Monthly Archives: January 2014

Cover Band

I’m talkin to this musician, he’s a buddy of mine, he plays in a cover band. What’s cool is, they’re a cover band, and karaoke. You’re at the bar, you open up the book of songs, you put one down with your name, hour later, your name is called, you sing Paradise City with the band. He says to me, yeah, I’m almost making a living off it.

Musicians. Band members. This is what you have to do if you want to make any kind of money playing music. Start a cover band. Would I judge you?  Hell no, nobody can. It’s a great idea. You learn the songs, you play the gig, people love it, you make a ton of money. A lot of people want to go out on a Saturday night, get some drinks with friends, see a band, and sing along to tunes they know. Fact. And again, you can make a ton of money on it. Just come up with some kind of shtick, like live karaoke, and I guarantee you, people will come out and see you, and you’ll make money. What’s wrong with that?

Absolutely nothing.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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The Drumstick

I’m cleaning up the bar, end of night, everybody’s gone, bar is quiet, someone left their drums on the stage. I’ve been known to beat the skins in my past life. I get on the stool, grab the drumsticks, start playing. Unfortunately, after five hits of the snare, drumstick breaks, half of it goes flying. Shit. What do I do?  Throw the stick away, hide the evidence?  I leave the half drumstick on the snare. That’s what you get for leaving your drums on stage, I rationalize.

Today, I’m chit-chatting with the sound guy, he played the night before, he says, out of the blue, did you get on my drums last night, break my drumstick?  Oh shit. Busted. I tell him, yeah. Guilty.

He says, I thought it might be you. I could imagine you getting behind the drums, everybody’s gone, breaking my drumstick.

Guess I know what I’m gonna get him for his next birthday.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Krispy Kreme

I’m talking to the door person before the early show, she tells me, I puked two hours ago. Woah!  Why’d you do that?  She says, I just felt sick. Did you put your finger down your throat? I ask. She says, yeah. I’m not worried about it. Then she says,

I ate two Krispy Kreme donuts after, and now I feel great.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

The Cashews

I’m behind the bar, servin drinks, there’s four people at the bar. One guy off to the side, and a group of three. The three at the bar are all eating cashews. After awhile, they get up with their drinks, walk away.

Here’s the deal. I’m starving. I didn’t have time to bring my dinner, all I brought were some grapes and an apple. It’s busy enough, I don’t have time to go get food elsewhere. It’s 8pm, way past dinner time for me.

And they left a handful of cashews on the bar.

They’re on a napkin. They took the bag, opened it, poured it on the napkin. They probably didn’t even touch any of the cashews!  There’s about twenty of them. Lightly salted to perfection.

Problem is, the guy at the bar is sitting right next to the cashews. He would totally notice it if I grabbed them, started eating them. I’ll wait, with patience, he’ll walk away in five minutes.

Twenty minutes later, he’s still there! And the cashews are still there, waiting for me. My mouth waters. Keep it together, Clint.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I wait for the guy to get distracted, I grab the napkin, with the cashews, put them next to the register.

While I’m running cards, with my back to the customers, I sneakily eat my contraband cashews. I finish them up, delicious, I throw the napkin away.

Ten minutes later, the guy at the bar, waves me over, asks for a PBR. I get it for him, set it down, as he’s getting his money together, he says,

How were the cashews?

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

Clint Curtis Bar

Bank Robber At The Bar

I’m behind the bar, eating a sandwich, guy comes up, late 30’s, good-looking, dressed casual, baseball hat. He takes out a phone, and shows it to me. It’s a picture of a guy, early twenties, blond, stubble, the guy says, have you seen him tonight?  I look at the picture. I’m not sure, I say. There’s eighty kids here. If he’s here, he hasn’t come up to the bar. Guy says, ok. I ask, why are you asking? He says, guy robbed a bank today. Holy shit. Door girl comes up, says, I think I may have seen him. I say, how do you know he’s here?  He says, we pinged his cell phone. We know he’s on this block somewhere. Ok, I say. You’re welcome to walk around the club, stay as long as you want.  He says, I think I’ll stay right here by the door for a minute. Sure, I say.

I make some drinks, come back to him couple minutes later. Why don’t I walk around the club, see if I can see the guy? He says, that would be great.

I walk around, scanning the crowd. I better be careful, guy told me it was armed robbery. I go up to the front of the stage. I see a guy, that sort of looks like the guy in the picture. He looks like he’s having fun, and carefree, but might still be the guy.

I go back to the bar. I tell the cop, I saw a guy that kinda looks like him. You should check him out. He says, problem is, I look like a cop. I say, maybe lose the hat. He does, puts it in his pocket, walks toward the stage. Holy shit. A bank robber at the bar!!! How sweet.

He comes back, says, that’s not him. I’m gonna take off, if you see him, here’s my card. I look at the card. FBI Agent. How cool!  I say, damn, you’re an FBI Agent. He says, yeah. It was a bank robbery. Federal offense. I ask him, before he leaves, what’s the guy’s name?  He says, Corey _____. All right, I say. I will definitely call you if I see him.

He takes off, and I go back to eating my Jimmy John’s sandwich.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.