Dear Bartender: I have a question for you, but I don’t want to ask it. Maybe you know what it is. Maybe you can answer it without me having to ask it.
Luck?
Dear Luck: Actually, I can sense that you have several questions. Please apply the answers to whichever question they seem most appropriately to answer: 1) Yes; 2) You won’t know for sure for about six months; 3) Lick the bowl; 4) You’re probably using too much cranberry juice.
Dear Bartender: Why can I get a job in a bar? I have been to almost every bar no one will hire me. I will wait tables, bar bake or bar tend. I really want to work in a bar but no one will give me a job even though I ask them all the time. Will you please write me a recommend. I am hard working and I think I would be right for a job in a bar.
Thank you.
From,
Bruce Strong
Dear Mr. Strong: Gosh, you want a recommend? How can I improve upon what you wrote yourself? Just tell ‘em Mitchell said he’s sure you’re as good as you look on paper.
Dear Bartender: I’m missing something. I can feel it. What is it? Do you know?
Dear You: I’m tempted to say “the point,” but that feels too easy. Now I’m wondering if I’M missing something — like maybe the point. Maybe even your point. You know?
Dear Bartender, aka Mitchell: Can I call you Mitch? Or are you really attached to Mitchell? I was catching up on your most recent posts, and I have to say I was intrigued with the question put forth by “Inquisitive.” I think he missed the mark, though. I like the variety of issues and dilemmas put forth by the rabble that have found their way to this hole in the wall on the web. Put them all in a room and it’d be quite a party, no?
My question is more along the line of YOUR qualifications. Of all the bartenders in all the watering holes out there, why ask YOU anything? Why should we trust YOU — this anonymous source on the other side of our keyboards and screens? Mitch/Mitchell (like that’s your real name), enlighten us. Tell us why you’re the Dr. Phil of the online drinking scene.
– Thomas T. Smartypants (not my real name)
Dear Not Your Real Name: Yes, you may call me Mitch. My real name is Mitchell the Bartender. There. Are we done?
No, I suppose I have to address your other question, tho’ really you’ve answered it yourself. I’ve roused a rabble of interesting people in a hole in the web and you want to know what makes me qualified to be your virtual bartender? What else do you want me to do? I ain’t gonna wipe your ass.
Dear Bartender: I’ve seen a lot of things floating around the ‘net on MYTHS ABOUT BARTENDERS. You know, they’re dumb, they’re drunk, they’re doing it for fun, they get laid all the time, they want your phone number… I was just curious if you’d take a look and see if there are any myths about the myths about bartenders. I mean, you do get laid a lot, right?
– Yorkie
Dear Yorkie: Well I looked around and read a lot of them. None of them I saw said it’s a MYTH that all bartenders have a sense of humor. I’d like to add that.
Some bartenders, you know, are dumb. I could name a few. And the bartender does want your phone number. She doesn’t want to call it, but if a week or two goes by and no one’s thrusting digits in her face, she’s going to start getting concerned. She doesn’t want to fuck you because she can get sex whenever she wants it — picking people up in other bars, which she’s good at because she’s watched so many people do it badly at hers.
Yes, it’s a job, it can be hard work, we’re supposed to make it look like fun. The real myth is that anybody cares, seeing as the same can be said for the guy who drives around in the Mister Softee truck.
Dear Bartender: I’m sure that you love slinging drinks, but are there are drinks that you’re sick of making? I’m talking about those fruity-ass cosmos and those nasty Long Island (“Can you make it strong?”) Iced Teas. What drink orders make you want to take that shotgun out from under the ice chest?
– Rubber Duckie
Dear Duckie: I don’t keep my shotgun under the ice chest. I keep it behind a half-empty bottle of well brandy. No one knows it’s there ‘cuz that bottle only moves when someone orders a Brandy Alexander. I get an order for a Brandy Alexander about once or twice a century. (The last time, since you were about to ask, was October 1970.)
I don’t mind making a special drink for a special customer, if I’m not slammed. It’s the customers who aren’t that special who get on my nerves when they want, as you say, a “strong” L.I. Iced Tea or yet another variation on that fucking Cosmopolitan. (Damn you, SJP!)
By the way, there’s drinks I’m sick of making, and drinks that make me sick to make. Beware: There’s someone in Manhattan going around ordering Absolut Apeach martinis, straight up — and dirty, as in with olive juice. That’s just foul.
Dear Bartender: I’m in a happy, stable relationship, but my sex drive is through the roof. I need to do something about it.
Do average people ever pick up someone in a bar? I’ve picked up people off the street, in a gym locker room, but never at a bar. I’ve known people extremely attractive to pick people up in bars, but what about the rest of us? Is there any hope?
