Tag Archives: bars

Sam’s Place

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Location: Sam’s Place, Lake Tahoe, NV(map)
Miles: 1891.3

My usual table was taken when I came in, so I’m sitting with my back to most of the action at the bar. The bartender when I came in may be the boss, but I haven’t dealt with her before. As far as she’s concerned, my name’s “Buddy”. She did make a point of remembering where I sat last time.

The person sitting at “my” table was Norm. I’m reasonably sure I met him at a bachelor party once. I didn’t want to go through the false camaraderie we would both have to adopt if I introduced myself, though. I was pretty much a wallflower at that bachelor party anyway, except when we were playing poker. The groom, also my host currently, while not rolling in filthy lucre is doing all right for himself, as are most of his friends. Craig and I were there because our wives were friends of the bride. I think they reduced the money at the poker table dramatically to accommodate us. So while they were playing for what felt to them like monopoly money, to Craig and me it felt like bigtime gambling.

Norm has now left, and I just moved back to my usual table, the faint sizzle of the outward-facing neon in my right ear. It’s important when regularizing to establish patterns that bartenders and wait staff can recognize. Becky just started her shift, and she didn’t use my name, which I told her yesterday. Big setback. I’m going to try to sneak a picture of her now… crap. I jiggled it. Jiggled%20it.jpg

This isn’t a bad bar at all. Most everyone knows everyone else, so there’s plenty of stories to tell. It’s a safe assumption that some mutual friend did something stupid or outrageous lately.

Normally when I come to a bar I fire up Jer’s Novel Writer, not iBlog. I can concentrate very well on my fiction in a bar, much better than I can at home. At home there’s too many other things I could do, like check one more time to see if anyone’s hit my blog, or work, or (when I had a yard) yardwork. Then there’s the laundry that needs doing, the email, the bills, blah, blah, blah. You might have people shouting and laughing in a bar, but external distractions are much easier to shut out than internal ones.

Yes, sometimes someone will come up to me and say without a trace of irony, “Hey! Hey! How do you concentrate in here?”

The peak of my bar-writing career came two novembers ago for NaNoWriMo , when I took the motto “30 days, 30 bars, 1 novel.” I’ll tell you more about that another time, when I rescue the photographic evidence from my computer that is packed away. It was not a sustainable lifestyle.

Oddly, I am finding the bar to be a big distraction when it is the bar I’m writing about. The theme from Shaft is playing on the jukebox. Normally that would just be background noise, but now I find myself wondering, “Should I write about that? Would that be interesting?” It probably won’t be until I get home that I will be able to write about the bar.

beer%2c%20laptop%2c%20bar.jpg I’ll give you a few facts about the place before I give up. The bar itself is of a rich-grained wood and has a nice curvaceousness to it. There are a couple of separate seating areas. One has a fireplace which I’m sure is very popular when the snow is several feet deep outside. Another has bookshelves. The bookshelves have actual books on them. The floors are rough wood, the cieling in the main bar area is wood with large wood beams, and there is wood paneling behind the bar. The wood is light enough that the bar does not feel too dark. I like wood.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to fire up JNW.

Addendum: This is a photo of Becky pouring a beer for me after she said, “Jerry, do you want another?” I would have said no, but she said my name. ARS is right on track.

Thanks!

Regularization

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We all like to be recognized. When we walk into a room, we want people to turn and say ‘hello’. It’s not vanity, it’s the need to belong somewhere, to have a place to go where no matter how full of crap your friends are, (it’s never you), they will welcome you and be honestly happy to see you. That’s what being a regular is all about.

Even on my travels, I want to be a regular. While someday I may market the Accelerated Regularization System(tm), for now I share my observations with all ten of my readers for free.

Tonight’s discussion is how to recognize when you have reached regularity. Normally this is not a big deal, it’s just a side effect of finding a place you like to be. There was a bar in Pacific Beach, the Second Wind, where I was a regluar, but not frequent, patron. Eventually Suzanne, my favorite bartender there, came to recognize me, as did other regulars. There was no magic moment when I became a regular.

