Things I did this weekend

1. Watched Junior graduate from basic training. Fraternal pride bursting to seams

2. Saw a glimpse of a possible, personal future: gray-haired, cul-de-sac'd,
mustachioed, paunchy dude scribbling an entry into a personal journal at the airport Chili's at O'Hare.

3. Played a show at a new club, tried out my Danelectro DC 3 bass

4. Drank waaaaaaay too much whiskey, to the point where I was later foiled in an
attempt to cut pork chops at Ol' South.

5. Watched Some Kind of Monster; left with a feeling of pathos for James Hetfield that conflicted directly with my flabbergastment that these guys used to be the toughest, fastest, leanest band from my childhood and teenage years, and now they sell Basquiats and talk about feelings to a guy who wears Cosby sweaters. And furthermore, one of the most awkward things to watch in a rock documentary is when they show the frontman writing lyrics and recording vocals. For whatever reason, this totally takes away from the magic and power of recorded music, at least where a rock album is concerned. I guess watching some R&B guy do a vocal take isn't that big a deal, but when you see a guy who normally looks like a Hell's Angel working hard on rhyming shitty couplets about anger and then spitting them into a microphone while clad in an Aloha shirt and flip flops, it's worse than finding out how a magic trick works. Or getting excited about Six Flags and then going there.

6. Spent Sunday morning hungover, later played a '74 jazz bass, which was totally
awesome.

7. Watched the following: Super High Me (decent), two episodes of Firefly ("Out of Gas" and "Ariel") and Crumb (ugh. But totally fascinating)

8. Left dishes on the living room floor, ate entire box of Wheat Thins.

Jon Ward

Please pray for my friend Jon. His cancer has returned, and he is back to where he started. Tumor is back to its original size despite three rounds of chemo.

Here are some updates. And parentheses.

Not a lot of flash here, but the handful of you who still read this might be interested to know that:

I'm single again. This time for good (and yes, I know that's what was said the last time, but this time, there's, like, apartment transfers and such). It was mutual, and there are no hard feelings. Perhaps one or two soft, possibly fragile feelings, but no hard ones. I do, however, miss Paxi terribly. Paxi is her dog, and I love(d) him as if he were a son.

My bills have gone up considerably, which means I'm very grateful to have my job(s), even when it (they) bothers(r--fuck it) me. I will, however, be working more at the bar (two or three nights a week now) in order to meet the somewhat aggressive savings goals I've set for myself.

My brother seems to be doing well at basic training, though he has remarked to my mom that (implicitly relative to him) there are a lot of immature people there. Which would suggest to me that he is undergoing basic with a division of infants. But in any case, I am relieved and I pray for him every time I think about praying.

The band continues to fight the good fight, booking shows, trying to get the new album up on iTunes (why is it that major label bands have trouble keeping their songs from being put on iTunes early, while nobodies like we are can't get our record up for download on time or, now, two weeks late? Wait, never mind), and searching for the exact right balance of booze and execution.

To that point, here's a graph:I've been journaling a lot, though not where anyone can read it. In general, it helps me remember things that happen, because there are lots of things I forget, like, for example, that I intend to write things every day, seeing as how entries are often a week or so apart. It's good at reminding me of my various adequacies and inadequacies.

The Fort Worth Weekly thing is fun, mostly, though my editor often translates my submissions into Dudebro, sometimes resulting in adjudicated intentions and ruined jokes. But, like Homer's idea of what a pelican should say when being used as a cement mixer, "it's a living."

I'm also trying to get a D&D game going.* For reals, even. At 30 years old. Having never played it before. What? Is that weird? I drive a van, too. And I ate a whole can of bean dip with Wheat Thins the other night. I know, I know. I'm quite the catch. I'd love to meet your beautiful daughter, too, but right now I'm just not in a good place.

Steve

*This is hopefully to charge my imagination with fantastic inspiration. Plus, honestly, it sounds fun.

I Think My Older Brother Used to Listen to Lagwagon

Well, obviously, I haven't kept up with US H20 Polo like I wanted to. The Men's Team are in the medal round, they got a bye, and I believe they face off against the winner of Spain v. Serbia.

But more importantly, NOFX is playing the Democratic National Convention! Winter of 1994 Steve doesn't know how he feels about this. On the one hand, NOFX is his new favorite band (they're so funny! Not like those grouchy Bad Religion guys), but they're playing for the Democrats? Like, for the Clintons? Summer of 2008 Steve, however, thinks this is pretty awesome, though he wonders if Fat Mike will tone down the cocaine references. He's just guessing, but he doesn't hold out hope. Rich guy hubris usually trumps having enough sense to keep one's mouth closed for the greater good.

