…it better be effing good.

People come to the bar for a billion reasons right? To find love (*dirty hookups), to wax poetically about the current state of the world (*scream about Nazis and liberals and confuse the two) or to party with “friends” (*potential dirty hookups). Billion reasons right? 

Except, not, because it all comes down to one brutally human want: to talk about yourself.

If you’re sitting at the bar with a beer in hand, you want to tell someone your story—what you’ve been up to in the past week, the past month, the past lifetime. And god help me, if there’s no one at the bar who seems interested in listening to your list of near forgotten cocaine fueled nights, it’s the duty of the bartender to listen your problems.

Mostly, I tune it out. Unless, of course, you start to tell me that you’ve lead a Kerouac inspired transient lifestyle that saw you bartending in New Orleans and also impersonating Elvis in North Carolina.  Then I’ll start to listen…but only for a few minutes cause I have other customers and I’m about to get bored…

Unless, of course, you start to tell me about trysts with movie stars who were bored of the Hollywood lifestyle and you happen to meet in a bar in Florida…then I might listen for a few minutes. Naturally, though, I’m gonna start to tune you out once you start talking about your sexual exploits because frankly, I’ve heard enough kinky anecdotes to last me a life time. Time to start walking away…

Unless, of course, you still carry around the match book with her name, number and a winking smile icon with just enough “come hither” in its pen drawn eyes to know exactly what she’s wants written on it—and oh my god, you actually slept with someone who has an Oscar. Ok, fine, I might start to pay attention and ignore the other customers BUT only long enough to read the match book and wonder what kind of creepy stalker keeps a 30 year old match book in their wallet? I mean, seriously, who does that? I’m gonna to the other end of the bar now…

Unless, of course, you’re drinking vodka/oranges before you go to work as a doorman for an upscale building and oh the stories you could tell me…but I’ve listened to every damn doorman in this neighborhood tell his stories before, so I’m gonna go. Definitely, without a doubt, gonna walk away now…

Unless, of course, you’re pushing 70 and you’re doing a young man’s job—hauling out garbage and carrying heavy boxes and to clear your mind of a hard week’s work, you go to Karaoke every Thursday night at a local pub to croon the whole rat pack’s repetoire.

Ok, you got me, old timer. I’ll listen to your story and I’ll even humor that you were such a looker back in the day that I “would have tossed my own panties out the car window for a chance” to get down and dirty. (whatever that means)

Just, let me know when you want another vodka/orange cause I’m sipping on my Jameson and way too into this story to pay attention to your drink.

Another year, another forthcoming 20 hour-plus day behind the bar on St. Patrick’s Day. Here’s a bunch of random musings on the holiday, some stolen from last year, some added to the ever growing list of why this is a dumb holiday:

It’s St Patrick’s Day but St. Paddy’s Day. Nothing screams “Nobody in my family has been actually Irish since the building of the transcontinental railroad and all I know about Irish Culture is that I can use it as an excuse for my alcoholism” more than spelling it St. Patty’s Day.

Don’t fool yourself, St. Paddy’s Day is amateur day. I don’t know one real bonefide drinker that’s actually out on this day. We hide until sunrise March 18th. Like Vampires. Boozing Vampires.

Don’t complain about raised prices, lack of buy backs, or angry bartenders. It’s fucking St. Paddy’s Day. Drink at $10 guinness and eat over cooked corned beef and then regale each other of gross, STD laden awesome hookups the next day.

For the love of all things puppy related, stop telling me that I must love the holiday because of all the money I make. Nobody tips on St. Paddy’s Day. Think about it. When you order those 10 Car Bombs for your two drunken friends and those gorgeous hooker-like ladies you found at the end of the parade route, do you actually leave at least 10 bucks? Of course you don’t, you little drunken leprechaun. You leave a dollar on the bar, drink that curdling waste of alcohol and then hope to hell that someone isn’t having sex in the bathroom stall so you can go in and do your business. 

Bringing me food or caffeine or both on St. Paddy’s Day will make you infinitely more attractive to me. Fact.

I still won’t take you home. Fact.

After 20 hours behind the bar, I’m gonna drink a Tyrconnell single malt Irish whiskey neat with a water back with actual Irish dudes at 7am St. Paddy’s Day-After. You’re gonna puke in the toilet while that chick who’s name you can’t remember keeps asking you if you need a hug. Let that image sink in for a bit.

In conclusion, don’t come to the bar tomorrow. Stay home. Stay Classy…or if you must, get to the bar before 5pm so you can hang out with the cops and firefighters who are always in a good mood and just want to flirt with women who aren’t their wives.

Oh and lie to me and tell me that the powers that be are going to cancel St. Paddy’s Day 2013. I’m going to keep that dream alive for the next 364 days.

…or why I think you’re an asshole.

There seems to be a general consensus that if you’re working behind the bar in NYC you must, definitely, positively, no question about it, be the two following things:

1. An artist of some kind whether that be actor, writer, musician, visual artist

2. Dumb as poop.

The first assumption, I get. Good hours, good money and a whole bunch of material to feed my artistic insides. Sure, everyone must be an actor. Except, ya know, not everybody because there are bartenders who are entrepreneurs who are trying to save money, students trying to make their way through grad school or just the guy who needs to find himself before he goes off and gets a 401K and 2.5 kids.

