Laszlo was with me last night, and we wandered downtown and got coffee and hit the bar. It was St. Patrick’s Day of course, but last week M told us it would be chill.

“It’s empty,” she said, “everyone goes to Irish bars so they end up leaving this place quiet. It’s nice.”

So we got there a few minutes after 7. There was a girl at one end of the bar, having a very good time, some other guys around… now wait. For a 7pm, there were already too many people. But sometimes that can happen by itself. Whatever.

We sat, we laughed, we drank. I gave M. a copy of CRAZY LITTLE THINGS since she made me swear that she would get one this week. I even made sure to sign it in front of her, because she, laughingly mind, doubted that I would remember to sign it or even sign it myself. I don’t know who I farm book signing out to, but that sounds like a fun idea to try.

M told us all about hijinks around the bar since last week. Illness! Falling down stairs! Strange drunks! You know: the usual. M, still recovering from being sick for a week and finding herself working through all of it due to circumstances was both a bit sluggish from being sick, hyper from being annoyed and laughing from the frustration of it all. So Laszlo drew a Migraine Bunny on a napkin.

M pinned it to her shirt for a while, but it ended up looking too much like a bib or a marathon number to work with. It ended up on the register instead.

Then I noticed that the bar was getting packed. It was just past 8. Packed.

“M,” I asked gently, “didn’t you say this place would be empty today? You remember, when you convinced us to come in this week, because it would be quiet?”

“Well,” she said.

“So you lied, is what you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Just so we’re on the same page here.”

“Oh, totally.”

This is why we love her. Does your bartender lie to you to get you to come into the bar? I don’t think so. Not that we would’ve stayed home, but I tend to not frequent bars on St. Patrick’s, just because I have an ever lowering tolerance for a crush of drunks that wants to pretend it’s Irish.

The waitress showed up, and sat down next to me. She smiled and said hi to us. Then she looked at Laszlo and started to comment that he had changed his beard… We both blinked, since she had never Laszlo bef… oh. “That’s not Hammerpants” I said. She laughed, and we laughed and she wandered off to help someone. If you’ve ever seen Laszlo and Hammerpants you might wonder how that sort of mistake can be made. We certainly did. Still do.

Hammerpants himself showed up and joined the mix, as always, and we sat around and kept playing with toys Laszlo had in his pockets. The man has pockets that contain just about every small object known to man, and some we only recently discovered as a species.

Laszlo also kept drawing things: An elephant as it leapt over people, a squid with the slogan “Drink More Sweat” and so on. There was art going on, you understand.

Vin showed and we shuffled around a bit to make room. He grabbed some napkins and made his own art to go along with Laszlo’s. Art!

Eventually we left, later than normal, and headed home.

There were some great drunks this week though. Great for the watching, I don’t mean M had fun dealing with them:

Raspy Guy came in and kept demanding things. First he asked about the music.

“Is there jazz?”

“the band’s on break, they’ll be back in ten minutes. Then later there’s some blues.”

“So blues are tonight? No jazz?”

“The jazz guys will be back on in about ten minutes.”

“I like the blues too…”

And so on, for a few minutes. He would leave and come back and leave and come back. Each time it was stranger. There were hard drugs involved, we know because he offered some to M at some point. Then, while M was talking to us, over at the end of the bar he whips out the butt of a smoke and a lighter. I caught the flash of the lighter and pointed M around to him. He tried to quickly hide the thing under the bar. Seriously. So she couldn’t see it. That was his great plan.

There was also Bopalong Cassidy. Guy walks in, head moving to the beat of whatever is nearby, the music, a conversation, some dust, it kept changing. He sits, orders a drink and then asks M if she models. Just like that. Way to hit the ground running. Bopalong proceeds to keep trying to hit on M who keeps coming over to us, telling us what he said and laughing.

At one point half the bar laughed at this guy, and he just nodded, like “Isn’t this great?” No, Bopalong, it isn’t. It’s sad, sure. Great? Naw.

