Let's Hear it for Petey

While it is true that tending bar will expose you to an odd assortment of colorful characters bathed in hedonism, it is sometimes those that appear to be the mildest of individuals that send you careening off into the most fruitful endeavors. Such was the case last night at O’Malley’s Pub, where I was playing the part of bartender to a small audience of rather blasé disposition when a slightly buzzed gentleman came stumbling in. After assessing that he was of no different character than many of the imbibers I constantly deal with, I paid him no more attention than the usual serving of beer and taking of money. Instead I focused myself upon the three lovely women at the end of the bar, all intent on stuffing as much cleavage as possible into tops three sizes too small. Quickly that fad came to pass as the women; more interested in their Midori sours than my own epic manhood, hastily downed their drinks and made for the exit and a surely raucous Santa Barbara Monday night. This left only me, and the socially lubricated fellow who was smiling like a valium induced child staring at a screen full of Japanese anime. Since there was no one else in the bar, I felt compelled as a professional barman to engage him in conversation. What a fortuitous decision that was.
Our glazed over fellow, who had a remarkable resemblance to Will Ferrell, turned out to be a successful screenwriter who was in town attending the prestigious Santa Barbara Writers Conference. How lucky was I, a wannabe wordsmith with a liquored up professional at the mercy of my pouring hand. After a few of the usual bar talk pleasantries and inane questions lofted about to provide him with the opportunity to espouse his writing skills, evidently he has big producer friends and has worked all over Hollywood developing stories soon to change the world as we know it, I quickly started peppering him with queries about this writers conference. Turns out this little soirée of scribes is one of the most prestigious and well-run conferences around, and accordingly it would behoove me to stop by and peruse. Naturally I had to ask how that could be done given the gatherings prohibitive cost and exclusivity. His reply, just turn on the charm and act like you've been there done that- Considering that much of my life has relied on this motto I figured I might as well.
After feeding him a few more distilled beverages to ensure his unsafe passage back to his hotel I hastily shut down the bar and headed home. One must be as rested as possible in order to deceive those who might be of great help to you.
The following morning I awoke, groggy and somewhat pessimistic about pulling this off- surely this crowd of writing professionals would recognize my conference crashing and have me carted off of the premises under jeers of the rightful attendees. Who was I too think I could blend into this well heeled group of poets and playwrights? Delusional? Obviously. Determined? Without a doubt.
Upon arriving at this conference, being held at the exquisite campus of Westmont College in Montecito, California, I had no clue where to go. Expecting a large auditorium with one speaker lecturing to hundreds of hipsters I quickly found that my perceptions of this event were way off. Rather than a large lecture in cavernous halls with crowds in which I could vanish, there were small, roughly 15 person workshops taking place in small classrooms. Soon, I figured, my gig would be up. Sensing the need to blend in as soon as possible I attempted to ingratiate myself with a disheveled older woman struggling to walk up a hill to an unknown destination. She had the typical appearance of a crazy great aunt who lives with thirty cats, thus a perfect target for my suave charm. Striding up beside her with my most disarming and enchanting of grins, I let loose my first steps towards assimilation.
"Woo, big hill. They should put in an escalator, huh?", I said.
Blank stare.
"Yeah, soooo, what workshop are you going too?"
Again, a pause of befuddlement, before a whisper of "Fiction".
"Ahh, yes”, I replied, “me too. Should be a good one", which of course garnered no answer at all.
And so off we went, me following behind this barely audible, slowly walking woman, doing my best to make it seem as if I knew where I was going. After a few minutes of walking, filled with my best flirtations and suave seduction- I even think I dropped a book in front her just so I could bend down to pick it up- we finally made it to a cramped classroom. Fortunately the workshop was already in session, being led by some famous published author I have never heard of.
Upon entering the first classroom a couple preconceived notions were quickly dispelled. One, aside from a few quizzical looks not a person said a word other than hello and how are you. Two, writers are geeks. Serious geeks. Which makes sense- if you are to have a profession as lonely as writing, I imagine your social networking skills would border on eccentric. Where I expected Prada, I instead found Big Dog. Three, this whole crashing thing was easy as hell. Not a person even batted an eye at my presence, either out of social fear or because they just didn’t care. Whatever the reason, I had a great workshop with a few great writers, a few horrendous ones, and a newfound confidence in being able to sneak into events that I had no business being at. Naturally, I felt it my obligation to investigate the catered lunch for the attendees.
After pretending to bury my eyes into my own manuscript I waltzed passed the gentleman guarding front door of the dining area. Even gave him a ‘Whew, lot of work to be done on this’ as I walked by. He replied with a hearty, ‘Just keep working at it young man’ and I was on my way to a free lunch. I had a wonderful plate of carnitas and chicken, and met many a writer enthusiastic about my chosen profession and upcoming screenplay..... which of course I have yet to write.