You know, if someone could write a manual as to how to navigate all this crap, they’d make a fortune.
- m4m
Dear m4m: A fortune? Really? OK here’s the gist of my manual:
Nobody goes to a bar to pick up extremely attractive people; when they go to bars to pick someone up, they go to pick up someone who makes them feel extremely attractive. OK, so a great-looking person’s going to have an easier time making someone else feel attractive, I admit, but the distinction still puts you one step ahead. Should be enough, considering that a lot of those guys are there for the same reason you are — if they don’t get it on with someone soon, they’re going home to fuck their wives.
Dear Bartender: What’s the secret to a really good sour apple martini?
Dear Beginner: Omit all ingredients save vodka.
Dear Bartender: Is it possible to tip a bartender too much? I figure that the world does not generally suffer from too much generosity, but the idea of over-tipping sometimes makes people upset.
- A Sharing Soul
Dear Soul Sharer: I get the feeling that you’re asking me for instructions on how to over-tip. Is that right? Glad you asked.
Over-tipping requires skill; it must be casual and quick, as if you yourself were the one embarrassed about the size. Most of all, you don’t want to imply a quid pro quo. That’s where embarrassment and possibly insult come into play. Just buy a beer with a $50 and dismiss the change. Bury a fistful of twenties under a couple of dollar bills on the bartender’s side of the bar. Tell him you’re not sure what’s fair and would it be OK to leave a blank cheque.
If it’s all done rather blasé, as if both you and the bartender were above making a fuss over such matters, you can tip a lot without insult or embarrassment.
And don’t worry if you think all this casualness will mean the bartender won’t notice the size of your tip. A good bartender won’t show it, but never doubt: he notices, he notices.
Dear Bartender: I’m not sure I get it. Where does this “ask a bartender” stuff come from? Few of the questions have anything to do with drinks. Serial killing? Clown drag? Sex with twins and priests? What’s next — sex with twin priests? I just think you should have more focus: Tell people how to make a decent martini for Chrissakes. Leave the “sex with robots” inquiries to the people who are experts on the subject. (Is anyone an expert on having sex with robots? God, I feel bad for that loser.)
Dear Inquisitive: Thank you for your important question about Vitamin D. Good sources include fortified milk and sunlight. Don’t ignore this vitamin! Deficiencies are not just linked to rickets, but also diabetes, certain cancers and even schizophrenia! Ignore this vitamin at your own peril!
And you’re right, of course: people will ask a bartender nearly anything, because they know that bartenders are an astounding resource. The good ones can make you a decent drink; the great ones can see you through your divorce, your second adolescence, the NYTimes Saturday crossword puzzle and middle age.
Ready for the next question!
Dear Bartender: I have what you might think is a highly interesting problem. You see, my girlfriend has an identical twin. They look exactly alike — same hair, same eyes, same voice — you really can’t tell them apart. They get mischievious occasionally and like a good practical joke. They’re both high-spirited girls.
My problem is that a few weeks ago my girlfriend — who I can attest is no slouch in the love-making department — went all out when giving me a certain favorite pleasure. It was incredible, like nothing before — or since. And that’s my problem. I’m not totally sure which one I was with. I’ll go crazy until I find out. This is interfering with everything — my job, church, gardening, the works.
Since I have to know, my question is: which one should I ask?
Dear Gardener: Don’t ask. Big mess. You’re gonna have to get creative.
You’re about to discover your own long-lost twin. Remember when Peter Brady found his look-alike Arthur? This is going to be much the same — in that both men will be played by Christopher Knight, er, I mean you.
Since real life doesn’t have split screen, you’ll have to come up with a lot of reasons why both of you can’t be in the same room at the same time. (An allergic reaction to each other? A remarkable series of coincidences? You fucking hate his guts?) Your “brother” then starts dating your girlfriend’s sister. Keep up the ruse till she agrees to perform that “certain favorite pleasure” both you and your brother happen to share (thank you for not elaborating on that) and — voila! Mystery solved.
Then pick whichever girl you want to date and — depending on which you choose — be you or your brother for the rest of the relationship.
Hey, it works on sitcoms.
Dear Bartender: How do you dump a priest? We’ve been boyfriend-girlfriend for a year and he’s really sensitive and gets epileptic. He keeps saying we should stay together, that the sex isn’t wrong but my age is wrong. I don’t get it but he says when I’m a little older it’ll be OK. He wants me to be patient. The epilepsy is just his guilt — that’s what he told me. But that makes no sense either.
I think he’s right when he says I have “trust issues.” I feel badly but I’m not sure what I can do about it since he won’t let me see a counselor and he won’t pay for therapy. Maybe I do have trust issues but if that makes me a rotten girlfriend then why doesn’t he find another? I know he wants to be with me because the last time I told him my feelings he burned himself with the rectory iron. I don’t know if he did it on purpose but I’ll probably find out when I tell him again.
