The nightly Bar Man, in Santa Barbara

Sunday, July 31st. Though my first Fiesta is officially 3 days away, the vibe and feel of Santa Barbara has picked up considerably. How do I know this? Because I made a heck of a lot more money than usual on a relatively lively Sunday night. Having never experienced this feast of fancies and Spanish delights I really have no basis as to what this town will be like for the next week or so. Hectic, Smashed, Pandemonium, Packed, Slammed, Intoxicated. When polled about the upcoming week, the veteran bartenders I work with have routinely pulled this familiar jargon out of the bag. So far, they are quite prophetic.
Besides the overcrowded nature of this party, I noticed the hedonistic tendencies of hard charging night owls seemingly infected the cities populace. Not only was the bar more packed with patrons, the patrons were considerably more drunk. And as a result, their morals were loosened. Perhaps it was merely my own general bias but the female patrons in particular had a distinctly more aggressive and inebriated nature than is the norm. A few of the girls had been drinking since 11am, a fact they made sure I knew by repeating it every few minutes. Summer nights, tequila, loud music, the smell of lime and salt, the promise of an upcoming week of debauchery? Whatever it was it transcended through the female core. By the end of the night experimental lesbianism was the norm for the younger of the crowd, while straddling of the partner was due rigor for the older set. As the only bartender working I felt the need to abstain a few of the more exhibitionist of the young women after I had closed the bar, if only to assist me in my clean up, or at least provide entertainment as I wiped down the bottles and swept up the floor. Fortunately the two were eager to comply, and promptly gave each other and myself lessons on the art of tongue flexing while kissing your partner. Whether or not their presence was due to the fact that fiesta was merely around the bend, or they just wanted a safe haven to play spin the bottle, is a topic for meaningless debate. What cannot be argued is that the bar had never been shut down so swiftly by a single individual.
Tomorrow yields us one day closer to the opening ceremonies. If the rest of fiesta holds as much fun as this night of pleasure, then surely it will be quite the Caligulan feast.

Its 3:41 pm, Wednesday August 3rd. Tonight is the official first night of fiesta. As a rookie to this hedonistic endeavor I am a little naïve as for what to expect, though if Sunday is any indication it could be quite interesting. Seeing that I will be serving the drinks rather than drinking them, though I am sure there will be a fair bit of imbibing as part of my professional duties, my take on this whole soiree will be decidedly more sober than most. From what I have heard, it is absolute mayhem with a dash of debauchery, though I think some of these claims may be more overblown than most. Supposedly a certain fellow with the worlds best jump shot makes an annual appearance at the bar I work at, which of course only adds to the mythic proportions that fiesta seems to take on. Though I am eager to have this entire party to begin, just so I can get a fair glimpse into its true nature, I am also hesitant to attach too many ridiculous expectations for it. Nothing is worse, especially as a barman, to plan on an exceptional party with exceptional tips only to receive half what you expected at the end of the night. Additionally, I am on the verge of exhaustion, and having bartended already for a period of 6 months, can feel myself sliding down the slippery slope to a life of barmenship. Though the prospect of being a bartender is fanciful to many, it is a reluctant profession for myself, as though my time and energy could be of greater consequence than making the perfect margarita. Off for the errands- a full report of the madness will commence tonight. 3:54 pm