Also, Lagwagon's new album has the best title ever:

I Think My Older Brother Used to Listen to Lagwagon.

It sums up how I felt the last time I went to the Warped Tour.

Steve

Better get your heads in the game, guys.

You do have to play Serbia tomorrow. A 12-11 slide over Italy makes me a little nervous.

Incidentally, how about that Michael Phelps!

USA! USA! USA!

US Men's Water Polo beats China 8-4!

Yep. Getting my four-year water polo fix.

A conversation, as I would have liked to have had it

"Hey, Steve."

"Hey."

"What's your day look like today?"

"Well, right now, I'm trying to get through this song by Sahg. They're a melodic Swedish death metal band. Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it?"

"Maybe?"

"What do you need?"

"Have you made any progress on that interview draft?"

"You mean the thing I tried to tell you about yesterday in the meeting, but didn't get to because you were talking and talking?"

"Maybe..."

"I'm totally on it."

Last Call 073008 Original Draft

Ever heard that saying about how little man really knows about the ocean? You know, how he supposedly knows more about space than he does of the ocean’s deepest, darkest depths? Well that’s sort of how I feel about the Mid-Cities. I honestly think I know more about Los Angeles and its surrounding environs than I do about the mysterious suburbs northeast of the Fort. Once, a long time ago, I referred to them out of frustration as three large growths metastasized around the main artery between Fort Worth and the airport, choked and throbbing with chain restaurants, sports bars and about 8,000 clogged onramps. So I sought to better understand these enigmatic wastes and unlock their potentially beautiful secrets, in this case, three legendary dives, The Starlite Lounge, the Den and Volcano’s.

My previous drinking experiences in the Mid-Cities involve two house-parties about twelve years apart, and at both of them, I was so hammered I could have been hanging out in the fields of Mars for all I knew. But I did find people to drink with, which meant that there must be places to get drinks other than some dudes’ refrigerator. I got in the Erin Gray (my van, repurposed here for the purpose of research and exploration) and set out at 9:30 for Volcano’s. At 10:30, I still had not found it. I’d like to point out that my disorientation was not the fault of the bar’s. I’m just terrible with directions. But, I reasoned, these places aren’t that big, so maybe if I just exit somewhere, I’ll bump into it eventually. This succeeded about as well as you’d think, and my next thought was, Jesus, did that sign just say “Colleyville?!”

At this point, I was desperate for a beer, and finally, I saw some green neon. I exited, parked, and, encouraged by the sound of “Stranglehold,” wandered into Papa G’s Sports Bar. Now, I generally don’t like sports bars, but what with the aforementioned desperation and all, I swallowed my inner snob and bellied up for a Pacifico. The joint was packed, but I felt totally out of place, so I downed my beer and returned to my quest. At 11:30, I was on the right track, though I was beginning to feel as if I had entered the eerie, evil weirdness of Stephen King’s The Wastelands. But low-and-behold, there, across from the Bell Helicopter plant lie The Starlite Lounge. And it looked pretty divey, though it smelled like Chinese food, probably on account of the fact that it serves Chinese food. Anyway, I was confronted with a heretofore unknown (and probably apocryphal) fact: HEB bars often have gambling facilities. There was a poker game going on, and some slot machines, and from the juke came a cover of “Viva Las Vegas.” Not quite what I expected, but whatever. I finished my beer and headed to the The Den.

Now, since The Den is on Industrial Parkway, I had to make a decision to either look for it or give up and go to a strip club. But I soldiered on, to my eventual disappointment. If the Starlite Lounge was not quite my cup of tea, The Den was like a glass of motor oil. Or marbles. There. Was. Karaoke. And in between the “performers,” there was… Nickelback. Of course, the song was “Rock Star,” broken up into snatches of bumper music, and the entire bar was knowingly signing along. I was the proverbial square peg at Papa G’s, but at the Den, well, I was a guy who doesn’t like Garth Brooks and Nickleback in a place where they are revered as gods.

I never did find Volcano’s, though I hear that it is more up my alley. And to be fair, all the folks in those other bars were having a blast. If you’re into poker and karaoke, you know where to go. For me, I’ll let the Lost Dives of the Mid-Cities stay that way.

They do no such thing!

From a Craigslist' Musicians post:

"I'm a lead guitarist in a metal (all kinds, death, black, thrash etc.) band
called Tears Bring Fire..."

