Thanksgiving was great, for a number of reasons, none of which are your business. But it was also a little sad.
This is where your business comes in.
Female Companion (FC) and I went out to dinner for the holiday. I have no family within half a continent, and she's from a different planet where they do things a little differently for the Grand GorgeFest. So we went out for dinner. I should also mention that we decided to get out of the City to one of the resort and recreation zones nearby for a long weekend. But that's not any of your business either.
Suffice to say, we went out for Thanksgiving Dinner.
We arrived at the designated time to the well-appointed and intimate dining area of our tastefully upscale lodge. We were pleasantly greeted by the concierge, who remarked that we both looked "very nice, all dressed up. No one else this evening has really bothered." Dressed up?? I didn't even have a tie on, but OK.
Surprised, Female Companion and I shared a look and followed the concierge to our table. A quick glance around the room confirmed what I had hoped would not be the case as I put my jacket on in the room some 20 minute earlier. Jeans, untucked shirts, sweatsuits for Chrissake!! Oh well...
So FC in her modest earth-tone sweater, black skirt and boots, and I in my jacket and open collared shirt take our seats and after a bit of small talk, begin to peruse the menu of the evening.
Soon thereafter, a sultry woman with brunette curls approaches and politely intrudes into our sphere, obviously our server for the evening. I smile up at her and greet her, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving.
- Oh well, thank you. You're actually the first person to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving tonight, and you're my last table of the evening.
WTF!?!?!?
Now listen, I am no Cheery McFuzzypants. I tend to be sarcastic and cynical by nature. And I definitely do not go Ga-Ga over the holidays, but come on people, give me a fucking BREAK!!
You're going out for Thanksgiving Dinner. You're not cooking it. You're not cleaning up after your done eating it. Chances are, you're not even PAYING for it. You've got someone else schlepping your drinks, butter patties and filthy plates. Someone who is WORKING while you stuff your fat pig face, when they'd rather be home with THEIR family stuffing their fat pig face, or down at the tavern drinking cheap beer and Yukon Jack with the other familial nomads. Whatever, all you have to do is sit, perhaps verbalize a few times and eat what they put in front of you.
What's more, this isn't Denny's!! If you're the one footing the bill, you're paying a nice chunk of change for the four courses with the 2oz wine parings. So would it really fucking kill you to take a shower, clean you ass crack, and put some decent clothes on before heading out to dinner?
And by the way, when you sit your ass down to the feeding trough, take a minute to greet the person who's waiting on you with a kind word or two. Or, heaven forbid, wish them a happy holiday. You know, the whole reason you're out having dinner in the first place?
Grow up, take some responsibility.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
'Tis the Season? You bet your ass, it is!
I love this time of year. Really, I do. And not because of all the good cheer, holiday festivities and all that happy horseshit. At least, that's not why I'm writing "I love this time of year."
Because I do. I do love all the holiday festivities, what with the indulgent eating, drinking and shit-eating grinning that goes on, come Winter. But that's not why I'm here right now.
No, I love this time of year because of the easy money.
So I'm back at the Ranch after taking a much needed and well-deserved long weekend off. And one of my top agenda items for the day is to call on one of my Adversaries concerning a particular client's case we had been negotiating on for a short time. Now this is not the first, second, or even third issue I had negotiated with this particular Adversary. We have had more than a few cases together over the past few years. In fact, I had recently pummeled her with a barrage of demands on several, very old cases in the past few months. Now I was once in her shoes, and having been there, I can say that, as a result of these "retro" claims (what really amounts to big fishing expedition),I probably held a position of some distinction and honor on her shit list. But, we're both professionals, so we have continued to maintain a very amicable, even gracious dialogue up to this point.
Now when we had last spoken, just over two weeks ago, she had extended an offer of settlement in the amount of x. At that time I advised her that I would take the offer back to my client, talk it over with him and get back to her. Pretty typical stuff, really.
So, I thought about her offer. In my opinion, her offer of x was really an adequate, if not solid offer to resolve my client's issue at hand. I mean, I had already done extremely well on the first two issues of this client's case. Better, in fact, than I had originally thought when I was given the case to begin with. This was an offer that satisfied all of the goals put in place when the Ranch was hired over a year and a half ago. I had already gone the distance, and then some, for his girlfriend's companion case. A girlfriend, who poetically enough, dumped his sorry ass shortly after I concluded her case, and was a humongous pain in my NUTS!! (Hey, at least she had a great ass!!) So I thought it was a pretty good offer.
So I'm thinking, do I call the client and get him to accept the offer? Because at this point, I've already made this non-English speaking, non-contributing to the economy, cultural-divide punk more money on this case than he ever expected, so he's going to do pretty much whatever I tell him. It's just that by calling him, I'm going to lose at least an hour or two of productivity on clients who are more grateful, and who's cases are worth much more. And I'd rather not waste anymore time than I have to.