After lunch I found myself wandering toward the classrooms, pretending to know where I was going when I stumbled upon an actual screenwriting workshop. Again, I figured why not, just focus on serenity now and act like this is your scene. Upon entering I did my best to blend in the back, soak it all in, not be conspicuous. That plan was as solid as warm jello.
Besides being a much more hip and trendy crowd than the fiction-writing workshop (found out later it was science fiction- which explains a hell of a lot), the screenwriting set all seemed to take greater note of my intrusion. It didn’t help my cause as the leader, an Emmy winning screenwriter, decided to go around the room and ask us what we were working on. Out came the replies, "Fox pilot", "Indie script about pirates", "NBC sitcom", “Comedy Central special”, and then me. "Uhhh, ummmm, yeah. I uh, do e-mails. I tend to write emails. Long ones, sort of like a chronicle of me". Again, stares and looks akin to seeing Michael Jackson doing jazzercise. Attempting to smooth this over I added I was just trying to get a feel for the whole screenwriting world. Surprisingly, this ameliorated the writers and leader, as no further questions regarding my presence were asked. I was even encouraged to participate and offer my ‘fresh and unmuddled’ views on screenwriting.
After the workshop concluded I spoke with a couple of the attendees and they recommended I come back for tomorrow. Beaming with pride at a crashing job well done I enthusiastically replied that I would be there with bells on. I should have rethought their invitations.
The following day, after skipping out on the morning due to a late night tending bar, I again crashed the screenwriters’ workshop. The opening topic of the day was the use of metaphor and catching an audience in the opening pages of a screenplay. After reading over several well known scripts the minds on hand started dissecting the effectiveness of each one. At first I was quiet, fearing that I would be reprimanded for ill-advised remarks. But after hearing a few of the arguments from the supposed professionals I figured I could do no worse. Hell, considering how well received I had been the previous day I figured my forays into the discussion would be nothing if not encouraged.
Naturally, I dominated.
Of course the menacing fog creeping through Amityville is a metaphor for the shark lurking off shore! And obviously the floating feather meandering through the small southern town is Forrest Gump running through life! My comments were lauded; agreed upon, nary a smirk was noticed. I even was offered a very awkward high-5. My confidence was high, and I felt as if I had this whole writing thing set, especially leading into the next exercise- writing an opening 2 minutes of script for a movie in a 15 minute flash. I would nail it, I thought, my talent would be so evident the lecturer, who was a rather attractive older woman, would beg to be my sugar mama and showcase my words to agents worldwide. It was so evident I could practically choke on it.
After a brief 15 minutes of scribbles the readings began. Not wanting to go first, I figured why not save the best for last, I perfected my prose as the others went before me. As I heard others efforts, silently scoffing to myself, I kept daydreaming at how these professionals would be amazed at my infant efforts, and how talented I was, and wondered how that cougar would look in a silk robe. To my good fortune right before I was to read (again mind you I am here for free, rather than paying the $1000 fee for these exceptional services) the woman before me read a piece so wretched and awful I was sure I would be receiving more awkward high 5’s than the BYU basketball team.
So I began, and read, and read, not wanting to look up, making sure I captured this incredible scene in all of its essence - a dreamy first date, billowing drapes in an enchanting restaurant, snippets of endearing first date conversation interspersed between my mélange of two professionals hitting it off, setting up this romantic wonderland for the ultimate comedic surprise when the man mentions he is a pornographer. Surely captivating the crowd, I delivered the last bit of dialogue “I work in Porno”, with an emphatic twist. I even held my stare at the last lines for a bit so as to let the hilarious twist sink in. And then I was done.
What followed was unexpected. Blankness. Puzzlement. Fear. Shame. And that was just the expression on the lecturer. Feeling a bit awkward under the silence, the lecturer feebly mentioned that my style was off a bit, and I maybe needed to flesh out the specifics a little more. One woman mentioned that given the amount of wine I fed my characters in the scene they would already be drunk within two minutes of conversation. Smirks were abundant. Heads were shaking. I stammered, stunned like an attacking shark hit squarely on the nose with a blunt hammer, I feebly reminded them that this “was just a set up, you know. The story takes off from there, like a rocket. Bam!” That was enough from me, though the mental beating I was getting had not yet hit its crescendo.
In the final and ultimate blow to my pride, the lecturer pointed out that this was my first time writing- and being able to even attempt a scene was something of an accomplishment. A smattering of pathetic applause ensued. Sweet. I got sympathy applause for being able to make coordinating words on a page. All of a sudden I was the retarded kid playing the trumpet- everyone’s embarrassed at how bad they are but feel compelled to offer support. "Let's hear it for Petey, he's unable to dress himself and can't recognize shapes, but man can he blow air into a tube!" Needless to say, I have no idea what the lecturer looks like in a silken robe.