TEARS BRING FIRE?

I had no idea! In my experience, tears have brought sympathy, embarrassment, pathos, derision, comedy, commiseration, joy, schadenfreude, capitulation and of course, sodium chloride, but obviously, I have really underestimated their carrying and delivery capacity.

I submit that tears might also bring:

trouble

nothing to the table

enough for everyone

paper plates and napkins

famine

blanket-borne smallpox

presents

their gameboys

their A-game

their purses

snacks

a world of pain

solid fundamentals

a message of peace

about a paradigm shift

a change of clothes

invasive, foreign fauna

way too much luggage for three days

the wrong maps

their own dice but no Monster Manuals

your ex along, much to your chagrin

it on

the dead to life

me flowers

the wrong cables

up who she's sleeping with now

that one guy who's totally sketchy

you Chuck Liddell vs. Tito Ortiz plus $2-wells and $4-Jagerbombs!

an end to the suffering, at least

--Steve

Sure it's funny, unless it's your van driving over the manure.

Yesterday, while driving over the quaint, authentic, old-timey bricks of Exchange Boulevard, I had to slow to a crawl because I was cut off.

By a man riding a horse.

I fucking hate the stockyards.

Dubious accuracy, but hey, I'll take it.

My mom's scale claims that I am maintaining 186. Shortly thereafter, I ate tri-tip. And a baked potato. And some more tri-tip. Whoops!

Tour diet sucks. Especially when your tour takes you to Hermosa Beach and you are surrounded by people who exercise constantly.

Steve

3 servings of vegetables!

Well, this is gross, but one fun facet of touring is being backed up a lot. I'm sure it's the anxiety of being in new places, and that it has nothing to do with eating hamburgers for a week. Coffee and cigarettes occasionally break the "log jams," but I've taken to drinking V-8. According to the bottle, it constitutes 3 servings of vegetables. It turns out that you can also put vodka in it, which makes it health and fun!

Steve

The tour goes well. But not the diet.

Ugh. Ate a Big Mac. That's what, a whole cube of butter? Tour food sucks. However, tour art wins big. Stay tuned for my piece entitled Eric's Leg, Covered in Pictures of Dicks.

What? It's a surrealist piece.

Steve

Who steals sweaty t-shirts?!

So last night, Darth Vato played our kick-off show for our West Coast Tour (Tour of Doody is the tentative name). It was a thousand degrees in the bar, so I took off my shirt (as I am wont to do) after the second song because it was drenched in sweat. I tossed it near the snarl of cables dangling from my bass head. And somehow, someone got back there while we were playing, got on stage and snaked my sweat-soaked Me-Thinks t-shirt. This was the first time I wore it. And let me tell you, I am pissed. You see, the Me-Thinks are my favorite band. Their frontman is a very good friend of mine, and when they come out with a new shirt, I am super-stoked (this means I have been super-stoked twice). And even though all their larges sold out, I was able to squeeze into a medium without totally making the ol' beer gut look like a third trimester. And some fucker stole it. What a load of crap. I hope that guy gets diarrhea.

Oh and also, if you've ever been in a 7-11 and contemptuously wondered who on earth eats those taquitos that have been rotating all day, well, you've obviously never been drunk and in need of an afterparty-powerup booze sponge. I will concede, however, that 7-11 drunkfood is pretty low-rent. I guess I have very little shame.

Steve

p.s.
Despite my best efforts, I am still at 37" around the gut. And by best I mean worst.

Ceterus Parabus?

I think that means something different. All things being equal, THE GUT has returned to a size of 37" across the navel. Bet you didn't think you have to imagine my navel did you? But anyway, that's the smallest I got it to when I was working out and eating right at the beginning of the year. As the prior posts show, I have not been as diligent about doing time in the gym as I should be, and I've still had the late-night Shitaburgers and beer blasts. So who knows. We'll check it out in a couple weeks. I'd bring the tape measure with me on tour, but that sounds kinda gay.

Steve

What do you put in a vegan kids meal anyway,? (Answer below)

I've talked about the Spiral Diner, Fort Worth's award-winning vegan restaurant before, and our tour departure date looms near, I've got fast-food on the brain. While we are planning on bringing a small tailgating grill with us, I'd be kidding myself if I said we're not going to eat any fast-food. When you're driving on several interstates for two weeks and visiting places you've never been to, eating Crap in the Box is pretty much unavoidable. And while Caca Bell apparently has this new "Fresco Menu," our options for eating somewhat healthily are limited, at least while we're driving between tour stops. If only there were a chain of vegan fast-food joints! I say vegan, because you can still have fatty food that doesn't have meat in it. Unfortunately, I have a hard time imagining that a chain like that would survive very long in America.