So I thought about it for a few days. I turned it over in my head every morning on my way along the Viaduct. Hell, I thought about over dinner one evening with the Female Companion. (Between the steamed mussels in a garlic and tomato sauce and the main course, if you were wondering.) Do I accept the offer as is, perhaps build a little stock and good grace with my counterpart by not being a pain in her ass which could be used in the future? Or do I do what she's expecting me to do and come back with my hand out for more. And while she did not say "this is my best offer, take it or leave it," or anything else like that, she was pretty firm about her offer. I mean, really, I could just take it and be done with this already time consuming case and moderately aggravating and needy citizen, or I could step up, take a shot, go the extra mile and hopefully do some good for our client.
Well, I decided to call my Opponent back, ultimately undecided about my course of action when I picked up the phone to dial (never a good thing to do).
Once the phone has rung the obligatory number of times, her voice mail picks up. Again, pretty typical stuff. Only this time, her message states that she's out of the office until after the GorgeFest of T-giving.
OK, fine, I'm not going to leave her a message that she won't get to for another 10 days and hence never return. I'm going to call her back on upon her return. This will give me a few more days to further ponder my plan of action.
It's at this point that I call Mr. Client up and tell him about the x offer, answer his questions, tell him my thoughts and recommend that he accept the offer. Which of course, he does. So cool, I've covered my bases, I can put this back into my subconscious and let it rumble around for a while. Now don't get me wrong, it wasn't all peaches and cream. He did have to call back at least two more times that afternoon to pester me with bullshit questions, but it wasn't too bad. And within a day or two more, I had a basic strategy mentally in place.
So fast forward to the appointed day (today). I call Adversary up and to my surprise, I get a live person!
- Hi Adversary, this is JR calling from the Ranch on Mr. Fussypants. How are you today?
- I'm good, yourself?
- Great, thanks. How was your vacation last week?
- Oh, it was great thanks. Ate too much, of course, but I got to sleep all day yesterday, which was really nice.
- Yeah, I took off out of town for a long weekend myself. Had a great time, got some rest.
- (Laughs) Yeah, sometimes a little break from this work will do wonders for you.
- Indeed. Listen, I wanted to get back to you on Mr. Fussypants. Now when we last spoke your offer was for x, in response to our demand for 4x. I took your offer back to the client and discussed it with him. He's rejected it and given me authority to come down to 2x, but I'm pretty sure I can get this done at 1.5x. And would you look at that, I just bid against myself!! (A big no-no, and probable sign of weakness in my world.)
- Why yes you did. And as a matter of fact, I have authority for 1.5x, so if you can get it done for that, we've got a deal.
- Why don't you go ahead and send the check on over. We'll get this wrapped up right now.
Now you might want to bust my chops for "caving" too easily. I mean, I went from 4x to 1.5x in two quick breaths. But remember, I thought that x was more than the case was actually worth in the first place. So not only did I get another 50% on top of what the client thinks he's getting, but it only took me one phone call.
And here's my point. Because it's the end of the year, folks are getting into that "giving" mood. They're worn out from the year before and getting kind of tired of the fight. There's a sense of closure with the end of the year, and as a result, people want to clear off as much of the crap on their desk as possible. And I'm here, ready to pick up any crumb you may overlook.
More importantly, though, because I've kicked so much ass throughout the past 11 months, that one 5 minute telephone call put another $500.00 directly in my pocket!!! This is over and above my regular salary that I make whether I'm actually closing cases, or banging the cute new receptionist. And we're talking 5 small after the Big Boss at the Ranch has taken his cut.
So let's see, $500 for a 5 minute phone call. What's that break down too? Well, that's $6,000 per hour, $48,000 per day, $336,00 per week or $17,472,000 per year. It's no Ken Griffey Jr. income, but it 'ain't bad for a white boy', as my Pappy used to say. (Pappy was bitter about a lot of things.)
My real point is this: For all you sorry sacks who like to take shots at me and my colleagues in the priesthood for being connivers, cheats, swindlers and sharks, I say:
Go fuck yourself!!
Because believe it or not. I do take the high road. Even for ungrateful ass munches who I wouldn't go out of my way to piss on, if they hadn't signed on the dotted line. Because once you do, I'm your bitch, 'til the very fucking end. But that service doesn't come cheap.
And yes, I sleep just fine at night, thankyouverymuch.
Egotistical?? You bet your ass I am.
And if you think this rant is bad, wait until I'm in a bad mood...
Because I do. I do love all the holiday festivities, what with the indulgent eating, drinking and shit-eating grinning that goes on, come Winter. But that's not why I'm here right now.
No, I love this time of year because of the easy money.
So I'm back at the Ranch after taking a much needed and well-deserved long weekend off. And one of my top agenda items for the day is to call on one of my Adversaries concerning a particular client's case we had been negotiating on for a short time. Now this is not the first, second, or even third issue I had negotiated with this particular Adversary. We have had more than a few cases together over the past few years. In fact, I had recently pummeled her with a barrage of demands on several, very old cases in the past few months. Now I was once in her shoes, and having been there, I can say that, as a result of these "retro" claims (what really amounts to big fishing expedition),I probably held a position of some distinction and honor on her shit list. But, we're both professionals, so we have continued to maintain a very amicable, even gracious dialogue up to this point.
Now when we had last spoken, just over two weeks ago, she had extended an offer of settlement in the amount of x. At that time I advised her that I would take the offer back to my client, talk it over with him and get back to her. Pretty typical stuff, really.
