It's a bar, don't make me BAR you.

You stumble into the bar, delusional perhaps from pre-entry intoxication, or perhaps from anticipitory drunkendom. Somehow, you come to the conclusion, you are entitled to act like the bar is your home; your personal refuge. You are a cocky mother f-er.

Case #1:

Electrician Mike enters with a monstrous box which at first looks like a X-mas tree stand. But, upon further inspection, I realize it is a huge pox of power tools.



Within seconds, Mike is ripping the box open, and removing the tools, one by one and putting them on the bar, my bar. There are saws, and drills, bits, screwdrivers and other assorted power tools, which are now strewn all over the place.

He begins to test the power tools, making various buzzing sounds, loudly plopping things on top of the bar, and then he saunters over to an outlet, and proceeds to plug in some contraption.



I suggest that the noise he is making is not appropriate since patrons are there nursing their hangovers, hoping to cure them with a little hair of the dog. Power tool testing, is not what the doctor ordered.

On top of this...I begin to question another patron, Bill, as to whether Mike thought to ask whether it was okay to tap into our power supply.

I begin to silently fume. Instead of wasting my breath, I begin to create a list of functions the bar is not intended for.

I'll take a digital pic, and post it in my next blog, but it is headed with:

"This is a bar...not your..."

On the list, is:

Power tool testing station.

Lesson: Don't come to my bar on your lunch break and set up shop. The result will be a sign posted for all to see, and your cockiness will have been the inspiration for the retalitory list.

Don't confuse your local bar with your personal den of selfish indulgence. You could be the ridicule of bartenders and those who love them, everywhere.

Screw you with a power tool later.

Booze+Broads=Money: Is Coyote Ugly taking it too far?

CMT is currently airing Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search, a show where its premise is to find the "best entertaining bartender" in America. I felt compelled to watch it, knowing full well, it was likely going to disturb me.

The first NYC country themed honky tonk, contrary to popular opinion, was the original Village Idiot. The founder of Coyote Ugly had been a bartender and manager there, and when she left, she took the formula with her. Several other bars openned around the same time: Hogs and Heifers, Red Rock West, and my bar, carrying on the creation of the Idiot's owner, Tom McNeil.

It was an article, written by a former Coyote, for GC magazine which became the basis for the Bruckheimer movie deal, that made the bar known nationwide. The film, ofcourse, brought an upsurge in business to the NYC tavern, and shortly there after, the Queen Coyote started to franchise.



















Now, every other month, a bar is sprouting up in another city. There must be around a dozen across the country, in almost every major city. And the bar's merchandising business is booming, too. Her empire is now worth millions; and the girls+booze+dancing on the bar thing, is being utilized by owners everywhere. In NYC alone, there is an oversaturation of these honkytonks, probably more than the city can handle, if you ask me.

I have been to all of the pseudo country saloons in the city I consider competition, and I find them inhabited by tourists, and employeed by girls who follow a script. The owner of Coyote, claims to not have a specific type of girl as her preference, but she quickly turns them into what she feels a Coyote should be. There are now choreographed and copyrighted dance routines, phrases they must spew like "We don't serve water here", and adamant refusals to make fru-fru drinks. It is a formula, and it is to be strictly followed. The training manual for the franchises, allegedly is more than 200 pages long.

To me, it is like taking the meat, putting it through a grinder, and producing standard burgers that meet regulation. Although, throughout the reality series, Lil says she encourages diversity, and individuality, the end result will likely not reflect this. On the contrary, girls will be cranked out, conforming to a specific model, rather than being allowed to adopt their own style. To me, this standardization is taking away the uniqueness of bars like this. The script is the same night after night, the characters are far less interesting, and the original formula has been overused and abused.












The show involves the owner of Coyote travelling the country via tour bus, with current employees there to coach, in search of the "ultimate entertainer." There is preferencial treatment given to those with bartending experience, but "auditioners" have to sing and dance as well. Once the cuts are made, and the girls are brought on the bus, the training becomes more rigorous. Dance class, bartending class, vocal training are all utilised as part of the "booze camp".

Wannabes are dismissed being told they are "girls", not "women", and therefore, not worthy of climbing aboard the bus. Others are suspected of being there for the wrong reasons, like wanting to be on TV. Hey, it's a reality show, what do you expect. They want the money, and the fifteen minutes of fame.

Honestly, I think the caliber of potential bartenders showing up at these auditions was pretty unimpressive. In my opinion there are better tv shows to go on, where the winnings are more profitable, if money is the motivator.


So far, there is only one competitor I really like, and am rooting for. She is 41 years old, unbelievably great looking, has three kids, and seems like a genuine person.

I'll be watching, 'cause it's my business, even if it is the amusement park version.

Reality Shows are so very unreal.

Someone should shoot a documentary of my so-called bartender life. Now, that would be real.

Top Ten Things NEVER to say to the bartender

10.) When do I get a free drink?

The best things in life are free, but do not expect, or ASK to get anything for nothing. If you were going to get a free one, you will likely screw it up by asking.

9.) Have you gained/lost some weight?

