tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-333385252024-03-05T02:22:42.828-08:00Doorman DiariesIdle hands...Doorman Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865123507860792229noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33338525.post-79629173987833368072012-08-12T13:45:00.003-07:002012-08-12T14:53:58.772-07:00Another Yelp Review...For the most part..I think Yelp is pretty fucking worthless. <br />
<br />
Folks who are upset decide to sprint to Yelp.com and piss and moan about their "experience" at an establishment. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I try and not even look at Yelp but a fellow employee pointed one out that named me in particular, so I felt compelled to set the record straight..because assholes like this should be called on their complete and utter bullshit. <br />
<br />
This is "Jenni B." <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28dWtzTAaebv0_cH4Te_nFW10bIKqx759okIZYyzvnqvu7rv_KpQvRZXE-_jkTvaAQ_A7andowdOXIHVIG-j6sPzzIYm__XUDBMTqtys18sUVToiZgiX9Ia00aD_IsoG1G6Rd/s1600/Jenni+Lynn.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="100" width="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28dWtzTAaebv0_cH4Te_nFW10bIKqx759okIZYyzvnqvu7rv_KpQvRZXE-_jkTvaAQ_A7andowdOXIHVIG-j6sPzzIYm__XUDBMTqtys18sUVToiZgiX9Ia00aD_IsoG1G6Rd/s200/Jenni+Lynn.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
She had her feelings hurt two months ago and wrote this review about a night she had at my place of employ:<br />
<br />
<i>"A bartender who works there is rude and lazy. He totally ruined this place for us. We were there when it hadn't even gotten busy yet and it still seemed difficult for him to get us just a beer in under 30 minutes. When we tried to get his attention he got upset at us like we were an inconvenience because he was busy talking to his friend. It took us FOREVER to try and close our tab. We finally grabbed a different bartender to close out our tab and when the rude guy didn't get as large of a tip as he expected he made some smart remarks to us. Really unprofessional. We tip well when we can actually get served.<br />
I wanna say his name is Cory because that was the name on our receipt but that could have also been the other guy who finally closed the tab for us.<br />
Either way, this place isn't that great to begin with. Especially with all of the other great places near it. To get an attitude from a bartender on top of it-- Safe to say we won't be back."</i><br />
<br />
First, I'd like to address the fact that I definitely remember this situation. It was the night before Memorial Day (which is always a busy night for bars in the area), Jenni, her husband and two other people were in their group. They sat at the east end of the bar, near the third well. <br />
<br />
Here is the crux of the situation: What I believe set Jenni and her crew into their sniveling fit was the fact that I made the choice to stop serving one of the women in their group. I wasn't lazy and I wasn't talking to a friend. It had nothing to do with them not getting drinks quick enough. It was because I didn't break the law and continue to serve someone who I felt was intoxicated. Now, seeing as how Jenni is the one that wrote the Yelp review, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it was probably her. <br />
<br />
It was pretty simple. She was intoxicated and the bar was packed. I didn't have the resources to keep an eye on her, and didn't feel comfortable serving her anymore alcohol. I told her husband quietly, so as not to embarrass her and continued serving the hundred plus other customers in the bar. <br />
<br />
When they flagged me down to close their tabs, I agree, I forgot the first time around...so it probably took about ten minutes to close them out. It was busy, and it slipped my mind. So, in that aspect, yes, I made a mistake and didn't close out their check immediately. Absolutely my fault. <br />
<br />
When I did get both checks back, I'm required to check for signatures on all credit card transactions, and I saw that both tabs were around $60...and one guy wrote in the tip line, "Wouldn't serve my wife anymore alcohol" and the other left $.50 I believe...not to mention another nice little note from Jenni stating I should learn about customer service and that I'm a horrible bartender. <br />
<br />
Though, in hindsight, I should have just smiled and walked away, I told them if they didn't wanna tip, that's fine...but don't be insulting and put $.50 down with a whiny note about poor service. If I was that horrible..how did you rack up two $60 tabs? And if you were REALLY upset, why didn't you act like an adult and speak to me about it? Instead, you took the childish, passive-aggressive approach and left a note on the credit card receipt. <br />
<br />
<br />
It's a bar. And it was on the eve of a huge drinking holiday, so it's busy. Just because Mommy and Daddy didn't hug you enough and you crave attention, it doesn't mean the rest of us give a shit less about your snotty disposition. When you grow up to be an adult and realize there are other people besides yourself, you might understand this concept.<br />
