An institution since 27 March 2013, on Santa Barbara's wild westside...
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
POINT: A beer and a barstool do not equate the right to spew every goddamn silly thing that pops up in that evil little mind of yours.
I’m the bartender and can’t leave the bar. You’re not, and you can and should, but won’t. Since most of the other customers split as soon as they get a whiff of your sparkling personality, you go to the one person who has to stay put. I’m in hell. It’s a slow night and all the interesting people are either at home or put their wagons in a circle way over by the pool table. What makes you think I want to hear about your broken-down car, your lame job or your crazy roommate who scribbles with crayons all over the walls? You mumble on continuously, meandering around the point into cul-de-sacs of boring detail. When I try to escape to the other end of the bar to wash the one dirty glass, you follow me and blabber on with the story that, in my mind, should be titled, “Why I Need to Be Shot in the Face Right Now.” If the bar is empty and all you have to spew is inane rambling, just order a drink, go into the corner and talk to the wall. Bang your head against it once or twice while you’re there. It can only help.
COUNTERPOINT:You do know you work in a bar, right?
If you worked in an office or factory you wouldn’t have to worry about people coming in off the street to hassle you. But guess what? You chose to work in a bona fide social center, a bar, and do you know what happens in bars? People drink, and when they drink they get talkative. It’s one of the great things about alcohol. Okay, so I might get a little loaded and spout off some random bullshit sometimes—who doesn’t? You’ve never mouthed off about things that don’t make a goddamn bit of sense? If you haven’t, congratulations, you’re a freaking robot. Look, we have jobs too. And we hate them, and bars are where we go to forget about them. And it’s your job to help us because you’re a bartender. You knew exactly what you were getting into, so it’s too late to pull your apron over you head and wail that you want to be left alone. Go work in a lighthouse if that’s your gig. All that said, I’ll try in the future to talk only about things that interest you—because it’s all about you—like kicking puppies and shoving old ladies under trains. Boom!