The second assumption, that I couldn’t find the state of New York on a map of New England,* astonishes me every time. Seriously guys? Yes, I went to college. Yes, I graduated with Greek honors. No, not for my delicious Spanakopita recipe.

Side note, one of my favorite regulars is a guy named Tommy who’s old school New York. An Irish Catholic with a thick Brooklyn Italian accent raised on the UES who makes grunts after every sentence for emphasis. “Hey Tommy, how you doing today? “Hey! Kimbo! Good Day. Yup (grunt).” “Hey, can a guy get a drink around here (angry grunt)” “Kimbo! Whoa. You look nice today (happy grunt)” Did this guy go to college? Dunno, I never thought to ask but I do love listening to his stories (content grunt)

My point is, frat guy who only got into college cause Mommy and Daddy paid a handsome sum to Colby College, smarts and education are entirely two different things and while I respect your degree, stop assuming I don’t have one. Cause I do and if I didn’t? I still would be able to pontificate (SAT word!) on multiple subjects and school you about the cultural significance of the arts. So buy yourself a Jameson and while you’re at it, buy your fellow bar patron a Jameson too and then discuss the universe (Jameson makes me go all existentialist, guys)

*New York isn’t in New England. That was a test to make sure no dumb bartenders or failed actresses are reading this blog. If you caught the mistake, congrats. You’re super smart and have health insurance.

….is not the classiest move you could make in a bar.

Here’s the scoop:

Two chavy chicks from Birmingham, merry old England came into the bar last night clearly ready to party. They brought two American straight-from-the-garage biker dudes with them and decided I was awesome cause I knew the Norwich Canaries had tied with Liverpool a couple of days ago. (That’s a football reference for you out-of-touch Americans). The couples were all over each other ignoring the four no-ice double vodka red bulls (in a Tom Collins glass thank you) that I had just poured them.

Ladies, listen up. Hold the phone. Put down the puppies. I’m about to get real with you: Do not. I repeat. DO NOT. leave your friend at the bar with a random dude just because you want to play find the penis with your new STD laden buddy. It’s not cool and it’s not classy and it makes me want to hit you with a large Jameson infused baseball bat.

But, alas, Slutty McSluterson has not heeded my words. She leaves her friend at the bar to go get finger banged on the stairs. Now, mind you, the stairwell is directly in my line of vision. I can see the whole damn thing. Also, fun fact, this girl sounds like a dying humpback whale when she starts to enjoy the company of a gentleman caller. So I, knowing full well that Sam Malone never had to put of with this malarkey (that’s a Cheers reference for all you out-of-touch English) walk over and politely tell them that while I appreciate a good porn, I’d rather not catch the live show.  They star blankly at my feet and proceed to ask me if they can just go into the kitchen and finish.

That’s right. They didn’t even look me in the eye to ask me if they could orgasm on the stovetop.

As I try to explain to them that cockroaches and humans shouldn’t use the same surface for a breeding ground, I notice that the other drunk chick—who was left by her friend—is now passed out in the lap of the other random American biker dude.

Lesson #7586 If a bartender has to stop a potential date rape situation cause you wanted to get finger blasted in a public area, probably best to stay home, watch Sons of Anarchy and contemplate how not being hugged when you were a child really screwed you up for life.

Now where’s the Jameson? I need a shot.

So I walked away from this blog for a few months because of busyness, lazyness and a whole lot of other -nesses but I know, I know, I’m a NYC bartender! There must be a cooler reason I stopped blogging. So, let’s just pretend I got super drunk, met a billionaire Italian business man and have been living in a villa just outside of Florence for the past 8 months. Better?

Let’s recap: I’m bartender in a busy well known neighborhood bar by money and a comedian/actress by trade and I’m here to teach you how to stay classy at all times in the bar (even when 6 Amstels in). 

Am I brilliant? Maybe. A Walking Cliche? Absolutely.

So let’s restart this thing with a simple, down-to-earth, non-ranting request:

Please for the love of puppies, when saying hi to your favorite chick bartender, don’t continue to hold my hand after I shake yours.  I get it. You’re drunk, I have boobs, you think it’s a match made in drunken heaven. But here’s the thing mate: It’s a busy Tuesday night, I have 150 people asking me for another jack and diet and I do not have time for you to commandeer my hand and try to yell sweet-nothings across the bar to me.

Wanna impress a bartender? Be funny. Works every time.

So yes, shake my hand when you walk in, remember my name and I’ll remember your drink order, tell me a good story and I’ll promise to tell you a tidbit of my own.

Just let me have my hand back cause that Jameson isn’t gonna pour itself.

Now that it’s been almost a month since St. Paddy’s Day, I’m hoping you’re sober enough to read this posting. No? Still Drunk? Perfect, this blog writes itself!

Just a few random thoughts on that ridiculous holiday.