<br />
Have a good night, and be safe...<br />
<br />
Cory<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
Most are fun and harmless and I have to make a concerted effort hide my credit card from myself or I’d end up with a roomful of Snuggies, pajama jeans, and Easy Feet shower scrubbers. Little knickknacks that might be a fun gift to give because you already know it’s worthless and silly when you bought it. <br />
<br />
Then there’s the occasional product that somehow makes its way past legal and ethical filters and finds an audience whom aren’t skeptical or assign a critical thought process to a seemingly innocuous Internet purchase. <br />
<br />
When I saw the infomercial for the iRenew energy balancing bracelet, I kind of giggled a little and figured it would only be a few weeks before their company would be pounded into the ground by the FCC and consumer protection groups before being forced to refund their profits back to their customers for shilling a blatantly fraudulent item. <br />
<br />
And yet I still see plastic pitch man Art Edmonds in a much too tight polo shirt telling me that if you buy his gussied up rubber friendship bracelet, you’ll have renewed strength, flexibility, and oodles of energy. And it’s science. Buttloads of it. By buttloads, I mean none. No peer-reviewed scientific inquiry other than how gullible some people are and how badly they want to feel better despite the knowledge of how a placebo effect works. <br />
<br />
They even have a medical doctor with a sound bite. How could they have all this evidence and convince a doctor to go along with their scam if it wasn’t a real magic bracelet that healed the sick and made you better looking? They even have professional athletes and celebrities who rave about the incredible qualities of their particular brand of plastic and rubber. <br />
<br />
I’m sure it has nothing to do with getting paid. <br />
<br />
Plus, seeing as how I was a baseball player in college, I know that we are the most superstitious collection of people I’ve ever seen. We’ve been known to rub pickle juice on our hands. Pickle juice. I had to tie my spikes a special way and approach the mound in a specific path so as not to anger the baseball gods. So maybe you can understand why a magic frequency bracelet isn’t a stretch for athletes.<br />
<br />
I’m actually in the process of creating an item myself. To help heal and pursue a semblance of tranquility and overall happiness when it’s worn. <br />
<br />
The BLLSHT (Balance, Light, Life, Sight, Health, Truckloadsofcash) necklace brought to you exclusively by Doorman Diaries Inc. It’s made from specially selected rocks and stones mined from various spiritual quarries in and around my backyard. They were measured and tested under the absolute strictest of procedures to ensure that the product you’re purchasing for $19.99 and two for $49.99 (plus $11.99 Shipping and Handling...by monks and psychic healers) is going to enrich your life and punch your checking account square in the nads. <br />
<br />
Operators are standing by...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<p>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NaTejTuGZQ</p>
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<br />
But if applied correctly, and to the apropos situation, I feel those "US OR THEM" themes tend to gain purchase on the rest of us. <br />
<br />
By this I mean my rant was honed sharp by serving the asshead customers on St Patty's day. Or St. Paddy's. Or whatever the fuck spelling you need to get you through the day. <br />
<br />
Most of you understand that its a pointless holiday dreamt up by Diageo and Pernod Ricard ad execs (Hint: There never were snakes in Ireland). It's just a reason for asshole white folks to wear green and drink Jameson. Then puke green, bro-hug their buddies and end the night by quietly sobbing into a plate of carne asada fries. <br />
<br />
Anyway, here's the tie in: 99% of you <i>get it</i>. By that I mean, you understand how to maintain and behave yourselves in a social setting. Some examples include: please and thank you, waiting patiently, having your means of payment and a general idea of what drinks you'd like me to make for you and offer a gratuity as if it wasn't a foreign concept.<br />
<br />
I'd like to thank you. From the bottom of my dead, black heart, I thank you. You've obviously been raised by human beings with a thought towards courtesy and humanity and not by fecal-chucking Bonobos. <br />
<br />
For the asshole 1%: I can't describe the things I think about you and your obviously devolved lineage when you saunter up to the bar. Usually while wearing a hoodie. Inside the bar. When it's not raining. Or cold outside. <br />
<br />
(quick side rant: If you don't wanna tip, fine..don't. It happens and we understand that it's a part of the industry. We've all been broke. Shit happens. But don't lie and say you didn't know you were supposed to tip. Or make up some bullshit "poor service" excuse as to why you tipped $2 on $40. Then you look dumb AND fucking cheap. End rant)<br />