So, I thought about her offer. In my opinion, her offer of x was really an adequate, if not solid offer to resolve my client's issue at hand. I mean, I had already done extremely well on the first two issues of this client's case. Better, in fact, than I had originally thought when I was given the case to begin with. This was an offer that satisfied all of the goals put in place when the Ranch was hired over a year and a half ago. I had already gone the distance, and then some, for his girlfriend's companion case. A girlfriend, who poetically enough, dumped his sorry ass shortly after I concluded her case, and was a humongous pain in my NUTS!! (Hey, at least she had a great ass!!) So I thought it was a pretty good offer.
So I'm thinking, do I call the client and get him to accept the offer? Because at this point, I've already made this non-English speaking, non-contributing to the economy, cultural-divide punk more money on this case than he ever expected, so he's going to do pretty much whatever I tell him. It's just that by calling him, I'm going to lose at least an hour or two of productivity on clients who are more grateful, and who's cases are worth much more. And I'd rather not waste anymore time than I have to.
So I thought about it for a few days. I turned it over in my head every morning on my way along the Viaduct. Hell, I thought about over dinner one evening with the Female Companion. (Between the steamed mussels in a garlic and tomato sauce and the main course, if you were wondering.) Do I accept the offer as is, perhaps build a little stock and good grace with my counterpart by not being a pain in her ass which could be used in the future? Or do I do what she's expecting me to do and come back with my hand out for more. And while she did not say "this is my best offer, take it or leave it," or anything else like that, she was pretty firm about her offer. I mean, really, I could just take it and be done with this already time consuming case and moderately aggravating and needy citizen, or I could step up, take a shot, go the extra mile and hopefully do some good for our client.
Well, I decided to call my Opponent back, ultimately undecided about my course of action when I picked up the phone to dial (never a good thing to do).
Once the phone has rung the obligatory number of times, her voice mail picks up. Again, pretty typical stuff. Only this time, her message states that she's out of the office until after the GorgeFest of T-giving.
OK, fine, I'm not going to leave her a message that she won't get to for another 10 days and hence never return. I'm going to call her back on upon her return. This will give me a few more days to further ponder my plan of action.
It's at this point that I call Mr. Client up and tell him about the x offer, answer his questions, tell him my thoughts and recommend that he accept the offer. Which of course, he does. So cool, I've covered my bases, I can put this back into my subconscious and let it rumble around for a while. Now don't get me wrong, it wasn't all peaches and cream. He did have to call back at least two more times that afternoon to pester me with bullshit questions, but it wasn't too bad. And within a day or two more, I had a basic strategy mentally in place.
So fast forward to the appointed day (today). I call Adversary up and to my surprise, I get a live person!
- Hi Adversary, this is JR calling from the Ranch on Mr. Fussypants. How are you today?
- I'm good, yourself?
- Great, thanks. How was your vacation last week?
- Oh, it was great thanks. Ate too much, of course, but I got to sleep all day yesterday, which was really nice.
- Yeah, I took off out of town for a long weekend myself. Had a great time, got some rest.
- (Laughs) Yeah, sometimes a little break from this work will do wonders for you.
- Indeed. Listen, I wanted to get back to you on Mr. Fussypants. Now when we last spoke your offer was for x, in response to our demand for 4x. I took your offer back to the client and discussed it with him. He's rejected it and given me authority to come down to 2x, but I'm pretty sure I can get this done at 1.5x. And would you look at that, I just bid against myself!! (A big no-no, and probable sign of weakness in my world.)
- Why yes you did. And as a matter of fact, I have authority for 1.5x, so if you can get it done for that, we've got a deal.
- Why don't you go ahead and send the check on over. We'll get this wrapped up right now.
Now you might want to bust my chops for "caving" too easily. I mean, I went from 4x to 1.5x in two quick breaths. But remember, I thought that x was more than the case was actually worth in the first place. So not only did I get another 50% on top of what the client thinks he's getting, but it only took me one phone call.
And here's my point. Because it's the end of the year, folks are getting into that "giving" mood. They're worn out from the year before and getting kind of tired of the fight. There's a sense of closure with the end of the year, and as a result, people want to clear off as much of the crap on their desk as possible. And I'm here, ready to pick up any crumb you may overlook.
More importantly, though, because I've kicked so much ass throughout the past 11 months, that one 5 minute telephone call put another $500.00 directly in my pocket!!! This is over and above my regular salary that I make whether I'm actually closing cases, or banging the cute new receptionist. And we're talking 5 small after the Big Boss at the Ranch has taken his cut.
So let's see, $500 for a 5 minute phone call. What's that break down too? Well, that's $6,000 per hour, $48,000 per day, $336,00 per week or $17,472,000 per year. It's no Ken Griffey Jr. income, but it 'ain't bad for a white boy', as my Pappy used to say. (Pappy was bitter about a lot of things.)
My real point is this: For all you sorry sacks who like to take shots at me and my colleagues in the priesthood for being connivers, cheats, swindlers and sharks, I say:
Go fuck yourself!!