Any chance you know how to do it without making it hurt?
– Catholic Girl
Dear Catholic Girl: Make it hurt. Oh, please, please make it hurt.
Dear Bartender: Some friends and I get together on Friday nights at a local bar and have a beer or two, and talk, play pool, etc. Last Friday I couldn’t go. I really missed it. Do you think I have a drinking problem?
Dear Sot: Yes.
Dear Bartender: I recently wrote you seeking advice about becoming a gay serial killer. Imagine my horror when you suggested I try the more trendy option of genocide. First of all, I’m not a Republican! Secondly, that would totally remove the intimacy of the “sex, then kill” feel I was looking for. Would I have to have gay sex with an entire race/culture/political faction before I systematically kill them?!?! What if some of them are ugly?
But after some serious, rational consideration, the idea started to appeal to me. Genocide has a nice over-the-top appeal to it. Also, it seems to be legal in many countries, and getting caught was starting to weigh heavy on my head. I mean, getting gay-raped in prison may make for interesting internet porn, but I’m sure the reality of it just wouldn’t be the same.
So, this leads to more questions . . .
1) Much like my first inquiry about how not to be vilified for being a gay serial killer, how would I become a Republican without people thinking I’m an asshole? And would I have to be a gay Republican? I still don’t know how this gay stuff works, but I would like to introduce gay sex somewhere in this whole scheme.
2) Can you recommend a race/culture/political faction that I can gay-genocide? Is there any race/culture/political faction that has no ugly members? And can you recommend a location where I can have a decent exit strategy? I don’t want to be stuck in some place like Iraq for 4 years. That place looks dirty.
-formerly SWM looking to become GSK, currently . . . undecided
PS As you requested, I’ve included a picture of me. It’s an artist’s rendering instead of a photo as flash photography gives me seizures. I was drinking at the time, so I’m a bit more disheveled than usual:
PPS: You said that your bar was in Gnome, Alaska, which I happen to know is a nickname for Manhattan, like the Big Apple. I’ll be seeing you soon!
Dear undecided: Welcome to the wonderful world of Republicanism! Don’t worry about everyone thinking you’re an asshole — that’s part of the appeal. And it’s part of the reason why Republicans get away with anything these days — which’ll come in handy if you’re ever on trial for crimes against humanity. (Bob Ney? He pissed off K Street; that’s why they let him sink.)
Speaking of humanity, now that I think of it, does anyone know if “genocide” has to be directed at people? Because I’m wondering if we could get undecided to consider a puppy purge — maybe Chihuahuas. Then he could have his gay sex with their walkers, many of whom probably at least have good legs.
And speaking of legs: the best exit strategy, as always, is a fancy pair of running shoes.
See ya!
Dear Bartender: I enjoyed your 70s mix suggestions, but it’s before my time. Care to suggest tunes for an 80s party CD? Not Poison or Whitesnake or anything like that, but something that the cool kids were listening to, say, in the middle of the decade. I was born in 1989 if that’s any help.
Dear Born: ‘89, huh? I guess that helps. I mean I guess I could tell you every cool kid in 1983 was listening to Amy Grant and you’d have no first-hand evidence to contradict it.
But even if I don’t, it’s a challenge, because the “cool kids” were too uptight to appreciate much of the great music on the radio in the 80s. So screw ‘em. Here’s what I would play: The Fixx, “One Thing Leads To Another”; Gang of Four, “Damaged Goods”; Adam Ant, “Place In the Country”; Devo, “Beautiful World”; Duran Duran, “Planet Earth”; The Jam, “In The City”; Loverboy, “Lady Of The 80s”; Missing Persons, “Destination Unknown”; New Order, “Age Of Consent”; and Pretenders, “Brass In Pocket.”
Dear Bartender: Although you may be a bit biased, this seems to be a perfect opportunity for you to reveal what you consider to be responsible tipping. Obviously a tip is always in order, unless the bartender turns the soda gun on you, but what is considered satisfactory? I have never considered anything less than a dollar a beer and usually two dollars per cocktail. This seems acceptable, but I could be mistaken. Lately, I’ve been going the three dollars for every two beers route. And when the bartender offers a drink on him, what is the responsible amount then? Three to five dollars depending on the drink?
Lastly, if I end up giving the bartender a blowjob or a line in the bathroom, am I still required to tip?
– Tip-sy
Dear Tip-sy: Good question. I suppose it depends upon the quality of the blow. Or the blowjob. You may be required to tip more.