However, in the Accelerated Regularization System(tm), you have to watch for the signs. Once you know the signs, you can make sure you cross the thresholds more quickly. Here are the measurements:

The greeting from the bartender:

  • Unknown: Hi! How are ya?
  • Recognized: Hey! [Eyebrows arched, upward head nod]
  • Regular: Hey, Jerry! (the first time, it may be the name on your credit card, which is a good time to tell them your real name, and shame on you for making them guess)
  • Fixture: Where’ve you been?
  • Fly: You’re late.

The bartender asking your order:

  • Unknown: What’ll you have?
  • Recognized: Was it the IPA?
  • Regular: Here ya go.
  • Fixture: We just blew the IPA, but you’ll like this.
  • Fly: [beer is waiting by the time you reach your stool. Your bartender knows what you want better than you do]

The regular sitting next to you says:

  • Unknown: How’s it going?
  • Recognized: Good to see you again.
  • Regular: Hey, Jerry, what’s new and exciting? [That’s my phrase, when the guy next to me asks, that means we’ve had more than one beer together in the past]
  • Fixture: [immediately starts talking about something mutually interesting, be it sports, politics, Vegas, or whatever]
  • Fly: And then I said… [picks up conversation from where he fell off the stool last night, as if nothing happened]

To the unknown sitting next to you, you say:

  • Unknown: studiously ignore
  • Recognized: “Hey”
  • Regular: “Her name’s Rose. She’ll be right back.”
  • Fixture: [After listening in on conversation with the bartender] “You should try…”
  • Fly: “Her name’s Rose. She rocks.”

At last call bartender says:

  • Unknown: Last call.
  • Recognized: Last call.
  • Regular: Last call. Jerry, you want anything?
  • Fixture: Last call. Are you coming out with us after we close here?
  • Fly: [There is no last call]

When you decide to go in:

  • Unknown: when you see the sign
  • Recognized: When the urge strikes you
  • Regular: When you know your favorite bartender is working – or your second favorite, or any of the ones you know
  • Fixture: When you know your buddies will be there too, which is most of the time
  • Fly: You can’t come in if you never leave

It is possible to be a regular without sitting at the bar. While it is possible, it is not easy to become a fixture without sitting at the bar. I managed to pull this off through many years of sitting at a table writing. It is not part of the Accelerated Regularization System(tm). You cannot be a fly from a table.

When in San Diego, I have a favorite bar I started going to the week they opened, fifteen years ago. Triska and I had our wedding shower there. During my ‘married’ phase I didn’t get in so often, but I was still regular. When I began writing in earnest I started going in very often, and became, more or less, the laptop guy. One day, I went in with some friends. I waited at the “Please wait to be seated” sign, and Hope just pointed me to my usual table, then stopped short when she realized that there were other people with me. “Oh! You have friends!” she said. In retrospect, I think that was confirmation of my fixturehood. (Melinda, you might be interested to know that Hope is largely responsible for how much sex there is in Rio Blanco.)

As far as accelerating your regularization, there are two really, really, important things. Learn your bartenders’ names, and make sure they learn yours. Of secondary importance is learning the names of the other regulars. Those who know me will not be surprised to hear that there are people I have sat next to on a barstool for years and I have no idea what their names are. But I know which ones will give me a good argument when I say “Raiders suck” or “George Bush is an idiot”.

Thanks!

Bartenders

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I was sitting in a bar one day when Bad Bobby said to me, “You know why people go to bars? It’s not to drink. They could drink a lot cheaper at home.” It was a rhetorical question, of course, so I sipped my beer and nodded. You go to bars for the company.

I like bars. I like being a regular. I like being recognized when I go into a place, even if it’s just as “the laptop guy”. You can become a regular very quickly in at least two different ways: you can do something unusual more than once, like open a laptop and work on a novel, or you can talk to the bartender and the other regulars. Generally I go for plan A – I’m not a conversation-striker-upper as a rule. But when the battery is finished and my beer isn’t I’ll sometime come out of my shell.

Whether I join the rest of the ebb and flow of humanity at the bar generally depends on the bartender. Theirs is not a job to envy, on their feet for hours on end, serving the same old drunks and hearing the same old conversations, just trying to make ends meet, when the only thing worse than getting slammed is getting no business at all. A rainy day might mean you don’t make rent.

Yet bartenders are, by and large, a cheery and friendly bunch. I expect that the ones who aren’t don’t last long in the business. I have watched them give every appearance of being interested when some moron tells them the same story for the third time that night. I have watched them end fights with grace and diplomacy.

