I spent some time this morning looking through old, nay ancient, blog posts and found an old blog I’d even forgotten I’d created. The following is an edited/redacted version of a post written in early February of 2005. Those were the days...

Not your first bar fight. At least, I can’t at the moment. What I do remember is the first time I fucked up when it came to a fight in the bar. I thought of nicer, more delicate ways to put it. But my core group of friends are torn on the acceptable use of the term “shit the bed”. I’ve got only one on my side, with two vehemently opposed. Several members’ opinions of have not be officially logged. Updates on said issue to be determined at a later date. 

This was early in my time working at what was the only bar of it’s kind at the time in town: A nightclub. The license in my wallet still had that “New Driver’s License Smell” from turning 21 the previous October. It was December when douche bags of Christmas Past flow in town sporadically to visit their douche bags roots like the swallows to Capistrano. I only mention the month because it will come in to play later.

This was real early into my time working in a bar, but I’d taken to it hard. Not the business, mind you. I’ve never had to worry about crunching numbers; making sure that margins are correct and there’s enough for payroll for the week and trying to figure out how the place goes through so much Polish Brandy and Bacardi all the time. (Oh, yeah, I drank the rum. But you all drank the Polish with me! 

What I took to was the shit in the trenches. I learned about how to bar back (the most under appreciated job in the industry ever, you da real MVPs), how to check IDs, and most importantly all of the specialty drinks. 

*SIDENOTE: Yes, I Think I remember the recipe for the Flintstones Push-up But you can’t hold me to it.

The point is, I was still pretty damn green in the grand scheme of every god damn thing.

Yet, on the night in question, I was somewhat left to my own devices. 

I’d been entrusted to the backbar. To be assigned the backbar was kind of death sentence, cash wise. Here, it was every bar man and woman for themselves; every tip was yours and yours alone. Your bartender just spent an ungodly amount of time making three...THREE!!! afore mentioned Flintstone Push Ups at Last Call when he’s three deep on customers? When he ain’t gonna get a red nickle from it?! Such is life. But yeah, you take care of the feet on the floor because that’s what you do. 

But the backbar...yeah, that’s where the waitresses go to get their drinks because the people up front are too damn busy making bank that you can’t even get through the people to get to a bartender. Sure, most of them will tip you out if they had a good night or a bad night. Some never do.

The only appeal to working the back bar is to schmooze. You don’t have to worry about trying to flair it up behind the bar like Tom Cruise. And that’s a good thing because you never learned to juggle and it’s not just juggling, there’s some physics involved because there’s varying amount of liquid depending on what bottle you grab and what not. Having depth perception also helps in these situations.

My depth perception sucks. Moving on.

You can’t juggle, but you can try and mack on the ladies, son. The night in question I had two that I was chatting up. 

Again, this is not to make myself look good in this story. Far from it. For the fairer sex are many a young man’s undoing.

It was probably around midnight, as memory serves. The place had several security guys, as the place was a notorious hot spot for altercations and minors to attempt to infiltrate as kids are wont to do. 

Coincidentally, I started drinking in pretty much all of the local bars when I was a minor because everyone that staffed those bars knew where I worked and assumed I was of age. Who was I to argue with them?

The door guys were supposed to rotate regularly so that there was at least one positioned close to the dance floor at all times. 

Supposed to.

On this particular night in December, at the moment when I’m trying to look cool in front of a couple of ladies, either the rotation failed or one dude went to the head because a fight broke out in the middle of the dance floor and no one paid to take care of it was there to do anything about it.

Now you might think that means the Door Guys, the security guys. Their job is to make sure that nothing happens and only them. That’s not how I was raised. From day one at that place it was ingrained upon you that your barback stayed behind the bar to protect the inventory, you went on the floor to assist the Door Guys.

And no. No fight i have ever been in ever has been like in Roadhouse. No. I don’t care if your sister’s friend was there and saw it. 

And not at that other bar, either.

Anyway...

The dance floor is undefended when the DJ called out for help from the bar staff for a problem on the floor. There are two girls at my station. I can’t impress them with my speed behind the bar or an ability to juggle. I’m stuck there with my questionable wit and c

And my adrenaline is already up when the calls comes out across the sky that there’s a doins transpirin’. 

What else am I going to but go take care of some shit, right?

The only good thing I did was separate the two dudes. One dudes was trying to throw a bunch of  really punches, that’s what I remember, anyway. What I will always remember. I remember that for some dumb, fool ass reason, my first instinct was--

I do not know shit about fighting. Not really. I didn’t wrestle. I never boxed. I never studies any art, martial otherwise.

--try and put him in a headlock. 

After that there was flurry of action. The guy whom I tried to grab was pried from my grasp and my face was getting hit a lot. I ended up on the floor with my feet up; some guy had me in a scissor lock.

“I FUCKING WORK HERE!”

“Huh. Oops, sorry, bruh.”

My uniform shirt was ripped, my eye was swelling, and not nearly as hurt as my pride when I later sat at top of the stairs of the inner sanctum. It was bad enough two girls saw me shit the bed, although one tried to nurse my wounds backstage, but the one who was nursing me saw me get a dressing down from the local cops about exactly how I had shit the bed.

It occurred to me a week or two ago that it was perhaps past time that I’d written about my time working in bars. About some of the more interesting bar fights/altercations/anecdotes that I’ve seen or been involved in over my almost twenty-five years behind and in front of bars over most of my adult life. And, I’m not trying to kid anyone here; a lot of this shit happened when I was spending time on a stool, seeing how the other half drinks. 

I decided to break out the Tumblr because I started this blog out well in the middle of that stuff. The name seemed clever. Y’see, kids. Back in the olden days, well before yer facie spacies and my books we had things called blogs. They were this expansive things where you could add all kinds of media and people wrote complex sentences instead of clever bon mots. Not that I have anything against bon mots. I love bon mots. Some of these posts will actually be just clever bon mots. And some of these I’ll be able to dig through the archive of ancient blogs for reference because I’m sure I blabbed about them there ages ago.

Another thing I want to make expressly clear: This is not intended to be my life story. I think memoirs are pretentious and too many people write them when they’re barely near the halfway mark. There is no thru line with this thing. No beginning and end. ZERO story arc. 

I just know that this shit is funny.

People both in and out of their cups have confirmed to me that a lot of these stories are amusing as hell. When I voiced this on the twitter three people said so!

Some names will be changed to protect the innocent. I hope some of the illustrious people I’ve worked with over that time won’t mind me including them in the occasional tale. I assure you, all remarks will be flattering. Yes, Dave Flanagan will appear time and again to be sure. No I will not record audio. Too far is too far. Y’all damn well know what he sounded like anyway. If I can talk like him, you know damn well I can write his voice.

Some of these might be long, some might be short. Sometimes you get Facelift, sometimes you get Sap.

Then, in the third film, he rose again. In fulfillment of the fan fiction.