Deflating

So, as you may or many not have read my laid off entries, the is in some ways a continutation of this whole life experience.

Last night, I had the opportunity in the with the new job / in the new role to attend a very high priced cocktail reception where there was a pretty prominent speaker, in a swanky hotel, the whole deal.

Suit freshly pressed - Check
Shoes freshly shined - Check
New business cards in breast pocket - Check
Arrive about 30 minutes early - Check

Walk up to hotel lobby bar as I have a few minutes to kill . . . feeling confident about my new gig and know the facts and figures that seem important . . . get a nice seat at the end of the bar . . . . look the bartender square in the eye. . .. order my cocktail of choice, "Stoli-Tonic, Please". .. .. .

"Sir, May I see your ID?"

just a little deflating of a moment.

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 6 - Training

Presented without comment, except to say "Not mine!"

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 5 - The Price of Love

Barfly:"Man, wish I had a spare $20K lying around."
Me (with a modicum of background on the situation to be detailed below):"Is that the going rate these days."
Barfly:"That's the cost of a condo in Costa Rica, which is worth a swap."

There is a patron. Let's call him Sweet Awesome feathered Mullet Guy, or Sam G for short. About 6 weeks ago, Sam G shows up with a girl on his arm that was, shall we say, way out of his league. And dressed to impress. Me and other guys. We'll call her Lolita. Sam G is about 40. Lolita looks to be about 25. "Mail Order" was thrown around-- I thought at first in jest then, until conversation above, in perfect seriousness.

The truth is worse.

Sam G has business interests in Costa Rica. During the course of these interests, he met Lolita's father. Impoverished, if banter is to be believed. Sam G had a decent condo (mayhaps a townhouse, couldn't get verified) that would be a significant upgrade to the family. Sam G negotiated a deal.

The mail-order-bride business is, to me, ethically grey. Provided the "bride" is a willing participant. Not my cup of tea, mind you, but with 2 parties entering the relationship with open eyes, I suspend judgment as I can see a benefit to both parties [that some countries are so inhospitable to necessitate a bride to follow that path is a rant for another day].

Banter once again remaining inviolate, Lolita was seen crying in a nearby bar and consoled by one of the barflyettes who happened to be there at the same time. She's no happy camper.

So what to do about a situation that, on the surface, appears to be a legal adult acting as an unenthusiastic fluff girl for the betterment of her family?

Makes my problems seem small.

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 4

Heard tonight--

Bartendress: "Put the salt back on the other side of the pepper!"
Barfly: "Why, who cares."
Bartendress: "White is right!"

I immediately thought "No way in the world after 3-days-a-week patronage for years am I sitting in a racist bar."

Although not mandatory in a food serving establishment, as a courtesy in a situation where you can conclusively determine which way the patron will be viewing the salt and pepper (i.e. a bar, or a booth where the spices abut a wall, etc.), you put the salt on the right and the pepper on the left as viewed by the patron.

Wanna guess why? [spoiler below]





As a courtesy to the blind.

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 3

Heard tonight--

"You notice how they're never showing the beach below the cliffs at Torrey Pines?" (currently holding the U.S. Open golf tournament)

MB - "Didn't notice."

"Well, the beach below the cliffs that act as a hazard for a number of holes is actually called Black's Beach. It's a fully nude beach, so you'll never see anything but a blimp view."

And there you have it...

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 2- R.I.P Mr. Parakeet

(Editor’s note: Max Boom, while a Superdelagate in the American light beer arena, adheres to a strict “No Illegal Drug” policy.)

New vocabulary I learned while eavesdropping last night at the local watering hole:

Waterfalling – verb – To inhale smoke as follows: Immerse your hands in cold water. Remove them and extend out in front of you, palm side up with your pinkies in contact. Your hands should resemble a wet bowl with a “channel” running from the tip of your pinky, along the meat of your hand, ending at the wrist. Put the bottom of the channel (wrist end) to your mouth. Have a friend inhale deeply on his cannabis cigarette (or pipe, dugout, skull, or other bud-to-smoke conversion tool) and blow the smoke into the top of the channel at your pinkies. You inhale deeply at the bottom.