This may come as shock to you, but I especially like it when bartenders are attractive women. Let’s face it, that’s the only time a woman is going to bring me a beer whenever I ask for one, and it’s the only time a woman will laugh at my jokes (I tip well). Even better is when the bartender has stories to tell, opinions, and no compunction about sharing them.

Now I’m on the road, and being a regular when you’re not in the same place very long is difficult. I was definitely a regular at Charlie O’s in Scotts Valley, having visited four times in two weeks, and lingering the last two times to chat with other patrons (and, of course, Kristen, the bartender). Since then, I’ve been in a couple of nice bars, a chain bar, and up here in Tahoe a couple of “locals bars.” Not dives, but not fancy either. (Sam’s Place, my first non-California bar on the trip, made me remember that it was after the nonsmoking laws got passed in CA that I started going to bars.) I may be here long enough to regularize myself, but I have to find the right bartender first.

Specific stories about specific bartenders will have to wait, except for this one: Almost exactly a year ago I was with Mikie, Mike, and Art in Louisville KY for the Kentucky Derby. We were staying at the Sheraton Blah Blah Blah and the usual bartender in the little hotel bar was Heather. What a sweetheart. We had some great conversations, and I watched her pretend to have conversations with all the losers that were in there with me. On the last day, when everyone was pissed off that Empire maker had lost (except, notably, Mikie, who bet on Fungicide to win, Yours truly, who hit the exacta, and Art, who hit the trifecta), the bar was decidedly ugly. Everyone was drunk on mint juleps from the track, and there was a long-running feud between two groups that never got quite bad enough to throw them out, but the atmosphere was poisoned. She brought Art and me are drinks and said to me quietly in her charming KY accent, “I may be smilin’ but it’s fake.” She told me later after things had settled down that she had also just broken up with her boyfriend, but had nowhere else to sleep.

As a side note, I had been having beers with a guy in that same bar the night before the race, and he showed up again after, only to be mobbed by people. Apparently he was one of the owners of Empire Maker, who was the heavy favorite and considered to be triple-crown material. We managed to have one quiet beer before the hordes drove him from the bar. He was a nice guy, the kind of guy you want to have perched on the bar stool next to yours.

I haven’t seen Heather since that day, but she will always rank among my favorite bartenders. Wherever you are, Heather, I know you’ll hold it together.

Thanks!

Bits and pieces

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I finally hoisted up the printout of Jesse’s criticisms of The Monster Within. Got through part one tonight – the easy part, the part Jesse had gone over before. Part two is still undergoing a major rewrite. Man, it’s great to have friends who can tell you when you suck. That just makes the compliments mean something. John, I know you’re looking forward to the chance to tell me I suck, too. Just remember that it’ll mean all that much more later.

A pause for a joke before I get on to business:

A friend is the person who will come out in the middle of the night to get you out of jail. A REAL friend is the guy sitting next to you in the cell saying, “That was fucking awesome.”

Speaking of fucking awesome, Mom asked me for the URL for the blog yesterday. I don’t want to hold out, but to be honest I’ve already been censoring myself, and I’m not too happy about that. I’m no Hunter S. Thompson, but there have been times I’ve kind of pulled the punches. For the most part it has been as a recognition of the fact that most of my exploits are simply not that interesting. Any thoughts I have at those times that are perhaps even remotely interesting I am sure to share.

A few things I have done that don’t deserve their own entries:

Went to the DC United vs. San Jose Earthquakes MLS game. It was the first game in which Freddy Adu started. Kid could play. I was there. Got too much sun. (Why. oh why have I not learned? This time I put sunscreen on parts of my body, but I decided that my arms didn’t need anything. ???!!?. That’s like saying, “Oh, my stomach already has cancer, so I’ll go ahead and eat some plutonium.” What possible rational reason is there to not put SFP 1,000,006 upon your entire body?) I like hockey better than football from any continent.