<br />
Seriously, fuck you. You're an idiot. <br />
<br />
Your entire existence just screams eugenics. When you call me "Chief", "Bro", "Dog", "Homey", or "My N****, I wanna pay a hobo to take a dump on your forehead. And just because you've heard of Lil' Wayne and know a black guy in the dorms...doesn't mean you can use the N word or any variation of it. It just means you're a soulless dipshit, with very thinly-veiled smatterings of racist Whisky Tango mixed in. <br />
<br />
Oddly enough, these brainless slugs come in two genders. <br />
<br />
The women are almost as bad as the dickheads who're trying to gain access to the $200 pair of jeans that Mommy and Daddy bought them for passing their Chem 202L class. <br />
<br />
Here's a direct kernel of truth for you: You Are Not Pretty Enough to Be That Rude. Asking for a free drink because you flop out your gelatinous boob will guarantee a look of disgust and most likely a quick exit from the establishment. <br />
<br />
Or just asking what's for free because you decided to spackle on a few paint-roller applied sessions of foundation and mascara will mean that you're A. Cheap and B. Won't be Tipping. Nothing is free. Asking for a free drink only guarantees you will not get one from me. Look up the terms, "self-control", "class" and "tact". <br />
<br />
Here are two terms that will buy you heaping gobs of appreciation and understanding from any bartender or server: Please and Thank You. Simple as that. I will routinely buy a few drinks a night just because someone has used common courtesy and said please and thank you. Do I expect it? Fuck no. Most of these mouth-breathing misanthropes have no concept of "other people", so I've learned to set the bar very low. <br />
<br />
But I also don't think my white ass belongs on a pedestal, with white lilies and golden coins of yore placed at my feet. It's a service job, and I'm there to make the customer happy. But I'm not a servant. That's where some of your 50 year-old bitter assholes and 25 year-old seventh-year seniors feel I belong...groveling and begging for your spare change. <br />
<br />
Both are wrong. <br />
<br />
So it boils down to common courtesy folks. I make my living and provide for my family by catering to your whims. But let's be honest, if you can't be a normal human being and get along with staff and customer alike, you'll be out the fucking door. Bro.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
Yes, a mis-celebration because even if Jesus was really born, he was most likely birthed around April or March and some argue around six months after Passover. The early adopters of the Christian gunk thought it would be a peachy idea to piggyback our Pagan brethren and absorb a few of their super sweet sinful ideas about celebrations.<br />
<br />
Back when Babylon wasn’t a horrifying, constantly exploding little nugget known as Iraq, the denizens of that area would willingly enjoyed the feast of the Son of Isis (Goddess of Nature) and just happened to celebrate this debauched occasion on ... you guessed it — Dec. 25! Since then, vomitous partying, irresponsible eating and mindless gift-giving have been a winter tradition.<br />
<br />
As I tap these words on my laptop in the wee hours of my birthday, I can only imagine that Santa is throwing S’Nick points my way toward a new Android Tablet (on general principle, if you have an iPad, kick yourself in the face) or something else technologically fancy on which I can beep-boop-bop my way toward pointless celebrity gossip satisfaction and online zombie killing.<br />
<br />
Perhaps an Xbox 360 Kinect so I can forgo any restricting controllers and flail around my living room as only Jesus would have done in his tiny, dirt-floored carpenter’s shack.<br />
<br />
How do I accept gifts on the most religious of holidays when I am a very vocal and vociferous agnostic/atheist you ask?<br />
<br />
Tradition. <br />
<br />
Though my daughter Samantha sometimes occupies a place in my heart I hold dear only for televangelists and smooshbags, I don’t feel the need to rob her of the pure joy that I had when I would sneak out of bed in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, much to the chagrin of my poor beleaguered parents. It was common knowledge that I liked to get a 3 a.m. preview of what gift Santa had brought and what fantastic little knick-knacks he’d left in my stocking.<br />
<br />
None of that had anything to do with Jeebus or pointless religious overtones. It was about my family being together and enjoying a day of giving to each other. <br />
<br />
Until my brother Chris touched my Star Wars figurines, to which I felt a swift death was the only appropriate solution.<br />
<br />
In a time of ever-increasing separation of our populace, gather your friends and relatives and just enjoy the time you have to spend together. Our holidays are less and less about some archaic event that may or may not have happened. They are about choosing to celebrate our time with one another.<br />
