Monthly Archives: July 2013

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.


From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Malcolm Gladwell Is A Punk

Ok, friend. I’m gonna tell you a story.

I’m at the Lift. Martini bar. Downtown Des Moines, IA. It’s Wednesday, martini night, makin a shit-ton of martinis. Well, that’s what we call em anyway. Watermelon. Chocolate. Far cry from a Gin martini, up. But whatever. Ladies dig it. And the guys. Well there there for the ladies. Duh. So it works out.

We’ve got 3 bartenders workin. It’s busy at first, then dies down around 10:45pm. We cut our 3rd on, she grabs the tip pitcher, to count the tips, split em up, you get the idea. But before she do, I say to her, I guess $45 each. She says, ok. That would be great.

Now as she’s turning the corner into the back room to count the tips, a lighting bolt number strikes me. $47. $47. Should I change my number?  I could go in the back, tell her my change of heart, but something stops me. No, no Clint. Go with your first instinct. $45. I read the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. Go with your first thought. The first blink. It’s usually the right one.

So I keep on making martinis. Dirty…Frenchy…A Something Fruity. After 5 minutes, the bartender that was counting the tips comes up to me. Sorry, Clint, she says. You were close. It was $47.


I told her, up and down, I mean, I went into it, I swear on my children’s LIFE, I swear on my wife’s life, I THOUGHT $47. This was important for her to knows this.

It ruined my night.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Piss Water

I try not to flinch when somebody orders a drink. Hennessey, Apple Pucker, and Orange Juice?  Sure. Tanqueray and Coke?  OK. 2 shots of Hot Damn? Coming right up, Madame. Because, who am I to judge?  Nobody. I created a martini called A Something Fruity. You know, when a lady is ordering a drink, and she says, I want something fruity, I don’t hesitate. You bet. Boom. Here it is. What’s in it?  3 red puckers and orange juice. Sweet as hell, and the ladies love it.

I’ve bartended for almost 10 years now, and I swear, I hear something new almost every day. This guy asked a couple weeks ago, can I get a vodka martini, extra vermouth. I was like, huh?  EXTRA vermouth?  I haven’t heard that one before, but pour, pour, pour, here you go.

So this girl comes up to the bar last night, and says, yeah, I want a tequila…and Redbull. I took a pause. A long pause. Like I said, I don’t blink an eye when someone orders a drink. They want it, I make it. But tequila and Redbull?  Come on, woman!!!

I take a deep breath, and say, oh kay. I grab a glass, a tall one, cause why not? Ice, Juarez tequila (the good stuff…I kid), and top it off with Redbull. I slide it over to her, and say. I’m sorry, cutey, but I’m gonna have to take a dollar off that drink. She says, great. Why?

Cause I feel guilty for making you drink it.

And then she said, oh, no. It’s really good.

I’m sure it is, honey. I’m sure it is.

I’ll take your word for it.

She smiles and takes a long sip of it. Mmmmm, she says, with a grin.

So I tried it. What the hell. Not bad, not bad.

If you like to drink piss.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


This older gentlemen’s at the bar, he’s with his wife, or something, maybe mistress, doubtfully, she’s older, maybe mid-60’s, the woman says, can I look in your beer cooler?  I say, yes, you can, but all our beers are over there (pointing to a row of beers, on display above the register). The guy checks em out, and says, ohhhh, that Red Stripe beer is good.  And so I say, yeah, when you’re smokin WEEEEED.

That went over well.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


Tip Of The Day

If you learn a bartender’s name, don’t abuse it.

Guy last night, I’m making a drink for another customer, I hear someone YELL my name, CLINT!  CLINT!  CLINT!  I think it may be an emergency.  I don’t know the guy. Are the toilets overflowing?  Did someone rip off the faucet handle, and water is spraying everywhere (yep, it’s happened).  I rush over, yeah? What is it?  Oh, he says, I just need 3 waters.

Well…water was involved. I suppose.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.