The night before, I went to a dance club with a couple of Buggy’s hungarian friends. Buggy was there, too. The music was horrible. I know I’m just being an old man complaining about the so-called music the kids are listening to these days, but there was a point when I thought things were improving when the bass played a second note. Sorry, kids, Some guy shouting – givin’ it to ya – telin’ ya’ll uh huh hu huh – Givin’ ya’ tha’ sto-ry – tellin’ of the glo-ry – Step back kick stand frappuccino blow dry! is not my kind of tunes. Watching well-dressed Palo-Altites shamble aimlessly to the angry Hip-Hop was almost worth it.

But not quite.

I have of late compared paying Microsoft for anything to paying a tax. Only I get more value from my other taxes. Yesterday I paid Microsoft again. I got a virus. Yes, I admit I was a little careless; I thought I was behind a firewall and I wasn’t. Today I had the firewall on and I was infected AGAIN. It’s a new virus that exploits no less than six Windows vulnerabilities. OK, maybe five. Still, what are we paying these guys for?

Nothing personal to Buggy, who challenges me intellectually more than anyone else I know, but I have to get the hell out of here. He has been a great host and a most valuable technical support guru, and all he has to show for it is a broken microwave and a depleted wine cellar. There is a pool here and I could get comfortable.

Tomorrow morning I’m gone, gone, gone.

Thanks!

Groveland

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Location: Groveland Motel (map)
Miles: 1076.3

I’m sitting on the porch of my little cabin. I can see the moon, and it seems happy enough, happy as a slot car on an oval track. None of that figure-8 nonsense where you bash into another moon and your doors fly off. The highway is reasonably quiet now, but the occasional Harley does raise a ruckus. Overall, there’s not much to interfere with my peace. There’s a cricket chirping nearby, but far enough away that it’s therapeutic; any closer and I’d want to stomp the noisy little bastard.

I suppose, for those of you glued to your seats back home, that I should tell you something about my trip. It was a good drive.

The normally reliable California highway signage let me down, but I dealt with it. Had I studied the map a wee bit more closely I would have known that 280 south became, without announcement, 680 north. Goddamn number bastards. Even numbered highways aren’t even supposed to go north and south anyway. I had been looking for the junction with 680 as the cue to start looking for signs for the wee road I intended to take over the mountains. Goddamn road was long gone before I even realized I was on 680, dammit. [Note – I’m feeling fiesty tonight. There will probably be some more gratuitous dammits.]

One pleasent side effect was that I took a shortcut off the freeway that put me right through downtown Livermore, which looked like a pretty cool place. My fondness for the old downtown was profoundly (and not kindly) affected by the series of housing developments I passed on the outskirts of Livermore that looked like apartment complexes but were actually single family homes. Castles might be a better word for these things. Castles crammed together in a ‘Castle Zone’. Yes, sir, my kind of livin’.

So havig missed my ideal highway, which I will find on the way back to the bay area Monday, I struck West on I-580. Until is was 205, or something like that. Driving through California’s central valley I reflected on the fact that I was passing through the most productive farmland in the world – so productive that the ground water is poisoned by nitrates from the fertilizer.

In the valley is a town called Oakdale. I have appended it’s name – It is now “Oakdale, city of irony”. First, there was the huge sign, which said something like “Dammit! Oakdale is the bomb! Love them oaks!” I may not have that exactly right. What made this sign special was the enormous pile of firewood stacked nearby. I wonder what kind of tree that wood came from.

Second, there was the sign welcoming me to Oakdale. It showed a string of paper people like you cut out in preschool. The sign said something like “Welcome to Oakdale, a community united against drug abuse.” Admirable, I’m sure you’ll agree. 25 feet past that sign was one that said simply “cocktails”, with a picture of a martini. A few feet farther on was Whiskey River Saloon and Cocktail Lounge. Let’s all fight it together.

The trip according to music:
Scotts Valley to Freemont: Fluffy
Freemont to Livermore: X
Livermore to Tracy: Mary’s Danish
Tracy to ranger station: Havana 3am
Ranger station to hotel: Stiff Little Fingers

If you look to the west of Groveland (map), you will see a twisty, twisty road. I followed a stinkin little toyota mile after mile up the road as it crept along. Finally, at the very top of the road, it pulled me over to let me pass. I went through the last few corners and got onto straight road, only to have the goddamn little red car riding my ass. Yearrgh.