<br />
But seriously, I want an Xbox. And if Chris touches my Boba Fett figurine one more time, I am seriously going to cut his head off with the soup ladle.<br />
<br />
Rejoice!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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- William Dement</i><br />
<br />
I have this recurring dream where I’m hardly wearing any clothing and for some reason I’m walking around in around in public. I try to come to grips with the fact that I’m only wearing a pair of Sponge Bob Square Pants boxers. Which, strangely enough, wouldn’t really bother me in real life.<br />
<br />
Dreams to me are usually just a tiny window into our thought process for a brief moment in time. The dreams can vary from common realistic situations, to far-fetched fantasy scenarios. <br />
<br />
Just like bad breath and choking snores, everyone has dreams that they feel are important to blather to the rest of us. <br />
<br />
A word of caution: Don’t be that person that always feels the need to share their demented dreams with other people. <br />
<br />
If you’re having sex with Big Bird on the set of Gone With the Wind and your third grade teacher is filming the whole thing on a Speak-And-Spell, please do all of us a favor and report to your nearest psychiatrist. It’s best to seek the proper medication because you’ve passed nutty quite some time ago.<br />
<br />
One of the more comical situations I’ve dealt with is when someone you know wakes up from a crappy dream they’ve just had in which I’ve had a starring role. They’re instantly pissed off, even though I’m completely innocent. I’ve even had my wife Shannon wake me up after having one of these dreams and give me the stink eye as if I had a fugue-state affair with someone she works with. <br />
<br />
And speaking of bad dream experiences, we’ve all had to deal nightmares at some point in our lives. I remember one of the first real night terrors I had was when I first watched “Nightmare of Elm Street”. <br />
<br />
Now that I think back, I have no clue as to why Tom and Annette were letting their ten-year-old son watch a horror movie about a cackling roasted-faced child killer with knife blades for fingers.<br />
<br />
I recall waking up and not being able to differentiate between what was real and what was dream. So, I just lay petrified in my bed, occasionally peering out from underneath the safety of my sheets. <br />
<br />
And we all know that no monster, killer, or nocturnal evil can get past a pair cotton San Diego Padre sheets. Apparently it holds some form of magical protection for kids, something akin to kryptonite for all things that go bump in the night.<br />
<br />
Another part of nightmares that can be equally frustrating is when you’re in a situation that requires either running from or defending yourself in a fight. <br />
<br />
What type of intense gravitational pull is exerted on my body as soon as I enter dreamland? I can remember having a dream where I was pitching in a baseball game in college, only to have it seamlessly revert to a game of wiffleball in a walk-in closet. <br />
<br />
Please spare me your Freudian evaluation…<br />
<br />
I also tend to sleep walk. Well, not really walking. More like jumping out of bed and ranting nonsense and freaking my wife out to the point where she’s relegated to being a nighttime bouncer. Most of my antics revolve around keeping my daughter Samantha safe, so at this point, I’m safe in my freakery. <br />
<br />
To me, dreaming is a healthy process that we should all embrace and explore. There’s even ongoing studies regarding something called lucid dreaming, which is where you train yourself to realize you’re in a dream so that you can delve deeper into why you’re actually having that dream.<br />
<br />
I guess in the long run, just try and accept what they are. Dreams are just fantastical home movies set within our own mind. Write them down, remember them, study them, just don’t take it too seriously.<br />
<br />
I just have to figure out why I have a tendency to sleep walk though. It sure makes my family’s life interesting...and my staircase a insurance liability.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
<div> With my daughter Samantha turning two recently, I thought I might share small bits of wisdom that I've gleaned over the years that might help her out in her young little life. </div><div> <br />
</div><div> Or she'll most likely read this in ten years and tell me I'm lame and should get a life. Yes, I'm sure of the latter...and I'm not sure I disagree. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do...as I say, not as I do. <br />
</div><div> Do not...eat M&M's with beef jerky with hot sauce for breakfast. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do...eat those disgusting Pop Tarts I put on your plate. Or jam them in your ear. I'm sure they have the same nutritional content either way. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do...continue to use the cute words that make me want to squish you into a pile of lavender smelling blond curls. And eat those Pop Tarts...they're not cheap. </div><br />
