October 24, 2008 Glory Days

Now, seeing as I am from New Jersey, I understand that I may perhaps have a more thorough recollection of Bruce Springsteen lyrics than those not from the great Garden State (seriously, if I hear one more snide remark from the backseat, I will pull this blog over and you kids can walk home on the information superhighway.) In particular, Springsteen recorded a song in 1982 that was released in the year of my birth and peaked on the Billboard charts at #5 in the summer of the next year. It's called Glory Days.

Sadly enough, I have a series of characters that only have one thing in common: they hang out at the bar enough that I know their life stories well enough that I knew which parts are complete bullshit. To start, we have the high school basketball star, BG. Now, I watched this guy play in high school. Those of you who know me know that I suck at basketball and care little for things even remotely basketball related. However, I know from witnessing the way that this guy played the game that he scored a lot of points but I also know that he scored a lot of points in the same way that Reggie Jackson hit a lot of home runs. Basically, he took a lot of shots and enough of them dropped that no one had the nerve to complain that he never passed the ball, ever. His teammates just waited for rebounds and that was the only way they ever saw the ball. The way he tells it though, he lets you know he scored over a thousand points in his career and that he was recruited to play college ball and that he was forced to transfer because the coach who recruited him was fired and that he tore his Achilles tendon and he was never the same. He frequently ends the story of his college career, which ended at Fairleigh Dickinson University (also known as Fairly Ridiculous University), by informing those around him that were it not for the injuries he "would have been a lottery pick." For those of you who don't know, lottery picks are awarded to the 14 NBA teams that do not make the playoffs, meaning this guy was one of the 14 best players around the world not already in the NBA in 2007. Look, I'm not going to hate too hard but I would have gotten drafted into the NFL if I didn't leave the football team at Richmond to concentrate on my academics or if I was stronger or faster or bigger or whatever else I could have been. I've played against dudes in the NFL, both in high school and in college and fact is, I wasn't good enough. Neither was this guy but at least I'm not lying to myself about it.

Next up is BG's father, who is worse than his son about his glory days. Not only does this guy relive his own glory days, he relives his son's, telling me about how he and his son are the only father-son combination to score 1000 points in basketball in the history of the State of New Jersey and possibly the nation. Worse than that, he also relives his BROTHER's glory days. Apparently, his brother was robbed of the Heisman by Pete Dawkins, a teammate of his on the Army football team. The assertion is just so ridiculous that it literally boggles the mind. I just hope I've accomplished something by the time I'm 60 so I don't have to vicariously relive the accomplishments of my life, my son's life, and my brother's life to be satisfied with my day.
Worse yet than either of these characters, is a former vice president of a Fortune 50 company who regularly comes in before noon and is sloshed before 3. I've heard that he made vice president before he was 30 about 1000 times. Worse than that, he brags about his time in the Navy, about all the money he made in the stock market (he comes in and drinks for a different reason these days), boasts about his pull with mayor of the town and town council (awesome dude, you are friends with the people in charge of running a town of 10,000, tell them I said hey next time you hit the country club), and about how he has written letters to our congressman Scott Garrett about a variety of topics from a nomination for the Naval Academy for his friend's son to the condition of the Turnpike. However, none of that is quite as creepy as the way he talks about his own son. I've heard people talk about their kids and most of their boasts are benign and nice but this guy is telling me about how his son has a man's shoulders at 12, "like 0% body fat," and "a nice V-shape" with "great lats." I was irritated when he kept telling me about his son having his county golf card but I was just plain FREAKED OUT when I had to hear about a 12 year old boy's lats from the cigarette-scented mouth of his vodka-swilling father.
When this guy keeps telling me he wants to write a letter for me because he sees me going places, all I want to do is tell this guy I'm not going to let him put his finger inside me so he'll tell all his friends I'm a great guy.

Only other time I was more uncomfortable at this job was when I helped one of our female regulars carry her leftovers to the car and she asked me to come back to her bed with her. Pushy, unattractive, older women are terrifying.

Song of the Week: “Mr. Wendal" by Arrested Development

Quote of the Week: “There are good days and there are bad days, and this is one of them.” - Lawrence Welk

Random Fact of the Week: You share your birthday with at least 9 million other people in the world.

Picture of the Week: Me fail English? That unpossible!