The woman in the bar early, the drunk one having way too much fun left. She leaves, M has been dealing with her and so on and she comes over in a fume. It seems this woman spent four hours in a bar and left a dollar and some spare pennies as a tip. We offered to go grab her and shake her and see what else fell out, just in case there was a quarter around. This also resulted in the pooling of foreign money, because it might end up more useful. No, it was just to sit around and look at pesos from Hammerpant’s wallet and random coins from various countries that Laszlo had on him. But there ya go.

People in green fezzes, one of which was left at the bar, a troop all in bright green t-shirts, the same bright green t-shirt mind you, and so on. So there you go. Hope you had an interesting time of it, too.

I showed up, the first non-employee or band member in the bar. The band had just settled into the stage. They stopped, shy of a note and looked up.

“Oh, ok, we can start now, our audience has arrived.”

Not that I go there a lot, or am strangely timed to generally be the first person in there. It’s actually kind of cool - for me not them I am sure - but most weeks I get a song or two that only I get to hear them play.

M was a bit spacey and her waitress was sick so things were fairly low-key. Fairly, that is, if you leave out the part that has M ranting and arm waving for a good thirty minutes about job and work stuff.

So we’ll leave that out and keep going.

S’anyway, moving right along. Hammerpants showed up eventually. There was hanging and much beer and laughter. Vin showed up, too, semi-unexpectedly. Always a treat. Even if he does have the loudest laugh this side of Black Bolt. True story.

M made some strange girly drink. It looked like strawberry milk. Now, that might have been helped by the fact it had half and half in it, but still. It had some rum and banana and strawberry crap in it and just looked … frankly … delicious. Hammerpants tried a bit and had to admit it was quite the tasty beverage. With my ulcer I couldn’t try it, but oh how I wanted to.

I do love a good girly drink. Who doesn’t?

See now, we didn’t go to the bar last week. I felt like crap, Hammerpants was overworked at work and things didn’t come together. M was telling me she kept people from sitting in our seats, but it was a busy night. So after a while there were folks standing around our seats glaring and she just kept waving them off, because she thought we were going to show. Around 8 she gave up on us. Do I have to start calling the bar if I’m not gonna show? I might. That’s… that says a lot. Some of it good.

At one point M got down the bobble head dolls from the shelf behind the bar. Mattingly and Einstein. Mattingly’s bat is broken and M was telling us her theory that he attacked Einstein but good old Ein. is so smart his skull is super thick, and thus the bat broke. It’s as good a theory as anything else.

Of course she also redid Einstein’s’ huge mass of hair into a top knot, so uhm. Yeah.

M also said something to Vin and grinned at him.

“You’re too much like him,” Vin said jerking a thumb at me.

“What do you mean?” M asked him, searching in her bag for the fifteenth time for the lotions she forgot.

“He just called you evil,” I told her.

“Oh,” she said and smiled.

You understand why I like my bartender. But yeah she forgot all of her lotions, left the bag at her mothers, and was a tea fiend. I swear at one point there were so many cups of tea in paper deli cups on the bar in a nice little row even she admitted it looked like she was running a deli on the side.

Anyway. Next week is St. Patrick’s on bar night. So that should be fun.

Last night featured not only Hammerpants and myself but also special guest star Vin. Just so you can keep up. It was actually a really strangely quiet night. The bar was empty, or close to it. Leading theories included, but were not limited to:

• It was nice outside

No that was about the only one we came up with. I mean sure, I would bet we all considered a zombie apocalypse but then people would come into the nearest bar, having seen Shaun of the Dead and thinking it a smart move. Since that didn’t happen, ipso facto presto change-o no zombies.

There were, however, a lot of fire trucks around the area for a few hours. Kinda odd. The firemen were standing around looking confused. They taped things off and then seemed to realize they didn’t know where the fire actually was - if there even was one. I wasn’t on fire and the bar was not in flames so I am confident it was not us.
—————————
Val was tired. Curling up, head down on the bar, grumbling kind of tired. Which, sadly for her, was hysterical to everyone else. M certainly didn’t help, massaging various pints on her skull to relax her, and make her sleepier. It was kind of… not mean really, well ok it was sort of mean but in that good way.
—————————
M needs lemons and limes every night. A big bag of them to be sliced and used in drinks. She sent one of the guys out to the store to get 20 limes and 6 lemons. He comes back with a plastic shopping bag of limes and lemons - all loose. He didn’t bag them at the fruit area of the store. Which made M stop and wonder out loud how he carried them without bagging them (Basket, anyone)? I suggested juggling.

