Monthly Archives: July 2013

Murder On 4th

2nd to last band’s setting up, 97 people paid, and everybody clears out 10 minutes ago. There’s like five people here. No, shit. 92 people…gone. It’s like the Vanishing, or somethin.

I gotta hankering for a SKOR bar, I sneak out, head to the bodega two stores down, and on my way, I see this guy, he’s got a tattoo tear right below his eye. As you probably know, a tattoo tear means you killed someone.

I can just see the job interview now. Hi, I’m here for the bank interview. Sure, have a seat. Huh, I see you have a tattoo tear. Oh yeah, this old thing? I thought I’d pay homage to a guy I murdered, hence the tattoo. Great. That’ll be good for business.

You’re hired!

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Wasted On Bud Light Lime

I’m exhausted. Three 12 hour days in a row.  I just tried to put a Jameson Whiskey bottle in a beer cooler.

They say, when you’re acting, it’s best when you’re exhausted.  So you don’t push it.

Also, if you’re a director, you should never tell an actor when they do something you like.  They’ll get self-conscious about it, and then, when they do it, it becomes forced. So rule of thumb, if you like something a person does, like when they bite their lip and you find it sexy, don’t tell em. It’ll just ruin it.

This guy’s on stage, and he just sang a song about getting wasted on Bud Light Lime. Made me chuckle.

I think I’ll tell him.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Mr. BO

I’m slangin dranks, probably 30 people crammed at the bar, pretty busy, but I got it under control, and all of a sudden, a horrible smell hits me. Yep, the dreaded BO. And it’s not because of a packed show, somebody sweatin. It’s the beginning of the show, and AC’s crankin. It’s the kind of BO that clings to someone. Days of not showering, and eating Big Macs. And probably some Meth thrown in for good measure.

Ok, whatever, I keep calm. I can’t tell who it is. I assure myself, band will start playing, guy will go watch the band, and the BO will dissipate.  We’re good.

Sure enough, band starts playing, everybody clears out, goes to the front of the stage. I go sit in the corner of the bar, jot down some story ideas.

All of a sudden, a horrendous odor hits my nose. I look up, there’s ONE GUY AT THE BAR AND IT’S HIM. Mr. BO.  Can’t someone tell him, a loved one in his life, that cares about him, dude, you got some serious BO happenin. You need to take care of that.

I grab the OdoBan from the bar, an air-freshener, and just drench the shit out of the bar area in front of him.

That takes care of the smell. But he looks up at me weird. Sorry, dude. If you’d just wash up yo shit, none of this would have to happen.

He walks away, and I praise The Lord.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

The Last Straw

I’m at the bar, settin up, I notice we’re runnin low on long straws. You know, those things you put in your waters and Long Islands?  I’ve got a total of 4 behind the bar. The door guy comes in, I ask him, could you do me a favor and go in the back room, see if we have any long straws?  Sure, he says, and goes back.

A minute or so later, he returns, nope, don’t see any straws. Ok, I’m gonna go down to the Lift, steal some from there. (The Lift is a martini bar down the street from The Mews, same owner, I work there also).

I go down there, not open yet, I’ve got a key, let myself in. I go in the back room. Ok, where the hell are the back-up straws?  I’m looking up and down, can’t find em. Oh wait, there’s a box, on top of the ice machine. It’s not labeled, but maybe that’s them.

I reach up on tip-toes, to get the box down, but what I don’t notice, is there’s another box on top of that, but I find out quickly, that it’s there, because all of its contents, RAIN DOWN ON ME, light bulbs, spatulas, caulk guns, and it feels good to have an energy efficient light bulb smash to bits on your head.

I find the straws, but have to spend the next 10 minutes cleaning up.

I think I’ll put the box with all the junk that fell on top of my head right back where I found it, sitting precariously on a box of furnace filters, on top of the ice machine.

What are friends for, right?