10:25 am, Thursday the fourth. Last night was underwhelming, save for the amount of alcohol I managed to drink, and for the number of cute girls that my fellow barmate Ashley manages to live with. Lord almighty, in Santa Barbara it is the norm for 10 hot chicks to all share an apartment, and hopefully have pillow fights in their lingerie. For a Wednesday night it was much better than usual, then again Wednesdays usually consist of me bantering with 2 Dutch tourists and a few old, bitter men so improvement is not hard to come by. Regardless, the whole scene of fiesta seemed relatively mellow as compared to the wall to wall humanity that is supposedly the norm, though the imbibing pleasures of the patrons did appear to have the carefree air usually associated with the weekend. Evidently the sea of people will be forming sometime later this week.
If it is true to form I imagine it will be on Friday and Saturday night. According to Jimmy, the owner, that is when the fellow with the Jump Shot will be making his appearances at the bar. These dates are the source of rather incredible speculation and inquiry for the drunken public. Everyone who came through the bar last night wanted to know where and when sir Jordan would be manifesting behind the bar. Not that I could blame them, he is more famous than God, and the mere thought of having this man make you a kamikaze sends most into a frothy state of euphoria. I shudder to think what will happen if and when I bartend with Jordan and make the mistake of actually serving one of the teeming masses who has been patiently waiting for his Airness. I imagine a lot of shouting, and a paltry tip.
Last night produced a more profound and noticeable police presence, a large and overbearing floodlight and thankfully, more hot girls than I am usually accustomed to. Though the collection of female talent was most likely due to my lovely barmate, I was certainly appreciative. Especially considering that I had the ability to control the amount of alcohol they consumed, which apparently granted me a comfort level with which they could encroach. Though this usually is to my favor it can engender some potentially awkward situations, particularly if you find yourself flirting heavily with a multitude of young, drunk and socially lubricated women.
While working my charms on a group of young UCSB students, aiming for both a better tip and an attractive young lasses phone number, I suffered the misfortune of having another girl, who I had previously met and implored to stop by and say hello, enter the bar at the exact moment numbers were being exchanged. As I said my brief goodbyes to the UCSB group leaving out the door, I quickly focused my attention at the aforementioned female now seated at the bar a few feet from my previous party. Expecting a rather chilly reception from this girl who just walked in I did my best to salvage what I thought would be a precarious situation. Strangely, when I turned to face the young woman and her few friends, who were all very hot, and offered a sheepish sort of grin as if to say ‘You caught me, my bad….”, her initial reaction was not of the usual look of disdain. Rather it was a flirtatious little smile, as if to say she approved. I quickly added that I merely was doing my part as a bartender to ensure the patrons were having a good time, thus ensuring me bigger tips. Again, a flirtatious laugh, a little sly smile, and a quick ordering of shots. As if reading a book of what I’d hope she would say, she let slip “no worries, it’s Fiesta. If a bartender isn’t getting every girls number then they are doing something so very wrong.” Well, all-righty then. I think I found myself a golden ticket. With the heavy drinking and festive atmosphere surrounding fiesta, people’s social mores are lessoned and the chances of a casual hook up- already high, are increased even higher. In a town like Santa Barbara, that is a cause for celebration….


3:03 pm on Thursday the Fourth. Off to experience Fiesta as a carnival goer, a tourist, an enjoyer of good times. After having the mere pleasure of seeing the drunken side of fiesta from behind the bar, I suppose it to be reprehensible to report and chronicle these events without being one of the teeming masses. If only for a day…… off to el Mercado I go.

8:01 pm, Thursday evening, a mere hour and a half before I enter back into the bartender role I am so gratefully playing. A quick glance at what the actual Fiesta celebration entails leaves me satiated. Not overly impressed, not floored, yet not disappointed in the least. The fact that an old style Mercado is created, let alone serve a ridiculously good deal for the Mexican food lover in the middle of downtown no less, is something no one should ever complain about. Combine it with the carnival atmosphere of live music and all the chintzy fiesta garb and souvenirs one could want, and you already have the makings of decent party. The beer garden, however, leaves a bit to be desired as the cover charge seems ridiculous- 5 dollars to have the right to buy a beer? I imagine this turns many a potential drinker away, then again I am merely a rookie- and a broke one at that. Something tells me that the denizens of Santa Barbara fret not over half a Hamilton.
The presence of sir Jordan reigns over this city, as basketball campers, showmen, counselors and entourage cut a thoroughly distinct presence in this rather lily white town. Aside from the constant buzz of where he might show up, or party, or sleep with, there are more large black men in Santa Barbara during this weekend than pass through for the remainder of the year. And whenever possible, if a business owner senses you are connected with Jordan, they want your business. When walking from el Mercado to the confines of the bar scene, a basketball garbed crew of tall gents was being wooed incessantly before me. As we both walked down the street, everyone from sushi house owners to jewelers seemingly came running to the storefront to see if Lord Hangtime was amongst the throng of tall, lean and Nubian. No one could blame them for their eagerness to gain Michaels business- I imagine wherever he went a line of thousands was sure to follow.
Dignitarios is tonight at the Zoo, and unfortunately I am not going. Even if I had not had the luxury of working I possess neither the funds, nor the connections to acquire a ticket. To think that I date with one of the organizers and I am unable to go- must be quite the ticket in town. From the bits of banter I pick up from locals and others in the know, it is the party for the young and beautiful. Or old with money. Either way, a place I would like to be. Such are the vagaries of life, when I can afford not the Dionysian luxuries of this burg of Barbara, but can observe and serve to my hearts content. Off to the bar, there are drunk women who need my attention.