Maybe I suggested it because I want to see someone walking through a supermarket juggling 26 pieces of fruit. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just right.
—————————
Hammerpants showed up, sick. Props to him for showing up dead. M made him some hot water + lemon + brandy to clear him up a bit. He didn’t watch her making it however, so he missed the part where she squeezed about a lemon and a half into the glass, mashing it to make sure she got every ounce of juice. Into a 12oz glass. Then hot water. Then a splash of brandy. The face Hammerpants made on that first sip, suddenly realizing how much of it was just lemon juice? Well I wasn’t sick but it made me feel better anyway.
—————————
Vin, M and I had a whole Christmas story trade-off that really revolved around two facts:

M wants a Spirograph, and has wanted one since she was a kid. She still doesn’t have one.

Vin wanted a deck of cards. He has had decks of cards before, mind you.

M thought that perhaps coloring books would be fun to have at the bar, as well. I wish they made coloring books for bars. The pictures would be bands and bars and patrons and such. I could make that work.
—————————
Which brings us to crayons. I won’t tell the story of M’s crush when she was 4, except to say it revolved around crayons, but crayons were suddenly a hot topic.

It reminded me of those boxes with the built-in sharpener and how much I loved that. And the first time I was in a school setting and they had an electric pencil sharpener and I had crayons and… many crayons were sacrificed to the beast that day, I tell you.
—————————
Also there is no White People Skin Tone Crayon. It isn’t peach. I suggested Crayola market a crayon named Honky, but it hasn’t happened yet. I am too progressive for my times. It happens.
—————————
And then, you know how it is, we went home. Because, contrary to popular speculation, I do not live in a bar.

Crazy Little Thing: Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 are up. And now for last night…
—————
Last night being a holiday that I had to work and Hammerpants didn’t we met up early. This threw my normal pattern off and so I forgot to go buy the coffee for the night.
—————
Everyone was in an odd mood last night. M was in a great mood and I was totally goofy. Hammerpants was extra forgetful. It was a thing.

The bar started off so empty it hurt and then, in a flash, it filled up. Invisible stampede? Kinda. Now, see the end of the bar we sit at is where the lime slicing is done, it’s also where M and her waitress eat. The other end of the bar is the waitress station so it’s generally for work, not eating.

Next to where I sit there are two seats. these are normally empty for a few hours, and so M and her waitress will eat and we’ll all chat, etc. Last night food took a long time so… this couple came in and asked me if those seats were taken.

I couldn’t say yes. But then I realized that there were magazines and tea bags on the bar in front of them. So I cleaned up and put everything in front of me till M could grab it. Hammerpants eyes me and smirks. “You’re such a good employee.” Yes, yes I am.
—————
It was gorgeous out for the early evening. Drizzle raining but also the most perfect temperature. So the door was blocked open and trucks could go past, down the block, and idle at a light and make the front of the bar smell like a small rubber fire.

Incense was applied. We defeated the trucks.
—————
I was goofy, see. Not drunk, just goofy. So when a discussion with Hammerpants turned into talk of Godzilla (vs. 300 tigers!) I did a Godzilla face. No pictures, but he wanted me to draw it in MSPaint. I think I’ll just describe it.

The Godzilla Face: Start by compressing the mouth, and half frowning. A frustrated pouting frown. Lower the eyebrows and try to look like you’re annoyed, and roughly seven years old. Better yet you want to look like you know you’re looking stupid. Then you take your hands. Fold your pinky and thumb under and splay your other three fingers. Use them like toes. Tiny Godzilla feet. Stomp them on the nearest surface. While you stomp, left/right/left/right, bobble your head left/right/left/right in time with your stomping Godzilla feet.

That, my friends, is the Godzilla face.

So I keep randomly doing the Godzilla face and Hammerpants can’t stop laughing and finally M comes by and looks a bit curious. So I tell her “Oh, just doing Godzilla face.” And she raises an eyebrow. “I’m not drunk, you know I haven’t had enough to even be drunk yet, I’m just goofy today.”

