:: Life on Planet Dan-E ::
Thoughts, observations, and introspections from an
:: Friday, February 08, 2008 ::
Labels: bartending, cheeseburger, job search, moving on, the gay wingman, waiting, whiskey Labels: big ass, boobs, girls, server stories, the gay wingman, waiting, whiskey, whoa Labels: alkie, basketball, celtics, sports, the gay wingman Labels: dating, girls, the gay wingman, the hostess
:: Sunday, February 03, 2008 ::
After I got home last night, I sat in my chair for a minute, still a little numb. Oddly, I wasn't worried about my finances or my living situation as much as I was wondering what The Hostess is going to think once she arrives at work and discovers I was fired. Stupid, right?
Anyway, I snap out of it, and start typing out last night's post. It's about 7:20 and I decide to go play some tennis to blow off some steam. So far, my mental state has gone from shock (I'm fired? Over that?) to denial (they'll call me in a couple of days because they'll be short-staffed) to acceptance (whatever, I'll be fine. I started hating that place anyway). But while walking to the park, acceptance slowly boiled into fury (if they're going to fire me over that shit, fuck them). During warm-ups my first few forehands flew to the back of the fence without bouncing. As much as I tried, I couldn't get that day's events out of my head and it got to me. Bad shots seemed that much worse, near misses didn't seem close, and even my good points made me angrier (why can't you play like that all the time you hack?) It's a miracle I never had an ulcer. Oddly enough, that anger seemed to fuel my inner Federer and I actually played well, considering.
I come home and take an extra-hot shower hoping it would clear my head. I sat at my desk, opened up my resume and begin updating it. I finish, move on to the cover letter, finish that, and head over the Kinkos. Then I check out Craigslist for any possible leads. An Open House at the Raleigh Hotel looks promising. It starts at noon, which is perfect. It's located up on Collins and 18 and after, I can make my way down Lincoln Road and see who’s hiring. I'll grab a New Times (new issue every Thursday) on the way over and see what they have in the back.
I leave and walk briskly towards Washington. Two blocks away, I realize I forgot to bring a pen. I don't remember if I wrote about this, but many times at my last job, applicants would often walk in asking for about work in less than professional attire. Many times they wouldn't even have their own pen, and several waiters took the liberty make a note on the application regarding that error. I never did that but I found it annoying.
And now here I am without a pen.
I stop by LeeAnn drugs and buy a nice Pilot rollerball and it was the best $2.50 I spent in a while. Once at the Raleigh, I walk up to the counter and ask about the Open House. The desk clerk gets a pained look on his face and tells me that someone other than the hotel posted the ad as a prank and that there is no Open House. Okay, what the FUCK. "Are you still hiring?" "Yes, you can fill out an application and someone from human resources will review them." Fine. I take my application outside and fill it out in the patio, enjoy the warm weather and the cool breeze, while wondering what the hell my immediate future holds. When I walk back inside, the lobby is filled with applicants and the poor clerk's look went from pained to constipated. I staple my cover letter, resume, and application together and turn it in, then turn to the lobby to get a look at my "competition." It's mostly guys, and most of them showed up wearing jeans and T-shirts, and a few are sporting caps. I only notice two other who brought separate resumes. There are a couple of girls, one who's dressed professionally, and another who looks like she's about to clubbing, sporting some very nice cleavage. It's then I think to myself, "maybe I'll be okay."
The only thing I've had so far that day was some grapes and a can of Rockstar. I'm more thirsty than hungry so I go to Burger King to with my New Times, grab a soda, and see what's available. There's a few promising leads and I tear out the pages and head to stop number two.
Number two is another Hotel on James Ave. Their only opening is for a part-time bartender, but I apply anyway. Nothing remarkable about that place except this: when I walk into their spacious lobby, it's filled with women. Attractive women. Hot women. Everywhere. And I'm the only dude. I've had dreams like this. The least pretty would rate as "yeeaaah, give me two drinks and I'd do her" while the hottest rated as "I would drag my balls through a firepit just to hump her shadow." I don't know what they were doing there (other than the fact that maybe God hates me... I don't even know what that means) but I focus on my task at hand. I get an application, fill it out, attach my papers, and walk out. As I'm walking out, I notice a bleach-blonde Latin chick looking at me. When we make eye contact, she smiles and I smile back... and I almost walk into the doorframe. Smooth, Dan-E. Very Smooth. You idiot.