You shouldn't be asking this of ANYONE, but really, you'll piss the bartender off commenting on their weight, and it is possible, you could completely ruin their entire shift.

8.) I'm not from around here, can you recommend a place to go?

"Go somewhere? What, am I not providing enough fun for you?"

Please, pick up a paper, or ask someone on the street. We prefer not to hear about how our bar isn't your idea of a good time.

7.) Do you know where to get something that will 'wake me up'?

Never, ever ask a bartender where to get a "hook-up". Not only does it show what a lowlife you are, but it is also, illegal.

6.) I have been away for awhile. or... I just got out.

Chances are that if you are a con bragging about being an ex-con, you will be back in the slammer by the end of the day.

5.) What else do you do?

My favorite all time answer to this is:

"I masturbate to porn for hours and hours."

It shuts them right up, and they will pretty much do anything you tell them to do, from that point on.

4.) How much is a ...

If you have to ask, you can't afford it.

If you have to ask the price of more than two things, you should go to the deli and grab a sick pack, or consider not drinking at all.

3.) I come here alllll the time.

People who insist on this, are always scumbags trying to get away with doing something inappropriate.

If we have never seen you before, you don't "come here all the time."

2.) Gimme a beer.

First of all, where are your manners?

And second of all, you have been watching too many movies.

WHAT kind of beer? Who doesn't order beer by its brand name?

1.) Where's the bathroom, I have to take a dump.

Too much information.

For a bartender, or anyone for that matter. Please keep that "business" to yourself.

Auntie Jo Jo, no more Ho Jo? I dunno Jo

I still shop at Wet Seal, I am dating someone in their mid-twenties, I don't balance my own checkbook, I have more shoes than I have silverware...yet, almost a week ago, I turned 36 years old. Closer to 40 now, than I am to 30...is it time to feel my clock-a-tickin'?

Four more years, my family guestimates. Four more, before I will be nearing the end date, where giving birth to my own child, will be a now or never propostion. I say, I can adopt until I am seventy. But, ya know, my knees and back will be shot by then.

And how important is it to me, to have a biological child? I don't know. I would like to think, whether related by blood or paper, it matters not. And the idea of nine months of such a physical transformation, just scares the H out of me. I gain five pounds, and I freak, although, I think, growing a person inside me, would render that response obsolete.

I have chronic back pain, and knee problems. I have been exposed to an excess of second hand smoke, stale tavern air, and I am almost completely noctural. I worry my genes may have mutated and made my cells incapable of producing a defect free being. My gynocologist deems me of sound composition...but didn't I have a some fibroids on my ovaries a few year ago, or something? I seem to recall getting a catscan for kidney stones, and being informed about something related to child-bearing. It went in one juvenille ear out the other. Now, it rings loud and clear. Time to check the donuts.

Reality check.







My dad speaks about his own life expectancy in terms of statistics. We are in the car, driving to brunch, and he tells me "the charts show" he will not likely live passed 88 years old. Just like it is nothing. Just like any other fact. I am sitting there in the passenger seat, shocked into having to think about losing my parents. Today. A Sunday afternoon in April when I am technically trying to have a pseudo vacation. What set out as a nice day with the family, is now, sprinkled with talk about longterm care, life insurance, and blood pressure. Does my father have no clue that I may want to live in denial about his aging? He sees everything in facts and figures. He is a planner. He is a realist. He puts the car in cruise control. He comments on the varying gas prices at stations along the highway. He asks me if I listen to NPR. That's my dad. I am positive he did not perceive how this talk was disturbing to me. I open the window for air. I feel short of breath. He asks about the car's temperature, and if he needs to adjust it.

"No, dad, I'm suffocating because you just made my heart skip a few beats. Can a girl get some damn air."

I didn't say that. Instead, I told him I was feeling a little hot, as I was rolling the window back up.

Perhaps, I should face the music. Perhaps I should prepare for my future better. Is my insistence about living in the moment getting in the way? I dont know. I really feel that living for the future is about fear. But, isn't it better to be safe, than sorry? Ugh, life is a bundle of contradictions. Cliches and opposing forces. You should get a map when you come out of the womb.

Most importantly, this weekend was about life. New life. Love life.

I fell in love this weekend. I met my new best friend. My niece, only 7 months old, stared into my eyes as I searched in hers. I saw my reflection. She watches people so intently, and really loves everyone. She gets bored easily, and needs constant stimulation. The verdict was she looks like neither parent, but out of all the relatives, she resembles me, the most.

I cried when I had to leave her. I browsed through the bazillion digital pictures I had taken during the entire train ride home. Twice. I looked into flights in June on Jetblue.com, within minutes of getting home. I printed out pics of us, and put them on my refrigerator. I miss her already.










I play the video back in my brain of the last few days together. I gravitate towards her. She fixates on my face. She looks for me when I walk away. She smiles when we play. Her name is Sola, which means the Sun in Icelandic. She is new life, untouched, untainted, and ready to shine in this world.

I love being Auntie Jo-Jo. Perhaps Sola's presence has brought some new light into my nightlife fuelled existence.