“Too much sugar?”

“Possibly! I think, yes, maybe.”

“Yeah I can get like that if I have… any sugar.”

“Totally, but forget Godzilla face.”

“Would it be better if you were drunk?” she asked, moving down the bar to keep working.

Now, at this point she was a 1/4 of the way down the bar, the band is playing and people are talking. I realize quickly that the only way to be heard is to speak up. “You can’t improve upon Godzilla face,” I fairly shout, “I mean, come on!”

I have decided that the look a few people along the bar shot me, their smirks, were meant as “You tell her, we all know you can’t improve Godzilla face,” instead of “you poor drunk bastard.” The thing of it was? I honestly wasn’t even close to drunk. Just goofy.
—————
Godzilla (vs. 300 tigers!) gave way to chickens. See, in Godzilla 1985 they established Godzilla was originally a bird. In my head, telling this to Hammerpants, I decided he was a chicken. “But that’s not right because he lived in the ocean. So he was a … sea chicken?”

Well. Sea Chickens (not to be confused with Chicken of the Sea) lead to the creation of:

The Chickapod - Chicken upper body, but with tentacles instead of legs! It patrols the sea.

The Octochick - Octopus with eight chicken bodies attached to it, instead of tentacles. The chickens all start at the neck.

Mighty creatures both! M kept shaking her head. I don’t think she really wanted to know us, just then. Did I mention we were goofy?
—————
Remember when I mentioned at the start I forgot the coffee? This came back to haunt. It turns out the boss forgot to buy coffee for the bar too. So there was literally NO COFFEE. M gave me some cash and sent me to the deli. Yes. As Hammerpants remarked again, I am a good employee.

So I get a can of coffee and the guy takes the money and reaches for a bag.

“No thanks, I’ll eat it now,” I tell him and walk out.
—————
It got colder all night, quickly. Eventually M comes up to me and smirks. “Could you close the door?” she asks and wanders away. Of course I can. I am, after all, a good employee.

I swear, I don’t work there. This is just how I behave in my regular bars. I might as well work at them. I like being helpful. I don’t get people who are regulars somewhere and don’t do this sort of thing.
—————
Woman came in, friend of M’s, on crutches. When asked what happened she had the best description of an accident I have ever heard.

“I fell through a door,” she said and everyone looked at her, “It was, like, a cartoon door.” And then we all laughed and nodded. That’s how you break your leg. You fall through cartoon doors. It makes sense.
—————
We made to leave and M marches over. “Did I say you could leave? Did you ASK?”

“Uhh… Nope!” I said cheerfully.

“Well you can’t.”

“Oh ok, so see you next week?”

“Barring any unforeseen accidents and such, yeah.”

And then I turned to the door. And almost grabbed some woman’s face. She was kind short, I didn’t see her in the then-open doorway and though I was blindly reaching for the door handle. I avoided face-palming her. Woops. Anyway. We got out alive. And then we went to our respective dwellings.

Let’s just jump in this week:

——————————–

While mentioning a topic of conversation I had a few days ago, I told Hammerpants that oldest of rules: Don’t fuck the crazy. We laughed and he agreed and the term got repeated, as it is wont to do.

Except then we noticed M standing nearby staring at us with open confusion all over her face.

“What?”

“I don’t know what the context is but I’m not sure I want to.”

See, it turns out she heard: “Don’t fuck the gravy.” I pointed out that Dustin sometimes calls Kirkbride Gravy and that they should, in fact, not fuck. But in general it was one of those terms you want to find a use for but end up just leaving on the floor.

——————————–

Outside for a minute, and what a nice night it was, I saw a guy on his cel having this perfectly angry conversation.

“No,” he said, spitting out the words, “we’re in the same boat! We both want to make cookies but I have no brown sugar!” I mean this man sounded pissed. Beyond pissed. Startlingly mad.

And I snickered, inside. He continued to rant to whomever was on the other end of the phone and finally I said, loudly enough to be heard, “S’Mores.”

Now, understand I said it just to see what would happen. So, what happened?

“What?” He asked even as he barked “No, hold on!” into his phone.