<div> Do not...mimic the words that Dad uses when he's fixing just about anything around the house. Its bad enough when you say the word "truck" in public and people glare at me like I'm the devil, let's not hone your ability to enunciate. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do...read every single book you can get your hands on. This includes the Bible because it's funny, sad, and scary at the same time. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do not...read tabloids. Fake boobs, money, and shiny cars seem to be the sum total of what they're pushing. It's like Del Mar. Except in Del Mar, you don't have to be literate to be sucessful. <br />
</div><br />
Do...watch as much Fox News as possible.<br />
<br />
<div> Do not...stop laughing as you watch those silly sycophants try to make their silly doctrine make sense to anyone who's under the age of 60. <br />
</div><br />
Do...pretend that children's statue across from Leucadia Pizza isn't frighteningly creepy. </div><br />
<div> Do not...GO NEAR IT. Ever. If you are the lunatic that designed that bronze monstrosity.. go away. It's awful and passersby cringe and wonder why you hate kids. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do...remember that going to college is an important right of passage and a logical step upon high school graduation. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Do not...think that every person with a college degree is intelligent. It only means they stayed within a certain discipline and finished what they started. They are by no means smarter than anyone else. <br />
</div><br />
Do...go to bars and restaurants. Enjoy yourself and don't forget that waiters, waitresses, servers, bartenders, and hosts aren't slaves to cater to your every whim. If you think that, you're most likely brain dead and beyond help. <br />
<div><br />
<div> Do not...forget that the waitstaff will kill you where you stand. Seriously, we will kill you. Know the rules and don't be rude or your service will be non-existent. </div><br />
<div> Do...remember that your Dad is and always will be vehemently overprotective. <br />
</div><br />
Do not...take everything he says as gospel. He's scared and cautious when it comes to his daughter and just wants you to avoid all the problems he had to deal with. </div><br />
<div> Fine...you can have beef jerky for breakfast. Just don't tell Mom.<br />
<div> <br />
</div> <br />
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<br />
<br />
<div> As June peeks its gloomy head around the clouds and begins the blistering pace towards the August finale, I wanted to discuss a sport that is severely lacking national attention. </div><br />
<div> Or any attention for that matter. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Throwing horseshoes, or "pitching" to those privy to the appropriate lexicon, has been a Waterhouse extravaganza dating back to the days of pretending that El Cajon was a viable real estate choice. </div><br />
<div> My Dad and uncles would gather most of their truck-driving brethren and do their best to not crush knees, smash shins, or crank ankles of those involved in the backyard shenanigans. This was a big event around the neighborhood, and nary a chucker of bended steel missed one of these events. </div><br />
<div> Though Coors Original did not help the festivities, I'm sure that the participating athletes in the East County Horseshoe Olympics felt that those golden circles of hopped delight were indeed a performance-enhancing substance. </div><br />
Children were strictly forbidden to play horseshoes and yet played a role in every tournament. We were usually relegated to gofers and neophyte bartenders yet we eagerly grabbed those mangled steel shoes at any given chance always wondering what type of mammoth horse these shoes actually fit. <br />
<br />
<div> A quick note to purists: my brother Chris throws left-handed and pitches his horseshoes overhand. Is he the devil? I wanted to run it by my fellow pitchers. He is, isn't he? I knew it. <br />
<div> <br />
</div> Over the years, my love for the game never wavered but finding appropriate venues and viable opponents seemed to cleave away my time in the pits. I'd get a beach game here, or the occasional family tournament there, but they never really reached within and grabbed a hold of me like it had in my youth. <br />
<br />
<div> This lull lasted until a breezy conversation with my fellow co-worker Kenny Buckner. Though his last name brings dread among Red Sox faithful, he's excellent behind the bar and a person I've found has a keen respect for the fine art of the ringer. <br />
</div></div><br />
