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Life at TJ's Place
Saturday, May 08, 2004
 
Friday was an extremely long day, starting with a round of golf, in the wind, which completely wore me out. I have no problem if people who work outside for a living are saying, right now, “Oh, pooh-pooh, Mr. Softie, are you tired after your little round of golf?” Tired’s tired, so yes, Mr. Softie definitely felt rode hard and put away wet. Then work was agonizing. After 12 hours in the DJ booth, it gets really hard to come up with different ways to tell men to make sure they tip the dancers well, and look how fucking hot this next one is, blah blah blah. At one o’clock in the morning, the guys are so shitfaced (not to mention the dancers and probably most of the waitstaff), that I could drop dead in the DJ booth and no one would notice unless the music stopped. It’s just not very inspiring work.

When I cashed out the registers, the one Mitch had been working most of the night was short over $200. This happens occasionally. It’s usually just a goof by the bartender when they rang in an order and it will show up on the tape, but sometimes it’s never explained and you have to really stop and think about it. If it’s not an overring, something happened. I was too tired to worry about it. I’m going to write in the blog one day about the staff and all the creative ways they steal money from the club (read sarcasm into the word creative).

I also think the Smoke Eaters might have taken a shit last night. By the end of the night, it was extremely smoky in the bar, which usually isn’t a problem. Late last night, my eyes were killing me and I took my glasses off to rub them, which turned out to be a huge mistake. It was like I rubbed them with a piece of sand paper. Luckily, there were eye drops in the office that probably date back to the 1990s, but they worked. This morning when I got up, my eyes looked terrible. I love allergy season. Love it.

Thursday, May 06, 2004
 
Two falls ago, I went fishing and camping in Colorado with two friends, and one of our friends who lives in Colorado. We were fishing for trout on the Colorado River and we camped for four days and three nights. Before we left the interstate and went to our campsite, we bought $200 worth of groceries at a grocery store in Avon, Colorado. We had two coolers the size of bathtubs. We slept in tents, we woke up before the sun came up and started a huge fire and sat and drank coffee. We cooked breakfast and dinner over an open fire. Every breakfast, we had steak, eggs, fried potatoes and toast. Every dinner, we had trout filets fried in real butter and lemon juice, baked beans and fried potatoes. For four days, I never watched a television, I never heard a phone ring, I didn’t check an email. We fished during the day and sat around a fire and drank beer and laughed and listened to the radio at night. It was a good four days. I could have done it for the rest of my life.

There’s no point to that little passage. Just remembering. There is something about being surrounded by mountains and all you can hear is the rippling of water. What amazes me about mountains is that I’ve never heard silence like that, like it's impossible something so massive does not make a sound. I know now that when I see in a movie someone shout into a canyon just to hear the echo, they are committing a crime against nature. The last thing I would have ever wanted to do up in the mountains that weekend would have been to shatter that silence by hearing my own pathetic voice, which I hear enough of as it is. The mountains will never ask you to shout your name at them. They ask you silently to just shut your mouth and fish, and every once in awhile, stop and look up and all around in awe.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
 
I’m writing a short story right now that was inspired by my friend, Mark, who told me last weekend that he was scared about his upcoming yearly “employee evaluation” at work. According to Mark, he hasn’t been performing very well at his office, as in terribly. His boss, who is a spook and doesn’t come out of his office much, uses “evaluation day” to unload and scare people. Mark is terrified and doesn’t handle stress very well. He will sweat and his hands will shake. I tell Mark his boss won’t fire him in an evaluation. Mark is afraid of being fired, of not being fired. Of getting a raise.

So I’m writing a short. It will be a dark comedy about a guy in Mark’s position, who has a drinking and drug problem, who is stealing from the company petty cash fund (not Mark, my guy). He is facing an evaluation and can’t handle it. So he decides that the best way to postpone the evaluation and get himself together is to burn his office down. All I know is that it will take place in a 24-hour span and have a really ironic ending. That’s all I’ve got.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004
 
We had a guy on stage Monday for a “birthday party” (his buddies select two dancers, they all get up on stage, they strap him in a chair and abuse him: tear his shirt off, atomic wedgie, rip off the band of his underwear and stuff it in his mouth, write vulgar graffiti in magic marker on his chest and stomach, that sort of thing). I always play a dumb song from the 1980s by Great White or Motley Crew, one with lots of guitar. You all know the lyrics: chicks, blonde twins, that thing that wild groupie did on the back of our tour bus that one night between Denver and Vegas, tour buses, hotel Jacuzzis, two chicks in a hotel Jacuzzi, etc.