“S’Mores,” I repeated casually.

He looked at me, frowned and then returned to his call. “Change of plans, I’ll be right there.” and he took off at a quick walk. I would assume they made S’Mores.

——————————–

Blues band comes on, and they’re doing all right. Tossing out some good tunes. Suddenly, the lead singer says something about a song he wrote and starts to sing it. It’s a song about his woman, who he nicknamed “Gravy”. We lost it. M, when she realized, shook her head, laughing and walked away.

That was, truthfully, the proper response.

——————————–

I need to give a shout out to Butte, Montana today. Group of folks who are from there at one or another point in their lives. Good kids. Contagious amount of spunk and vim and vigor. They were just having such a good time everyone else had a better time because of them. Go Butte!

——————————–

M herself was jaunty. She was just jaunty, last night. Jaunty I tell you!

——————————–

I went to the bathroom and by the time I came back my drink (which was empty when I left mind you) had been replaced by a tiny Chinese happy cat (I mean the size of a joint of my pinky when I say small) and a 90% deflated balloon.

The balloon had been in the drink well, where it didn’t belong. The ceiling has a bunch of balloons, mind you. Anyway M decided that if it didn’t belong in the drink well it belonged on my napkin, on the other side of the bar. Along with the tiny little happy cat that came with something she was snacking on. Cute tiny happy cat, mind you.

The balloon? Not so cute. It used to be white. But mostly deflated and shrunken and sitting in a drink well and a gray little balloon … well it gets batted around like we’re all about five anyway, I won’t lie to you.

——————————–

Coming home I tried to hail a cab. The cab just kept going. I decided he didn’t like the cut of my jib. Which made us realize that that is what Mr. T is on about all the time. He wants no jibba jabber. No talk about jibs. At all. He does not enjoy a good jib discussion in the least.

He is anti-jib, that Mr. T is. I am pro-jib, and eventually another cab enjoyed the fine cut of my jib and stopped. Take that, Mr. T!

——————————–

And now, Silent Library, one of my favorite Japanese TV bits.

So Monday night happened, the way it will. Quiet night, mostly. Mostly a bunch of us traded cat stories, like you do, and drank and hung out. I played spotter, as is my job. You know, when M is talking to folks at one corner of the bar she has her back to the rest of the place and I can still see it, so it becomes my job to go “M, you’re being paged.”

It’s a job.

Then later M rubbed her hands together with glee and gave a small evil laugh. “I’m planning some evil,” she said.

I looked concerned. “Wait, you’re going to plan evil without me?”

“Well, it isn’t really evil, no I wouldn’t plan EVIL without you.”

“Thanks,” I said and turned to Hammerpants, “You know I call shotgun on Satan.”

Later still I stood up to head down to the bathroom and my bag strap fell off my knee, twisted partly around the chair and looped over my foot. So I almost went headfirst into the floor, for about a second, which made M and Hammerpants wonder how much I had to drink. Really, it was the strap.

While downstairs I passes these two guys discussing guitarists.

“You know who has a little Hendrix in him?” the first guy asked.

“No, who?”

“Prince.”

“Fair enough.”

I had to leave quickly before I stopped to point out that Prince could only FIT a little bit of Hendrix in him. I mean Hendrix was kinda tall. Prince is the opposite of that.

So yeah, quiet night.

—————————-

The preview should be safe enough for work. Don’t hit play though unless you want to see Smurf Porn. Yes, people painted blue, in little white outfits, smurfing like there’s no tomorrow. They smurf and smurf and you won’t believe your eyes when they start to smurf. Did I mention it was in Spanish? Live action smurf porn in Spanish. Yup.

Not much of a Monday Recap going on here. The best stories aren’t mine and I never thought to ask if I could make them public. Such is life. A bunch of time was spent sitting around telling old crazy family stories though, which is always good for a laugh.

Two moments though, before we move on to other things.

This guy comes in and orders a drink. He asks if he can run a tab and is told that the bar only takes cash (not that you can’t run a tab but generally you have to be a known object to). He says:

“Oh, well ok, my mother will be here in a bit.”