I need more Sun in my life.

If life is a bowl of cherries, what am I doing covered in cherry bomb juice?

Dr. Jo's beauty and other emergency tips. Bar room quick fixes.

Are you a bartender (or even patron, for that matter) with a beauty or other emergency?

Check out my quick fix tips:

1.) Hair gone wild? No hair gel? Try a little lemon juice in your hand (make sure you have no cuts) and run through your mane...









OR, if it is your birthday, and someone brings you a chocolate mouse cake...a little schmear of dessert goes a long way. AND you'll smell good enough to eat!

(Ask Ben-of recent NY POST fame, about the cake tip)

2.) Lips gone pale? A little swipe of cherry juice, adds color and flavor at the same time. Go one step further, and use cherry bomb juice, and get some liquor at the same time...Yum!
















3.) Feeling a little out of shape? No time for going to a real gym? Try the bar fly workout: Liquor bottles can be substituted for weights. Try doing bicep curls using 2 sealed Absolut bottles. AND, try doing push ups against the bar.

4.) Need an astrigent? Quick disinfectant? Did a swarmy guy kiss your cheek? Dab some vodka on a bev nap, and wipe yourself clean.

5.) Nipples don't wanna stay in? Try a little tape or a bandaid over them. But, make sure your top isn't sheer, otherwise, your secret will be out. (see nycbp.com, pic of me, shows my little trick...oops)

That's all I gots for today folks...birthday party hangover still in effect...thanks to all who showed. And to those of you who didn't...well you owe me one...

Zygo Aftermath: Food for Thought

Okay, so after sticking my head in "le toilet", only to produce some poor excuse for vomit, I reclined back in my bed, praying for the gut wrenching Taurine-inflicted pains to dissipate. They subsided, a bit, enough so that I could get myself into the shower, scour off the bar sludge, rinse the stickiness out of my knotty hair, and dig some sort of respectable outfit out of the huge pile of (dirty and clean) clothes, covering my bedroom floor.

I actually had a freshly dry cleaned blazer placed on a hanger and had already hand washed a pair of pants the night before, in anticipation of the forthcoming outfit panic.

I hadn't realized until Friday, that I had a laundry emergency on my hands, and it was a holiday (Good Friday). On my way to work, I saw that the cleaner was indeed open, and thought for a moment, I would venture back upstairs to fetch my bags. But, I just couldn't bring myself to do the whole departure process again. I'd make it through the weekend, somehow.

As I have written before, I don't get out much, so when I do, it always feels like I have been unleased into a totally different reality. I see things as "us" and "them." I relate to those who serve (the waiters, and the bartenders), and find myself sizing up the clientele as if they were cattle being graded for USDA classifications, or something...

It was my "birthday dinner", out with my parents, and current man of the moment, at China Grill. As the waiter, so adamantly informed us, the cuisine, is Asian fusion, not Chinese, as per the Chef's insistence.
















The restaurant, is on 53rd and 6th Avenue, in the CBS building, near the New York Hilton, the Warwick Hotel, numerous other hotels and tourist traps, and the streets are bustling with activity. It is an area of town, I rarely venture to: A highly corporate area during the week, and a tourist trap, during the weekends.

Our table was not ready when we arrived for our seven o'clock reservation. We were ushered to the bar, to wait to be seated. I noticed there were far fewer bottles on the shelves than we had down at my job. There were plenty of Grey Goose liters, and lots of other top shelf choices, but far less in the middle and lower tier liquor price ranges. The bar stools were wicker, horribly uncomfortable and unsturdy. My mother nearly fell over atleast twice. Perhaps they looked nice, but not much else.

It was an open kitchen, filled with staff woking, and grilling, tossing and plating. As I was sipping on my iced tea, a burst of flames arose from about ten feet away, the heat emanating towards us, and the fire dancing upward in a fervent furor. It was calmed quickly by the workers, which led me to believe this was a common occurrence. I wondered whether injuries were frequently sustained. It seemed rather dangerous to me.

We were kept waiting for over twenty minutes, which prompted my impatient mother to send my always obliging father to go pester the hostess. We did see an effort being made to seat us as soon as possible, and after atleast another ten minutes, we were accomodated, and rewarded with what the hostess called, the VIP table. It was likely true, being all the way in a corner, by the front window, without the noise of the Saturday night music and bar crowd. Had we been seated in the main area, near the back, I imagine we would have been annoyed by all the chaos.

Our waiter was named Cornelius, which we all were fascinated by. We commented how his name was highly unusual and that he also didn't look like a Cornelius. Whatever that meant... My father mentioned knowing only one another person with that name, going by Con, and my mother, said she knew of another, going by Neil. I knew none, remarking it sounded to me like the protagonist of a novel, or something...

The menu was really very up my alley, with things liked seared tuna tempura and a kobe beef tartare. The wine list was equally impressive, with items like Ice wine, from Canada, and other obscure bottles. Unfortunately, I was swearing off the liquor for the night, although I did sample my boyfriend's Pinor Noir, which was lovely.














