from the Hold Steady's bassist. very funny.
"We bartenders tend to be patient, forgiving souls, especially to those with which we share an occupation. Glasses break in ice bins that have to be emptied. Bummer. Deliveries come in the middle of happy hour when you're by yourself. Sucks. What can you do? Some guy wants you to run him through how much every conceivable cocktail costs before finally ordering a Bud Light. Get it together, dude. Next. All perfectly acceptable scenarios for me to be ever so slightly delayed in receiving my drink. More than understandable. Feathers will not be ruffled. Management will not be summoned. The Earth will indeed continue to spin on its axis.
But where my sympathy and understanding for my fellow bartenders ends, quite abruptly, is when some dude with a white belt is chatting up some girlies about his show at the so-and-so club with that glamorous Tuesday 7:30pm slot when he should be making (my) drinks.
I concede, sir, that you are younger, better looking, and quite possibly more talented than I am. I am completely at peace with this. I also recognize the grueling, anonymous toil you have so selflessly endured for the sake of your art. These seeds you have so lovingly sown will ever so shortly bear the ripe fruit of your well deserved, not to mention long overdue, fame and fortune. You will be enthusiastically pleasured in public restrooms by adoring fans of the fairer sex for years to come.
I honestly wish you the best of luck, my friend. I really do. I'm sure your flyers are expertly designed and informative. The so-and-so club has a pretty decent PA and they even give you a few drink tickets for the effort. Maybe you can get a couple of people from work to come. That would help.
In the meantime, my bartending/rock playing brother, check this out. I have been sitting on this stool, staring at the back of your head for ten minutes now. As you flirt/promote and toss your expertly groomed asymmetrical hair I, sir, am growing ever so thirsty - parched, even. Considering I see no fat guy in a suit with a cigar awkwardly fumbling for a pen for you to sign your lucrative three-record deal, I, and a growing number of increasingly annoyed drunks, can safely assume that you have yet to quit the proverbial day job, correct?
So, peep this. I, with my vast professional experience, can walk you through this expediently, young grasshopper. Drop off those Cosmos for your new lady friends and give them their soon to be ignored flyers/coasters. Since that imminent contract has yet to materialize (much like my beverage) would you be ever so kind as haul your skinny white ass over here and pour me a fuckin' cocktail, rock star? Thanks."
But where my sympathy and understanding for my fellow bartenders ends, quite abruptly, is when some dude with a white belt is chatting up some girlies about his show at the so-and-so club with that glamorous Tuesday 7:30pm slot when he should be making (my) drinks.
I concede, sir, that you are younger, better looking, and quite possibly more talented than I am. I am completely at peace with this. I also recognize the grueling, anonymous toil you have so selflessly endured for the sake of your art. These seeds you have so lovingly sown will ever so shortly bear the ripe fruit of your well deserved, not to mention long overdue, fame and fortune. You will be enthusiastically pleasured in public restrooms by adoring fans of the fairer sex for years to come.
I honestly wish you the best of luck, my friend. I really do. I'm sure your flyers are expertly designed and informative. The so-and-so club has a pretty decent PA and they even give you a few drink tickets for the effort. Maybe you can get a couple of people from work to come. That would help.
In the meantime, my bartending/rock playing brother, check this out. I have been sitting on this stool, staring at the back of your head for ten minutes now. As you flirt/promote and toss your expertly groomed asymmetrical hair I, sir, am growing ever so thirsty - parched, even. Considering I see no fat guy in a suit with a cigar awkwardly fumbling for a pen for you to sign your lucrative three-record deal, I, and a growing number of increasingly annoyed drunks, can safely assume that you have yet to quit the proverbial day job, correct?
So, peep this. I, with my vast professional experience, can walk you through this expediently, young grasshopper. Drop off those Cosmos for your new lady friends and give them their soon to be ignored flyers/coasters. Since that imminent contract has yet to materialize (much like my beverage) would you be ever so kind as haul your skinny white ass over here and pour me a fuckin' cocktail, rock star? Thanks."