Monthly Archives: October 2013

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.

Teddy Bear

I’m at the bar, solid crowd, how you would say, we got some drinkers. But I notice this guy, and I’ve just served him one Bud Light, nodding off.  At first I think he’s looking at his phone. Perhaps. You know, head down, can’t see if their eyes are totally closed or not. On closer inspection, he is, indeed, falling asleep. And we can’t have that. That’s a big no-no. Cop comes in, sees some guy sleeping at your bar, somebody’s goin to jail, and that somebody is me.

Normally, I’d just shake the guy, buddy, you can’t be sleeping here. Right? But there’s just one eensy weensy problem.

The guy is massive.

He’s gotta weigh like 300 pounds. His arms are literally as big as my torso. Here’s him swatting at a fly, the fly is me, yep, there I go, all the way across the bar.

His buddy orders two drinks. With some kind of insurmountable strength, I say, look, your buddy’s passing out. There is NO WAY I’m serving him a drink. I’ll serve you one, but not him. He looks at his buddy, then back at me. Fine. He says. One Bud Light.

Five minutes later, his buddy awakes. He motions me over. Somehow, I don’t know why, I’m not scared. He says, can I get a beer, please? Real nice. I say, I’m sorry man. You’re passing out on my bar. I can’t serve you. It’s illegal. Are you wasted?  I ask. He says, no, not at all. I’m just really tired.  I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but he seems perfectly sober to me. I go, are you sure, man? He says, hey, I’m not gonna lie. I’m not perfectly sober, I’ve had a few drinks, but I’ve had a really long day. Could I please buy a beer from you?

Aw shucks. Guy’s a Goddamn teddy bear.

I get him the beer and say, all right, bud. I’ll be watching you. He smiles and says,

I’m sure you will.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


I’m behind the bar, settin up, this band member comes up, longish hair, beard, and introduces himself.  I say, Clint.  Nice to meet you.  He asks me, where’s a good place to eat?  I tell him, you can check out this restaurant next door, or across the street, etcetera.  He says, thanks, appreciate it.  And as he’s walking away, he says, over his shoulder.  Great talkin to you, Chad!!!

I laugh to myself.  Chad.  That’s a first.  Do I even remotely resemble a Chad?  I hear Curt all the time.  Or Curtis, my last name, somehow, they think it’s my first name, go figure.  I get Glen, if you say my name fast, it sometimes comes out Glen.  But hey, you know what?  End of the day, don’t give much of a shit.  Guy’s cool, makin an attempt at my name, I’m not gonna be a dick and say, Oh, no.  My name’s Clint.  Who cares?  It’s just a name.  I’m not a name, you know?  And neither are you.

Three minutes later, he comes up.  Am I an asshole, or is your name not Chad?  I laugh.  Actually, my name’s not Chad.  It’s Clint.  Oh, he says.  I feel bad, now.  Oh shit, man.  Don’t.  I don’t care.  It’s just a name.  You were close anyway.  Starts with a C.

When he walks away, I think to myself, I don’t know his name.  It goes fast, that initial introduction, hi, my name is.  It’s too quick.  You have to repeat the name like three times in your head.  Chad, Chad, Chad.

Just call me Chad.

From my heart to yours,

Chad Curtis.  Bartender.


I’m talkin to my fellow bartender behind the bar, she goes to tell me a personal story, but prefaces it by saying, YOU CAN’T PUT THIS IN YOUR BLOG.

Just last night, guy comes up, we’re talkin, he says, I get scared now when I come into your bar. I’m afraid I might end up in your blog.

Hey, I never use names. And I never reveal my sources. So the only way people are going to know you’re in one of my stories is if you tell them you are. And I’m never malicious. I’m always fair. And hey, you read something I write about you, maybe you needed to hear it from someone.

I’m that guy.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Whole Foods Metal

There’s a band playing on stage, and I keep on looking at the guitarist, because I swear to God, it looks like he’s wearing a Whole Foods T-Shirt. And it’s a metal band. It’s not a Whole Foods T-Shirt though, but a shirt that has the same font on it. And the first word starts with a W. I can’t really make it out exactly what it says. But it should say Whole Foods, ’cause that would be a way rad t-shirt to wear if you were a guitarist in a metal band.

I approach this guy at the bar, he orders a PBR, I know him, he’s a drummer in a metal band, I go, do you think it would be funny to wear a Whole Foods T-Shirt on stage when you’re playing in a metal band?  He says, I dunno. Why? Well, I say, it’s like an oxymoron, you got this guy, really pissed off at the world, long, sweaty hair in his face, and he’s sporting a T-Shirt from a gourmet grocery store. He says, I dunno. Why do you ask?

Whatever, I say. Never mind.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.