2:30am, Friday morning, though still considered Thursday night. Another night, another quick 200 dollars in the pocket. Not complaining, as the Fiesta crowds were definitely in full effect, though the crowd that was on display tonight had not the drunken bluster of the previous evening. Tired, and somewhat annoyed that Jordan didn’t show.

3pm, Friday afternoon, Fiesta Friday- the day of Horse Shit stained streets and massive crowds from the ‘nard and Ventura. In my quest to keep some semblance of shape during this week of ridiculous drinking and partying, I set out for a bike ride too Carpinteria in hours of the am. Heading down the usual route via Cabrillo Boulevard I ran smack dab into the walking barn that is the Fiesta Equestrian Parade holding area. Maneuvering my bike through the gauntlet of awaiting horses and their whisperers, not to mention the road bombs left behind by our overfed equine friends, I caught many a strange look from the participants and a foul smell from their steeds fine digestive work. Upon entering the cleared roadway of Cabrillo, free of cars and lined with humans for the parade, I took off on my way for a loop through Carpentaria and Montecito. Refreshing as it was to get out of the congestion of a horse mad city I couldn’t help but be seduced by the parade itself on the way back home. Stopping for a brief moment at the corner of Cota and State, I took in the festive atmosphere of the various caballero groups showing off their steeds. Surprisingly, most of the caballeros of Old Spanish Days looked as Spanish as myself with a Sombrero.
Having gotten home through the maze of closed streets that make this Friday so special, I felt the most effective way of returning downtown involved the usage of my trusty Sector 9. Parking was a nightmare already at 3pm, and foreseeing a night of debauchery to go with my duties as cocktail mixer, felt it prudent to not have a car at my disposal. Needless to say, the skate in was fun with most cars anchored to their spots for most of the day
Arriving at the bar of employment rather briskly, I allowed myself time for a costume change of sorts before heading out to take in Fiesta on State as a patron rather than server. This quest landed me a mere 15 yards away from where I started, as a coincidental run in with a friends girlfriend lead to margarita and shot….. at 3 in the afternoon. After imbibing both the velvety veil of an afternoon buzz starts to slip over, and I start to realize what makes Fiesta, a fiesta. Friday afternoon, and the masses are swarming the bars of lower State, hell bent on getting plastered as can be before the sun starts setting the course for its nocturnal escape.
Having missed most of the grand events of Fiesta thus far, save for a few minutes of horse parades and cover bands and tacos at El Mercado de la Guerra, I can say with confidence, however, that the main draw for this seminal event of Spanish Heritage is the drinking. The afternoon, in the sun, socially acceptable if not encouraged, social lubrication of the masses. How else to account for the survival of so many confetti-egg vendors? Such items are not bought when sober. Sure, there are mercados, and horsies, and bands belting out ballads of Latin persuasion, but it all seems merely a mask for the real reason hordes of people from all over California crowd Downtown on a lovely Friday. We all want, and need, the escape of sipping a glass full of alcohol on a workday afternoon. Sedation of the masses in the name of Spain- if only el rey knew he had it so easy…