I love dining with my parents, not only because they foot the bill, always at places way out of my price range, but because I feel like I get exposed to what has become, as of late, a rare dose of intellectual conversation.

My father knows something about everything; as my mother likes to say, "His brain is a collecting ground for totally useless information".

I rather see his wealth of trivia helpful for things like, the NY Times Sunday crosswords, or for insuring my dad wins games like Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit.

We were discussing all of our jury duty experiences, and my father told me about a recent class action lawsuit his firm had won in the last month. I found it quite humorous, when my dad told us what was the first indication the jury was going to settle in favor of the plantiff. Apparently, the judge had been sent a note, requesting a calculator. It wasn't hard to see which way they were headed. Way to keep it on the downlow...

My boyfriend, did his part in keeping up intellectually, and seemed to be quite at ease with my folks (this being his second exposure). He excused himself at one point to go to the restroom. In his absence, completely unsolicited by me, my mother adamantly said she wanted to go "on record" with how much she likes my man. This wasn't the first time I had heard it, but it is always nice to have parental approval. Although I am not one to actively seek it, I still am truly thankful when I do receive it.

I suppose I could go on for hours about the clientele, but I wouldn't want to drone on. Just think Sex and the City-ish women, groups of 20-somethings at the bar, ordering $20 specialty drinks served in martini glasses, first dates, family outings, married couples with strollers in tow, last dates, and everything inbetween.

All in all, it was a very nice evening, out of my element. When we were finished, and outside debating on going out on the town, or going home, I was leaning toward, yet another night of being a hermit. My mother tried to convince me to stay out for "just an hour" with my man, but I reminded her, it was a Saturday night, and I just couldn't bear to elbow up against the amateur weekend wastoids and wannabes. I informed her how difficult it is for me to tolerate crowds, or to have to witness juvenille or other inappropriate bar behavior. Lacking the ability to cut people off, or without my usual wooden protective barrier, I just feel like a fish out of water.











If it were Sunday, perhaps, I would have sucked it up, and gone for a nightcap.

But, it was a night for child's play. Best to stay away, and return to my sanctuary.

"On demand" cable: For the reclusive in all of us.

Zygo Overdose: It's not pretty

It happened to me: Zygo Overdose

What is ZYGO? Here is an extraction from a press release:

Announcing ZYGO The Morning Vodka

THIS IS YOUR WAKE-UP CALL. The Worlds First Spirit with Energy








New York, NY: Icon Brands announces the creation and release of its first product, Zygo, the Morning Vodka.

What is Zygo?

Zygo is the first and only energy spirit (70 proof) and a fresh new concept in the vodka category. It is ultra premium vodka that is distilled from American potatoes and boosted with a blend of taurine, d-ribose, guarana and yerba mate. These functional, revitalizing ingredients give you the energy to keep you going long into the night (or morning!). Now you can turn any traditional vodka drink into a sophisticated energy cocktail.

Icon Brands president, Ron Zier, says, The introduction of Zygo marks the first branded offering of functional ingredients within the spirits category. Now men and women have a great tasting, mixable alternative. This marks a new age of cocktail drinking.

Wherever you go, Zygo!



I probably had half a bottle of Zygo, the evil spirit, which sent me into hyperdom about five times my usual manic level.

Why do they call it the morning vodka? If they are marketing to nightclubs, shouldn't they call it "nighttime vodka"? Welllll...it keeps you from sleeping, tossing in bed while the hangover sets in, while your feet tap wildly. It is a nightmare. They should call it the "nightmare vodka", if you ask me.

I sat awake in bed, remembering the crazed antics of the shift. The Zygo had sent me flying back and forth behind the bar with lightening speed. It had my spewing random statements a mile a minute. I was sharing the Zygo: forcing shots of it on my patrons lined at the bar, trying to make them experience life at my superfueled energy level. One customer clammered, "That shot made us crazy."

Time Out.

It's 4pm. The day after Zygo overdose. I have to go stick my head in the toilet, dry heave, and then climb back in to bed for another hour, hoping the pains in my stomach will disappear before dinner time with the parents.

To be continued...

My So-Called Non-Bartender Life

My nights (or rather early mornings) culminate by watching reruns of My So Called Life on Noggins at 5am.






















I fall asleep on the couch in my work clothes, and wake up in the middle of the night, to drag myself to the bed. I survive on only a few hours of sleep more days than not. As Alyssa likes to say: No sleep for the wicked.

The smell of stale beer and day old garbage lingers in my memory. The dirt under my fingernails is embedded so deep, it would take a team of manicurists to scrape it out. A smudge on my arm is so thick it looks like a birthmark. The bruises on my legs and hips remind me how inanimate objects like to get in my way. My lower back is plaqued by kidney pain, and muscular problems. Dehydration has set in. To get myself to the sink, less than twenty feet from my bed, still may take some time.

Piles of laundry and dirty dishes remind me of my abandoned domestic duties. But, all I want to do is spend the day recovering from the boozing and schmoozing the night before.