The Day After Tommorow... I cried in shame, a review from '04

Friends-
It seems as though I have stumbled upon a new hobby- paying money for and sitting through absolutely dreadful movies. Fun! First I was assaulted by the celluloid nausea that was Van Hel-suck-my-ass-ing, now- after a wonderful trip of Indy cars and tasting the sweet bourbons of Kentuck-asee- I have been bludgeoned once more by the blockbuster bloodsuckers of Hollywood with the epic piece of trash that is "The day after tommorrow". The correct title for this movie should be "the day after tommorrow...... this director has no job and is eaten by wolves", but that would be too logical. About as logical as this farce of a film about some super pissed off storm clouds and the retarded neanderthals who fight them. How destructively stupid was this? I watched this in Sikestown, Missouri- not exactly a modern day Athens- and the same sleeveless, mulleted citizens which habituate this cultural mecca all wore the same blank expressions that my father and I did. One that begged, "What the fuck was that?"
No, "Woo hoos! Dem Yankees got fucked!", nor "Finally those God Hating queer baits in LA got squashed by twisters!". Just the same downtrodden, albeit confused, face of someone wondering if all of the movieworld is going to hell.
Questions to ponder from this film, and I am not making this up-
How do starving, flesh-eating wolves manage to locate the 10 surviving humans in New York?
Why are they the only animals to survive Mega-Storm?
How can Mega-Storm hunt down and freeze people like an alien life force?
When you realize that the northern continents of the world are being covered with a sheet of ice, thus initiating a new ice age, do you really care whether the girl you have a crush on likes you? And why aren't you just unleashing your carnal lust on the bitch? She can't really say no at this point.
Would Americans really have a mass migration to Mexico, even if all land to kansas was an ice rink? And would Mexico really say no? "Ah, senor, we are okay with our economy of chiclets and cocaine, please keep your technology out of our 4th world country"
How will the studios defend the merits of this piece of crap? I don't care if it outgrossed the entire GDP of Taiwan- there is no excuse, again such potential gone to waste..... sort of like CAL lacrosse '01.
And finally, how much help do I need to stop wasting so much time ranting about crappy movies to over the hill lacrosse buddies.
All for now, I'll see you at the premeire of Anaconda 2, Curse of the Black Orchid- if I'm lucky it will make me vomit

Christmas Cheer; What's the deal, St.Nick?

T’was a year ago now, way yonder up north
When the big man in red gladly set forth
To deliver his gifts to all the good girls and boys
A sack full of gems, mixed in his big bag of toys
As we recall now I had a specific want then
It came in all colors and was not too hard to send

Yet when the day came to pass my gift was amiss
Conspicuously absent, amongst the stockpiled bliss
She was nowhere to be found, nowhere to be seen
This bombshell in satin with skin so serene
Naturally now I became slightly enraged
Had nothing become sacred in this day and age?
Had childhood saints in deep crimson tint
Become a mere sham like Superman and Clark Kent?
Were all promises empty, and all wishes for naught?
Or had this reindeer lovin’ fool just simply forgot?
Armed with inquisitions and a bourbon fed buzz
I called ol’ Chris Cringle to find the fiction from what was

‘Nick!’ I bellowed, ‘what in heck’s going on?
You said in ‘04 I could’ve had whatever I want!
‘TRK, my dear friend’, he said with a laugh,
‘Surely you know it was merely a gaff.
I set out last year with Melanie in the sleigh
Right by my side directing the way.
She yelled at ol’ Dasher and Dancer and Donner and Blitzen
And the way she handled that whip you could tell she was a vixen
She screamed and she hollered and wouldn’t let off
The poor bucks were dog tired and we’d just taken off
But a funny thing happened as we headed down south
I guess some of the reindeer couldn’t handle her mouth
And they bucked and they weaved and acted like hell,
I think Rudolph was for sure pissed for being called Tinkerbelle
Cause around North Dakota he nosedived straight down
Bringing my sleigh perpendicular to the white frozen ground!
Well thank goodness I’m fat, and was securely strapped in,
Melanie on the other hand got scooped out by the cold winter wind’
‘Wait’, I let out, ‘Are you telling me
That above high above Bismarck was a fallen Melanie?’
‘Oh no, don’t worry, she was strapped with a chute
And her head, being Playboy, was mostly air to boot.
Last I heard she had settled down quite nice
And was hosting a late show on South Dakota Spice.’
‘Uh, great, I guess, but that doesn’t settle the score.
I came out of last Christmas lacking the girl I asked for’
‘That is true, I can’t argue, you’ve got me on that
But really, based on your history you’d make that girl whacked’
‘Low blow, Herr Claus, don’t be a Saint Dick
Just tell me what I should do to fulfill this year’s gift list’
‘Start out Mr. K, by spreading some joy
To all the children around, and even their toys

And be thankful, by golly, for all that you’ve got
Great friends and great family and the first season of Lost
Remember those less lucky, and give them a big helping hand
Whether in Thailand, New Orleans or Pakistan
Or just around the corner, to the guy on the street
Maybe buy him a meal, help him get on his feet
So put a smile on your face and wrap it with cheer
Grab those that you love and all you hold dear
Squeeze ‘em real hard and look them in the eye
And Say “Merry Christmas, ya ol’ shit, and hears to 2005”’.
‘Got it Mr. Claus, good points you have made
Sometimes we forget that in our quest to get laid,
Or more money, or new clothes, or the greatest new thing
That all that you need is in your innermost ring.
So I’ll wish you a Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year as well
And when I see you next time may we party like ‘hell!
SOOOO Holla back all you fools and have a wonderful day
Ya’ll are my greatest gift of all, and I mean it...... from ol' TRK

Ready to take on the world, with the support of those behind me..... 