<div> KB and I thought it appropriate to test each other's clanging skills at Glen Park on a blindingly bright day where the sun sears your eyelids shut when you don't bring sunglasses or a low brimmed hat. Which I did. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Though I was victorious that day (YES!), I felt a certain camaraderie and kinship with my fellow employee. We chatted as we finished our requisite innings and concocted a plan to continue practicing until we elevated our game with a very specific goal in mind. </div><br />
<div> We were going to barnstorm the NHPA (National Horseshoe Pitching Association) and make our way to fame and glory as the oh-so-inventively nicknamed "Dead Ringers". Don't worry, the t-shirts will be available for sale on our website. When we get a website. </div><br />
<div> So the next time you hear the clang of metal on metal or a flurry of foul language by men trying not to curse in a public park, take heed: We've thrown the gauntlet. You know where to find us and we're taking on all challengers. <br />
</div><br />
<div> Dead Ringers...coming to a pit near you. <br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
There's a season two of "The Bartender Hates You" also. Please watch them. Learn.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
I was that little jerk that pounded on your door as the moon shone white with my young group of marauding miscreant cohorts. Those stifled giggles weren’t coming from your fence or a feverishly sentient raccoon that patrolled your front yard.<br />
<br />
No, that was just us laughing at you. Because we were bored and had nothing better to do with our time than waste yours and steal precious hours of sleep that you desperately needed.<br />
<br />
I do recall having to branch out to other areas, or make new friends so we didn’t have to keep doorbell ditching the same handful of people who actually got up and answered the door. That would mean my parents could have found out, which would put me on lockdown for a couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
At some point we’d get caught and have to apologize, which was worse than running in scattered directions when the old guy threatened to shoot us with rock salt. I don’t know if that’s even possible but to this day I fear the lawns of white haired men in flannel.<br />
<br />
Playing hide and seek was another way for us to run around the neighborhood unsupervised, albeit with less chance of getting beaten or having vicious canines sicced on us.<br />
<br />
There was always something oddly exhilarating about playing a block-wide game of hide and seek with thirty five kids, doing your best to climb under cars, in trees, or stay stationary just long enough to find that perfect hiding spot...only to have it spoiled by having to pee as soon as your in it.<br />
<br />
I had the hide and seek bladder of a small infant. I would keep moving from spot to spot because I left whiz tracks wherever I went.<br />
<br />
Then there was the curious schoolyard game of Butts Up. A group of kids throwing a ball against the wall in hopes of one of them muffing it. Then, someone within the group pounces on it and rushes to chuck the tennis ball against the wall before the muff-ee touches said wall.<br />
If that person drops the balls three times, then he or she is forced to face the wall and take a firing squad of one throw per Butt’s Up participant. There’s something to be said for simplicity.<br />
<br />
Another simple game concocted by seemingly homophobic children is the ever popular, and always schoolyard banned, Smear the Queer. Poetic, no?<br />
<br />
Anyway, this one revolved less on rules, and more on brutality to maintain it’s dominance throughout the decades. One person has a ball. Everyone else does their best to smear his or her face into the ground until everyone is roughed up to the point of bloodied submission.<br />
<br />
Oh, how the games we play in our youth rarely translate to adult life. Or do they? You screw up, your Butt’s on the line. When you’re on the ball, everyone wants to Smear you into the dirt. Hiding from the masses is usually good for the soul on occasion.<br />
<br />
And doorbell ditching? Well, okay, not all games translate. But you have to admit, you still want to. But not at my house. <br />
<br />
I have rock salt...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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liberal with his usage of the English language.<br />
<br />
At this point, he's got a rudimentary understanding of verbal<br />
communication and giggles his way through discussions about food,<br />
baseball, motorcycles, and constantly reminding me about the F bomb I<br />
accidentally muttered. Again.<br />
<br />
There are words he likes to share with the rest of the world that he<br />
knows aren't appropriate to utter. So instead of singing it out loud<br />
and letting everyone know about it, he quietly saddles up next to your<br />
ear to share these words with you.<br />
<br />
There's something about a curly-haired little blond kid whispering<br />
curse words to you with a sly Cheshire grin that makes it really<br />
difficult to chastise him.<br />
