Me and Frank are walking back from the pisser, both a bit drunk... alright, fucking tanked. In front of us is a short guy wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with the words, "When in doubt, knock'em out" on the back. He has gray slicked back hair, and a graying mustache that gives him a slight hillbilly look.
"Hey man, where'd you get that fucking shirt? That's badass! You work at that bar in Lincoln Park? I think I saw them wearing those shits when I was there," Frank says.
The guy turns around, looks him up and down, and stone dead soberly says, "There's only one way to get this shirt." He's leaning on the bar, and does not want to talk to us. There are a couple of bikers that he's hanging with, but you can never tell in Jersey whether they're actually bikers or doctors and lawyers who like to play dress up in leather and act tough on a Saturday night.
I glance at the front of this shirt, and there is a gray skull on fire along with a banner that says, "Support Local 81". Fucking christ, I know how you get that shirt.
"Ha, I know what that is," I say to him. "Frank, let's get movin', this guy just wants to be left alone." He always gets a bit intense when he's been drinking, and I really want to get him away from this guy before he gets any more pissed off.
Why, you ask, was I so wary of this stranger? Well, if you look at the alphabet, H is the 8th letter, and A is the first, and when you see something that says, "Support Local 81," it means that the guy supports the Hell's Angels. I don't what this guy did to get it... but whatever it was, it was fucking bad, and he would put a beer bottle through our throats in a heartbeat.
I am still extremely drunk, and it's 1 o'clock on a Sunday. Yippee kay yay motherfucker.
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Bill
You know, I thought things were tough before. Now, something even worse has happened, something so terrible that I wasn't sure that such things occurred in this world: Bill the bartender has been fired, and that fucking guy Johnny is taking over at China P.
As it seems, Bill went on his vacation at the perfect time for them, and when he came back, they told him he was fired.
He was a great bartender, and I never payed over $25.00 no matter what I bought. I don't know if there is any other bartender that can put me on my ass after three drinks like that. I am furious, and I shake my fist in anger at the assholes that manage that place that have caused such a calamity. Motherfuckers.
It feels like that episode of MASH where they killed Colonel Blake...
As it seems, Bill went on his vacation at the perfect time for them, and when he came back, they told him he was fired.
He was a great bartender, and I never payed over $25.00 no matter what I bought. I don't know if there is any other bartender that can put me on my ass after three drinks like that. I am furious, and I shake my fist in anger at the assholes that manage that place that have caused such a calamity. Motherfuckers.
It feels like that episode of MASH where they killed Colonel Blake...
Sunday, May 20, 2007
China P
When I walk into China P. alone around 10:30, there are four girls at the bar, two of which I slightly know. One says hello to me, and she is a beautiful Italian looking girl who just broke up with a guy I went to high school with. She's outgoing enough to always say hello to me, which takes a lot because I'm not the most approachable guy.
An older couple rests at the end of the bar, but they're not saying anything worth listening to. I'm kind of pissed- even my bartender buddy Bill is gone, as he embarked on a two-week trip back to China to see his wife and four girlfriends, so I'm ordering Miller Lites and shots of Jagermeister from the substitute bartender, ironically named, "Johnny". I always wonder who tells these fucking guys what American name to take, being as most of them barely speak English in the first place.
The Italian broad is talking about some club she went to last night, and her three fat friends are emphatically "oooing" and "ahhhing" about whatever the hell the she's saying (it must suck to be the fat friend(s) and live vicariously through your hot friends). Apparently she's dating a black dude, but her stories are boring, so I switch between eavesdropping on their conversation to watching that UFC show on SpikeTV.
Drinking alone is tough business. It's not like I was doing it because I had to... yea, I bet you believe that. Seriosly, it's not bad once in a while because it gives me quiet time to explore the insides of my own head. Shane McGowan had a famous quote about this, but I'm not going to quote it, and if you're that interested you can look it up for yourself. Either way, you sit there, and everything someone says reminds you of something that went on in your own life at some point. It reminds you of a girl, a situation, a time when you were doing blah blah blah and whatever happened. Those girls mention the Shannon Rose a half dozen times, and my mind wanders.
There is one fat one that keeps talking about Bill, and I somehow feel like I'm cheating on him by buying drinks from this new guy. She's asking Johnny about himself.
"So, were you married?"
The bartender says something that I can't understand, holds up his bare fingers. She says something else, and he concedes that he is.
"Where is she?"
"Back in China. I have two son also. 8 and 11."
"Ohhh... you have girlfriends too, like Bill?"
"No, no... I no cheater," he says, but with a smile. He also doesn't explain why he ain't wearing his wedding ring, but he still claims that he isn't a cheater. He badmouths Bill's drinks a little, saying that he doesn't make them taste good enough. I'm about to say something, but then I realize 1) Bill will be back in a week, fuck this guy, and 2) He still controls how much I pay tonight, and he's given me a couple shots for free. I hold my tongue.