Because believe it or not. I do take the high road. Even for ungrateful ass munches who I wouldn't go out of my way to piss on, if they hadn't signed on the dotted line. Because once you do, I'm your bitch, 'til the very fucking end. But that service doesn't come cheap.
And yes, I sleep just fine at night, thankyouverymuch.
Egotistical?? You bet your ass I am.
And if you think this rant is bad, wait until I'm in a bad mood...
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Hey Blue!!! Pick on somebody your own size!!!
On my way into work today, I saw one of those things that was both dumbfounding and frustrating. Granted, I see/hear/experience a lot of shit that I find aggravating and bewildering these days, but this one was... well, at least somewhat noteworthy. And even if it's not, I don't care. I find you aggravating and frustrating as well.
So as I said, I was on my way to the Ranch for my daily dose of Hubris and Hate (I know you were wondering when I was going to bring that in, weren't you?), when I happened upon a curious sight. As I was winding my way through a medium commerical district on the Rock, the neighborhood where I live, on my way towards the freeway which will take me into the City, I noted that traffic was a bit heavier, moving a bit slower than the previous day. This is notable only in that yesterday's traffic had been incredibly light. I mean, I was truly blessed by the Traffic Gods (who must really despise my fair City, based on their usual daily dosage of pain and despair) yesterday. In fact, I enjoyed a generous helping of conveyance karma by hitting a green light on EVERY TRAFFIC SIGNAL between my hacienda and the Ranch. I mean, we're talking easily 12 traffic control lights. And every one of them GREEN!!! Now I realize that this being a holiday week, the normally congested highways and byways of this metropolis, which usually flows like the blood in a 5 cheeseburger-a-day-eatin', no exercising, corpulant couch potato, is actually going to move smoother than a constipated bowel with a double dose of ExLax. But ALL GREENS?!?!?! Well, it was just too good to be true.
And it was. For as I swung through the last intersection seperating the humble residential sector from the low brow, slightly dingy string of fast food resturants, chiropractic offices and dry cleaners, the traffic flow noticably slowed, in comparision to the previous day. Nothing like it normally is when some fuck-tard has decided to smear himself and perhaps one or two other innocent motorists all over the jersey barrier and blacktop of the Bridge, but still slower than Monday. And when you have a day with nothing but green lights, well, you hope for a repeat.
So, as I slowed my buggy to the less than optimal speed of those commuters around me, I could see ahead in the distance, perhaps four or five blocks ahead, the tell-tale flashing lights of our city's finest in law enforcement, swirling with verve and vigor atop the battle cruiser. I could tell that the "police activity" was just this side of the main entrance to the Rock, so I was pleased that I would at least get a look at whatever human passion play was unraveling before hitting the highway. Regardless of my mild aggravation at the slight delay in my journey, I so do love glimpsing into the drama, pain and suffering that flavors the human existence.
But as I drew near, I became a bit confused, bewildered if you will. When I was within a block and a half of the soap opera, I could discern not one, not two, not even three, but FIVE sector cars, all parked at various angles incongruent with the prescribed traffic patterns and geographical features of the block. That's right, FIVE cop cars, all seemingly centered on and oriented around one focal point.
Well, I finally got my chance at the brief glimpse into what was "really going on", and that was the moment that I became.....
Outraged? No, this was not quite egregious.
Incensed? Perhaps, but most likely not for the reasons that you would initially guess.
Overcome with the injustice of it all? Umm, no. I think you have the wrong (underpants).
Frustrated with the obvious absurdity? You bet yer ASS!!!
Because, Friends and Neighbors, what I beheld, as I passed that little After-School-Special dramatization of Real Life on this particular Tuesday, was at least seven (7!!!) uniformed City Police Officers handling a single, unkempt man in his early 40's. A man, who by casual observence from a distance of perhaps 8 meters, was seated on the curb, obviously confused and disoriented, and in need of some proper grooming.
And while I think it very important that every city's transient population maintain a city dignity, there is no excuse for such aggressive enforcement of the "Bum Code of Ethics."
This guy wasn't doing anything wrong that I could see. Sure, he was acting a little manic, but hey, wouldn't you if you were told to sit on the curb of a busy street while a whole battalion of Seattle Super Stazi circled around you like so many sharks in the ocean, just waiting for a chance to go "Rodney King" on your ass? Sure you would.
And it's not like he was COMPLETELY filthy, or anything. He had the requisite amount of dirt and grime buildup, but he seemed like a respectable enough street dude.
The sad truth is, this guy is probably one of those cats that is in dire need of some drug rehab or mental health care and unfortunately, just isn't quite needy or far-gone enough to merit some decent social services from a local, state or federal program. So he's been put out on his own, and with no supportive social network out there to help him along, he's left to his own devices.
Which puts him square in the laps of those folks who are least equipped and least responsible for him. Those underpaid, righteous frontline defenders of post-modern society and civilization as a whole.
The humble stormtrooper.
So I say, leave the trippy cat alone and move along. There's nothing to see here.