Bartending is physical work. An eight hour shift running around behind the bar, to the left, to the right, climbing on top, being hoisted back down. It's like running a liquorathon every night.

It is a vicious cycle, that never ends. The drinking makes it worse, even harder to recover from the hyper social, entertainment driven nights of working behind my bar. You work, you get drunk, you sleep, you pop pills, soak in baths, lay in bed trying to force yourself to go do something with your day. If you succeed, it usually takes hours of convincing yourself, and by the time you are dressed and ready to venture out into the real world, the sun has set, and nightlife is the only choice you have.

I think to myself, maybe I wont drink the next time I work. Down deep, I know it'll be an hour or two, before I cave in. I need to be on their level...or I may throw a drink at someone.

I wonder what my liver thinks.

Bar tips and trips: My 10 Commandments

Bar tips and trips: Top Ten


Don't look like an amateur. Get better service.


TIPS- means to insure prompt service. My top ten, will HELP you with this.

Bartenders, however, cannot be agitated, by every customer who does not observe these rules. You have to smile and deal with it, and go on with your shift. That, is just part of the biz.














10.) Tipping a bartender, is entirely different than tipping a server.

When dining, the server has to wait to the end to receive their gratuity. If the waitperson does not like it, there really is nothing one can do. It is more than likely that the customer has already scurried out the front door, possibly never to be seen again.

When going to the bar, chances are you are going to be making numerous trips to be served, you will be judged on your first trip (and tip). When you step up a second time, we can prioritize serving the guy who is giving us a bigger per drink tip, and we GET to decide how long you will have to wait.

9.) Unless you are a well established regular, do not tip at the end.

You may ADD a hefty tip at the end, but do not wait until your drinking binge is over to take care of the server. And don't think you are being smart, if you decide you HAVE to tip at the end, and you will just let us know your plan. Usually, the ones who announce such a thing, are the very ones who fail to live up to their word. We won't believe you, if you say it, so don't try it.

8.) Tip heavy on the first round.

You can bet you will get special treatment after doing so. Also, remember to say please and thank you. People without manners just plain suck.

7.) Do not ask for us to be generous on our pour.

If you want a stronger drink, you should order a double, and expect to pay double. Otherwise, it makes you sound cheap and like a desparate alcoholic. What we pour, is what you get.

6.) If you order water or soda, you need to tip on that too.

And do not ONLY order water; it is a bar; if you don't want to drink alcohol, get a juice or soda. We are a business like any other, and we SELL drinks to people. If you expect to sit on our stools, piss in our bathroom, play our jukebox, you need to be a PAYING customer.

5.) Do not leave coins as a tip.

It is rude, and insulting. And, bartenders have been known to take spare change left on the bar, and throw it on the floor (or worse), next to the cheapsake customer.

4.) If you want to pay using a credit card, plan on spending more than $20.

Who goes to the bar without cash anyway? And, if you are going to open a tab, don't get so drunk you forget to close it out and pay. Who does this? Idiots. The same people who leave their cell phones and purses unattended, I suppose.

3.) Do not wave, snap, or use any other self created sign language to get the bartender to acknowledge you.

Wait your turn.

2.) Do not step up to the bar while on your cell phone, or BEFORE having your order ready.

I can't tell you how many times a patron has called me over only to turn around and start asking his friends what they want. By the time you turn back around, the bartender will probably have walked away. Do not signal us, if you don't have it all together.

1.) If you get special treatment, like free drinks, you need to tip on those drinks as if you had paid for them.

"We take care of you, you take care of us." It is a two way street, and believe me, if you are going to be a repeat customer, any bartender worth anything, will remember you when you return again.

The cheap or troublemaking bastard is even ten times more likely to be remembered, and we do not have to be nice to you if you come back. In fact, we don't have to serve you at all. We can refuse service to whoever we want, whether you like it or not. So...Don't be an asshole.

Also check out: COCKTALE CONFESSIONS on Myspace

Old Timers Night Out: Florence and Lawrence

Lawrence, one of our regulars that could be called "furniture", with questionable grooming habits, also, seems to have a way with the ladies. He can be quite charming, when he applies himself. Having been married three times, once to a playboy bunny (or something), he certainly has had his share of women. Although sometimes, he is rude and cranky, he does know how to treat a lady, with proper manners, and respect. Lawrence is rather old school, and knows how to be a gentleman when duty calls.


















This Tuesday, like so many others, he was hitting the Pabst and Kentucky Gentleman at his leisurely pace. Late night, he was still in full swing, as he headed outside for a cigarette break.

Shortly, the doors to the entrance swung back open, and low and behold, Lawrence had a lovely looking old lady in his company.

"Tanqueray martini straight up, very, very cold, no olives, no nothing." she politely ordered.

Apparently Lawrence had approached her on the sidewalk, and asked her if she would like to come in for a drink, AND she accepted.

It wasn't long before I was intently listening to this woman, entranced by her mannerisms and utterings. Her name was Florence, and as Lawrence quickly pointed out, their names rhymed...was it a match made in heaven?