What do you guys think?

Answer: Hemp sanctimony!

The uphill struggle

I figured out that I really don't spend a lot of leisure time in bars--when I'm in one, I'm either playing with my band or slinging drinks. Unfortunately, both of these endeavors facilitate getting more than one or two beers into my mouth. If I had to lay blame on a single contributing factor to ten or twelve years of steady weight gain, it's beer.

There is an obvious solution.

It is actively ludicrous.

It's not impossible for me to quit drinking beer; I did it in 2007 for almost a month, and I also did it for a few weeks in January. During those periods, I also did a lot of jogging, and I lost a noticeable amount of weight. Darth Vato goes on tour in a few days for two weeks; making a healthy routine during that is not a reasonable expectation, but I'm committing to seriously pursuing one when we've returned to the real world.

What a boring post! I hope that if anyone reading this is trying to lose weight, you focus on the regimen and discipline, and also, change your metric. I suggest ignoring the scale and using a measuring tape around your gut or butt or wherever (chins? Can you measure chins? You can certainly count them!) as a bar. While the results are not as immediately dramatic and rewarding as seeing the scale's needle dip a pound or two every few days, losing inches is much more demonstrative of your progress. It helped me last year, and I know it will help me again when I hit it hard in a few weeks.

Steve

i'm overhung...*

If you get that heading in an email, it probably has something to do with P3n1s en larg3m3nt.

But anyway, I got roped into bartending last night, and because I felt cheated out of a weekend night, I stayed up drinking beer with Eric until about 6 am. A funny thing about getting hammered at someone else's house is that when you wake up (and it's always no more than four hours later), it's always such a surprise. It never fails--every time it always takes me a minute to determine who I am, where I am and how I got there. It's a little like Jason Bourne coming to on the Greek freighter, except that your mouth tastes like a litterbox and you don't wake up mysteriously able to speak French. In fact, it's more likely you have forgotten English; try articulating yourself to a Whataburger drive-thru after a night of heavy drinking--you may not have wanted onions or sweet tea, but oh well, that's what your getting.

And that's another thing--is there anything worse for a hangover than sweet-tea? Ugh. It's bad enough sober, but when you're hammered or post-hammered, it's such a huge disappointment. Imagine being in a Whataburger drive through at 3 am, drunk, desperate and deliriously thirsty, listening to George Noory tell you about some water heater he endorses because regular people only tune into Coast to Coast AM during its crappy commercials. And it's hot, and you're exhausted, and all you want is some grease to sop up the booze in your stomach and a little bit of caffeine to keep you awake and more or less driving between the lines, and so you start to dream about that Whatasized tea--it's so cold and strident and that first sip will be like jumping through the waterfall in those old Irish Spring commercials, and who knows--maybe that tea will totally sober you up, provide you with winning lottery numbers and teleport Adriana Lima into your bed. And so you wait. And because this is Whataburger, you wait some more. A lot more. Fucking eons. You can feel your tongue swelling. This might be what dying of thirst actually feels like. You try to focus on the local plumbing service commercial crackling out of your door speakers, hoping against hope that it will end and George will be back to coax some shocking truths out of an alien abductee who has also been raped by a ghost. But he's not. This time it's a commercial for bee-pollen capsules or some bullshit. You wonder if bee-pollen capsules makes you sober. Or handsome. And then the Tahoe full of dimwitted sorority girls ahead of you pulls forward, and you're one step closer to quenching your thirst, to putting a little bit of food on your stomach and to passing out on your bathroom's amazingly cool linoleum with your pants around your ankles. And by God's immortal and forgiving only begotten son, you are so fucking thirsty! You think about that fucking meathead doublefisting Skyy and sodas and ice-waters. Remember how you inwardly mocked him? Remember disintegrating him with glares of withering disdain on account of his muscles, and chiseled good-looks and the 20-year olds in thigh-length sundresses hanging on his every word? Oh how they laughed! And at what? Some rehashing of a Family Guy episode, probably. Of course, you thought, if they would only talk to you, they'd see what real comedy was. If they could see past the bags under your eyes and the gut under your t-shirt, they'd discover your boundless wit and bathe in your intellect as your jokes and remarks flit between scathing commentary and undeniably hilarious self-deprecation. But no, they were laughing at him, and he was beneath your contempt, what with his responsible drinking and hydrating and all.