Christmas Cheer, Hope you get what you want

Twas the week before Christmas, and off to Macy's
Went yours truly, TRK, who had a fat man to see
A man who was so large as to shake like soft jelly
Who's cheeks were oft red, due to booze in the belly
His reputation proclaimed of his omniscient eyes
And ability to percieve whether you spoke truth or lies
Cause he peeped in your bedroom and knew when you slept
And knew when you woke, and knew when you wept
Yet he was worshipped my many, especially small girls and boys
Who he apparently paid off with annual gifts of small toys
For his powers seemed endless, hell he could make venison fly
Even the freaky one with a glowing red eye
Or maybe a nose, I cannot recall
Though I do remember my fateful trip to the mall
When I went to this man, this portly red saint
Who was pimped in all velvet, of a deep crimson taint
And demanded him to reveal his devious ways
Of spying on us all like he's CIA
But just when I was about to verbally unload
This jovial fat man chuckled, "Ho, Ho, ho-HO!"
And smiled and asked how had I been
Was I a good young soul, or spawn of satan?
And he smiled and laughed then did the damndest thing
He asked me what gift I wanted him to bring!
I was so caught off guard, I could barely reply
There was no way this man was a dark hearted spy
So he asked me again, and said name anything you want
Cause he'd do his best to deliver it prompt
Ignoring my reason for trekking down yonder
I mentally assembled a gift list to ponder
And I searched and I scrambled and soon had decreed
An item I hoped Santa would place under my tree
Wrapped only in tissue, or maybe fine silk
Though if it came unwrapped it would not sour my milk.....
SOOOO I can only now hope that your Christmas Day and New Year
Are filled with festive great times and Holiday Cheer
Holla back all you fools and have a wonderful day
Happy Holidays to you and yours.... from ol' TRK

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.

Cubicle Hades and Tales from Within- The power of Jabba

Whoa Nellie!!! If I were a wrangler of ‘stangs I would imagine I would use that term quite often- as an exclamation, an addition to a description, a command, perhaps as a term of endearment..... “She was real purdy, whoa Nellie! I tell ya, her tits were perfect!" But alas, I am not home on the range save for the open grill inside my domicile, and I certainly don't wrangle mustangs. Rather, I enter data at a meticulously slow pace so as to extract as much revenue from the company as possible while still maintaining the illusion of illustrious tenacity. As far as my cubinators around me, they have been showing themselves to be quite the memorable bunch, particularly my Garfield aficionado of a neighbor- codenamed Jabba. Why, early this morning I heard this memorable exchange between her and our mutual neighbor, adeptly applied with the moniker of Skeletor.

(Jabba) "Hey, Wow! I just figured out how to wrap text!!
(Skeletor) "Yeah, yeah!!! You know you sometimes are the girl!!"
(Jabba) "Well, sometimes help springs from eternal hope."
(Skeletor) "Sigh"

If that doesn't fire your neurons in excitement, then I don't know what will. I relate congratulating yourself on learning a Microsoft Word function to celebrating learning how to load a stapler. Not exactly the time to pat oneself on one’s back. Perhaps a reason to take ones head out of the oven? Maybe.
In all fairness I don't believe these people to be bad, sad, uncool (well.... maybe uncool but that is very preliminary), nor deserving of contempt. Rather it is their working situation, and the seeming embrace of the hopeless void of a rat raced maze of numbers and calls that I find worthy of my haughty glances. For me, the mere thought of spending more than 2 months working in a call center for a suburban bank is akin to having your flesh slowly devoured by scores of carnivorous salamanders. In other words- pure torture. Thus coming in here every day is practically a blessing as I come face to face with my greatest fear- similar to an arachnophobe spending the night in a dusty, musty cavern to cure his fear of the eight legged mosquito eaters.
In other news, Jabba ordered me to assemble some computers for her that will be put to use in the near future by the next order of trained operators. So now I am a data jockey and grunt labor for the Jab-ster. Oh the joy. When I accomplished that mighty task I felt the same euphoria you experience when you wipe your ass and don't get crap on your hand. As a result the bank of contempt towards Jabba did raise a smidge- first, she interrupted my ESPN session I was having, second- she sent me into menial tasks with a rather indirect smug matter which I promptly called her on. If she keeps this up her Garfield calendar will be but a distant memory and her tub of Taco Bell sauce will find their contents spilled upon her overwrought desk chair.
Today’s highlight moment, however, may have come when this poor older woman, who has spent way too much time answering the calls of the checking account masses, and Jabba went on a "bunny walk". It wasn't there walk that I found so uneasing- rather I found their embrace of a healthy outside endeavor to be a welcome admission that they needed to get the fuck out of this place- instead it was the shameless excitement they had in their mission to see some feral rabbits galloping around the outer lots. On their way out their conversation with Skeletor (whose slightly larger, super-cube lies near an exit) included the older woman, roughly a few years beyond my mothers age, making a gesture of a 4th grade school girl imitating a bunny. Proudly placing her fingers as ears atop her head and hopping, she and Jabba extolled their plan of action with skeletor and excitedly proclaimed how they could schedule appointments for this "adventure" every day.
I had a better idea, at this time every day, take a step back and try to observe objectively how horrible this occupation is. Then go hunt for rabbits with all the furor and terror you can muster. Ay dios mio, I need to get drunk........