Sunday at 3:30 pm, the two penultimate nights of Fiesta having just passed. Three friends of mind decided to come up for this weekend of grandeur, which in retrospect may not have been the wisest of decisions. Bars are overcrowded and overcharging, not to mention usually require 30 or so dollars to enter. Paying money to be overcharged and underserved- capitalism at its best. With the obvious connection at my bar they were essentially stuck in one location, and I was obviously not going to be able to go anywhere until two in the morning. Thus one of the most Santa Barbaran of 20 something activities- the weekend bar hop/crawl- is eliminated as a possibility. Unless of course you feel like dropping close to three hundred dollars in cover charges for places that normally charge nil. Yet, seemingly everyone has brought friends to town. All for the same glorious fiesta festivities.
That being said, being on the serving side of the bar had its usual merits the past few nights. Drunken patrons tipping, sashaying girls flirting, hordes of people wanting to get into the one place where everyone else is, which was seemingly everywhere this weekend. Aside from the larger crowds, most everything else seemed to be going along swimmingly, even for the patrons who were set on seeing Sir Jordan. If there was one regret from this past weekend it was the lack of his actual basketballing presence at my bar. Though I was not actually lying when I told everybody who asked that he was supposed to be coming in, and apparently he was, the fact that he never actually did arrive allows me to be associated with a tale of deceit. As a bartender, the need to BS is tantamount to monetary success yet if you start to become a fibber the patrons will usually not feel the need to tip generously. And no one wants to be sold on the idea of a celebrity arriving, only to have the celebrities impending presence be a falsity- especially by the person who is getting them faded. Thus, his Airness’ presence was not missed for my own celebrity craze, but rather for his impediment on my ability to deliver truth. Jordan’s flakiness caused irreparable damage to my tip jar. In this era of the lawsuits- I wonder if I can claim a monetary settlement?
Tonight is supposedly the last night of Fiesta, and hopefully a monetarily rewarding one. Having been exposed to the drunken masses for a full week it will be nice to have the town return to semblance of normalcy. Which for me merely means being tipped a little more, charging a little less, and having less people call me chief and bud and barkeep. Off to the legal opiate den I go, someone has to pour the hair of the dog…

Monday, August 8th at 12:15 pm, enjoying a latte and scone, the caffeine fix to be up at this hour. Though it is noon, a week of working/partying until 3 or 4 am every night will eventually catch up to you. Today it caught up to me, and I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Happy end of Fiesta!”, and down went the shots.
It was hard to determine which had a more revelry feel- the actual nights of Fiesta, or last night when the tourists had left and all of the locals and service industry schleps came out of the confetti and beer soaked halls to party with one another. A celebration of the lucrative riches earned from the past week which, given the propensity for those in the industry to ridiculously over tip, quickly transferred ownership to their still working brethren. Namely, me. It was probably the best of all the nights I had worked- good looking crowd, fabulous tippers, and very friendly and familial with each other. There wasn’t any air of discontent or failed expectations or disappointment in what a $50 cover charge had bought. And no one seemed to care whether or not the Knight of Nike was showing up. It was merely a huge, collective, sigh (and body shot) of relief. A joy in a job well done, where the comrades in bars could share stories of horrible patrons or drunken bouncers or girls gone wild or horrible, drunken, bouncing girls.
“Happy Fiesta Sunday!”, and down went the shots.
Yet as much as the locals and bartenders and bouncers and waiters and waitresses voice their displeasure with ever maddening and unruly crowds that populate Santa Barbara during that first week of August- the fat wallets loaded with cash tips remind us of the necessary and wonderful evil that is Fiesta. Loud, obnoxious, bloated, drunken, and a little uncouth, but also endearing, genuine and economically productive- like the Dungeons and Dragons playing IT guy housed in the nether regions of the office. We all need him more than he needs us, and as much as we hate to say it, we all really do like him.
“Happy Siesta to Fiesta!”, and here’s a $20 tip.