Post: The subject in question, was seen the very next day, on the opposite side of the street, ranting and raving about something as the morning commuters whizzed buy in their UAV's (urban assault vehicles), sipping their pre-work dosage of caffien and Rush Limbaugh/Al Franken (depending on who's bumper sticker they've plastered on their vehicle), completely unencumbered with the social constraints of the Metro Polcie Squad.
Post post: Sorry 'bout the delay. I've been having some of that writer's block that Missus J was describing a few days back.
So as I said, I was on my way to the Ranch for my daily dose of Hubris and Hate (I know you were wondering when I was going to bring that in, weren't you?), when I happened upon a curious sight. As I was winding my way through a medium commerical district on the Rock, the neighborhood where I live, on my way towards the freeway which will take me into the City, I noted that traffic was a bit heavier, moving a bit slower than the previous day. This is notable only in that yesterday's traffic had been incredibly light. I mean, I was truly blessed by the Traffic Gods (who must really despise my fair City, based on their usual daily dosage of pain and despair) yesterday. In fact, I enjoyed a generous helping of conveyance karma by hitting a green light on EVERY TRAFFIC SIGNAL between my hacienda and the Ranch. I mean, we're talking easily 12 traffic control lights. And every one of them GREEN!!! Now I realize that this being a holiday week, the normally congested highways and byways of this metropolis, which usually flows like the blood in a 5 cheeseburger-a-day-eatin', no exercising, corpulant couch potato, is actually going to move smoother than a constipated bowel with a double dose of ExLax. But ALL GREENS?!?!?! Well, it was just too good to be true.
And it was. For as I swung through the last intersection seperating the humble residential sector from the low brow, slightly dingy string of fast food resturants, chiropractic offices and dry cleaners, the traffic flow noticably slowed, in comparision to the previous day. Nothing like it normally is when some fuck-tard has decided to smear himself and perhaps one or two other innocent motorists all over the jersey barrier and blacktop of the Bridge, but still slower than Monday. And when you have a day with nothing but green lights, well, you hope for a repeat.
So, as I slowed my buggy to the less than optimal speed of those commuters around me, I could see ahead in the distance, perhaps four or five blocks ahead, the tell-tale flashing lights of our city's finest in law enforcement, swirling with verve and vigor atop the battle cruiser. I could tell that the "police activity" was just this side of the main entrance to the Rock, so I was pleased that I would at least get a look at whatever human passion play was unraveling before hitting the highway. Regardless of my mild aggravation at the slight delay in my journey, I so do love glimpsing into the drama, pain and suffering that flavors the human existence.
But as I drew near, I became a bit confused, bewildered if you will. When I was within a block and a half of the soap opera, I could discern not one, not two, not even three, but FIVE sector cars, all parked at various angles incongruent with the prescribed traffic patterns and geographical features of the block. That's right, FIVE cop cars, all seemingly centered on and oriented around one focal point.
Well, I finally got my chance at the brief glimpse into what was "really going on", and that was the moment that I became.....
Outraged? No, this was not quite egregious.
Incensed? Perhaps, but most likely not for the reasons that you would initially guess.
Overcome with the injustice of it all? Umm, no. I think you have the wrong (underpants).
Frustrated with the obvious absurdity? You bet yer ASS!!!
Because, Friends and Neighbors, what I beheld, as I passed that little After-School-Special dramatization of Real Life on this particular Tuesday, was at least seven (7!!!) uniformed City Police Officers handling a single, unkempt man in his early 40's. A man, who by casual observence from a distance of perhaps 8 meters, was seated on the curb, obviously confused and disoriented, and in need of some proper grooming.
And while I think it very important that every city's transient population maintain a city dignity, there is no excuse for such aggressive enforcement of the "Bum Code of Ethics."
This guy wasn't doing anything wrong that I could see. Sure, he was acting a little manic, but hey, wouldn't you if you were told to sit on the curb of a busy street while a whole battalion of Seattle Super Stazi circled around you like so many sharks in the ocean, just waiting for a chance to go "Rodney King" on your ass? Sure you would.
And it's not like he was COMPLETELY filthy, or anything. He had the requisite amount of dirt and grime buildup, but he seemed like a respectable enough street dude.
The sad truth is, this guy is probably one of those cats that is in dire need of some drug rehab or mental health care and unfortunately, just isn't quite needy or far-gone enough to merit some decent social services from a local, state or federal program. So he's been put out on his own, and with no supportive social network out there to help him along, he's left to his own devices.
Which puts him square in the laps of those folks who are least equipped and least responsible for him. Those underpaid, righteous frontline defenders of post-modern society and civilization as a whole.
The humble stormtrooper.
So I say, leave the trippy cat alone and move along. There's nothing to see here.
Post: The subject in question, was seen the very next day, on the opposite side of the street, ranting and raving about something as the morning commuters whizzed buy in their UAV's (urban assault vehicles), sipping their pre-work dosage of caffien and Rush Limbaugh/Al Franken (depending on who's bumper sticker they've plastered on their vehicle), completely unencumbered with the social constraints of the Metro Polcie Squad.
Post post: Sorry 'bout the delay. I've been having some of that writer's block that Missus J was describing a few days back.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Thanks, Ass Neck
I drink. A lot. Because I can.