The Candelabras are Screaming, from Tales of the Yellow Stuff

After watching both The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers yesterday, in a marathon of elfin magic, Dungeons and Dragons patheticness, and a sweatpant induced slothness I was overcome by my inability to do much of anything while in my current state. Fortunately a Mr. Tony Fraccerro and his hot exotica minx of a Brazilian Babe came by to say hello. This was rather startling and somewhat unexpected as I had just gone under from the yellow stuff. I was hearing these voices around me as if they were far off and distant, like when you awaken from a dream where you and Jenna Jameson are prancing through a field alone, picking daisies, pausing only to smell the sweet air and maul her from behind like a viking ram oblitterating a castles gate- only to realize the vikings gate is closed and you have severe morning wood. Try as you might to fall back to sleep to that lovely dream world , you can't..... it's gone now, and so is Jenna in all her buxom glory. But I digress, you know what I mean, that lovely dreamy state of half asleep, half awake. Where those voices are not far, but near and at your side. I was there yesterday, and so was Tony. His voice somewhat muffled by the swirling drugs and leftover blood lodged in my nasal cavities, but a voice none the less. Though I wanted to speak yesterday, and laugh and tell Tony to try the yellow stuff before he left, I could not. It was not to be allowed as my jaw is banded tighter than a Goldbergs wallet, and is so puffed out that I have a certain resemblence to the laughable, portly lad Fat Bastard. So after a couple of minutes of staring, a few pictures and some drooling, tony left me to my own.
That was the highlight of the day, other than my monster geek movie session and the realization/reccomendation (from a former nurse) that I try to add a little alcohol with my shakes to offset the pain. What a joy, yellow stuff and alcohol mixed together!!! While I am writing this I am waiting for the effects to kick in, hopefully hog-tying me to some delapitated state where the books on the shelves will start dancing to a samba rhythm only I can hear. Or at least it will knock me out until tommorrow, when the jaw will be smaller, the potions less in abundance and my sanity close to being at hand. Until then I sit back, enjoy the velvety vail and await the mercy of your e-mails. May the days be kind and the nights sweet and warm.......
TK

Bionic Chipmunks, from a time far ago

Ahoy friends and co-horts-
It is now the fourth day of recovery from mandibular mayhem, and I feel like 10 bucks. Currently my jaw is still swollen to double its normal size, wired shut and producing a wonderfully dull ache that manages to eliminate any potentially good feelings of having this done. My life situation of drooling, floundering and occasional bathing is moderately interrupted by the incredible euphoria I feel after downing a mere 20 ml's of a remarkable pain reducing/slightly halucinogenic elixir known only as "the yellow stuff". Ahhhhh, the "yellow stuff", what a wonderful creation that allows me to slip back into the scary chaotic void that is my subconcscious and explore unfettered like a plucky boy scout perusing his first few pages of hard core porn. We all remember those feelings- seeing some third leg of a mustachioed gentlemen with a name such as Evan Hardwood deftly impaling the inner thigh of a Stacy Suxx, or Tawny Steele- feelings of curiousity, joy and somewhat confusion that makes you ask "where am I, and why am I here?". Which is pretty much the main question I ask myself these days as I sit around on the verge of delirium. So I have decided to reach out and write to my inner circle, the band of brothers who have known me well, and known me often, yet have never known me in a biblical sense like Samson knew Delilah. In a sense I am bored, high on drugs and constantly drooling- like a SF crackhead looking for a handout. But my handout I seek is one of curiosity matched- A what goes on with you? if you will, and I will. So what goes on out there? Beyond the scope of the normal day to day? I'll tell ya, my normal day to day is a little off kilter these days, and it's only day four. Who knows what state I'll be in when week #2 comes around? Maybe the lack of solid foods and availability of hard core painkillers and porn (thank you Internet gods!!!!) will cause me to completely lose it. Probably not, but we could at least start a betting pool. For now I will sit and wait, hoping for vexing tales of glories past and maybe the occaisional dirty joke or two. It is time for more of yellow stuff, and i can't wait to slip back in......
TK