By Christ! If only you could get that fucking iced-tea!

And finally, after what seems like an eternity, you see an orange-and-white-striped bag extend through the window, and a tanned, skinny arm reaches out of the Tahoe, and oh thank Jesus in his fabulous mansion, THEY HAVE GOTTEN THEIR FOOD. And then you see it: the Whatasized beverage. It is not so much passed as magically floated from the drive-thru window into the car and you think about how the driver, oh how spoiled and clueless she is! will probably plop it down on her coffee table and eventually forget about it, or worse, drunkenly spill it on her lap! But for that instant, of all the jealousies you harbor for that girl, her cold, life-saving beverage is what you envy most.

And finally she leaves, off to probably bang that fucking meathead, he of the abs and head full of thick hair and the polo shirt and the bright and successful future, but at this point, you don't care any more, for your Whatasized iced tea is nearly in your grasp, sequestered within the bricks and under an orgy of frantic beeping and neon lights. And by Christ, George Noory is back! And he (and you, since he always says "we") are talking with the lady whose past-lives were murdered by chemtrails, and while it's fascinating and all--OH MY GOD!!! HERE IS YOUR FUCKING FOOD!!! NO YOU DON'T NEED KETCHUP!!! AND NO NAPKINS EITHER--DO YOU LOOK LIKE YOU USE NAPKINS--CLEARLY YOU ARE ALREADY WEARING PANTS!!! AND OH YOUR GOD IN HEAVEN:

HERE IS YOUR ICED-TEA!!!

Never before have you ever delivered a look of that is as simultaneously abject and full of gratitude as the look you deliver to the guy in the window, who, incidentally, is named Cody and whose hand tattoos indicate former gang-membership.

You put the tea between your legs but realize that it is sweating with condensation, which you don't want on your pants but that you do want on your forehead, so you hold the cup up and boy does it feel good--if it feels that good on your head, imagine what its contents will feel like sliding down the balsawood tunnel of your throat!

So you pay, ignoring the fact that you've probably overdrafted, and you drive off. And as you pull into the street (careful to keep the dotted line about a foot to your left and always a foot to your left), you think, well, we need to sober up but fast! so you cram a mouthful of piping hot fries into your mouth and mash them down with a chicken strip so hot that a geiser probably escaped when your teeth tore it open. A piece of skin burns on the roof of your mouth, dangling like the isosceles flags flapping over a used car lot. You have a murmuring afterthought that maybe you should have waited a minute or two before stuffing your face with scalding, still-congealing grease, but never mind that, because there is THE TEA.

As the straw punctures the pre-cut X on the lid, it makes that comical creaking noise, causing you to chuckle. And George Noory's disembodied voice chuckles along with his guest and everyone is having such a great time! Who knew that straw noises and government cover ups could be so goddamned funny! But they are, and it's all because of the palliative powers of your Whatasized iced-tea, so brown and a little acrid but refreshing and curative, lapping briskly over ice chips that look like frosty stones in a merry, babbling brook. And the straw goes between your lips, and it creaks again (this time the sound makes you think of a clown's bicycle horn) and you take that first, miraculous, ecstatic sip, a sip that sends the tea to the back of your throat and maybe into your very soul.

And you choke.

You choke and you spit and you look at that cup and chunk it out your window in disgust, because due to some communication foul up (maybe Cody's, probably yours) you received not the refreshing, rejuvenating Whatasized iced-tea you were anticipating, but a mockery, an aberration, an open sore on the scalp of universal order and goodness.

They gave you a Whatasized SWEET TEA, which is like being served 32 ounces of someone else's slobber. Because that's what sweetened tea tastes like.

Sweet tea is like those "chest-mimic" creatures found in D&D. You think your getting something awesome, but it's actually a nasty, dangerous, party-killing surprise.

This is why you shouldn't drink.

Steve

*overslept. i'm ripe, desheveled, perfectly unkempt.

Gut war update

Well, I made it to the gym again. Got a 30 minute run in until the fire alarm went off. It's a funny thing when a fire alarm goes off on a sunny afternoon at a gym full of self-interested college students. I noticed that everyone's sense of urgency was... lacking...

Anyway, I measured the beer belly this morning, and it's inching (haha) back down toward the 37" mark. I'm sure that wasn't an immediate response to a couple of jogs, but it's encouraging. Moreover, I managed to make it through the entire day without eating anything bad, i.e. chips, cookies, or bits of broken glass, which are often high in saturated fats.