Another broad comes in. She is nice looking, but has a voice that makes you want to rip her throat out. It's a combination of a Long Island accent and a nasally banshee wail, and every time she comes here I want to throw her down the stairs.
The hour is getting late, and two of the fat ones get up to leave. A half hour later, the rest of them get up and say their goodbyes to Johnny. He is laughing, yapping, saying something in ChineEnglish that I can't understand. They start walking out, and the beautiful Italian girl looks over her shoulder, stops, and walks over towards me.
"Where are you going tonight? Anywhere else?"
"Nah, this is it." Talk about feeling fucking pathetic.
"Oh, you should come to the Shannon Rose! It's just like Thatcher's, but a lot bigger, it's an Irish place."
"Ahhh... I heard that place is expensive."
"Oh yea, I think the last time I was there I blew like a hundred bucks. I don't remember if it was all on me, or I was buying everyone shit because I was drunk."
I smile. "Well, maybe. We'll see."
"Alright. Goodnight, honey." She gives me a kiss on the cheek and walks away. She's a good girl, and I wonder what the fuck that guy from high school was thinking letting her get away.
I look down at my beer, and my mind immediately wanders to my certain blonde who fucking loves the Shannon Rose. I pay my sixteen dollar bill (good man, Johnny) and stumble out of the bar and into the night, under the streetlights of this same old town. I think I'm going to petition Bill to get a piano in there, so when I sit on those quiet nights I can tell Sam to play it again.
"Not tonight, Italian broad. I am thinking of someone else... and it will take a hell of a lot more than you to get her out out of my head..."
An older couple rests at the end of the bar, but they're not saying anything worth listening to. I'm kind of pissed- even my bartender buddy Bill is gone, as he embarked on a two-week trip back to China to see his wife and four girlfriends, so I'm ordering Miller Lites and shots of Jagermeister from the substitute bartender, ironically named, "Johnny". I always wonder who tells these fucking guys what American name to take, being as most of them barely speak English in the first place.
The Italian broad is talking about some club she went to last night, and her three fat friends are emphatically "oooing" and "ahhhing" about whatever the hell the she's saying (it must suck to be the fat friend(s) and live vicariously through your hot friends). Apparently she's dating a black dude, but her stories are boring, so I switch between eavesdropping on their conversation to watching that UFC show on SpikeTV.
Drinking alone is tough business. It's not like I was doing it because I had to... yea, I bet you believe that. Seriosly, it's not bad once in a while because it gives me quiet time to explore the insides of my own head. Shane McGowan had a famous quote about this, but I'm not going to quote it, and if you're that interested you can look it up for yourself. Either way, you sit there, and everything someone says reminds you of something that went on in your own life at some point. It reminds you of a girl, a situation, a time when you were doing blah blah blah and whatever happened. Those girls mention the Shannon Rose a half dozen times, and my mind wanders.
There is one fat one that keeps talking about Bill, and I somehow feel like I'm cheating on him by buying drinks from this new guy. She's asking Johnny about himself.
"So, were you married?"
The bartender says something that I can't understand, holds up his bare fingers. She says something else, and he concedes that he is.
"Where is she?"
"Back in China. I have two son also. 8 and 11."
"Ohhh... you have girlfriends too, like Bill?"
"No, no... I no cheater," he says, but with a smile. He also doesn't explain why he ain't wearing his wedding ring, but he still claims that he isn't a cheater. He badmouths Bill's drinks a little, saying that he doesn't make them taste good enough. I'm about to say something, but then I realize 1) Bill will be back in a week, fuck this guy, and 2) He still controls how much I pay tonight, and he's given me a couple shots for free. I hold my tongue.
Another broad comes in. She is nice looking, but has a voice that makes you want to rip her throat out. It's a combination of a Long Island accent and a nasally banshee wail, and every time she comes here I want to throw her down the stairs.
The hour is getting late, and two of the fat ones get up to leave. A half hour later, the rest of them get up and say their goodbyes to Johnny. He is laughing, yapping, saying something in ChineEnglish that I can't understand. They start walking out, and the beautiful Italian girl looks over her shoulder, stops, and walks over towards me.
"Where are you going tonight? Anywhere else?"
"Nah, this is it." Talk about feeling fucking pathetic.
"Oh, you should come to the Shannon Rose! It's just like Thatcher's, but a lot bigger, it's an Irish place."
"Ahhh... I heard that place is expensive."
"Oh yea, I think the last time I was there I blew like a hundred bucks. I don't remember if it was all on me, or I was buying everyone shit because I was drunk."
I smile. "Well, maybe. We'll see."