Employee of the Month- Seeds of discontent

My dear friend-
At this seeming standstill in life we like to call the early 20's it has come to
my attention that we must be on some sort of ridiculous trip. All of a sudden
there is no sudden urgency to what we are doing or why we are doing it. I guess
I should replace we with I. Cause your ability to go for it is admired in these
corners. Everyday I thank the sweet there-after that I have a friend of your
caliber to listen to my ridiculous whinings and constant, yet not so original
conundrums. For the sake of not sounding like a "cheese-dick" I will conclude in
saying that I am very grateful that you are my great friend and soul Brotha' who
seemingly knows me as well as I know myself. Granted you drive me crazy some
times, but we all do that to eachother....
Back to the subject at hand- me. It seems as though everyday, I find myself
questioning what I am doing and why I am doing it. Admittedly that is not at all
unique as everyone in our age bracket and beyond surely goes through the same
windfall of emotions and feelings. However, if it can be said that for some, if
not all, that being a unique individual- memorable for one reason or another- is
the penultimate goal of the basic human (As in we all want to be significant in
some way, not forgotton. That for some reason our life has meaning), then we all
are essentially the same. We all want to be unique and strive to individualize
ourselves in any way possible, so in trying to be unique- we are all trying to
be the same.
Now I have strayed from the course a bit. My focal point in writing this was to
voice out stuff that swirls amongst my little head and large jaw day in and day
out. In relation to what I am doing now, it's as if I could almost cry. Everyday
I come to work, which really isn't that bad, striving for something more. I've
always believed that we are destined for something bigger and better- we beiing
you and me. Call these delusions what you will but I feign to believe that you
feel the same. WHo knows where it will happen or how we will create it but it
will happen (won't it?). Having just spoken with Jack Pierce about his son
Keegan (who is Soccor editor at a Korean Newspaper and traveling Asia following
stories) there is a feeling of both inspiration and "oh-shit"ness that
overwhelms. Here is this former friend of ours doing it, making it happen- being
the unique individual that we all (me all) strive to be....... It's keeping up
with the jones's before I even have the chance to settle.
I guess there is not point to all of this other than that Your dedication
inspires, your friendship is cherished and your opinion and insight is valued
greater than gold. Forgive me in these times of confusion mi amigo, cause Lord
Knows I will be calling upon you just to hear me out at a time in the not so
distant future.
Keep it real CC, cause I know you will-
Tyler Kreitz
B53 QC Conformance
(I don't even know what that means)

Movie Reviews; The Day After Tommorrow

It seems as though I have stumbled upon a new hobby- paying money for and sitting through absolutely dreadful movies. Fun! First I was assaulted by the celluloid nausea that was Van Hel-suck-my-ass-ing, now- after a wonderful trip of Indy cars and tasting the sweet bourbons of Kentucka-see- I have been bludgeoned once more by the blockbuster bloodsuckers of Hollywood with the epic piece of trash that is "the day after tommorrow". The correct title for this movie should be "the day after tommorrow...... this director has no job and is eaten by wolves", but that would be too logical. About as logical as this farce of a film about some super pissed off storm clouds and the retarded neanderthals who fight them. How destructively stupid was this film? I watched this in Sikestown, Missouri- not exactly a modern day athens- and the same sleeveless, mulleted citizens which habituate this cultural mecca all had the same blank expressions as they hopped into their Dale Earnhardt tribute Monte Carlo's that my father and I had- What the fuck was that? No, "Woo hoos! Dem Yankees got fucked!", nor "Finally those God Hating queer baits in LA got squashed by twisters!". No, just the same downtrodden, albeit confused face of someone wondering if all of the movieworld is going to hell.
Questions to ponder from this film, and I am not making this up-
How do starving, flesh-eating wolves manage to locate the 10 surviving humans in New York?
Why are they the only animals to survive Mega-Storm?
How can Mega-Storm hunt down and freeze people like an alien life force?
When you realize that the northern continents of the world are being covered with a sheet of ice, thus initiating a new ice age, do you really care whether the girl you have a crush on likes you? And why aren't you just unleashing your carnal lust on the bitch? She can't really say no at this point.
Would Americans really have a mass migration to Mexico, even if all land to kansas was an ice rink? And would Mexico really say no? "Ah, senor, we are okay with our economy of chiclets and cocaine, please keep your technology out of our 4th world country"
How will Sovay defend the merits of this piece of crap? I don't care if it outgrossed the entire GDP of Taiwan- there is no excuse, again such potential gone to waste..... sort of like CAL lacrosse '01.
And finally, how much help do I need to stop wasting so much time ranting about crappy movies to over the hill lacrosse buddies.
All for now, I'll see you at the premeire of Anaconda 2, Curse of the Black Orchid- if I'm lucky it will make me vomit