Over the next few hours, I tried to absorb as much as I could about Florence. This is her story:

She was born in Manhattan, and has lived on 10th Street, a few blocks away, for 79 years. (Both Lawrence and I comment, how she looks better than him, a man 20 years younger...)

Born May 28, 1927, married once to a man who smoked and passed away in 1991. She never had children, because as she told it...they were too busy having a good time, by the time they were ready to consider it, she had passed her childbearing years. Florence has some unusual facial expressions: an odd crinkling of the nose, and a wide smile that appears at strange times.

I ask her if she is a movie star. No, but she is an actress, a member of Aftra, who doesn't have to pay her union dues. She must have been "grandfathered in". She is very well dressed, apparently just coming from dinner at a Japanese place down the block. When asked who she had dined with, she proudly claims to "always go out alone". She says her friends her age, don't like to go out to dinner, to bars, essentially, they don't like to spend any money. So, she flies solo.

She talks about how fancy the food was tonight at the restaurant, and how she prefers simplicity. A steak, some potatoes, no fancy garnishes. She speaks about Nobu, famous chefs, food presentation, and how things used to be.

As the martini disappears, Florence gets a little more talkative, and a bit more crazy. She calls herself a virgin, which I quickly correct, telling her she must be a born again virgin. Well, yes, a born again, having not had sex since 1991, I suppose that applies. Wow.

She talks to the other patrons at the bar, which at this point, are only two others. She takes a liking to Karen, and tells her to pull her chair closer. Florence comments on how smart Karen is, how beautiful she is, and starts asking philosophical questions like if she knows what love is, and other cliche things. Every sentence now begins with "Listen..." and she gets more brave with her questions as time goes on. She starts to contradict herself...first talking about how she would never tell someone not to smoke, or try to control or judge anyone for their choices...Not ten minutes later, she is doing just that, asking why a girl like me is working in a place like this, calling my co-worker a fake, and wondering how anyone could drink beer directly from a bottle.

She also, starts to be flirtatous with Lawrence, and returns to the talk of being a born again virgin. For a second, I questioned whether I heard things right; "You know how tight I am down there?", she informs Lawrence, and then adds to the pot, " and I never had children." Wink, wink.



Lawrence turns beet red. She says he is too young for her. But, there seems to be some weird sexual tension going on. I am in mild shock.

She challenges another customer, to grow some balls, and pull up a chair to talk to her. He is a twenty-something, calling her babe, and saying things like "my bad". She is offended by his non-chalance, and orders him to leave her alone. She is getting somewhat belligerent, and who wouldn't after fifteen years of celibacy? I'd be crazy and cranky, too.

Florence, does look like a movie star, especially when she smiles, and she makes me miss my grandmother. I like her. Alot. I want her to come back. Every night. Somehow, I doubt that would ever happen, and I wonder IF I'll ever see her again.

I try to make sure I do, by inviting her to our Anniversary party this weekend, and I even write the information down for her, so she wont forget.

After 3am, she announces it is time for her to go home. It is raining, and cold, so I offer he an umbrella, and Lawrence wants to put her in a cab. She refuses both, but says she will see us Saturday.

I hope she keeps her word.

Maybe I should have asked her for her number...

Mother Hen: Part Two ~ Slave to the Grind

April 1994: Part 2



Vanessa gave meaning to the term "star bartender". She had been a huge draw at another east village honky tonk, that had since been closed, due to, tax evasion, or some other illegal crap. The plan was, that her regulars would follow her to Doc's, and she would train the newbies to do things her way.

She was very bosy, and pretty intimidating. Vanessa had a line for most everything. No music: "Come on you cheap bastards, put a dollar in the jukebox". No tip: "Hey asshole, why don't you take this quarter, and go call your mother and tell her how cheap you are." Slow ballad on the jukebox: Song cut: "What do you guys think this is, a funeral? Please excuse me, while I go slit my wrists."

Vanessa also, TOLD customers that they were doing shots, and buying her one too. Saying no, was not an option. "What shot are you doing?" as she slammed down the glasses, and "you're buying me a shot." I would guess she drank about 3/4 of a bottle of Absolut every shift. Sometimes, she wouldn't even bother to pour it in a glass, but rather hold the bottle over her mouth and consume. There were penalty shots for customers who did something to piss her off, which often meant the cheapest whiskey poured into their mouth while leaning their heads backwards inbetween Vanessa's knees from on top of the bar.

Neatness and stocking, were not a priority; the evidence of debauchery was everywhere. Newspapers strewn on the floor, liquor and beer spilled on the bar, empty bottles everywhere. Vanessa was even more of a mess: more often than not, she was the drunkest person in the bar, covered in alcohol, hair wet from spraying herself down with the soda gun, wife beaters torn in several places. Her antics were a sight to be seen; patrons came to watch her, and she could pack the place.

Training with her was like bootcamp. You were treated like a new recruit, subject to her command. I was to do whatever she told me to do, and nothing was ever good enough. She told me I was using the wrong glass, pouring too much or too little, not drinking enough, wearing the wrong clothes, being too nice, and on and on...She took my training sessions, as license to get drunk, to entertain and not have to serve, and to use me as she saw fit. I also was not to be paid for training, and all those tips people were giving to me, were going to go right to her pocket.

