Tag Archives: Powers

The Day After

21 Jul

Radio silence: over!!

Actually, I don’t know if any of you guys really care all that much about my recent lack of posting.  You know who does care?*  Facebook.  The other day I got a message from my franklyrebekah Facebook page saying that people miss franklyrebekah because I hadn’t posted anything in a while.  I called bullshit because not many people have “liked” my page and I am sure that a lot of people who have really only did so because they are my friend and wanted to be supportive and then promptly hid my franklyrebekah updates from their news feed because it jams up the works.  I might do the same thing if I were them.  Oh but by the way, if you want to like my page, you should. I think there is a handy little Facebook link button somewhere or other.  To the right maybe?  Yea, I think it’s somewhere on the right. At least, that’s where it should be.  All you have to do is click it.  That’s what they tell me, anyway.  Then you can tell your friends to like it also, I mean, if you’re so inclined.  Is what I am doing right now lame and also sort of rude?  Yea, probably. I’ll stop.  Okay.

Anyway, so maybe some of you know this already but this past Saturday, July 19th, was my birthday!  Hooray for being born!  I had a really good day, actually.  I decided this year that I didn’t want to plan a whole thing so I picked up a bartending shift and then a bunch of my friends came over to hang out and my family surprised me with a visit and my friends who own the bar bought me a birthday fruit tart and everyone sang happy birthday to me and I blew out the candle and I think maybe I saw my mom shed a little happy tear.  Yea, it was pretty neat.  And then I went out with some friends after and there was A LOT of whisky and a Nutella-stuffed calzone and some beautiful sunflowers and lots of hugs and some more whisky.  I actually had to work the next day, which is sort of what this post is about, and on the way to work I had a moment of fret that there might actually not be any whisky left in all of Brooklyn.  Or, at least, not any Powers.  But I got to work and, lo and behold, there it was:  a shiny bottle of Powers perched upon the shelf right next to the Jameson.  Phew.

So that all isn’t the point really.  The point is that on the night of my birthday I went to bed really late.  I went to bed really late despite the fact that I knew I was working the next day from noon to 9 and that there are few things that I dislike more than bartending hungover.  The thing is that I took the shift specifically because I figured that knowing (a) I had to work the next day at noon and (b) just how much I hate bartending hungover, I would make responsible, wholesome decisions the night before.  At this point in my life I feel I should just stop lying to myself.  Honestly, it’s embarrassing.  Anywho, needless to say the yesterday morning that the title of this particular post refers to was less than stellar.  I got out of bed and went down the hall to brush my teeth and everything.  I had to pee.  I looked at the toilet and noticed that the seat cover was up and the seat was down, as it should be.  Then I put the seat cover down, blocking access to the bowl.  Why would I do that?  I don’t know.  I then proceeded to stare at the now unuseable toilet with a feeling of complete confusion.  How would I pee with the cover down?  What would become of me?  This lasted for about 30 seconds before I thought to myself,

Hey, asshole, just undo what you just did and all will once again be right with the world.  Or at least, the world of this particular bathroom.

So I put the lid back up again and all was right, as I had hoped.  Then I went back into my room and smacked the side of my ankle on the wall.  How?  I don’t know but that’s what I did.  Luckily I don’t bruise easily but the spot is sort of sensitive to the touch so I am pretty certain that I have some serious subdural bruising.  (As an aside, I looked up the definition of the word subdural because sometimes I use words incorrectly and no one tells me and this is what it said: “situated or occurring beneath the dura mater or between the dura mater and the arachnoid membrane.”  That definition cleared up absolutely nothing for me and made me feel like maybe there are a bunch of spiders living under my skin. Is that possible?)  Anyway, that’s not even the best part.  This is the best part.  So I had gotten myself all ready to go and was speed walking down the hallway when I realized that I had forgotten my phone in my room.  Oh no! So I turned around and rushed back to my room and in the process, and unbeknownst to me, I got the strap to my canvas shoulder bag stuck on the doorknob of the closet outside my bedroom.  I bet you know what happened next but if you don’t, I’ll tell you.   I ripped my bag clean in half.  Top to bottom.  And all my shit came pouring out onto the floor.  My wallet, a book, some magazines, a pocket knife, my mace, some old receipts, a few gum wrappers, and a lot of sand.  So, yea, that was pretty fun.  It was a cute bag, too.

Other weird things happened later in the day but nothing that would really stand up well against that story so I will just leave it at that.  Oh, and also, I have come up with a new way to describe myself.  I am catastrophe prone.  So, stay tuned for future catastrophes because for someone such as myself, they are hiding behind every corner, just waiting to appear.

*Following the whole Citizen’s United ruling, I feel as though it is okay for me to refer to Facebook as a “who” as opposed to a “what.”  Just so you all don’t think I had a total grammar fail right there.  (But let’s be real: this is totally just me justifying my grammar fail.  I could never lie to you guys.)

Just Another Manic Monday

12 Nov

So I am beginning to feel as though maybe I am overdoing it a pinch on my bartender posts, but my customers, it seems, have been in a content-giving mood and who am I deprive you, my readers, of such ridiculousness.  We must prepare ourselves for the inevitability of the oncoming hilarity drought by sneaking in as much enjoyment from my job as is humanly possible.  Or, at least I have to because without moments such as these the tedium would become unbearable.  And so, without further ado, I bring you:  Monday.

