Watercolor Memories of Memorial Day Weekend

Last week was fleet week in NYC. You know what that means? Gigantic ships docked along the West side, an increased police presence at the piers and alcoholic uniformed men roaming the streets in search of a party every night. In honor of Memorial Day, I served countless cocktails at a military discount, 86'd two underage sailors, and even carded a few Blue Angels (how was I to know how important those dudes are??). Most importantly, on my Sunday off, I attempted to challenge my own memory with an overabundance of alcohol. Isn't that what Memorial Day is all about? By now I've almost pieced the entire weekend together... I didn't lose my phone, my wallet or my relationship. Unfortunately I may have lost some dignity, my dinner and my ability to stand up and function on Monday, which was followed by losing my regular Monday night shift. Also lost: the desire to put vodka anywhere near my mouth ever again. I will return to my better side of the bar, behind it!, this weekend. I may or may not have mixed too many types of liquor, broken a few laws, and even urinated on the street (so I'm told) but I DID remember to tip my bartender. So learn from me, people. You can be as sloppy as you want to be. As long as you tip your bartender extra for putting up with your stupid ass. Some other memories will have to remain misplaced. But what can I say? Mission accomplished.

Let's talk crazy.

This one goes out to all the lunatics who are drawn to the bar like moths to a flame. Those nutty mother fuckers who walk in demanding drinks, lose their money, get into fights, talk loudly, lie pathologically, dance, laugh and cry - all within a matter of 60 seconds. This is how people get 86'd. I'm not against hearing a sad story here and there. "I've never met my father." "My son thinks I'm crazy." "No one loves me." "My girlfriend beats me." Blah Blah Blah. You're depressing everyone in here. And you just tipped me one dollar. Now, I might not be a licensed therapist, but I deserve more respect than that. You just tortured me for a fucking hour with your personal tale of woe and now I can't even afford to buy myself a candy bar? How am I supposed to console my mind, which is now ravaged from how depressing you are? How unjust is that? And now you're playing sad songs on the jukebox and singing them to yourself while crying... Great. Now you've got to go. This isn't your bedroom and you're not a fourteen-year-old girl dealing with unrequited love. You're a fat, old, sad person who needs some fucking Prozac, stat. More tales of crazy customers to come... If I get angry enough, I might even reenact them on camera...

You're a creep.

Have you guys seen this video? I have. Months ago. If you haven't, watch it. Then ask yourself if showing it to a hot girl as an icebreaker is a good idea. I'm gonna go with "no." But it happened. A random guy at the bar asked me if I'd seen it and then told me he thought human beings were innately sexual animals. First of all, duh. Second of all, that doesn't make you deep or smart - it makes you a creep. Here's a tip: leading your pick-up with a chimpanzee raping a frog is the worst idea ever. Next time, avoid anything that suggests rape, has to do with rape, or HAS "RAPE" IN THE TITLE you fucking moron. The end.