So it’s not that unusual for me to hit a bar, tavern, pub, club, what have you, for a drink or 5. And I have had my fair share of interesting, invigorating and insipid experiences. You get to meet a lot of “unique” and “diverse” people when sitting alone at a bar.
But for some reason, last night’s encounter is really starting to piss me off. I just can’t seem to shake it, and that is what really pisses me off.
So I decide to head in to some fancy “lounge” downtown near my office for a cocktail (double Citron, on the rocks, with a lime) after work. You know the type of place I’m talking about: it’s got the minimalist name (which also happens to be their mailing address) and is dimly lit with warm, dark earth-toned interior where the hipsters and young nouveau-riche try so hard to act all grown up, but can barely hide the fact that they faked their way through college and are deathly afraid their facade will be dispelled with the slightest misstep.
Now I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I am by no means a “regular”. Or even a “familiar”. So I really don’t expect any kind of special treatment or anything. But a little fucking respect is certainly not beyond reason.
So I wonder in to this joint around 10:30 PM and see that it’s doing a brisk business, most of the table are taken, and the bar is pretty full, except for the far end. So I make my way down to the end of the bar and because I’m not really looking AT the bar as I pull the chair out and begin to shed my jacket, I don’t really notice the three table settings with ice waters set out on the bar. Instead, I’m eyeballing one of the bevy of beauties seated at the table behind where I’m about to sit. After I’ve got a good take on the dear lovely, I turn my attention to the two hep-cat dudes holding court behind the bar. With a warm greeting, I flash them a smile. I always like to set a good tone with an unfamiliar barman, it helps to insure the quality of service I have come to expect from a real professional. And this is the kind of place I expect to have a professional mixologist on staff.
So as my ass is about to settle comfortably on to the bar stool, Ass Neck (honestly, I did not know him to be an ass neck at the time, that would come later), says that he’s doing well, thank you. “But those seats are reserved.”
Ah, the plates, eating utensils, napkins and tall glasses full of water, with ice cubes half-melted. Yes, these seats are indeed “reserved”.
“Oh, so sorry about that. I didn’t notice. I will just sit over here then.” I cheerfully reply. No harm, no foul.
So I move three seats to the left and take my spot next to a young attractive couple. At least I think they’re a couple. But from the few snatches of conversation I overhear, it sounds as if they may have recently met. She seems to be the more confident, aggressor-type in this particular social dynamic. Which is totally cool by me. I pay little attention to them, as I’m thinking about my beverage, which I have been longing for. So I order.
“A Citron on the rocks, with a lime, please.”
The barman turns to begin making my drink and after about 5 seconds he asks:
“Are you sure you don’t want a lemon instead?”
I’m sorry, but take a look at me, punk. Do I look like I don’t know what I want to drink? Is there something in my professional dress, styled hair and calm, confident demeanor that would suggest I don’t know how to order a fucking drink? I didn’t think so. Fix my drink bitch.
“Yes, I’m sure, thank you,” I pleasantly respond. Got to be nice to the guy with the booze.
So without further ado, he brings me a short glass of nectar, which I raise to my mouth, only to have my nose come abruptly in contact with a large cube of ice. Ass Neck (he’s starting to earn his title) has filled the glass so full with large ice cubes, that it’s nearly impossible to get any liquid onto my parched tongue without have the ice shower down my pressed shirt.
OK, no problem, so they’re tightwad with the pours at this place. It’s to be expected, I guess. We are in L.Q.A., and some of the places in this neigborhood take themselves a little too seriously. Like this place, for instance.
So I swirl the glass around and let thermodynamics do their thing. It’s not long before I have that sharp, yet tasteless fluid slide down my throat and feel the cooling numbness that is good vodka creep over my skull. All is now right with the world.
It’s not long before the couple seated next to me cash out and journey off in to the night, to what I am quite confident with be an episode of sexual intercourse. For some reason, I am left with the impression that she is likely a pro, and the deal has been sealed. Now they’re off to complete the transaction and exchange of bodily fluids. Don’t ask me why I know this, but I do. I like to think that I’m somewhat empathic and will occasionally pick up impressions off of people I encounter. I also suspect that whatever the nature of their relationship is, tonight’s sexual congress will leave one of them disappointed. And I don’t think it’s going to be him.
“Sorry, babe,” I think to myself. “You were kinda sexy, and I hate to see you waste another night of lust with an unfulfilling partner.”
So I let my mind wander, as it usually does when I’m alone at a bar. I think about work, I think about women (there a few cuties here tonight), I think about school, I think about work again, then school again, then the ladies. It’s all pretty much cyclical at this stage of the evening. And usually, I am fortunate enough to experience an insight or inspiration on some case or client issue I’ve got going on. This sort of free-wheeling problems solving is often beneficial and soothing for me.
So enough time has passed that I’ve finished the few ounces of liquid in my glass and am pondering as to whether or not I’m going to order another, when Ass Neck’s visage comes into view and, looking me straight in the eye (unheard of here in Passive/Aggressive Land), says very pointedly:
“Here, this is for you,” as he slides my tab across the wooden bar.