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

I Need Your John Hancock

So I’m at the Mews, this guy asks for his tab, I say, sure, I run it, hand it to him. Just before this went down, I was having a discussion with my fellow bartender. He says, I wonder who the first person was to clap?  You know, I’m gonna slap my hands together, to show appreciation for this Aeschylus play. Yeah, right, I say, then it caught on. That’s a really cool thing what that guy is doing. I think I’ll join him. Slap, slap, slap. Yeah, that feels good. That just feels…right. And the actor on stage is smiling. He likes it, I like it, so let’s go for it. Maybe I’ll even give him a woo-hoo, cause, why not, right?

So I’m thinkin in this vein, and I’m watching this guy sign his credit card slip, and I’m thinking, I wonder who the first guy was to say, hey, bro, I need your John Hancock right here.

If you look at the Declaration of Independence, you’ll notice how damn big John Hancock’s signature is. It takes up like half the bottom of the page. It’s like, thanks, Johnny, for leaving me an inch to sign my name.

And his signature is beautiful. I mean, he really got into it. It’s almost floral. He busted out the calligraphy pen. He was like, I’m gonna show these mofo’s how to sign a name!!

So people were like, man, I wish I had a signature like John Hancock. And then, as things do, in lexicon, idioms transform, so it became, I’m going to sign this shit like Johnny Hancock, really make a statement, into what we know today, as, if I could get your John Hancock right here, I’d really appreciate it.

Maybe John Hancock was the first guy to clap, too. He was so excited about his awesome signature, he started clapping, and then Ben Franklin, and the other forefathers, started clapping, too.

And then they all went out for drinks, and had Strawberry Daiquiris.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

BOOBS

I’m at the Mews. Pretty slow. Lead singer on stage says, who likes boobs?!? The small crowd goes wild. This next song is about BOOBS!!!

Finally…a song I can relate to.

I prefer the term rack over boobs. I think it’s funnier. Check out the rack on that one. That kinda thing. And it is like a rack of sorts, straight across. A place where you can put some chotchkies on.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

A Kid’s Born

I love bartending. It’s so much fun. What do I do?  I pour drinks and talk to people. Yeah, ok, I gotta set up the bar, and clean it up at the end of the night, mop up some puke every once in a while, but it gets me closer in touch with nature. And biology. And what not to eat before you get wasted. I see it on the floor, I know, ok. Don’t eat the sushi!  Alright…nuff said.

I also get to learn stuff. Maybe not earth-shattering facts, but sometimes good trivia. Tonight, my fellow bartender and I were talkin about the big name hoopla for William and Kate’s kid. I gotta uncle named George, and one of my son’s name is Henry George, so there’s that.

During the midst of our conversation, I thought, what the hell is the Royal last name?  You know, you got Queen Elizabeth, but what the hell is her last night? All 2 of my readers in England are gasping right now, this bartender’s an idiot. Hey!  I don’t even know the difference between The House and The Senate, so there!

My fellow bartender didn’t know the answer, so I started asking customers. What the hell is their name? 5 of em didn’t know (HA!), so I’m not alone. 1 girl said, of course, let me look on my smartphone, and I said, NOOOO!  That takes the fun, right outta shit.

Finally I came to a woman that said, I think it’s Windsor. But isn’t that just the name of the palace?  Windsor Palace?  I’m so dumb about this subject, I mean, at the end of the day, WHO CARES, but it’s fun to get a conversation goin. Make people think a bit. The chick with the smartphone said, I got some info, their last name is indeed Windsor, and then she said something about, in the 60’s, they officially changed their name to Mountbatten-Windsor. After that, I see this gay guy at the bar, I know I’ll get some info from him, and he said, ohhh, I study ALL about it. You know, all the Royals have to have a HRH in front of their name, and it stands for His or Her Royal Highness. And then he said something about a Peer Registry. He lost me after that.

So, good job, William and Kate, you procreated correctly and successfully, and had a boy, 3rd in line to the throne. As I sit on the floor, in a bathroom, next to a toilet, of a small, one-roomed gym in the basement of the building that houses the Lift…I think of you.  A new Windsor!