Until next crime, don't tell me no lies and keep your hands to yourself,

Nils

October 10, 2008 Tales of a Waiter in an Affluent Suburb

Chapter One: Basics of Tipping

As a county, Bergen County, NJ is among the top 20 counties in per capita income as of 2006. The median income for a family in Rivervale is $105,919. In the town of Rivervale, there is a restaurant, which will remain nameless, where I work. (Interestingly enough, it's called an Italian and American Restaurant but that only legitimately describes one guy who works at the restaurant and he is a server. Our manager is Moroccan, the owner and executive chef is Korean, and all the guys in the kitchen are Mexican.) Despite the material comfort of the surrounding neighborhood, I'm holding in my hand 8 Washingtons, single dollar bills for those of you who don't know your presidents. I'm left with three questions: "How the fuck did I get here?", "Are people seriously bad at math or did I really do a bad enough job to warrant an 8% tip?" and "How on earth can people justify spending 100 bucks on food and legitimately stiff the guy who served it?"

First question, I know how I got here and thank god, its temporary. You know that miserable old bag at the diner? I work with her. Her name is Lorraine and for the love of God, tip her ass; her life sucks. The least you could do is help her afford that bottle of Aristocrat vodka that puts her to sleep every night. I mean, the only thing she has to look forward to is driving the bus to the high school tomorrow and then serving the parents of those ingrates cocktails at the bar later that night. Besides that, most servers are students of some kind and most customers are rich douche-bags. Somehow, the leftward political lean of academia makes sense with that revelation.

Second, yes, people are seriously bad at math. I saw a guy break out his tip calculator on a check that was exactly 50 bucks. Off the top of my head 20% of 50 is 10, an $8 tip from that guy would have been 16% which is fine, though not awesome. If ever you are in doubt, here is a little exercise: Say the bill is 65.50. Move the decimal point one spot to the left (6.55) and now double it (13.10). That's 20%. The new industry standard is like 18% so knock off a dollar and voila, 18%. That's a waiter's tip for you.

Thirdly, I know the stock market is crashing, I hear about it everyday from the horrible prick who is at the bar every day drinking Sobieski on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Drinking vodka on the rocks at noon on a Wednesday should be the clinical definition of alcoholism (this guy and his cronies are a whole other can of worms). However, none of that justifies stiffing the waiter on the tip. I get paid $2.30 an hour which, by the way, is 10% of what I was making an hour at my last job, which also had benefits. I'm learning more and more that the reason people get rich is not because they make a lot of money but because they are assholes, capable of ignoring all the rules about how business is supposed to be done in an effort to cling to every train-track flattened penny that enters their grasp like grim death. The rich are just more effective thieves.
Unfortunately for me, getting an 8% tip is not the worst thing I've dealt with on this job. I'm prepared for bad tips, I can see those people a million miles away and it has nothing to do with race, mode of dress, or gender. In fact, I can only identify three things that always regularly identify bad tippers: if you ask about the complimentary salad, use a coupon, and order no beverages: I'm talking anything from a Coke to the fanciest shit our bar tender can mix up to the house white zinfandel. If all three of those things happen, I'm just about ready to not serve you, like, at all. I mean, I do and I do the same job for every because I'm an optimist. I'm prepared for the idea that I'm wrong and that you'll leave 25% . . . but my expectations are low.

Look, dude, if you are so strapped for cash that you need to use a coupon to afford dinner and you will forego salad if it isn't complimentary, you can't afford to go out to dinner. Take your wallet, drive over to McDonald's, and pick up a Big Mac because you're getting the same number of calories. And none of this shit about how Mickie D's is bad for you; if you witnessed the amount of oil and deep-frying and other things that go into your veal marsala, you would be perfectly aware that the only difference between a Big Mac and anything we serve (unless you get a salad) is about 45 minutes and $8 per person, plus tip.

Oh, so your girlfriend won't blow you if you take her to McDonald's? Guess what? If she will blow you only because you can afford to take her to a fancy restaurant, she doesn't really love you, it's just what she can get by being with you and how that makes her feel. Consequently,coupons are like condoms: they take away all the feeling for her, and asking about the complimentary salad is like bad dirty talk, it ruins the mood. She's just a hooker who takes her payments in the form of wine and crab meat while getting off on how hard you are trying to get laid. And you guessed it, you can't afford her. Find a girl who wants a forty of malt liquor and a pack of menthols. Where I come from,that's about 8 bucks and you could probably have her in the back of your Camry all weekend.

Songs of the Week (we're giving you two): "Leaving Trunk" by Taj Mahal

"The Celebrated Walkin' Blues" by Taj Mahal. Grab that chair and a bottle of whiskey cuz there ain't nothin that makes a song like a good harmonica and a broken heart.

Quote of the Week: "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former." - Albert Einstein

Random Fact of the Week: The average person has 100,000 hairs on his/her head. Each hair grows about 5 inches (12.7 cm) every year.