After midnight, she was so hammered anyone she served, she "forgot" to get money from. People would get drinks from her, she would walk away, and they would be standing there with money in hand. All night long, people would offer to pay me for drinks Vanessa neglected to charge them for. Apparently, also, she had a habit of taking people's money, and either giving them the wrong change, or not bringing any at all. She was a master at explaining how to be a star bartender, but she was pissing people off, and apparently giving away the house. If she didn't have a partner there to collect money, or fix her mistakes, the place would easily be out of business in no time. By midnight, she couldn't serve drinks. All she could do was put on her "show", yell at the customers, and continue to hit the bottle herself.

Needless to say, as the place was packed every night Vanessa worked, but the till was not, the owner soon learned if he kept her on, he would soon be deep in debt. The liquor costs were soaring, and the fact that she brought a huge crowd in every night, meant nothing, because she was all talk, and all alcoholic.

Vanessa, was a prime example of someone who could verbally teach someone how to make money, but she couldn't follow her own advice. I think in her case, she was a lush of extraordinary proportions...and that was the ultimate cause of her demise.

Lesson: Don't get so drunk, that you "forget" to take the cash.

Fake IDs and the girls who use 'n abuse 'em

Everything in the bar business comes in waves: security problems, equipment breakdowns, staff disciplinary problems, and so on...

It also seems, certain nights, your bar fills up with carbon copies of one particuliar category of customer. This Friday we had half a bar full of privileged, snotty young girls, who all looked barely of drinking age.

These were the kind of girls, who ordered rounds of drinks, and left fifty cents as a tip. Getting a two quarter tip is even more insulting than getting stiffed, because there is no chance they forgot, or plan to tip at the end of the night. A few times, I have seen bartenders call the customer on this, handing the quarters back to them, in a condescending tone suggesting that if all they can leave are some coins, then they probably need them more than me.

I, myself, don't recommend doing this. Bartenders really can't get pissed at these morons, 'cause there are too many of them, and it just isn't worth the energy. Luckily, in the end, the generous patrons usually make up for the cheaper ones. Eventhough it shouldn't be this way, you can't dwell on it, or be rude to every customer who is thrifty or annoying. If you do, then you should probably not be in the service industry.

The point is, however, these girls could afford to drink, well then, then can afford to tip. If they can't, well then, go to a college kegger and give blowjobs for beer.

One teenaged looking girl, presented an ID that was so fake, you didn't even have to inspect it carefully. It was that bad.

"This isn't real. You can't stay, " I authoritatively stated.

She insisted it was real, and upon being questioned on the details of her ID, Miss Huffy, threatened she would call the cops in protest. She took out her phone and started to dial, and I interjected, "Let me talk to the officer, and I will tell him, you are in possession of a fake ID, which, my dear, is against the law, and YOU will be arrested."

She was fake calling to begin with. I was even contemplating asking her if she knew the number of the precinct, because I would be happy to give it to her. But she was taking up too much of my time, and people were now waiting for drinks.

First of all she was lucky I didn't take her ID from her and call the cops myself. And second of all, she quickly left the bar when she realized if she kept pressing the issue, she would be the one on the losing end. I am sure she went down the block or around the corner, hoping to pass off her fake on some less discriminating bartender.

Back to serving drinks, and I was approached by some other rich bitch from Long Island, waving Daddy's credit card at me. She openned a tab, and asked if a birthday girl could get on the bar and dance. I humored her, by telling her, "Yes, when I decent dancing song comes on, go ahead." I prayed for no good dancing songs...

A few songs later, she decided Jerry Lee Lewis's Whole lot of shaking going on, was worthy of bar dancing. The birthday girl climbed up on the bar, and soon, so did eight of her carbon copy friends.


They all looked underage, and like female toolboxes, doing pseudo stripper moves, without the commitment to sluttiness, and also, without any objective hotness.

Not only did their dancing suck, but they also were preventing customers from ordering drinks. The entire bar was lined with these girls, and it was impossible to serve.

At the end of the song, I thought, "Phew, they'll be getting down now." But, no, they wanted to stay.

Okay, time for harsh measures. The crowd wasn't very impressed, my regulars were shaking their heads, and giving me that look of desperation that signaled to me, "Please, Joanna, get them down."

Jukebox volume off. "Girls, if you aren't going to get naked, get the hell off the bar."

The room went crazy. Woo-wooing and other supportive cheering filled the place. And, low and behold...the girls got down, very quickly.

They couldn't handle the heat, and when called on it, they were just what we thought: wannabe strippers without the juice.

Please check my MYSPACE BLOG for more cocktale confessions:

http://blog.myspace.com/concupiscence1001

Mother Hen, the early (chick) years: Part One

Recently, a co-worker of mine suggested I try to take more time off for myself. She explained how she feels defined by her job, and that escape is needed to have a life outside of the bar world. I agree with that, but I also feel that, more people than not, are defined by what they do in life. One of the most annoying questions people ask when first meeting someone, is: "what do you do?".