<br />
But there's another word that he utters. A word I don't understand,<br />
yet I've become acutely fascinated with it. Perplexed and infatuated<br />
with a term I can't possibly comprehend and with the thousands of<br />
words I've pounded into my keyboard, this one utterance still haunts<br />
me.<br />
<br />
Imoway.<br />
<br />
Six innocent little letters spoken from the mouth of grinning little<br />
towhead. With his eyes quietly laughing at me, as if I should know<br />
what he means. He taunts me with vocabulary I can't possibly decipher.<br />
<br />
I've even tried every permutation to figure out what he's trying to<br />
say. I've Googled it. I'm beginning to think it's not even English and<br />
might be some type of global infant conspiracy.<br />
<br />
It usually starts with me simply saying the word to him. I'm a glutton<br />
for punishment and I can't help myself. A typical conversation is as<br />
follows:<br />
<br />
"Hey Zach…Imoway."<br />
<br />
This simple sentence usually resets his demeanor, and he'll sit down<br />
next to me and look me straight in the eye and tell me:<br />
<br />
"No Cowey…Imoway",<br />
<br />
He says this with a stern face as if warning me of my foolish adult<br />
transgression. If I repeated the word imoway, he'd become more<br />
insistent and sit on my lap to remind me, that he himself was…imoway.<br />
<br />
I thought this was just a fun game for him and me to play until recently…<br />
<br />
I was having lunch a few weeks ago and a young lad had freed himself<br />
from his parents and was walking around greeting people waiting in<br />
line. Jokingly, I shook his chubby little hand and instead of hello, I<br />
said "imoway".<br />
<br />
As he walked past me, he stopped dead in his tracks, turned and looked<br />
me straight in the eye. He knew what I was saying. Realizing I knew,<br />
he promptly walked in the direction of his parents.<br />
<br />
Just to test my theory, I had my wife say the same thing to a<br />
kid at Island's last week. He glared at us and sat down while the<br />
whole time sneaking sideways glances at us. He whispered something to<br />
his younger sister, and I swear they spoke into their wrist like<br />
secret service agents.<br />
<br />
As I write this, I feel like every child I see looks at me like I'm on<br />
to them. I know conspiracies are for the mentally unstable but they're<br />
after me. Seriously. The Imoway Society knows my every move.<br />
<br />
Try it for yourself. The next time you're around a little rug monster,<br />
mention the word imoway. Watch their reaction. Then kiss your ass<br />
goodbye. They're on to us. You've been warned…<br />
<br />
Imoway…<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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<br />
<br />
I was lucky enough to sit at the Coast News booth during the Encinitas Street Fair. I sat there with the intrepid Jean Gillette of "Small Talk" fame and a couple other fine scholars that the Coast News employs. We all spent a few hours trying to get passers by to fill out surveys about our local papered blog.<br />
<br />
What started out as a simple grass roots fact finding mission for the newspaper became a people watching event of mythic proportions. And that was only after two hours.<br />
<br />
My attention was initially sparked with the amount of grubby people that were walking around without shoes on. Shabby hippies that reeked of patchouli and parental disappointment. I was starting to think that a small percentage of people living in Encinitas were born in a barn.<br />
<br />
I’ll admit, I wear my slippers in public, but the thought of walking around without shoes on is just repulsive. Dodging spilled drinks, toppled funnel cake swirlies, and roughly ten million stinky dog bombs dropped on the 101 is not the proper arena to shed your shoes. Nasty...<br />
<br />
Then a nice lady was talking with us about some local piece of news that she liked (we’re much more patient when given compliments) when I noticed that she had a large slash of chocolate across the right side of her chin. Apparently the idea of having to eat chocolate-covered strawberries and talk was too tough a task. I didn’t bother telling her either because she was on a roll, and like I said...we like compliments.<br />
<br />
Even though the weather was overcast and a tad on the chilly side, there were clearly muffin tops as far as my sad eyes could see. A vast ocean of belly and back fat cascading over the top of jeans that wouldn’t have fit these women in high school.<br />
<br />
Please, stop wearing tight jeans and cropped shirts. We don’t want to see your Grateful Dead tattoo anymore. After fifteen years, it looks like someone set those poor stoned bears on fire and used a baseball bat to douse the flames.<br />
<br />
I’m so tired of seeing Mom’s dressed like their daughters and daughter’s dressed like their for sale. Have a little self-respect. There were children present. And I have eyes. <br />
<br />