Picture of the Week: I prefer the practice of uncivilized urinating, than you though.

Until next crime, keep the change, you filthy animal.

Nils

October 3, 2008 The Adventures of Frank

So it’s Friday, and after last week’s political rant, I figured I’d lighten it up a little bit. This is a little story of my friend “Frank.” Enjoy.

The Setting: Friday night, a bar called Brendan's Pub.

Backstory: Frank went to this pub during the week a few times watch his favorite baseball team. The demographic at this bar are the typical "regulars"/locals. It's like Cheers, it's a place where everybody knows your name. It’s the watering hole on the corner that’s really friendly with really cheap drinks, and where they don’t ID you. The waitress is cute and really friendly. The second day Frank went in, all the same characters were there and remembered his name and such. It's definitely a middle-aged man/blue collar bar. So, on a Friday night, Frank went out with some co-workers, but they went home around 12, but Frank was still wired, so he went over to this bar by himself to see if anyone he had met was still hangin around . . .

The Story: Frank walks into the bar, sits in the same spot near the door, and gets his usual can of PBR. He pops it open, and looks around. Something seems off about the scene that night. Then he notices that it's 90% guys. Ok, no big deal. The waitress disappears, and he sits for 5 minutes or so before a guy comes over to him and says that the waitress is downstairs and will be up shortly. Thanks for the info broseph, but what's with the lisp and flamboyantly gay attitude? Oh.
All the dudes in there were gay. Shit. Frank couldn’t just leave a brand new beer though, that’s against man-law. But then disaster strikes; due to previous drinking, Frank realizes he has to piss. Due to the layout of this small bar it requires him to move through the bar all the way to the back, cutting through groups of gay dudes. Frank took his chances. Poor decision Frank. He would’ve been better off swallowing his socially competent pride and hosing those nice jeans of his. It was raining out anyways, no one would've noticed. So Frank goes through a group, and hears a guy say to his friend, "Oh, check out this guy here." Frank noticed that the guy gave him the up and down. Frank felt dirty . . . real dirty. So Frank did his business, while also filling the porcelain with tears. Frank now appreciates how girls feel when they go out.
He walks back out and takes his seat, feeling utterly violated. But then his night takes a turn: a blond walks over to him and sits down and initiates conversation with him. This is something new, maybe this night isn't so bad after all Frankie Boy. She asks him how old he thinks she is. Frank, being an intelligent guy, says 26, playing the safety card and blatantly shaving a few years off his guess. Turns out she's 30 (nice job Frank). So she asks him what he wants to talk about. He says travel, because she's foreign, and usually that's a fun conversation. She declines, saying that because she's been so many places that other people don't go, it's not fun for her to talk about it. Frank finds this fairly odd, so he asks her what she wants to talk about instead. "Politics." Again, using his intelligence, Frank immediately declines and tell her that it's a bad idea to talk about this at a bar, especially this late in the night. So the conversation quickly shifts again to a new topic.
Frank: "So, if we can't talk travel, and politics is off limits, what else do you want to talk about."
Blond: "Sex."

Frank was a deer in headlights. He asks her what about it that she'd like to know, and she says, "What do you think about it?" In the toolbag response of the century, custom for any 24 year old male caught in headlights, Frank replies, "Well, sex is great, and I love having it."
Strike one for Frank
So then he asks her what else, and she immediately responds: "Well, what do you think of bisexuals?" Again, headlights and Frank meet again.
"Well, I've never done it or anything, but I figure, if it makes you happy, more power to you."
Strike two for Frank
So she turns to the other side of the bar, then looks back at Frank and says: "Alright, I gotta go save my girlfriend (not “girl that’s a friend” girlfriend, but “let’s go home and play with rubber toys” girlfriend) from that guy that's hitting on her, but I'm gonna bring her back over here and we'll chat some more."

So let's pause here for a moment and digest what's going on. An attractive blond (with an accent, so it makes her hotter) approaches Frank, and starts talking about sex and bisexual experiences with Frank, and THEN tells Frank that she has a girlfriend, and that they'd like to talk some more with him. This is the part where Frank tells me he had the most amazing experience of his life with two lesbians, right?

Wrong. What did Frank do? As soon as she turned to go get her girlfriend, he panicked, threw down a couple bucks, and ran out the front door. Literally.

You fail Frank.

Song of the Week: "Hospital Bed" by Cold War Kids

Quote of the Week: "Experience is that marvelous thing that enables you recognize a mistake when you make it again." - F. P. Jones

Random Fact of the Week: The longest one syllable word in the English language is "screeched".

Picture of the Week: Oh HELL no!

Until next week, you chose . . . poorly,

Fred