Joe Ayoob is a Stanford Cardinal

It took him a while, but Jeff Tedford finally realized what I have known all along. Joe Ayoob goes to Stanfurd. In one the most brilliant and amazing Big Game pranks ever, the men of Alto were able to coerce one of their own into the Starting Quarterback role at Cal. Through a dastardly episode of events this highly touted Cardinul managed to build the hopes of alumni, fans and students to the apex of highs before cruelly thrashing them down. Relying on play that could only be deemed "retarded" or "Stanfurd-esque", Mr. Ayoob singlehandedly ruined the hopes of any Cal Backer. Bringing us up to the highest of highs with wins over teams made up of dwarves and small children, Joe systematically tore our hopes from underneath us. UCLA, a game all but won. OSU, a team begging to be beaten. A brief bit of hope against WASU, perhaps a glimmer of promise in the final minutes. Promises broken, however, in a sleet filled quagmire against the raging quacks of Orygun. By the way, David Gray is still open. And how in hell do you throw that pick at the goal line? A monkey with a slingshot would have had a better chance of getting that ball in there. Then again, a monkey with a slingshot doesn't secretly go to a rival university and play football to spite his mortal enemies. I digress, USC? Could you really do any worse? I would guess not, even the smug little shit Pete "My players have fun, rape chicks, and beat up students" Carroll could help but say Boo-ya was sure different than what he saw on tape. No shit, Pedro. On tape, you saw Ayoob playing his fans into a devious trap. Enticing them with ability and promise and JUCO player of the year accolades. Unfortunately what you saw in person was the Manchurian Candidate of the NCAA, blissfully bludgeoning any hope of decency in this incarnation of the Golden Bears. His Stanfurd mentors had played it long enough, it was time to twist the knife and drag down the Blue and Gold.
But, alas, Sir Tedford- you have proven that you are not a completely blind sociopath. And we, the Ol Blues, thank you. Steve Levy, the ball is yours. Stay away from the men in Red, even if they are wearing Blue and Gold.

Nightly Bar Man; a poem and a link

Reflection breeds connection, while inflection destroys convection.
Such a siren the condition, that leads us all into perdition.
Silently I come and go, from this town no one knows,
A mere passing guest observing all, in at winter out by fall,
Traipsing back to the source, sampling little of the cities course,
Finding what you have around, bears not much beneath the ground,
What you hear and what you see, is dependent on your sobriety,
Trapped within the confines of grain, a life devoid of futures reign,
Live for the moment and nothing more, enjoy the tips you’ll likely score,
But fear not when 10 years down the line, a decades past of stagnant time,
The scenes remains a faded blur, a life exists.. and nothing more.

For an accurate, and hilarious, take on the resteraunt industry click here

As such, a fine bit of news hath come my way. A new job starts Thursday, for a company devoid of midori sours and long beach ice teas. The time behind the bar coming to an inglorious end, sabotaged by a 2 week notice and loose lips all around. While it is distinctly my fault to have been flapping my gums about less than stellar working conditions, when directed at supposed friends or confidants it would not be assumed to pass beyond their mouths. Certainly not towards the powers that be… but alas, to tempt fools with gossip is to swim in shark filled waters with a gash on your thigh.

