15-20 years ago, I would totally be at this show, and I would totally be all Goth Princess. Interestingly, a person I used to see around campus and who hung out with my goth-ish friends from College I (and I like totally thought he was like all cute and stuff..like whatever) was at the show. His friend, who looked 50, was 45 years old and had a girlfriend that we all supposed was 18 or so. We couldn't confirm anything because she was drinking Diet Coke. All in all, we had lots of fun.

It was amusing to catch up with old friends and see an alternate universe of mine playing out before my eyes.

I like the direction I went in instead. This path is nice.

Oh, and I made next to nothing. Again. Well, at least I can buy lunch for myself tomorrow.

12 days of bartending. Day four.

Another stellar night at the Nag's Head. I was alone for two hours. The dart team ended up at a rival bar, and by 10PM I was overwhelmed by five customers. Yes, Five. Total. At 10:30, a guy came in with a female friend, paid by credit card, left me an $8 tip on a $60.00 tab and wrote on his receipt that I was beautiful and wanted my phone number. Nice. No thanks, big tipper. Note to guys looking to impress bartenders: At least 20%, please.

12 days of bartending. Day three.

Sunday at Nag's Head. Some of the usual suspects graced me with their presence, but for the most part, the local masses stayed away, many repairing themselves from the St. Patrick's antics of the day before. I was bored: we watched The Simpsons, played Wii bowling (unbelievably realistic, except for the lack of a ten-pound ball in your hands) and I closed with only the owner and manager there to keep me company. Sheesh. Tomorrow is a dart league day. I expect it should be interesting!

12 days of bartending. Day two.

Saturday. St. Patrick's Day. The real one. At first, it seemed like it was going to be a great night. The crowds streamed in, and by eight P.M., the place was packed. And, after we waited on the steady flow of initial patrons, we had dreams of closing with giant wads of cash lining our modest bartender pockets. A huge line formed for the show in the back: packs of people clogging up the restaurant. We noticed that, after the initial surge of patrons, these people just stood there on line. They weren't drinking. After the show opened in the back, they all filed in, and we were left with an empty bar. For five hours. So much for our riches. The walk home was enchanting, though. Remnant flurries floated around me like a magic dust, landing in my hair and on my coat sleeves.

12 days of bartending. Day one.

Day one was less than lackluster; I got someone to cover for me, and instead, met a friend for dinner. After dinner and some cocktails, we retreated from the sleet and drunken masses to my apartment, where there was much Trekking. As in, Star Trek! I'm still muddling through TNG season 5, which is difficult on rented DVDs (already had to return two of them because of cracks and so forth).

Stinger.

Went to dinner with THE EX yesterday. It was really nice to see him. He looked great, maybe a little shorter than I remember him being. Neither of us were hungry, so we feasted on wine and bread. Well, more wine than bread. And as a result when one feasts on wine, there was much talking. It was good.

He has a girlfriend. And she's needy: she called four times during our two-hour tryst. He didn't seem to mind; indeed, he took her call twice. I can't even imagine how that would be acceptable. But that's not me. And maybe why we didn't work out so well. I remember him getting upset with me because I didn't call enough. Maybe he just needed, well, needy. Who knows. Mostly, I was so happy for him. I want him, more than anything, to find his happiness. But there was that little part, that 5% of me, that pulled on those scabby bits in my heart and made it hurt. Just a little.

Anyway. It was nice to finally be able to articulate "what went wrong" and have it reciprocated. And more importantly, it wasn't all my fault. Finally.

He has a girlfriend.

Snippets.

Went to a bar the other night with a friend for a drink. We were captivated by our young bartender. He was flipping mixers behind his back, apparently practicing his "flair" for when they film COCKTAIL 2: HOBOKEN and are looking to cast some locals. At some point, between the clatter of missed catches, the annoying conversation about how great BAD SANTA is and the swell in his lower lip of the sweet tabacki he placed there so lovingly, we fell under his spell. Was this guy for real? Both of us being bartenders, we went into a kind of shock, unwilling to believe that in this town, in a bar that is trying to sustain a more upscale image these days, there is a character who has been entrusted with the keeping of this bar and is this ridiculous. We were not impressed. We left after one drink. Won't be going back there any time soon.

Just had a massage. I've had a few massages in my day, hitting all the "you've gotta go HERE" day spas in New York and elsewhere. Some were ok, some were completely forgettable, and some I remember very well. For various reasons. NO, I never got the "happy ending." Do they even do this for girls? Anyway. Anyone who is into massage has to go to Marma and schedule a session with Carmen. There are some really nice, thoughtful surprises that they do, that no one else does, and it is totally worth it. I'm scheduling another one for next week.

