Monthly Archives: October 2013

Lying 101

I’m at the end of the bar, shootin the shit with the boys, we start talkin about, what would you say to your girlfriend if she found one of those hotel key cards in your pocket?  What would be the best lie you could come up with, presuming you were a guilty bastard. This is reality. You’re there, your girlfriend is staring you down, waiting for a Goddamn explanation, with that key card in her hand.

My first buddy goes, Oh that?  Yeah, I got that, I was with so-and-so, he was wasted, I was pretty drunk, didn’t want to drive, so we got a hotel room. That’s bullshit, I say. Why didn’t you just take a taxi?  Yeah, try again.

My other buddy goes, ok, I was out with all my buddies, they got wasted, I got them a hotel room. And I had one of the keys in my pocket. Nah, I say. That sounds convoluted.  She goes, why is this the first time I’ve heard about this?  You didn’t tell me about all these guys?  Yeah, nope. Busted.

So I go, this will work if you’re a bartender. Oh, that?  What?  Yeah, I was cleaning up the bar last night, I found it on the ground, put it in my pocket, and forgot about it.

They all agreed that that was pretty good.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Acting Lesson

A buddy of mine comes in late to the bar, it’s probably 1:45am, I’m cleaning up, he’s wasted. You can see it in the look in his eyes. Mischievous twinkle. He says, Clint, Clint, gimme an acting lesson. Oh man, I say. Really?  Right now?  He says, yeah, just a little one. Gimme like a scene to play. All right, you mean like an improv?  He says, yeah. Ok…let’s see…you’re coming up to me. Wasted. Annoying me. Wanting me to give you an acting lesson.

Go.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

A Word From Our Sponsor

I’m at the bar.  Solid crowd, great music, drinkers.  Very happy.  Girl comes up, I know her, “good girl”, just got married.  She orders a drink, pour, pour, pour, give it to her.  She says thanks, hands me her card, and says, just run it.  I go to run her tab, and man, her card is heavy.  It’s beautiful.  Cobalt blue.  Smooth, no raised letters.  Streamlined.  Just gorgeous, if you can call a credit card that, and I am.  I run it, hand it back to her.  Jesus, that’s a beautiful credit card, I say.  It’s so heavy.  She says, yeah, I love it.  It’s made of Titanium.  I had to lie to get it.  They say you have to make x-amount of dollars a year, but I don’t make that much money, and I really wanted the card.  Man, I say.  I don’t really believe in credit cards, but I’m gettin one of those.  She says, yeah, I love it.  I ask, what kind of card is it?  She says,

It’s a Chase Sapphire Preferred card.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis.  Bartender.

The Women’s Room

It’s the end of the night, I’m counting the register, my fellow bartender is cleaning up the bathrooms. I hear him come out, DUDE. THE WOMEN’S BATHROOM IS DISGUSTING. Hey, I know, man. I say. It’s hard sometimes staying a heterosexual man after having to clean up in there. Yeah, dude, he says.

It makes me just want to fuck guys!!!

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Classic Dilemma

The names in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.  Which is me.

This girl comes up to the bar, super cute, I’ve known her for years, she orders a round of drinks for her and her friends.  She’s drinking whiskey on the rocks, which I think is rad for a girl to drink.  I make em, put em out in front of her, we exchange pleasantries, how you been, great to see you, we complete the transaction, then she grabs her drinks and says, I love you, Clint!!!  I give her back a, love you, too.

The only problem is…I don’t know her frickin name.

I’ve learned it like a dozen names, but I just can’t remember it.  And I’m usually really good at names.  She just doesn’t have a name that fits her.  She’s spunky, original, fun, and unique, but her name is like Jennifer.  No offense to the Jennifer’s in the World.  I went to school with a Jennifer, and, never mind.

I text the sound guy upstairs who knows her boyfriend.  What’s the chicks name that’s married to Barry?  He texts back, Sarah.  Then I text, Yep.  Thanks.  She just told me she loved me, so I guess I should know her name.  And then he texts back,

Classic dilemma.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis.  Bartender.