Nightly Bar Man; Blonde and Friends phenomenon

Just completed a Thursday shift, which is joyfully known around town as College night. Relatively subdued compared to previous weeks, perhaps the mid-terms are starting anew. Truth be told that has never been a compelling factor for many SB students to stay in, whether they are of the CC or UC vein. Not when you have multiple establishments vying for your presence, each one offering low cost drinks and a high hook up atmosphere. Yet tonight it was slow, and a little tedious. The crowd seemed to have a good time, but I did not- maybe I am just too overdone to be excited about coeds ordering three $1 whiskey sours and paying with plastic. Whatever the reason, behind the bar it was business as usual- dollar drinks and 50 cent tips, incredulous customers and not enough money- but such is my life right now.
There were few iconic moments throughout the night- it was a subdued, relatively average, crowd- and I felt that the evening would be a large dud on the scale of excitability. Until of course the blonde and her friends came in right before closing. Having bartended and lived in many other areas around California I feel confident in describing the “Blonde and Friends” late night rendezvous as a uniquely Santa Barbaran phenomenon. As the DJ played “My Humps” for what seemed like the 10th time (in reality was probably the first, but that songs ubiquity makes it seem ever-present), this quadrant of intoxicated females made their way through a sparsely populated bar, bumping and grinding their way to the bass lines of Fergie and friends. My eyes, until then transfixed with a blank stare to the thinning masses, immediately caught on. These girls had the look, the party girl, freak show for fun, come hither look. The look that makes it entertaining to be a drink servant.
Sidling up to the bar, it was late- just past last call, the blonde came forward. Leaning over oh so demurely, trying to ensure a final shot for herself and her friends, she began the playful late night banter that is protocol for anyone trying to score a free drink. And why not? Use what you have for what you want. My eyes, until now glazed over by the non descript crowd, perked up and played along. Her friends, sensing the urgent need for a drink, heeded the blonde’s silent call for reinforcement and began dancing and grinding with each other behind her. Though lacking rhythm and succumbing to the affects of alcohol, their youthful exuberance scored points. Yet I slyly had to deny them at first, if only to play along in this game of disingenuous flirtation. The girls, sensing they might leave empty handed with only a less sober Bills Bus ahead, decided to up the ante with a show of faux bisexuality. Of course they did.
The trump card, the “Blonde and Friends” phenomenon, the final straw for a Thursday night. Need a ride home? Make out with a girlfriend. Need a slice of pizza? Make out with a girlfriend? Need a cigarette? Make out with a girlfriend. Need that last drink? Make out with a girlfriend. In a town of open values and free spirit, this accelerated girl to girl affection is rather commonplace. At least for those behind the alcohol soaked bars of State Street. In a rather delicious state of double standards, a few girls playfully sharing a breath will generally commandeer whatever it is that they desire, at least from those of the drink soaked X and Y persuasion.
Seeing the smirk rise on my face, the blonde in charge again pleaded for the last drink- a drink that was forthcoming regardless of her friends’ experimental showcase. Of course dear, and be sure to get back safely. Air kisses abounded, thank yous and what’s your names, and when do you works followed the well vodka and limes. All that was lost on me as they walked out the door and the lights illuminated. I had work to do, it was 1:40 am.

Nightly Barman, the beginning

Becoming a bartender at night is like playing poker with an ex-girlfriend, you always want to go all in but are afraid the cards may have you losing it all. The temptation of embracing this bet are many- late nights, late mornings, flirtatious patrons and a requirement to pretend like your partying at all times- or at least providing an attractive atmosphere for an eager clientele. This romantic notion of a carefree profession where you mingle and mix is common and embraced, and if you’re a 20 something with time on your hands or no immediate plans it may be the perfect concoction of monetary gain and social networking. The people you meet, the places you go, the parties you join- apparently the sky is the limit should you have the skill to make a decent lemon drop and look good behind the bar. Such a life to be envied….. right?
Actually, no…. bartending isn’t like that at all. Rather bartending is a ridiculously shallow and shameless profession- with the room for growth limited to the tips you make each night- and in a town like Santa Barbara that increasingly depends on the whims of a student populace reliant on daddy’s credit card. Just hope those kids keep the grades up! Essentially you are a legal drug pusher, mixing whatever concoction the never satiated public needs. Your client base is usually drunk, and though occasionally horny, tends to spill, slur and dance quite horribly. Delusions of grandeur aside, you are a servant like any other- you are there to please and look good, and hopefully your drinking master will grant you a pittance of a dollar a drink.
However, behind the bar, when life is looked at through an objective prism, bartending merits both handsome praise and scathing critique. Much like any other job it carries with it ups and downs, stresses and joys. Unlike the typical server however, the goods that are dished out remain under your control. Food won’t make you drunk, a maitre d won’t give you liquid courage, and a bellhop can’t make you a cocktail that will relieve your stresses from a hectic week. Life behind bars puts you on a stage, at the center of attention in a world of glamour. What lies beneath the glamour, however, remains to be seen.