This guy is about 30 or so, decently dressed and whatnot. The way he said it though fairly dripped with unspoken promises that she would take care of everything. He was just filled with… well you can’t say that at this bar without becoming known as “Mama’s Boy” behind your back. Which he was.

His mother did show up, for the record. And she paid for everything.

+++

Hammerpants is a programmer. He’s damn good, too. Except sometimes, when talking to code geeks you have to stop and remember that everything needs exacting context. Otherwise - when Hammerpants discusses a coworker and says:

“His whole performance enhancement thing was supposed to be for release.”

You might just stop, write it down and wait for M. to wander by and show her. At which point you both might just shake your head and give Hammerpants a look of scolding.

And then crack the fuck up laughing.

——————————————————————-

And then I had the 4am from hell. Kenzie decided she needed to throw up. On the bed. With me in it. So after changing the sheets and cleaning up and trying to pet her, because no one feels good after they throw up, she got extra feisty and was bounding around at ultraspeed so that I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I tried to get a tiny pinch of catnip out to drug her so she’d settle and let me sleep.

Except she ran into my leg, and spilled some catnip. So I tried to clean that up before she snorted it all and she took to running, again. It was 4am, all right? Not at my most graceful I tried to stumble back to the kitchen to put away the catnip. Which is when I kicked her.

She took that personally and hid under the bed.

I got her out and then she would only bolt around at speed and when she saw me, in her stoned and confused and upset state, run in panic and fear as if I might beat her.

*sigh* That was a fun two hours.

This morning I woke up to her curled against my leg. When I sat up and gave her a quick pet she turned on me and grumped and ran off in half remembered sleepy panic.

I am a very tired, and it would seem, very horrible cat owner today. Or my cat is having ‘Nam flashbacks again. Or both.

Last night at the jazz bar was an odd one. I mean that in the best way, of course. I walked in and M. was looking obviously sick. None of the people who could have covered for her were free or answering the phone. Which meant that M., with a fever running in the 99-102 range, was trying to tend bar.

Not that she caused some huge mess or anything, we just all felt bad for her. Luckily the bar was dead last night, oddly so, so most of the night was spent in a corner of the bar, getting her to have more soup, tea, and water, while Val (the waitress last night), Hammerpants, M. and I all chatted away.

So no messes or anything unless M. missed the runner ledge near the ice well to put away a bottle of vodka and it hit the floor. And then she stared at it for a few seconds to work out what had happened. That may or may not have happened. I won’t tell.

Still - it was this kind of night:

We were told of the weekend, when M. and Val were both waitressing and a guy at the edge of M.’s section saw Val go by and touched her ass. Not an accidental touch. When he saw it was Val he said “Oh, I thought you were my waitress.”

Dude. Not the way to make that better. So, after he tries three different stories (”Oh, I thought you were my waitress.”, “I didn’t touch you at all” and “It was an accident, and I was talking to my girlfriend” (yes his girlfriend was with him)) M. handed him his check and told them they were being closed out and could go now. This guy’s response? “Oh, you’re buying us drinks?”

One the one hand I appreciate the balls, stupidity or drunkenness involved. On the other? Jesus that guy was just lame on lame with a side of lame.

—————-

Val spent a while last night thinking she smelled broccoli at random moments. I don’t know, either.

—————-

Some woman called the bar. She asked if there was a guy, in his 30s wearing glasses with dark hair who was a regular and named Matt. The bar was mostly empty, and I was the closest thing there. Except for the Matt part and the dark hair. But this woman insisted to M. that Matt was there and that M. needed to tell him a message that Matt needed to “fix his situations.”

I, of course, offered to be Matt should she call back. Sadly she never did.

—————-

But the winner last night was Hammerpants. Let me set the scene a little.

There was a bottle of beer. One, normal sized, bottle of beer. The beer sits on a cocktail napkin. Big enough to hold a glass, bottle or even decent sized mug. It could even hold two bottles, if you put them down right. The napkin, of course, sat on the bar.

So Hammerpants sets his beer down on the bar, next to the napkin. I shake my head, reach over, pick up his beer and put it on the napkin.

“Was that so hard?”

“The napkin is a small target.”

“I feel bad for your girlfriend.”

—————-

And that’s what kind of night it was.