Here’s a word of advice for anyone bringing a bachelor or birthday boy in and buying him a “party” on stage with a couple dancers: If the dancer removes the guy’s belt, and you run up to the DJ booth and ask me to tell the dancer to “whip the shit out of him” with the belt, she will. She will whip your friend until either the end of the song or until someone physically pulls her off of your friend. She will enjoy doing it. The other dancer will enjoy it too, and she will hold your friend down while the other one does the whipping. Your friend will eventually crawl to the stage and curl up in the fetal position, covered in welts. So just be careful what you wish for.

Lunch was great. I did not have beer goggles when I met her, I was glad to see. She works in a bank and had an hour for lunch, which was more like 40 minutes by the time she got there and when she had to leave. Just from lunch, I think there’s a very good possibility for a relationship, so I’m going to lay-off making posts about her. One day, maybe, I’ll show her this and I know she’ll think it’s hysterical.

Monday, May 03, 2004
 
Okay, her name is Natalie (real name). Here is an abbreviated version of the conversation I had with her on the phone today.

Kev: Hey it’s Kevin, from (name of bar) Saturday night. Remember, we’re going to Australia together in 2005?
Natalie: Hey, what’s up? (I can’t put into words how great this last phrase sounded, it was just so casual, no big deal, like you’d say after your third date. I love her now and we will have children. We’ll be cool parents, two boys and a girl.)
Kev: Not much. I’m at work. What are you up to?
Natalie: Nothing. Bored, watching TV.
Kev: What?
Natalie: I said I’m bored and watching—
Kev: No, what are you watching?
Natalie: Oh…

Now this is later.

Kev: Sorry about Saturday night, being a butthole when you were leaving.
Natalie: You weren’t being a butthole.
Kev: Well, I was, and you know what I mean.
Natalie: It was a boost to my ego, even if you were a little drunk.
Kev: That’s what I meant.
Natalie: (She said this, I swear to God.) Hey, you got the phone number of a girl who’s never went home and fucked a guy two hours after she met him. That’s not such a bad thing, is it?
Kev: (heart pounding) No, that’s a pretty good thing, actually.
Natalie: (she also really said this) So there you have it.
Kev: (diving in head-first) So, do you have anything open on your social calendar for a guy like me?
Natalie: Such as?
Kev: I don’t know, dinner, minor league baseball game? Dinner and a movie? Lunch? Tomorrow?
Natalie: Hmmm. (She really did say this, just like that, hmmm, then): I can probably do lunch tomorrow.

So there you have it.

Sunday, May 02, 2004
 
My friend Greg is in town and I went out with him and another friend last night for Italian and to check out a new club that opened up awhile back that I hadn’t been to yet. I’ve heard about it for the past few weeks from the dancers and waitstaff. The bar was very cool (we’re going there again tonight) and I met someone late in the night and had a really great conversation with her (dream vacations, his: Australia, hers: Australia). She made it very clear that we wouldn’t be bumping uglies at the end of the night, but I gave it a shot anyway when we said goodbye. Dialogue:

Kev (begging slightly, holding hands): I could make you breakfast! I’ve never killed anyone with my cooking yet.
New Friend: I’ll let you make me breakfast someday…I promise.
Kev: You know, a few days ago, today was a “someday.”
New Friend (frowning, has no idea what the fuck I just said).
Kev (also has no idea what the fuck he just said).
New Friend: Just call me…I really gotta go. My friend’s waiting.

When I walked back in the bar, my friend Greg announced to our table (six people at this point) that, “It looks like somebody’s gonna be pulling his pud when he gets home tonight.” I was drunk enough that I said, yes, I probably will.

Whenever I get home after a night of drinking, I always think it’s a good idea to fly a Boeing 777 on Flight Simulator. I’ve crashed a Triple-7 upon landing, drunk, at nearly every major airport in the world. My body count has to be astronomical. So, to the people of Rio de Janeiro, who last night witnessed my plane bounce twice on their runway, catch fire, and disappear into the mountains, I'm sorry.


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