The day started off normal enough. I walked to work, bought the Times so I could do the Monday puzzle.  The Monday puzzle is the only puzzle I can successfully complete.  My mom tells me that with practice I would be able to one day tackle the Tuesdays and Wednesdays without too much trouble since the clue-masters reuse a lot of the same words — “oreo,” “uzi,” “el al” — but my ego is far too sensitive.  I would rather feel smart on Mondays and pretend the puzzle doesn’t exist the rest of the week than feel smart on Mondays and then stupid for the following 6 days until I once again complete the puzzle, feet smart, and follow the same trajectory ad infinitum.  I then bought myself some healthy snacks and headed off to the bar where I found, on the curb just in front of the abandoned store next to my bar, a discarded chaise lounge with a decapitated mannequin sitting atop it. I knew right then and there it was going to be an interesting day.

About a half hour into my day an older customer of mine walked in.  He drinks wine and he talks a lot about things that vary from mildly interesting to snooze worthy.  On this particular day he was interested in talking about his appreciation for his grandchildren and also for kale.  He loves kale.  Cleans him right out, he told me.  In the midst of him telling me how men love to talk about sports and women love to talk about the Desperate Housewives and that’s why he prefers to hang out with men, in walked, or should I say crutched, another occasional customer.  He has been on crutches for the past 6 months following ankle reconstruction surgery.  This guy is, how to put this nicely, an arrogant fuck.  I do feel badly about his ankle, though.  I should have realized right away that these two guys in the bar at the same time was a bad thing because they both have very strongly-held and questionably argued opinions based off, in large part, episodes of Dr. Oz.  So while I stood by in wide-eyed disbelief, these two ill-informed know-it-alls started arguing about science.  Just as an aside, to that list of things that should not be discussed in a bar (politics and religion although I disobey that first one on the regular) I would like to add pop-science.  So the argument went something like this:

Kale Guy thinks that vaccines are stupid because Dr. Oz had some guest who he thinks maybe teaches at Harvard and who wrote an article about the fact that vaccines are “a sham.”  He thinks all diseases are due to the fact that people are dirty and if they would just stop pooping in the street then the vaccines wouldn’t be necessary.  He had no argument concerning whooping cough and also no idea as to how to provide low-cost working sewage systems for every person in the entire world in order to prevent the spread of disease.  No matter because Dr. Oz said. (For the record, I think Dr. Oz is the worst and I am mad at Oprah for discovering him.)  He also thinks medicine is bad and vegetables are good.

Ankle Guy thinks Kale guy is full of shit and thinks that vaccines are important.  He also thinks that all pharmaceutical companies are really great, that all the drugs they create are awesome, and that the companies are out to help all the people and not out to make money off the pain and suffering caused by the tendencies of some doctors to over prescribe medication at the behest of said companies.  Had I been a part of this conversation and not a reluctant observer I would have directed Ankle Guy to the recent $2.2 billion settlement being paid by Johnson & Johnson in response to “accusations that it improperly promoted the antipsychotic drug Risperdal to older adults, children and people with developmental disabilities.”  But I was not so I stood idly by.

This went on for awhile. I spent some percentage of the time hiding in the office downstairs, commiserating with my boss/friend, and watching for any and all escalation on the cameras.  The cameras have proven especially useful at times such as these.  Eventually, Ankle Guy decided that calling Kale Guy names was not going to get him anywhere, so he pretended he was late for an appointment and crutched out.  Kale Guy seemed to have a wonderful time and proceeded to compliment me on the health benefits of my lunch.

I thought that, after that interaction, all of the weird for the day was over but it really never is.  Sometime around 7pm a rather drunk individual walked in, carrying on in a voice way too loud for the atmosphere. I was nervous that he would be a problem and was a little reluctant to serve him the shot of rye that he ordered, but my fears were quickly assuaged when he started slurring along with the They Might Be Giants song “Birdhouse in Your Soul.”  There’s nothing quite so entertaining as hearing a fratty-looking guy sing “I’m your only friend I’m not your only friend but I’m your little glowing friend but really I’m not actually your friend but I am.”  (And yes, I did just quote that from memory.  Get over it.)

Anyway, sandwiched between “science” and TMBG I got my first-time visit from my new favorite customers.  Or my favorite new customers.  I don’t want anyone to have their feelings hurt.  I don’t know if these people will ever come back but I really hope they do.  They both work in service and have for a long time.  I figured this out when, upon ordering their Powers neat (!!!), we engaged in a very heated discussion of the recently redesigned Powers bottle.  I was happy to see that they agreed with me that this new bottle was inferior to its prior incarnation for the following two reasons: it looks more fancy and it has a cork which means that it also has that stupid foil shit that spells danger to bartenders fingers everywhere.  The day when my beloved Powers slices my finger open will be a sad day indeed.  What absolutely solidified my love of this couple was when they got into a conversation about drug policy in Colorado.  I don’t know what the exact content of this conversation was because it was at this time that I sadly got busy, but I was present to listen to one portion of the male-half’s contribution.  He started angrily enumerating, using the index, middle, and pointer fingers on his right hand, the things that Colorado loves.  And this is what he said.

“Here’s the thing.  In Colorado they love fitness, they love mountains, and they love fresh air.”

He seemed equal parts confused and angered by these specific preferences and I thought it was hilarious.  It also left me wondering, if he was tasked with choosing, whether  or not he would support the succession of Northern Colorado from the rest of the state.  (Am I the only one that didn’t know that was a thing until recently?  What would happen to the flag? Where would the 51st star go?  On the bottom right hand corner?  A PROPER RECTANGLE CANNOT ACCOMMODATE 51 STARS!)

So there you have it.  Monday.  And, for those among us who are curious, here is a link to an article from the Washington Post that lists the 11 other places within the United States where activists want to secede from their states.  Independent Long Island.  Who knew.