Although, I cringe at the unoriginality of this inquiry, it is a reality, and will likely not change. After, working over 14 years in the bar/restaurant business, it is impossible for me to not, be associated with my place of work: Joanna, from Doc's. It is far easier to go with that title, to embrace it, and own it, rather than trying to find ways to escape it. One third of my life has been spent at my bar, it is as much a part of me, as I am a part of it.

It is almost Doc's 12 year anniversary, and being there since day #1, I often find myself feeling reminiscent of days gone, more than usual, around this time of year. Recently, the group of bars I am a part of, has been going through a centralization of sorts. And, I am truly the only one who has seen all the changes over the years, from the employee point of view.

April 6th, 1994. Alphabet City.

Home of Tompkin's Square Park, location of choice for the "squatters", drug dealers on street corners, very few bars and restaurants, and apartments still considered affordable. It was a different time, a different place. I was almost 24, pursuing an acting career, and paying the rent, like so many artists do, by working in the service industry.

I was just finishing a two year run at a theatre district restaurant, where demanding patrons poured in to fill their stomachs a few hours before curtain time.

The place would be full by 6 o'clock, and be empty again by 7:45. It was a decent gig. You would make all your money in two hours, but it was quite stressful, since you essentially had a "deadline". Two hours or less in and out, a kitchen that got busier than Grand Central at rush hour, with cooks yelling "pick it up, pick it up", and waitresses "stealing" other tables food, making things even more chaotic than they already were. On top of that, the owner was a surly middle aged Greek man, who would follow you around during the night, yell in your ear, holding your job over your head with idle threats.

As a waitress, during my employment there, I did cultivate quite the following, which is not as common for waitresses as it is for bartenders. I was extremely patient with the demanding elite, with their rum and diet cokes, egg white omeletes, and sauces on the side. They often pressed for special treatment, and tried to get a rise out of you, by treating you like a servant. But I learned very quickly, that they WANT to push your buttons. When you, unpredictably, smile, and say, "no problem", or "sure", they feel like the assholes, and have no choice but to shut up and enjoy. I was better with some kinds of customers than others.

Among the most memorable, were a group of three 60-something ladies, who came in atleast once a month. They always had such a great time, having a few cocktails, a nice meal, and sometimes, when they came in during "non- rush hour" times, I would sit down and smooze.

I began to realize, I had a natural talent: I knew exactly what kind of customer I was dealing with, the second I appoached my table.

There were the young couples: usually from Brooklyn or New Jersey, in for a night out on the town. Money was not an object, ordering Johnny Walker blacks, ketel one tonics, a bottle of wine with dinner, appetizers they don't finish, espresso with a cordial on the side, and often tipping way over twenty percent.

There were family outings, with high maintenance Long Island mothers, children in tow, sometimes, the grandparents too. Everything is "sauce on the side", with other special needs, and they usually tip exactly double the tax on the bill.

I often made repeat customers, which in a tourist heavy area, was unusual. I had patrons, who came into town a few times a year, and every time, they came to my restaurant, and sat in my section. I was a people pleaser. And got off on juggling 15-20 tables, running around like the spaz that I am, stacking 10 plates and my arm, getting the checks down and paid, with time to spare before curtains up. It was like a race, and the payoff were happy customers, and money in my pocket. The place was hit with a whirlwind of energy every night, and there were many stories to tell. I was also, still in my early 20's, and there were plenty of nights at after hours, many young boys to juggle, and an overactive social schedule.That is whole book in itself...

Anyway...a few times when the bartender was sick, I filled in. When you are a waitress setting up the service area for drinks, you quickly learn how to make them. I already knew most of the "recipes", simply from observing; the rest of the job required listening skills, attentiveness, and personality.

After a few fill-in shifts behind the bar, the "regulars" were bothering the owner to put me behind the stick. He was, as I alluded to, a cranky man, and retorted things like "you aren't tall enough", and other stupid crap like that. At that point, I had been there almost two years, and I felt my time was coming to an end. My closest friend, (who I had met there) had moved back to Boston, and it just wasn't as much fun anymore. And the owner, was way beyond unbearable.

I took a bartending course up at Barnard, which was cheap, held on 6 friday nights, where we used real liquor and were allowed to drink our concotions. I am sure I drank atleast half of what I spent on the course in liquor. And I learned how to make drinks, like Pearl Harbors, and Godfathers, which, as I have found, in my 12 years of bartending, to be of almost no use whatsoever.

I gave my two weeks notice, and started to scour the local papers for jobs. Little did I know, the owner of my bar had another bar post an ad for him, to screen potential employees and tell them to "come in and hang out" on a Friday night in March. He was to be in attendance, checking out the applicants, and approaching those with "potential" that very night. I believe I was THE only person who was literally hired OFF that very bar. After a song or three, of shaking it, I was introduced the "real" person who was hiring...and I was in. "Come in Wednesday" night, ask for Natasha.