"Alright. Goodnight, honey." She gives me a kiss on the cheek and walks away. She's a good girl, and I wonder what the fuck that guy from high school was thinking letting her get away.
I look down at my beer, and my mind immediately wanders to my certain blonde who fucking loves the Shannon Rose. I pay my sixteen dollar bill (good man, Johnny) and stumble out of the bar and into the night, under the streetlights of this same old town. I think I'm going to petition Bill to get a piano in there, so when I sit on those quiet nights I can tell Sam to play it again.
"Not tonight, Italian broad. I am thinking of someone else... and it will take a hell of a lot more than you to get her out out of my head..."
Sunday, May 06, 2007
The Fights
"Tell Me" is pounding through the speakers in the heaving, sweating bar, and the floor rumbles accordingly. The announcers on TV howl as Mayweather puts on his sombrero and walked to the ring, 50 Cent rapping next to him. It's mostly blacks and hispanics at this joint; it's close to Paterson, and you can fucking tell.
The crowd is evenly split between Mayweather or De LaHoya, and it's along racial lines; blacks with dreadlocks and oversized white t-shirts rooting for Mayweather, while the Hispanics with their chinstrap beards and fat girlfriends are pulling for De La Hoya. I'm with the Spanish guys... it's kind of like jail, ironically.
The whole fight goes as I thought it would. Mayweather ducks and dodges, De LaHoya tries to cut off the ring and corner him, rarely successfully. There are body shots that slow Mayweather down, but De la Hoya doesn't have enough power to put him down. The fight is decided in the the tenth round when Mayweather is outscoring De la Hoya, and it's clear that he's not going to get knocked out. I'm beginning to think that the only thing that can beat Mayweather is Father Time. It occurs to me that watching Floyd Mayweather box may be a blessing. It is like he is made of liquid, dissapearing and reforming somwhere else to his enemy's chagrin. The only other man I have seen move like this is Barry Sanders, another one who seemed like all his body parts could move completely independent of each other, yet somehow were not only connected, but in sync. It is unbelievable.
Later on, I go out for a smoke, and I hear some asshole mouthing off, and it takes me a minute to realize he's yelling at me. "Hey sweetheart, you got a problem?"
I'm leaning against the building, and this wannabe gangsta is mouthing off to me to impress his fatassed girlfriend. I've had my guard up all night because down here I'm the minority, but now I'm drunk and not looking to start shit. Fighting is the last thing on my mind.
He walks over, stands right next to me, is still talking shit. I look at him, and out of the corner of my eye I see a Haledon police car roll by. Take the high road, dick.
"I ain't got no problem, man." I smile at him and finish my smoke.
I walk back inside, start talking to my buddy about this. He tells me that I should have put my cigarette out in his eye, but that it's probably better off that I didn't, because that guy's gigantic Spanish buddy is a big time coke dealer, and has at least one gun on him all the time.
The BADASS song that Floyd came out to:
The crowd is evenly split between Mayweather or De LaHoya, and it's along racial lines; blacks with dreadlocks and oversized white t-shirts rooting for Mayweather, while the Hispanics with their chinstrap beards and fat girlfriends are pulling for De La Hoya. I'm with the Spanish guys... it's kind of like jail, ironically.
The whole fight goes as I thought it would. Mayweather ducks and dodges, De LaHoya tries to cut off the ring and corner him, rarely successfully. There are body shots that slow Mayweather down, but De la Hoya doesn't have enough power to put him down. The fight is decided in the the tenth round when Mayweather is outscoring De la Hoya, and it's clear that he's not going to get knocked out. I'm beginning to think that the only thing that can beat Mayweather is Father Time. It occurs to me that watching Floyd Mayweather box may be a blessing. It is like he is made of liquid, dissapearing and reforming somwhere else to his enemy's chagrin. The only other man I have seen move like this is Barry Sanders, another one who seemed like all his body parts could move completely independent of each other, yet somehow were not only connected, but in sync. It is unbelievable.
Later on, I go out for a smoke, and I hear some asshole mouthing off, and it takes me a minute to realize he's yelling at me. "Hey sweetheart, you got a problem?"
I'm leaning against the building, and this wannabe gangsta is mouthing off to me to impress his fatassed girlfriend. I've had my guard up all night because down here I'm the minority, but now I'm drunk and not looking to start shit. Fighting is the last thing on my mind.
He walks over, stands right next to me, is still talking shit. I look at him, and out of the corner of my eye I see a Haledon police car roll by. Take the high road, dick.
"I ain't got no problem, man." I smile at him and finish my smoke.
I walk back inside, start talking to my buddy about this. He tells me that I should have put my cigarette out in his eye, but that it's probably better off that I didn't, because that guy's gigantic Spanish buddy is a big time coke dealer, and has at least one gun on him all the time.
The BADASS song that Floyd came out to:
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