The next stop would be the most fruitful. It's at another hotel on Collins, and unlike the Raleigh, their Open House ad was legit. I'm there five minutes early and grab an application, but the guy doesn't show up until about 2:40. In the meantime, I'm chatting up a couple of girls who are also there to apply. There's a friendly blonde that seems promising (so much for focus) and I'm making progress until the interviewer finally shows up. Asshole. He turns out to be a friendly enough guy. At first it's only four of us so he does group interviews. My first question is what goes into a Long Island Iced Tea (vodka, gin, rum, tequila, a splash of sour mix and coke, lemon wedge garnish... but I forgot the Triple Sec. I don't know why but I always forget the Triple Sec.) He asks me to make the ultimate margarita (2oz. of a good, Añejo tequila, fresh juice of two limes, 1oz. Gran Marnier; on the rocks with a salt rim. You need a salt rim. Don't argue with me.) Suddenly, our foursome triples in number and he sits us all down and addresses us all on what the company is doing, and what he expects of us. He'll does a quick one-on-one with us, and the blonde goes first. I'm next. We go through my job history, he asks if my name is really spelled "Dan-E," and a few other things about serving and bartending. I guess he likes me enough that he tells me he'll call on Saturday to let me know when I can start training.
SCORE!
I'm stoked. I shake his hand vigorously, and I walk away with a big smile. Awesome. Hired on the spot. It was about 3:15 when that happened and it's when Gay Wingman finally wakes up and calls me to ask how I'm doing. I tell him what happened and he's happy for me.
Not much else happens at the other places I apply at. I stop by an Italian place, a sports bar, a regular bar, and a beer and wine bar. Once I reach Alton Road and head towards home, I check my phone, which I kept on "silent" the whole time.
Remember my buddy, who offered me a job as a supervisor and works at an Irish tavern? I called him the night before just to ask him if he had any openings. He left a couple of texts, saying no promises, but I'll see what's available. When it's all said and done, he ended up telling his boss about me, and she wants to meet me. And now I have an interview tomorrow at noon at his restaurant.
This is awesome. It's nice to have options. Though if I end up working a the Irish place, I'll have to buy this guy a beer. Or maybe a bottle Jack Daniels. Whatever, he's good people. We'll have to wait till the weekend to see what happens. I can't wait.
:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:01 AM [+] ::
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:: Friday, February 01, 2008 ::
I raise my eyebrows and I look at her for a moment before I ask for her I.D. She digs it out of her purse and hands it to me. She turned 21 three months ago. Girls her age who try too hard to be precocious usually stick of Cosmopolitans or some vodka mix (and it's always either Grey Goose, Kettle One, or Belvedere). But Jack on the rocks...
Wow. Don't get me wrong. I like Jack Daniels. On the rocks or with Coke, it's a great whiskey. I'm an avowed bourbon drinker that also loves s good scotch and Irish Whisky(I'm not a fan of Canadian Whiskeys; Crown Royal is okay but everything else tastes like swill) but I'm 33 and I possess an iron palate. (The Gay Wingman once dared me into doing a Wild Turkey shot and I downed with no problem, whereas he went into convulsions, despite the fact that he's been drinking longer and harder than I ever had). Jack Daniels is similar to bourbon except it's made in Tennessee and has been filtered through sugar maple charcoal (imagine a gigantic Britta filter; it's called the Lincoln County Process), which imparts and a smoky sweetness you won't find in, say, Woodford Reserve. Regardless, drinking this stuff without a mixer takes either a strong tongue or years of drinking to develop a tolerance (in my case, both).
I hand her driver's license back, smile and say "nice pull." She smiles back at me and says quietly, "I've been doing this for a while." It's then I noticed that she owns not only a killer smile, but also a beautiful pair of hazel eyes that could potentially make powerful men starts wars to win her favor. I'm about to flirt with her except the guy sitting next to her suddenly slides right next her, puts his hand on her thigh, and says to me with a slightly raised voice, "can we start with some calamari?"
I pull myself out her eyes and walk over to the computer, being grateful that I’m wearing an apron. My buddy Chuck and the new guy are still checking out Hazel Eyes. After I run the drinks, I walk up to them and joke, "I think we got 'Miss Girls Gone Wild 2008' at my table." Chuck thinks it's funny while new guy just shakes his head and says, "Damn. She's fucking hot dawg. She show you her tits or something?"
"Nah. I mean, she's hot, but she's drinking Jack on the rocks."
"Aw damn."
"And... she turned 21 in November."
"For real?"
"Yeah."
"Aw, damn dawg. That's hot, That's fucking hot." (He says "dawg" a lot. And he's Brazilian.)