I am jolted out of my reverie by his tone and almost let speechless. While I recover my footing, I pull out my card and slide it back to him. I fumble for a moment as he turns away from me to run my card though the machine and ask,
“Were you trying to say something, there?”
“Excuse me?” he asks, turning partially around to face me again.
“Was that some sort of message you were giving me?” I inquire again, still maintaining a pleasant tone.
“Yes, a subliminal one,” he says, crossing back to me with the signature slip, which he places on the counter before me and then walks breezily away.
At this point, I am truly taken aback. I have done nothing wrong, I have spoken to nobody, and I haven’t spilled, dropped or broken anything. Now I use to be a professional barman myself, and I know the “warning signs” one must be on the lookout for, lest a problem from an unruly or intoxicated patron arise. And I am without sin this evening.
So, as Mr. Neck is walking past my location, I ask, with all humility,
“If I may inquire, what in particular seems to be the problem?”
He stops abruptly, and turns his goateed face to me, leans in and says:
“Well, it’s when you closed your eyes and about nodded off at the bar. That’s when I decided it was time for you to go,” with just enough insolence and condescension that my hackles start to raise. He holds his position, barely intruding into my personal space comfort zone for a moment and then walks off to finish what he was doing.
“Ah, I see.”
I look down at my bill, tip him 50% (it was only one drink, for fuck’s sake), calmly rise from my seat, lift my coat off the back of the stool and while shrugging into it, I can feel the eyes of the two pricks behind the bar watching me closer than a Marine on the “Wire” at Guantanamo Bay. I make my exit into the cold, windy evening without further incident in search of friendlier grounds.
Now I realize that he was just doing his job, and I won’t take Ass Neck to task for that. But what the fuck?!?! I realize he is no mind reader and could not possibly know that I just got off from a 13 hour day, the third this week. And that when I “closed” my eyes, I was in deep thought about the latest round discussions in a case I’ve been negotiating on for four months. Or perhaps I was pondering my strategy for getting my ass back in to school, which has been an 18 month undertaking so far, or maybe I was remembering a particularly flexible and enthusiastic young woman I knew from a few years back.
Whatever the case, Ass Neck and his employer can count on my never darkening the door of their shitty little lounge again. You see, I vote with my feet and my wallet. And if you think you can pass judgement on me based on an unfounded assumption, you might as well piss in your own Wheaties.
Unfortunately, this little transgression has lingered in my mind, twisting and turning and mutating into a thing so black and evil, Darth Vader would be proud. So I guess now it’s time to go take a big dump on a few of my adversaries. Sorry guys, I know it’s Friday and all, but you see, I got kicked out of a bar by Ass Neck.
So it’s not that unusual for me to hit a bar, tavern, pub, club, what have you, for a drink or 5. And I have had my fair share of interesting, invigorating and insipid experiences. You get to meet a lot of “unique” and “diverse” people when sitting alone at a bar.
But for some reason, last night’s encounter is really starting to piss me off. I just can’t seem to shake it, and that is what really pisses me off.
So I decide to head in to some fancy “lounge” downtown near my office for a cocktail (double Citron, on the rocks, with a lime) after work. You know the type of place I’m talking about: it’s got the minimalist name (which also happens to be their mailing address) and is dimly lit with warm, dark earth-toned interior where the hipsters and young nouveau-riche try so hard to act all grown up, but can barely hide the fact that they faked their way through college and are deathly afraid their facade will be dispelled with the slightest misstep.
Now I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I am by no means a “regular”. Or even a “familiar”. So I really don’t expect any kind of special treatment or anything. But a little fucking respect is certainly not beyond reason.
So I wonder in to this joint around 10:30 PM and see that it’s doing a brisk business, most of the table are taken, and the bar is pretty full, except for the far end. So I make my way down to the end of the bar and because I’m not really looking AT the bar as I pull the chair out and begin to shed my jacket, I don’t really notice the three table settings with ice waters set out on the bar. Instead, I’m eyeballing one of the bevy of beauties seated at the table behind where I’m about to sit. After I’ve got a good take on the dear lovely, I turn my attention to the two hep-cat dudes holding court behind the bar. With a warm greeting, I flash them a smile. I always like to set a good tone with an unfamiliar barman, it helps to insure the quality of service I have come to expect from a real professional. And this is the kind of place I expect to have a professional mixologist on staff.
So as my ass is about to settle comfortably on to the bar stool, Ass Neck (honestly, I did not know him to be an ass neck at the time, that would come later), says that he’s doing well, thank you. “But those seats are reserved.”
Ah, the plates, eating utensils, napkins and tall glasses full of water, with ice cubes half-melted. Yes, these seats are indeed “reserved”.
“Oh, so sorry about that. I didn’t notice. I will just sit over here then.” I cheerfully reply. No harm, no foul.
So I move three seats to the left and take my spot next to a young attractive couple. At least I think they’re a couple. But from the few snatches of conversation I overhear, it sounds as if they may have recently met. She seems to be the more confident, aggressor-type in this particular social dynamic. Which is totally cool by me. I pay little attention to them, as I’m thinking about my beverage, which I have been longing for. So I order.
“A Citron on the rocks, with a lime, please.”