Walked around for the first time in months (mostly due to the cold).. My GOD. There are even more freaking strollers than ever. I was practically tripping over them. At Starbucks. At Barnes and Noble. At Garden of Eden. Can't I just get some cheese without you clipping my heels? Our stores are too damn small to accommodate your off-roading bugaboo behemoths. New rule: no strollers in urban stores. Leave them outside.

Why is it that I'm getting, like, 40 thousand emails a day for stuff I'm not interested in?

Writing, writing, writing. Designing. Muzak. Lots of ideas coming. I'm psyched. But hungover. And so I must wrap a warm towel around my head and watch Season 5 of ST:TNG. Because that's how I roll.

Next week: 12 Days of Bar-mas. Bartending-mas. Whatever.

Service with a smile.

Fake Patrick's Day.

9.00 am
Mom calls me up singing "It's a Great Day for the Irish" and wishes me luck. I laugh and tell her thank you, and I'm amazed (and touched) that she remembered. I send a couple of text messages out to friends: good luck today, don't get too wasted, have fun, etc etc. There are three parties within earshot. And they're raging.

10.00 am
I leave the apartment. "House" parties everywhere. Drunk people already yelling out windows to passers-by (mostly drunk guys yelling at girls in green shirts). I keep my head down and make a beeline to Dunkin' Donuts, with the hope that my promise to arrive at work with breakfast for everyone would be fulfilled. I enter through the side door. As I walk toward the register, I catch sight of the line that had already formed. So I followed it, looking for the end. And kept following it. And followed it right out the front door and around the corner. I sighed and continued down Washington.

10.10am
Every place on Washington that even remotely resembles a bagel place is stuffed with a sea of green. I almost give up entirely, but there it was, beckoning from across the street. MOLA. Mola mola mola mola mola mola mola. Well, hell. If I can't get bagels, I at least need coffee. Yes, NEED. So, I walked toward Mola in silence. Kept my head down. Didn't want to alert anyone to my direction so as not to attract attention. Mola is MY secret. And so I entered. Fuck yeah. No line. Lots of goodies. I bought a latté, 3 muffins and 5 pastries. Less than $20. Score.

10.15am
I leave Mola with my glorious beverage in hand and head down toward my bar.

10.27am
There is a line of people. I can't tell what it's for. I pass the end of it near 2nd street and think that this couldn't possibly be the line for the Shannon? Could it? I step to the left to pass by, and as I'm walking I see the line disappear around the corner up ahead.. holy potatoes. It is the line for the Shannon! Why, there must be at least 500 people! And the bar isn't even open yet. More craziness as I turn the corner onto 1st. There is a line going up Bloomfield for McSwiggan's. There is a chaotic mass of people waiting for Buskers that leaks into the streets. Line at O'Donoghue's. At Mulligan's. I'm trying to see if there is a line at my bar. I see a shirt some large Italian man is wearing. It's hand-drawn. "I'm not Irish, but kiss me anyway. Pleeeeese?" I pass a girl wearing a green shirt with shamrocks all over it: "Everyone Loves a Drunk Girl." When did Irish become synonymous with low-class drunken idiot? Oh, wait, I guess it must've been the 1800's. I'm so glad we've advanced the culture in the 150 years since.

10.33am
There is a small cluster of people waiting at the front door. Some of the girls are sitting on the sidewalk. Apparently, they've been there for a while. I pass through their line and they all shoot me hopeful glances. I shoot back some regrets.

11.10am
We open the doors. $20 to get in. We start getting stories from the street: McSwiggan's is charging $40, Shannon is already at capacity, someone was puking in the street. I will never understand the allure waiting for hours to pay a huge amount of money for the option of drinking overpriced drinks in a place that has the ambience of a full-blown riot.

11.30am
Inspired by some events that have transpired in the 20 minutes of our opening, I decide to make a tally. Here it is.

The Official Tally:
Visits by the fire marshall: 4
People thrown out: 4
Girls crying: 3
SBDs that stunk up the whole bar: 7
Bag pipers who played: 1
Requests for Irish Car Bombs (flatly denied): 7
Regulars getting into fights with the bartender: 1
Broken nails: 2
Fist fights: 0
People getting kicked in the head by a horse: 1

Ugh. Tired. Must. Sleep.