Had dinner at the Iron Door, and stayed for the band, the Wingnut Adams Blues Band. They were pretty darn good. I was impressed on the first song when the drummer did the singing. The guitarist was awesome, but the Spinal Tap facial expressions and some of his other histrionics were pretty silly in such a small place. It’s a fine line between showman and dork.

While waiting for the band to start, I was sitting at the bar having my buffalo burger and I managed to kick up a conversation with the guy next to me. OK, he kicked it up. He was taking a break from studying for the bar exam. When I told him what I was up to, it was almost embarrassing how much he gushed at first, but he proved good at asking questions and it occurred to me that I am very fortunate to be able to do my tour. Not many people will ever have the option to do something this dumb.

I’ll get some pics up here pronto, dammit!

Ooo! John! one more thing! There’s a company up here call Zoo-phonics. You could get a job there and move to the middle of nowhere!

Thanks!

Sports Bar?

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Location: Charlie O’s (map)
Miles: 845.6
Padres magic Number: 152

My fourth, and probably last, time here on this visit. Wednesday is cheap you-call-it night, and there are a few more people here. The bartender knows me well enough now to not need to ask me what I want. I have never had to correct her on the “need vs. want” question. I would not be in tonight except that the deadline was moved for the project I’m working on. I decided to allow myself false complacency and come and write rather than work late.

In the bar area there are four small tables, and I have sat at the same one each time. When The Fish or The Monster Within sells a bazillion copies they can put a plaque here. Over at the bar, they are talking an older lady into trying Patron, a better-than-average tequila. I get the feeling that it could be Tequila of the Gods and she’s not going to enjoy it. There is only a tiny bit in the glass. Her friends are saying things like, “you don’t even need a lime.” I don’t think that will be the issue.

Wait for it…

“It burns my lips,” was her judgment. Fair enough. If the others are disappointed, it is outweighed by their appreciation that she tried it at all. On the other hand, I suspect that any discomfort she suffers over the next week will somehow be the fault of the tequila.

I believe that the Padres are playing the Giants right now. Barry Bonds is threatening the all-time record for consecutive games with a home run. The Giants are worshipped locally. This is a sports bar – it says so right on the sign. The game is not on. I’m not complaining, mind. I could ask them to put the game on and I’m sure they would. It’s just an observation, is all. They’ve got Jimi Hendrix playing right now, and I’d hate to interrupt that.

…

The game is on now, but the music still takes precedence. Playing right now is “The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll” by Mott the Hoople. I’m pretty sure that the only time I’ve ever heard that song in my entire life has been when I was playing it. I threw away that tape, along with almost all my cassettes, April 2th, the day I began the tour.

…

Addendum:
Holy crap, what is it with dudes and cologne in this place?
Padres magic Number: 151

Thanks!

A Big Day, part 3: Charlie O’s

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Location: Charlie O’s
Miles: 691.5
Padres Magic Number: 159

I was going to make this part of the previous post, except for three things. Three things would just dilute the other entry.

Thing 1: When I walked in, Jake Peavey of the Padres was dominating the Giants, making them look like weak little sissy-boys. I sat down and made myself comfortable, estranging the rest of the bar by commenting that Peavey was making the Giants batters look stupid. No sooner do I open the Powerbook and start typing when I notice that Jake is not pitching and the Giants have baserunners. They intentionally walked the tying run, Barry Bonds (damn few hitters would get walked in that situation), and paid the price. Barry scored, as well as several other Giants. Padres lose.

Meanwhile, on the television in the middle, between the two showing the game, is a show that must have been called something like “Rodeo’s most horrible injuries”. Bull riding has the unique feature that when someone gets hurt, they keep on getting hurt, over and over, until someone else distracts the bull. In that, it makes perfect television.

Thing 2: A couple came in and sat at the next table, and one of them is so scented up it’s making my eyes water. I think it’s the dude. Someone needs to give him lessons on the difference between cologne and after-shave, and the sparing use of each. His girlfriend is showing no inclination to correct her man’s ways. I just want to smack them both.

Thing 3: I am sitting in a very comfortable bar, and the people seem friendly, but it’s not really a sports bar, even thought it says “Sports Bar” on the partially-obscured sign. The baseball game is over, and there’s been no attempt to find other soprts – like hockey playoffs. Offsetting that is a friendly atmosphere and I just had a nice conversation with the owner, who seems like a good guy. The staff is happy and the service is good. If there’s not some particular sporting event that you just have to see, and you happen to be in Scott’s Valley, then this is a good choice.