The nightly Bar Man, in Santa Barbara- Lets Hear it for Petey

While it is true that tending bar will expose you to an odd assortment of colorful characters bathed in hedonism, it is sometimes those that appear to be the mildest of individuals that send you careening off into the most fruitful endeavors. Such was the case last night at O’Malley’s Pub, where I was playing the part of bartender to a small audience of rather blasé disposition when a slightly buzzed gentleman came stumbling in. After assessing that he was of no different character than many of the imbibers I constantly deal with, I paid him no more attention than the usual serving of beer and taking of money. Instead I focused myself upon the three lovely women at the end of the bar, all intent on stuffing as much cleavage as possible into tops three sizes too small. Quickly that fad came to pass as the women; more interested in their Midori sours than my own epic manhood, hastily downed their drinks and made for the exit and a surely raucous Santa Barbara Monday night. This left only me, and the socially lubricated fellow who was smiling like a valium induced child staring at a screen full of Japanese anime. Since there was no one else in the bar, I felt compelled as a professional barman to engage him in conversation. What a fortuitous decision that was.
Our glazed over fellow, who had a remarkable resemblance to Will Ferrell, turned out to be a successful screenwriter who was in town attending the prestigious Santa Barbara Writers Conference. How lucky was I, a wannabe wordsmith with a liquored up professional at the mercy of my pouring hand. After a few of the usual bar talk pleasantries and inane questions lofted about to provide him with the opportunity to espouse his writing skills, evidently he has big producer friends and has worked all over Hollywood developing stories soon to change the world as we know it, I quickly started peppering him with queries about this writers conference. Turns out this little soirée of scribes is one of the most prestigious and well-run conferences around, and accordingly it would behoove me to stop by and peruse. Naturally I had to ask how that could be done given the gatherings prohibitive cost and exclusivity. His reply, just turn on the charm and act like you've been there done that- Considering that much of my life has relied on this motto I figured I might as well.
After feeding him a few more distilled beverages to ensure his unsafe passage back to his hotel I hastily shut down the bar and headed home. One must be as rested as possible in order to deceive those who might be of great help to you.
The following morning I awoke, groggy and somewhat pessimistic about pulling this off- surely this crowd of writing professionals would recognize my conference crashing and have me carted off of the premises under jeers of the rightful attendees. Who was I too think I could blend into this well heeled group of poets and playwrights? Delusional? Obviously. Determined? Without a doubt.
Upon arriving at this conference, being held at the exquisite campus of Westmont College in Montecito, California, I had no clue where to go. Expecting a large auditorium with one speaker lecturing to hundreds of hipsters I quickly found that my perceptions of this event were way off. Rather than a large lecture in cavernous halls with crowds in which I could vanish, there were small, roughly 15 person workshops taking place in small classrooms. Soon, I figured, my gig would be up. Sensing the need to blend in as soon as possible I attempted to ingratiate myself with a disheveled older woman struggling to walk up a hill to an unknown destination. She had the typical appearance of a crazy great aunt who lives with thirty cats, thus a perfect target for my suave charm. Striding up beside her with my most disarming and enchanting of grins, I let loose my first steps towards assimilation.
"Woo, big hill. They should put in an escalator, huh?", I said.
Blank stare.
"Yeah, soooo, what workshop are you going too?"
Again, a pause of befuddlement, before a whisper of "Fiction".
"Ahh, yes”, I replied, “me too. Should be a good one", which of course garnered no answer at all.
And so off we went, me following behind this barely audible, slowly walking woman, doing my best to make it seem as if I knew where I was going. After a few minutes of walking, filled with my best flirtations and suave seduction- I even think I dropped a book in front her just so I could bend down to pick it up- we finally made it to a cramped classroom. Fortunately the workshop was already in session, being led by some famous published author I have never heard of.
Upon entering the first classroom a couple preconceived notions were quickly dispelled. One, aside from a few quizzical looks not a person said a word other than hello and how are you. Two, writers are geeks. Serious geeks. Which makes sense- if you are to have a profession as lonely as writing, I imagine your social networking skills would border on eccentric. Where I expected Prada, I instead found Big Dog. Three, this whole crashing thing was easy as hell. Not a person even batted an eye at my presence, either out of social fear or because they just didn’t care. Whatever the reason, I had a great workshop with a few great writers, a few horrendous ones, and a newfound confidence in being able to sneak into events that I had no business being at. Naturally, I felt it my obligation to investigate the catered lunch for the attendees.
After pretending to bury my eyes into my own manuscript I waltzed passed the gentleman guarding front door of the dining area. Even gave him a ‘Whew, lot of work to be done on this’ as I walked by. He replied with a hearty, ‘Just keep working at it young man’ and I was on my way to a free lunch. I had a wonderful plate of carnitas and chicken, and met many a writer enthusiastic about my chosen profession and upcoming screenplay..... which of course I have yet to write.