Speaking of children, I was curious... when are people not related to a child allowed to punt them? I’m not sure of the legalities just yet, but I’m pretty sure if a kid is a whiny little twit and the parents don’t attempt to rectify said brattiness, we as a society are allowed to drop kick them into the ocean. Just a thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then to top it all off, there was a bright orange electrical cord near our booth that seem to attract those with three left feet. Instead of just leaving the little orange wire, they put a large black plastic piece over it as a "safety" precaution. I wish I was a lawyer...<br />
<br />
I was sitting there with another employee marking down how many people tripped over the black plastic precautionary device.<br />
<br />
Final tally: 60+ in less than three hours.<br />
<br />
Another street fair comes to a close in our little hamlet, and Encinitas has once again been proven to be the eclectic dwelling of ethnic, cultural, and socio-political melting pot that it’s known for.<br />
<br />
Now if only we could get deep fried Twinkies like those rich bastards in Del Mar...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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He told me that he new who I was and where I lived because I paid with my credit card. I am now contacting my attorney as I have filmed the most of the confrontation."</font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <i><font size="2">and my response..</font></i><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">“Dear Shawn...”<br><br /> To Whom It May Concern... I'm the bartender that you're speaking of in your review of 1st Street Bar. Let me take this opportunity to respond to the allegations you made against myself and the establishment.</font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">The entire situation can be summed up with my choice to stop serving you because I felt it was unsafe to do so. I was neither rude nor confrontational, and as I do with any customer I stop serving, I told you quietly and to the side so as not to embarrass you in front of other customers. I even gave you the option to stay and continue playing pool, if you so chose. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">Instead, you decided to attempt to coerce another customer into unknowingly buy you another cocktail. At that point, I politely reminded you that you'd been cut off, at which point you became belligerent, so I offered to get you a taxi cab and told you calmly and quietly that it was in everyone's best interest that you leave the establishment. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">Cut to 15 minutes later with you calling the bar no less than 14 times to file complaints against myself and the doorman working that night. With each call, you made another false claim against myself and the security professional working the door. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">At one point, you claimed that I kicked you out of the bar because you were dating my ex-girlfriend. Which is strange because you're married and my ex-girlfriend lives on the east coast. The SD Sheriff's department was called (by you) because you made a claim that the doorman and I were threatening you with violence and that we planned on "beating you the next time we see you out in the surf", which was an odd thing to fabricate seeing as how neither of us surf. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">As for embarrassing you in front of your wife...that must have been done at your home because you were by yourself in the bar, and also alone when you came back with a video and digital camera to "document the harassment" you faced at the bar. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">To the claim about not giving you the owner's contact information, yes, I absolutely did not do that. It's against protocol and isn't something they deal with on that level. I did however give you the name of my manager and his contact information. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">As to knowing where you live...no I have no clue other than your claim of being a "local" and living up the street. Yes, we do know your name because you paid with your credit card and the fact that you called 14 times and your name was stored in the caller ID. </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2">I hope this addresses some of the concerns you have and I also hope this illuminates what actually happened that night and doesn't sway other people from coming in and enjoying themselves at the bar. Unfortunately, this is just another byproduct of dealing</font><font size="2"> with certain patrons who can't control themselves nor accept responsibility for their actions.</font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"><br><br /> </font><br /></div><br /><div><br /> <font size="2"> Thank you...</font><br /></div><br /><br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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