Meanwhile, your tipping system is within bounds. Some tip more, some less; a good bartender puts on a convincing act of not noticing, distributing his attentions more or less equally so as not to suggest that he is for sale. If you ask for something extra, like a extra-strong drink or a dirty bloody mary with olives in a glass rimmed with salt, a bigger tip is definitely in order. Your tips are actually a bit on the high side — not that I’m discouraging you. It’s just that not everyone can afford to give the bartender what he of course deserves.
And if he buys you a drink “on him”? Nothing makes a bartender happier than to see that look of surprise on your face, as if no one had ever made you feel that special. That, a blowjob and a five-spot.
Dear Bartender: Perhaps you can relate. I’ve recently started ********. I’m enjoying it, maybe a little too much. When I’m working, or out with friends, or being intimate with my husband, I have to admit, I’d rather be ********. I think about things I could ****, graphics to enhance my ****, other ***** I’d like to **** off of, etc.
Do you know how long this is going to cloud my other (arguably more important) pursuits?
–Fever Girl
Dear Fever Girl: Shame is a horrible thing. It keeps me from knowing what gerund you won’t put in print.
Though actually it doesn’t matter. We all get obsessed from time to time. It happened to me when I got my first Atari set in 1983. The glow wore off eventually. Whatever ******** is, I’m sure you’ll find that, after a while, you’ll get tired of it. Meanwhile, be glad that your husband is either oblivious or a saint. When you’re ******* him but thinking about ********, he’s clearly too ****** to care.
Dear Bartender: Please help this may be a serious emergency. I’m not positive but I think there is Someone In This House. Possibly upstairs but I’m scared to go look. I’ve had this feeling before and I ran out of the house and when I came back everything was stolen. I can’t run now because I’m wearing an Ankle Bracelet and I’m not suppose to leave. This is not a joke. Please write back because if I know you’re there I’ll go investigate. Some of the light switches upstairs don’t work and I have to be really careful.
Please don’t tell me to call 911 because I have dial-up and if I can’t pick up the phone and still be online.
Will you reply VERY SOON!!!
– Terrified
Dear Terrified: Gosh, I’m awfully sorry but I only just now found your letter in my “in” box. Looks like you sent it two weeks ago. I hope you’re not still waiting for my reply because by now you’d probably have lost whatever shred of sanity you had left. Sorry I dropped the ball but I’m only human and can make mistakes.
Everybody: I promise to be more vigilant in the future.
See you on the sunny side!
Dear Bartender: I read what you posted earlier, about the different reasons we go to bars (“On the House”, August 5, 2006). There’s one bar I go to regularly — and trust me it’s not for the cocktails. There’s an adorable bartender there, cute as a button. He can’t make a drink to save his life. I stupidly mentioned to someone once (at a totally different bar) that his drinks were terrible. Months (months!) later he called me on it: “So, I hear you think I make a shitty margarita?”
How the hell did he find out?
To his credit, he laughed it off and asked me how he could make my drinks better. But I panicked, ran away and haven’t been back since.
Can I ever show my face in his bar again?
– North Dakota Girl
Dear Critic: I learned more about drink-making from my customers than anywhere else. Margaritas are especially difficult — because we’re so often given inferior ingredients to work with. (There’s only so much you can do with Cuervo and sour mix from a gun.) Every good bartender learns to work with what he’s given — a splash of 7-Up, orange juice or a stash of limes secretly kept to the side for a few dozen extra squeezes. Lucky bartenders are given decent liquor and free-flowing pourers. (The real trick to a good margarita? A lot of tequila. Good tequila.)
So go back to him. Smile, order a margarita, see if he’s learned anything — and if he hasn’t, suggest a change or two. He clearly aims to please, so why not let him try? If in the end he still can’t make a good drink, keep ogling him and order a beer.
Dear Bartender: Sometimes I like to role play with my wife — dress up as a character and surprise her when she comes home from work. I’ve been a priest, a plumber and a repairman for the humidifier. I like to think it keeps our marriage edgy. My problem is that I jumped out of our bedroom closet the other day as a clown. She was terrified and she still won’t let me get near her — even after I offered to take off the makeup. Now I’m afraid I’ll ruin our marriage if I give in. Who’s right?
Dear Clown: Take the makeup off. My God, how long have you been sitting there with it on? Your wife needs healing, not more terrorizing. The poor woman’s been through enough. And take the wig off, too. In fact, burn it.
Some people hate clowns. Hate hate hate! Your wife has shown so much patience this far that I’m pretty sure she hates clowns, too — and this sent her over the edge. You probably shouldn’t dress up as anything too provocative for a while. Xena might be a safe choice. Or Mr. Limpit. But Bozo and Willie Whistle are out. Do you hear me?