It’s St Patrick’s Day but St. Paddy’s Day. Nothing screams “Nobody in my family has been actually Irish since the building of the transcontinental railroad and all I know about Irish Culture is that I can use it as an excuse for my alcoholism” more than spelling it St. Patty’s Day.

Don’t fool yourself, St. Paddy’s Day is amateur day. I don’t know one real bonefide drinker that’s actually out on this day. We hide until sunrise March 18th. Like Vampires. Boozing Vampires.

Don’t complain about raised prices, lack of buy backs, or angry bartenders. It’s fucking St. Paddy’s Day. Drink at $10 guinness and eat over cooked corned beef and then regale each other of gross, STD laden awesome hookups the next day.

Bringing me food or caffeine or both on St. Paddy’s Day will make you infinitely more attractive to me. Fact.

I still won’t take you home. Fact.

After 20 hours behind the bar, I drank a single malt Irish whiskey (Tyrconnell. Yummy personified.) with actual Irish dudes at 6am St. Paddy’s Day-After. You puked in the toilet while that chick who’s name you can’t remember kept asking you if you need a hug. Let that image sink in for a bit.

In conclusion, come to the bar tomorrow night and let’s all pretend that St. Paddy’s Day will never happen again (I keep that dream alive for 364 days a year)

…..and other phrases that will never make me have sex with you.

Going home with the bartender is one of those fantasies that every New Yorker seems to have. Like guarantee seating on the subway or the perfect black and white cookie, it’s apart of the culture.  Hell, even I have tried (and succeeded…win!) to take the bartender home when I go to a bar. It’s an accomplishment you can tell your grandkids about along with smoking a doobie with Keith Richards and curing cancer. 

A word of caution. Below is a list of pick up lines that have been used on me in the last month. If you want to take the chick (or dude) home that’s pouring your beer, avoid these keys phrases:

1. What’s your name again?

2. Hey Bartender, we’re going to a titty bar after this, you wanna come along?

3. You look like Lea Michele.

4. Wow, you pour a good drink. Did you go to college for it?

5. You’re a conservative bartender right? Cause it’s not like I can really see your tits through that shirt

6. Next round is on the house, right?

7. $24?  Sure, here’s $25. Keep the change, sweetheart.

8.  How do I score some coke?

9.  She’s not my girlfriend. We’ve never had sex.

10.  You do comedy? Huh. I’ve never thought of you as funny.

If these words ever come out of your mouth, you’re an idiot and as a bartender, I immediately hate you.

Word to the wise: Most bartenders are heavy handed with pours.  We weren’t hired for our eye-to-hand ratio skills. I don’t know anyone who pour a perfect shot into a glass. Most of us try pretty hard but on a busy Friday night, our pours are heavier than they should be.

Oh and douchebag, don’t tell me how to do my job.  I don’t walk into your office and tell you how to hide the hooker fees in your expense report.

Whew. 

One more less angry thought:  I’m trying to get through the night with a couple of laughs along with an ability to pay my bills and feed my cat.  If you ask for an “extra strong drink,” then I have hate you which takes up so much energy. I’d rather use that same energy to flirt with you. See what I’m getting at here?  It’s a win-win situation.

So shut up and drink your lame drink and maybe I’ll buy you a shot of Jameson if you’re cute enough.

A well dressed man walks into the bar around 8:30pm.  He’s wearing trousers and a dress shirt but no tie.  He’s awkward around the edges like the guy who tells you he’s in banking only to find out that he’s a market analyst. He walks down the bar looking for the perfect chair.  He takes in the tvs, the proximity to the dart board, the taps of beer along the bar.  He zooms down the length of the bar and then back up to the front.  He selects the two chairs closest to the wall, sitting in the one closest to the corner and leaving the chair closest to the wall empty save his jacket on the seat of the chair (he’s classy like that).  His back is to the door (he wants to look casual forgetting that his desperation and lack of recent sex are the big neon signs on his face).   

Hey mate.  How are ya? What are ya having to drink tonight?

Um. I’ll have a beer. No wait, just a shot of Jameson.  I’m waiting for someone.  Just a shot now and I’ll order a beer later.

No problem.  You wanna open a tab, yes?

Um. Yes. Absolutely. Yes.  Better make that a double shot.

He looks at watch.  8:35. Surfs the internet for a bit.  Check out the Knicks game on TV.  Back to the Internet. 

A woman walks in.  Heels? Check. Not quite office-appropriate/not quite club-appropriate dress? Check.  The I-didn’t-even-try-but-damn-am-I-cute makeup (which took over an hour to apply thank you very much)? Check.  She walks down the bar slowly and looks at her cell phone.  Stops in the middle of the bar and looks around.  Sees Mr. Awkward-but-Casual sitting alone next to an empty chair.  Back to the phone. I try to walk over but as I’m walking down the bar, she is cautiously moving toward Mr. I-only-shop-at-the-Gap-outlet.  She stops behind him.  He hasn’t noticed her cause he’s pretending to write an email (to look super important).  She turns and practically runs out the door.

Ah Crap.  It wasn’t a first date—it was a blind one. 

Guess the next Jamo shot is on me.