Laughing More

We’ve got a new door girl. We’re talking, she says, I hear you have a blog. What’s it called? I tell her. She says, cool, I’m gonna read it right now. No, no, no, no, no, no. Don’t do that. I can’t take it. I’ll just stare at your face, wondering why you’re not laughing more.

I seriously have a thing about this. People watching/reading my shit in front of me. I’ve gone to premieres before for movies I’ve been in, and the sides of my arms are drenched in sweat. Why didn’t they laugh at that part?  Shit. That was supposed to be funny. Oh hell, I’m horrible in this, everybody hates it. It devolves from there.

In general, I don’t like watching things I’ve been in. I haven’t seen most of the shit I’ve acted in. I’m just too critical. Ok, I’ll watch it, but only in the confines of my bedroom. ALONE.

I look over at the door girl. She’s on her smartphone. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, I say. What are you doin over there?  Jesus. I’m just texting.

Fine, I say. You can do that.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Halloween Costume

I’ve just had an epiphany. I see a buddy of mine at the bar. I go to him, dude, I’ve got a great costume idea for you for Halloween. He says, yeah? What’s that? I go, you wear a t-shirt, preferably white, it can be stained, you go to a theatrical shop, you buy a fake beard. You pin it, glue it onto your t-shirt, on the stomach area, boom!  There’s your costume. He says, a beard on your stomach? What’s that supposed to be?

A beard gut.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Lose The Sweater

I’m at the bar, great band is playin tonight, but I’m worried no one’s gonna show up, and the guarantee is HUGE. For those of you not in the biz, if your band has a guarantee, that means you’re makin X amount of dollars, no matter the turnout.

Door guy comes up, asks to get some change. He goes, should be an interesting night. Yeah, I say. We’re gonna lose our shirt. Did you bring an extra shirt?  He says, well, I’m wearing a shirt and a sweater tonight. I can give them the shirt, and I’ll just wear the sweater.

That should work, I say.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Someone Took My Drink

When you’re writing a story, or telling one, it’s easy to make yourself out to be the good guy.  I try to be fair, but I’m sure I have this bias, too.  With this story, I’m the bad guy.

I’m at the bar, place is packed.  Almost 200 people in the house.  Two bartenders, running out of glass.  It’s a clusterfuck, dirty glasses, cans, bottles from one end of the bar to the other.  No time to get them clean, when you have 50 people wanting to get drinks.  Focus, make those drinks as quick as possible, onto the next patron.

This guy comes up, I approach and say, what can I get you?  He starts in on his story, somebody took my drink off my table, I think he works here.  I say fine, fine, what were you drinking?  He says whiskey, Coke.  I say, all right, I’ll just make you another one.  As I’m making it, I make a fatal error.  Instead of just making him the drink, and handing it to him, I have to open up my big mouth.  I say, did you walk away from your table?  You should hold onto your drink.  He says, it was on my table.  I say, fine, fine, whatever.  But I’m obviously none too pleased that I have to make him another drink, when I could be helping another 50 customers.  I hand him the drink, and as he’s walking away, he says, man, you don’t have to be a dick about it.  I stop right there.  A dick?  You’re calling me a dick?  I just gave you a free drink and you’re calling me a dick?  That’s hilarious.  He walks away, I stew.

99% of the time, somebody comes up, tells me, hey, man, I dropped my drink, or, somebody took my drink off my table, I make em a new drink, free of charge, no questions asked.  Shit happens, you know?  But this time, I let my stress get the better of me.

I go back to bartending, but the “altercation” sticks in my mind.  It’s one thing to know that you’re a dick…and another when someone tells you.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis.  Bartender.

Did You Fart?

I’m behind the bar, settin up, door guy comes up, to pour himself a water. He looks at me mid-pour, and says, did you fart?  I think for a moment, and say, hmmm. Yeah, I think I did. Yeah, I smell it. He says. Sorry, man, I say. You’re in my area. Enter at your own risk.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.