Gladhatting – verb – To inhale smoke as follows: Remove your Baller, Shot-Caller Starter hat. Turn bill-side up so that you are staring into the inside of your hat, like a catcher’s mitt. Put the hat over your face so that the bill is sticking up in the air. Make sure if you’ve still left the price and/or brand tag attached to your hat that it doesn’t interfere with the airtight nature of your new mask. Once again, have a friend inhale deeply on his cannabis cigarette. Lift the bill of the hat slightly away from your forehead and have friend blow smoke under the bill and into your mask. Inhale deeply.

And a final vocabulary lesson with a tragic twist:

Super winner barfly #1: “Remember the time you shotgunned your parakeet? Poor thing died on the spot?”

Super winner barfly #2: “Yeah, that was so wrong.”

Max: “Do you mean to imply that you shot a parakeet with a shotgun and were surprised at its very predictable and timely demise?”

Super winner barfly #1: “No, I mean with a joint.”

Max: “Well paint me dense, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Super winner barfly #1: “Shotgunning is where you turn the joint around in your mouth and kiss someone while blowing smoke into their mouth. He did it with his pet parakeet.”

And this is why I log the hours I do at the bar. To regale you, dear reader, with gems of wisdom such is “Between parakeet and human, shotgunning amuses only one”.

RIP, Mr. Parakeet, RIP.

Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 1

So I was having a pleasant conversation with Ms. Fire at the local watering hole when the following exchange came up—

Max: “Man, I met some pretty wealthy people at this conference I attended. People with $6 Million liquid, to say nothing of the vastly greater wealth tied up in their various investments. Pretty sharp folks.”

Ms: [says nothing, cannot stop ogling my manly mustache.}

Eavesdropping Barfly: “Yup, it takes money to make money.”

And pan out to 60,000 feet.

Now I know this gentleman. He’s a Semi-Regular. My definition of a Regular is someone there more often than I, and a Semi-Regular as someone whom I’ve seen more than 20 times. For the record, there are fewer than 6 Regulars by my definition.

Let’s take a step away and give a little more info on the bar, as it provides a primary backdrop for many of my anecdotes. It’s your stereotypical sports bar—not a chain, but a stand alone establishment. They have Bud Select on tap. For me. They have a Christmas party every year for their staff. Ms. Fire and I got one of 10 "Favored Patrons" invites. I rocked Eminem on the Karaoke. Damn, this is turning more into a resume of my awesomeness than a bio on the bar.

Linearly thinking, the bar Regular and Semi-Regular patrons range through a wonderful blend of semi-successful business folks with an affliction, blue collar toilers with a habit, and bumbling mental trilobites with a problem. I love all of my marionettes equally. Mr. “It takes money to make money” definitely tends towards the obtuse end of the spectrum—every 95th percentile needs its 5th I suppose.

Now I don’t usually engage in any mental sparring with patrons who, in my opinion, would likely fail debate against animals I have eaten. Usually. Unless they A) unprovoked, knock one of my favored football teams or B) interrupt Ms. Fire’s stroking of my supple mane. He chose B).

Max: “What exactly does that mean, ‘It takes money to make money’?”

Barfly: “Well, if you want to build an apartment building you gotta have the money to build it.”

Max: “So, if you woke up with $6 Million liquid, what would you do?”

Barfly: “Well, you sure wouldn’t see me showing up for work at the garage tomorrow.”

Max: “So you’d quit your current job. Then?”

Barfly: “I’d probably move to the Bahamas and never work again.”


I acknowledged his piercing business acumen and promptly returned to my cups.

So I offer a simple bit of advice. If you, reader 5 of 13, or any of the other 12 of you, come up to me and mindlessly recite the underachieving mantra “It takes money to make money,” I’ll kick you square in the shin. In my experience, it hurts much worse than a punch in the nose. Of secondary benefit is that your lawsuit’s gonna look pretty darn silly.