Woop-dee-doo.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

A Box For Your Ego

I’m at the Mews. Settin up. Ice, bathrooms, that crap. A band member comes in the side door carrying an ego box. I say to him, yeah, man!  I like your ego box. He says, what?  Your ego box, I say. I like it. He looks down, and mumbles something unintelligible. Wait, he thinks I’m making fun of him. That I’m being sarcastic. I am not.

What’s an ego box, you say?  It’s quite simply, a box for your ego. You build it, this box, you paint it, usually a dark color, blue, black, maybe blue black, you bring it in, you set it up on stage, you grab your mic or guitar, turn it up to 11, jump on the box, and rock out. It’s actually very useful. People can see you better, and you feel like a rock star. My motto, till the day I die…BE the rock star, before you ARE the rock star.

I think everyone should have an ego box. Bring it into class, gotta give a book report, put it in front of the class, jump on it, and run the show.

Got a meeting?  Suit up, bring in your box to the board room, jump on it, and give the PowerPoint presentation of your life.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

For Bartenders Only

This post is mainly for bartenders…so, normal people, stop reading. This is top-secret shit. We’ll be talking about you, so I need you to stop reading, and go read my other posts I’ve written, or go eat a cupcake. Enough said.

So here’s the tip, bartenders. Just the tip. Let’s say you have a customer, semi-regular, starts a tab, it gets crazy busy, you’ve got 72 credit cards behind the bar, just trying not to give the wrong card, to the wrong person (yep, that’s happened, no fun). Uh-oh, it’s 12:30am, semi-regular says, hey Joe, could you run my tab, with the universal hand sign for signing in the air. Here’s the prob: YOU SHOULD KNOW THEIR NAME BUT GUESS WHAT YOU DON’T. You know what I’m talking about. You can’t ask them, oh hey, what’s your name again? It’s beyond that point. Maybe you’ve known their name in the past, but right now, you don’t. You get it, my friend. So here’s what you gotta do:

Hey, man, what’s your last name again?  There you go. Who knows last names?  Sure Paul, Jack, Matt, Tom, but last names?  Nobody expects you to know that. So they tell you, sure, my last name is Leibowitz. Then you scan the cards, whittle them down, girl, girl, no, no, know this person, know that person, get down to a couple choices, then check out their cards, boom, there’s Lebowitz.  Adam. Then here’s the clincher, when you’re handing it back to them, you say, sorry about that, we have like 3 Adam’s tonight. Ohhh-Kay. He looks down and says,

That’s not my card.  My first name’s Zack.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Mouth Orgasm

These 2 guys walk into the bar, one with blond dreadlocks, the other, clean-cut, sideburns, one of them is carrying a box, they walk up.  Ohhh, I say, what you got there?  Cupcakes?  (Do you have to be necessarily gay to walk into a bar with cupcakes?  I dunno. It’s 2013. I’m cool with it. Maybe I’ll even try it. Why the hell not?). The one holding the cupcakes says, yeah, actually they are. Good, I say. I want one. You want one? he asks. Hell yeah I want one. I’ll devour that shit. I gotta sweet tooth, so don’t stop me.

He opens the box, help yourself, he says. Have 2. Don’t mind if I do, I say, and grab 2. For that, let me buy you a drink. Even trade. He says, great. Sounds like a deal. I put the cupcakes behind the bar, for later.

It starts dying down, an hour later, I think, yeah, I’ll have a bite of that cupcake. Looks like the new fangly gourmet shit, too.

I bite into it. OH.  MY.  GOD!!!!!   That is the most incredible cupcake to ever hit my mouth. I’m having a mouth ORGASM. I can’t talk. I’m shoving my face with this thing. My Lord.

I don’t do advertising for my blog, but forget about it. If you live in Des Moines, Iowa, or just visiting, go to CREME on Ingersoll. Best, most scrumptious cupcake you’ll ever have.

Screw it. I’m buyin 2 dozen.  Bringin em into the bar.

CUPCAKES ON MEEEEEE!!!!!

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.