Plus, both the waitress and the bartender are cute.

Still here, still writing, and now there is a thing 4.

Thing 4: Stinky and Bride of Stinky just left, and I saw a couple of things that may be interesting only to me. They are more significant because it seemed that this was one of their first dates – everything was funny and everything was new. First, when the (quite attractive) woman got up from the table she did a little stretch that definitely put her best assets on display. I appreciated that as much as her boyfriend, I’m sure. The second and more subtle thing I saw was the tip check. On the way out she looked over her shoulder to see how much dough was lying on the table. Let this be a lesson, lads. don’t be a cheapass when you’re on a date.

Thanks!

I think I need a napkin scanner.

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Gyroscopically balanced GPS-guided motorcycles to win some contest sponsored by the pentagon. Ways to cool the London underground. Most of all, construction details for the hotel on the moon. Napkin Scanner. Naaaapkin Scanner. Yeah, that’s it.

Thanks!

A Czech Tale

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The first night we stayed with Marek (pronounced marrrk), and there is a story there, but not the story for today, children. It ended at 6 am with a long cab ride. Ask me for the story of Marek’s parents some time over beers. Weird.

So a couple more nights like this follow, and Phil and I are feeling pretty run down. We decide to head over to Telc (pronounced teltch), as it is a very nice little traditional czech (pronounced check) town with a very old town center. Phil (pronounced fill) called his focus-puller and cameraman friend Tomas (pronounced toMAHSH – it would be more obvious if I could type the accent marks) to see if he wanted to come out and play. He replied that he could join us for a while, but that he had been up all night playing bluegrass music with his old band, and he was very tired, so couldn’t stay out late. Whew! An easy night at last.

We met up with Tomas and his girlfriend Dasa (pronounced dasha) in the town square, and went to the restaurant owned by a friend of Marianna’s (probably not really spelled that way) named Ivan (pronounced eeVAHN). Dasha was heading back to Prague that afternoon, and once she was gone Tomas seemed much more interested in hanging out. He cancelled plans to go and edit a documentaty he is working on and invited us over to his house. Uh, oh (pronounced here we go again).

At his house we met his parents, who were really very cool. They gave is beer, and after a little conversation Tomas’s mother complained that we weren’t drinking them fast enough. Tomas and his father played some music for us, and dad showed us some of the american folk and bluegrass albums he had collected quite illegally during the communist times.

After a while Mom came back from the kitchen with some sausage and bread and cheese, a traditional czech snack. The sausage had been made from wild boar by a friend of theirs only the day before. I’m no sausage expert, but this was pretty tasty. Then dad got up and came back with a vodka bottle. Not to worry, he quickly said, this was not vodka but slivovitce (pronounced, more or less, SLEE-vo-vit-seh), a drink made from plums (was it plums? it’s all so hazy now) and very alcoholic. This had been made by a friend of his. It was pretty tasty, but I had to be careful – if I let my guard down for a moment, my glass was refilled. There was some other really sweet cherry booze that we tried also, but apparently it’s purpose is to give the women something to sip while the men drink their slivovice. Talk about your good hosts. There was also plenty of good conversation, with Tomas and Phil being very diligent with translations.

Well, of course after that there was nothing Tomas wanted more than to go out drinking. We went to a little bar near the center of town (the town is small enough that almost everything is hear the center of town), and bellied up to the bar. Tomas is the only czech I have been with that even considered sitting at the bar. Tomash was barely staying awake until a bunch of women showed up. Nothing came of that, but that got him going again and then there was the whiskey… It’s hard to find good scotch in the czech republic, but that night we did. We had a good time discussing movie stuff – My brother (for my sake) and Tomas (for his own) thought it would attract the women over to us if we were talking like we were going to film a movie in town. Of course it didn’t work, but we did come up with a really good steadycam shot involving two cranes and all kinds of people moving around. (Apparently cable cams aren’t good for shots that require tight sound synchronization. Who would have thought?)

So there you have it, just another day in Cesky Republiky (prounouced Cheskie rePOOblikie).

Jerry (pronounced jerry)

Thanks!