After lunch I found myself wandering toward the classrooms, pretending to know where I was going when I stumbled upon an actual screenwriting workshop. Again, I figured why not, just focus on serenity now and act like this is your scene. Upon entering I did my best to blend in the back, soak it all in, not be conspicuous. That plan was as solid as warm jello.
Besides being a much more hip and trendy crowd than the fiction-writing workshop (found out later it was science fiction- which explains a hell of a lot), the screenwriting set all seemed to take greater note of my intrusion. It didn’t help my cause as the leader, an Emmy winning screenwriter, decided to go around the room and ask us what we were working on. Out came the replies, "Fox pilot", "Indie script about pirates", "NBC sitcom", “Comedy Central special”, and then me. "Uhhh, ummmm, yeah. I uh, do e-mails. I tend to write emails. Long ones, sort of like a chronicle of me". Again, stares and looks akin to seeing Michael Jackson doing jazzercise. Attempting to smooth this over I added I was just trying to get a feel for the whole screenwriting world. Surprisingly, this ameliorated the writers and leader, as no further questions regarding my presence were asked. I was even encouraged to participate and offer my ‘fresh and unmuddled’ views on screenwriting.
After the workshop concluded I spoke with a couple of the attendees and they recommended I come back for tomorrow. Beaming with pride at a crashing job well done I enthusiastically replied that I would be there with bells on. I should have rethought their invitations.
The following day, after skipping out on the morning due to a late night tending bar, I again crashed the screenwriters’ workshop. The opening topic of the day was the use of metaphor and catching an audience in the opening pages of a screenplay. After reading over several well known scripts the minds on hand started dissecting the effectiveness of each one. At first I was quiet, fearing that I would be reprimanded for ill-advised remarks. But after hearing a few of the arguments from the supposed professionals I figured I could do no worse. Hell, considering how well received I had been the previous day I figured my forays into the discussion would be nothing if not encouraged.
Naturally, I dominated.
Of course the menacing fog creeping through Amityville is a metaphor for the shark lurking off shore! And obviously the floating feather meandering through the small southern town is Forrest Gump running through life! My comments were lauded; agreed upon, nary a smirk was noticed. I even was offered a very awkward high-5. My confidence was high, and I felt as if I had this whole writing thing set, especially leading into the next exercise- writing an opening 2 minutes of script for a movie in a 15 minute flash. I would nail it, I thought, my talent would be so evident the lecturer, who was a rather attractive older woman, would beg to be my sugar mama and showcase my words to agents worldwide. It was so evident I could practically choke on it.
After a brief 15 minutes of scribbles the readings began. Not wanting to go first, I figured why not save the best for last, I perfected my prose as the others went before me. As I heard others efforts, silently scoffing to myself, I kept daydreaming at how these professionals would be amazed at my infant efforts, and how talented I was, and wondered how that cougar would look in a silk robe. To my good fortune right before I was to read (again mind you I am here for free, rather than paying the $1000 fee for these exceptional services) the woman before me read a piece so wretched and awful I was sure I would be receiving more awkward high 5’s than the BYU basketball team.
So I began, and read, and read, not wanting to look up, making sure I captured this incredible scene in all of its essence - a dreamy first date, billowing drapes in an enchanting restaurant, snippets of endearing first date conversation interspersed between my mélange of two professionals hitting it off, setting up this romantic wonderland for the ultimate comedic surprise when the man mentions he is a pornographer. Surely captivating the crowd, I delivered the last bit of dialogue “I work in Porno”, with an emphatic twist. I even held my stare at the last lines for a bit so as to let the hilarious twist sink in. And then I was done.
What followed was unexpected. Blankness. Puzzlement. Fear. Shame. And that was just the expression on the lecturer. Feeling a bit awkward under the silence, the lecturer feebly mentioned that my style was off a bit, and I maybe needed to flesh out the specifics a little more. One woman mentioned that given the amount of wine I fed my characters in the scene they would already be drunk within two minutes of conversation. Smirks were abundant. Heads were shaking. I stammered, stunned like an attacking shark hit squarely on the nose with a blunt hammer, I feebly reminded them that this “was just a set up, you know. The story takes off from there, like a rocket. Bam!” That was enough from me, though the mental beating I was getting had not yet hit its crescendo.
In the final and ultimate blow to my pride, the lecturer pointed out that this was my first time writing- and being able to even attempt a scene was something of an accomplishment. A smattering of pathetic applause ensued. Sweet. I got sympathy applause for being able to make coordinating words on a page. All of a sudden I was the retarded kid playing the trumpet- everyone’s embarrassed at how bad they are but feel compelled to offer support. "Let's hear it for Petey, he's unable to dress himself and can't recognize shapes, but man can he blow air into a tube!" Needless to say, I have no idea what the lecturer looks like in a silken robe.

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.