Interestingly enough, I received a letter from the Lodi High School Water polo team, inviting me to participate (through a donation or, um, physical activity) in an alumni tournament in August. After the grueling 30 minutes I spent swimming laps a few weeks ago, I can't imagine how hard playing five minutes of water polo would be. Needless to say, I'll likely send a check. To underscore this point, I had a dream where I played in an alumni tournament against a squad of dudes who played against me at my rival high school. Upon waking, I sort of laughed because in the dream, I was afraid of guarding the same people, who, fourteen years later, had still maintained the same brute strength and killer instinct.

--Steve

The Worst Bartender in Town (hint: his name rhymes with Steve)

So this week, I've eased back into the gym, which really means I went once. I would've gone on Wednesday, and I even went to the trouble of changing into gym clothes, but then I got caught up in a couple (ten or twelve) Halo 3 games, and well, you can see how this worked out. I did, however, try to assuage my sloth-based guilt by doing sets of 100 jumping jacks in between games.

Yeah. "A" for effort, right?

Another awesome thing that happened this week is that this local bar aficionado/drunk sack of crap bestowed upon me the title of "Worst Bartender in Town." And while you might think that hurt my feelings, I was grateful and even gave something of an acceptance speech.

Here's the thing:

I like bartending, particularly since it is no longer my primary source of income. In fact, it's almost a hobby. I've been doing it off and on since 2002, and while six years might seem like enough experience to really make me a pro, I'm the exception to that expectation. In other words, I've never really learned to make shots, because I really don't care.

My booze philosophy, especially as I've gotten older, is that when you're in a bar, you socialize, and I've conditioned myself to socialize while holding some sort of liquid-bearing vessel in my hand, be it bottle, glass or alleged cup of Christ. And while shots certainly meet the requirements for holding liquid, they don't do it for very long. When you're 21, this means you end up taking shot after shot after shot, eventually to the point where your friends are hosing puke and Whataburger gravy off you before you stumble into their parent's house at 3 am. And moreover, I just don't like drinking shots. They're sorta, I dunno, gay. I try to point this out to college guys whenever possible.

Me: What can I get you?
Dude-bros: We need two purple hooters.
Me: Why? Are you guys on a date?

And so on. My other issue with shots is that they are tacky and they waste my time. In the time it takes to make a batch of surfers on acid for one polo-shirted dickhead, I could have made regular drinks for the six people waiting in line behind him. Typically the order goes like this:
a dude-bro orders eight shots of something I don't feel like making. And I go make them, and I when I'm setting them in front of the guy, he almost always says, "Oh, hey, can you make two more?" Meanwhile, the line gets deeper and deeper. And then, more often than not, the same guy is back two minutes later for another round; shots are so named for a reason--the turnover rate is astounding. And while the point of working at a bar is to serve as much booze as possible, the frequent fliers fly in the face of one of my cardinal, bartending values: get fools out of my hair as soon and for as long as possible.

To sum, shots are fucking gay and I hate making them.

Anyway, this chick, she is one of those see-and-be-seen types, and she probably goes out every night, and she's also on the later side of her mid 30s, which in my mind is way too old to be ordering spring break treacle like red headed sluts or pineapple fucks. But order them she does, and I make her first round. And her second. And then she ordered her third.

Now, the way I learned to make red snappers is with Crown, Amaretto and Cranberry juice. But at this point, she's been up to the bar three times in five minutes, and I'm simply tired of serving her, so I made my patented yuckface shot. Here's the recipe:

Steve the Put Out Bartender's Patented Yuckface Shot:

1 1/2 oz well whisky
A bunch of cranberry juice
Something else that's red, fruity and alcoholic

Dump ingredients into shaker, think about shaking, pour into plastic cup. Serve with withering contempt.

In this case, the red, fruity booze was actually black. But at least it was raspberry. I made six of these things, served them and waited for the ensuing revulsion. Sure enough, I was rewarded with six simultaneous grimaces and choking noises.

Now my friend Matt, who is an expert bartender, was a lucky recipient of a Yuckface, and he congratulated me on making the nastiest shot he had ever had (which means he hasn't yet had one of my other patented shots, the Total Bummer or a Warm Shot of Pee). And coming from him, that is a complement on par with winning a Perkin Medal. His friend, however, the aforementioned barfly, began to fulminate somewhat loudly about A). how terrible my shots were, B). how terrible my service was and C). how I was the worst bartender in town.

I caught this last part, at which point, I turned and said, "Finally! I thought I'd never get the recognition I deserve."

It's nice to feel like a winner.

--Steve