I chuckle. He's a good guy. He's only 28 but he's been married for four years already. He says he never has and never will cheat on his wife and I believe him since he'd tell me if he did, but it's clear he married too young and he still wants to sow his wild oats. (Then again, his wife is a beautiful English lass with blonde hair and a round ass and if anything like that was in love with me, I'd probably want to lock that down too.)
The calamari is done. He drops it off at the table and walks past me, shaking his head and says "damn." I smile. I sorta know how he feels. Assuming she was single, he can't have her because he's married. I can't have her because... well... I have my own neurosis I need to work through.
Gay Wingman walks up and he wonders what the three of us are talking about. Chuck points out Hazel Eyes and even the gay guy is like "wow, she is hot." He nudges me and says "you need to go talk to her right now."
"Dude, she's with her boyfriend."
"Oh honey, he's a dumb jock that still wears his cap backwards. You're way smarter than that meathead is and, oh my gawd, his shoes are just awful."
He's sober. It's not unusual for him to have a drink or three before a shift but he's sober right now. I just look at him and nod. "I'm serious. Even if you don't get her number, you need to go make an impression and show her she can do better than that jock."
I smile. I don't have a response to that but other than the "fabulous" part, he might be right. Alcoholic tendencies and loquacious ramblings aside, he just might have a point.
They finish their dinner and pay. They leave while I'm standing near the entrance talking to the host. When they walk by, the boyfriend ignores me but Hazel rubs my arm as she walks past and says good night. I smile back and say "I'll see you again soon." I grab the check. The boyfriend paid and left a crappy tip.
I don't care. I'm in a good mood for the rest of evening.
:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:56 AM [+] ::
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:: Sunday, January 27, 2008 ::
Except he didn't. He was out with a strained abdominal muscle (wuss). Ray Allen was stricken with the flu. Paul Pierce had a sore vagina and finished with only seven points. Of the Miami stars, Shaquille O'Neal pulled a hamstring running to the post-game spread when the team chef brought out pot roast (not to say I wouldn't have done the same thing but this guy is supposed to be a fucking ATHLETE... and my hamstrings are in better shape, apparently), and Dwayne Wade left in the third quarter with "flu-like symptoms" (did he have pre-game make-out session with Ray Allen? I mean really. It's that or Wade got sloppy seconds with a sports groupie who stopped by the visitor's locker room first).
Whatever. My buddy and I snuck in two small bottles of vodka and small bottle of Jack Daniels (that was mine) so halfway through the second quarter, we had a nice buzz going (I'm not an alcoholic!) so the game wasn't too unbearable. And I have to say, I was impressed with the depth of the Celtics bench players. It wasn't Boston's Big Three but the backup guys played like a decent college team going up against some beer-league rejects and as bad as the game was (they won by thirty points but the game wasn't nearly that close) those guys were fun to watch. There wasn't a ball-hogging superstar (Kobe, I love you but it's true) or some star primadonna that's angry because the team stopped paying for his pedicures. The Celtics bench guys played like a TEAM - kinda like how the Detroit Pistons played when they won the Title - and as a casual fan it was fun to watch.
Hey, it was a free ticket. Sports events are like rock music in that it's always better to experience it live anyway (even if your seeing some crap band like Maroon 5) and even without the booze, I still would have had fun. And as a sports fan, the one thing I took away from it was this: I can complain about my favorite teams all I want (Dodgers, 49ers, Lakers, Federer losing in the semis of the Oz Open) but it's still better than being a Miami sports fan.
:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 1:18 AM [+] ::
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Every now and then after a few drinks, he makes it a point to meet women and then introduce them me. I'm just sitting there trying to find something to hide behind. I'm not opposed to meeting women, except he has a knack for picking out the ones that are married, have boyfriends, or is so drunk that she'd probably go home with Scott Peterson.
I don't know if it’s a New York thing but he's generally blunt in his observations of me, especially when he goes into this bizarre (alcohol-induced) Queer Eye meets Dr. Phil mode. I'd normally dismiss his drunken ramblings (like when he tells me to cut six inches off my hair and shave my goatee; no way I'm cutting my hair, and I'll trim my goatee but if I go clean-shaven I'll look like I'm 17) except he pointed out some of the very same neurosis that I blogged about in the past. And it's not all critiquing, he does point out the positives as well, without being like, creepy or anything.
He knows about The Hostess, only because he saw us leave work together and asked me the next night about what was going on (nothing... I think) and if anything happened (we had dinner once, drinks once and lunch once). His conclusion? She likes me but she's probably as neurotic as I am. Interesting choice of words since since she sometimes compares herself to Monica from "Friends."
This should be interesting.
:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 12:46 AM [+] ::
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