The barman turns to begin making my drink and after about 5 seconds he asks:
“Are you sure you don’t want a lemon instead?”
I’m sorry, but take a look at me, punk. Do I look like I don’t know what I want to drink? Is there something in my professional dress, styled hair and calm, confident demeanor that would suggest I don’t know how to order a fucking drink? I didn’t think so. Fix my drink bitch.
“Yes, I’m sure, thank you,” I pleasantly respond. Got to be nice to the guy with the booze.
So without further ado, he brings me a short glass of nectar, which I raise to my mouth, only to have my nose come abruptly in contact with a large cube of ice. Ass Neck (he’s starting to earn his title) has filled the glass so full with large ice cubes, that it’s nearly impossible to get any liquid onto my parched tongue without have the ice shower down my pressed shirt.
OK, no problem, so they’re tightwad with the pours at this place. It’s to be expected, I guess. We are in L.Q.A., and some of the places in this neigborhood take themselves a little too seriously. Like this place, for instance.
So I swirl the glass around and let thermodynamics do their thing. It’s not long before I have that sharp, yet tasteless fluid slide down my throat and feel the cooling numbness that is good vodka creep over my skull. All is now right with the world.
It’s not long before the couple seated next to me cash out and journey off in to the night, to what I am quite confident with be an episode of sexual intercourse. For some reason, I am left with the impression that she is likely a pro, and the deal has been sealed. Now they’re off to complete the transaction and exchange of bodily fluids. Don’t ask me why I know this, but I do. I like to think that I’m somewhat empathic and will occasionally pick up impressions off of people I encounter. I also suspect that whatever the nature of their relationship is, tonight’s sexual congress will leave one of them disappointed. And I don’t think it’s going to be him.
“Sorry, babe,” I think to myself. “You were kinda sexy, and I hate to see you waste another night of lust with an unfulfilling partner.”
So I let my mind wander, as it usually does when I’m alone at a bar. I think about work, I think about women (there a few cuties here tonight), I think about school, I think about work again, then school again, then the ladies. It’s all pretty much cyclical at this stage of the evening. And usually, I am fortunate enough to experience an insight or inspiration on some case or client issue I’ve got going on. This sort of free-wheeling problems solving is often beneficial and soothing for me.
So enough time has passed that I’ve finished the few ounces of liquid in my glass and am pondering as to whether or not I’m going to order another, when Ass Neck’s visage comes into view and, looking me straight in the eye (unheard of here in Passive/Aggressive Land), says very pointedly:
“Here, this is for you,” as he slides my tab across the wooden bar.
I am jolted out of my reverie by his tone and almost let speechless. While I recover my footing, I pull out my card and slide it back to him. I fumble for a moment as he turns away from me to run my card though the machine and ask,
“Were you trying to say something, there?”
“Excuse me?” he asks, turning partially around to face me again.
“Was that some sort of message you were giving me?” I inquire again, still maintaining a pleasant tone.
“Yes, a subliminal one,” he says, crossing back to me with the signature slip, which he places on the counter before me and then walks breezily away.
At this point, I am truly taken aback. I have done nothing wrong, I have spoken to nobody, and I haven’t spilled, dropped or broken anything. Now I use to be a professional barman myself, and I know the “warning signs” one must be on the lookout for, lest a problem from an unruly or intoxicated patron arise. And I am without sin this evening.
So, as Mr. Neck is walking past my location, I ask, with all humility,
“If I may inquire, what in particular seems to be the problem?”
He stops abruptly, and turns his goateed face to me, leans in and says:
“Well, it’s when you closed your eyes and about nodded off at the bar. That’s when I decided it was time for you to go,” with just enough insolence and condescension that my hackles start to raise. He holds his position, barely intruding into my personal space comfort zone for a moment and then walks off to finish what he was doing.
“Ah, I see.”
I look down at my bill, tip him 50% (it was only one drink, for fuck’s sake), calmly rise from my seat, lift my coat off the back of the stool and while shrugging into it, I can feel the eyes of the two pricks behind the bar watching me closer than a Marine on the “Wire” at Guantanamo Bay. I make my exit into the cold, windy evening without further incident in search of friendlier grounds.
Now I realize that he was just doing his job, and I won’t take Ass Neck to task for that. But what the fuck?!?! I realize he is no mind reader and could not possibly know that I just got off from a 13 hour day, the third this week. And that when I “closed” my eyes, I was in deep thought about the latest round discussions in a case I’ve been negotiating on for four months. Or perhaps I was pondering my strategy for getting my ass back in to school, which has been an 18 month undertaking so far, or maybe I was remembering a particularly flexible and enthusiastic young woman I knew from a few years back.
Whatever the case, Ass Neck and his employer can count on my never darkening the door of their shitty little lounge again. You see, I vote with my feet and my wallet. And if you think you can pass judgement on me based on an unfounded assumption, you might as well piss in your own Wheaties.
Unfortunately, this little transgression has lingered in my mind, twisting and turning and mutating into a thing so black and evil, Darth Vader would be proud. So I guess now it’s time to go take a big dump on a few of my adversaries. Sorry guys, I know it’s Friday and all, but you see, I got kicked out of a bar by Ass Neck.
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