The Bartender Journals: The Bartender Journals The Book!!!

Friday, October 28, 2005

The Bartender Journals The Book!!!

First off I'd like to thank everyone who read this blog and made what I'm about to tell you a reality. I was aproached some months ago about the amount of traffic my blog was recieving and was offered a deal to turn "The Bartender Journals" into a book. I readily accepted and this is the reason that updates have been few and far between as of late. I've been filtering content from the finished product to the page month by month but at the request of my agent will not publish the last few chapters of what will become "The Bartender Journals" the novel. The book will have all you've read here (although edited) along with about a half dozen chapters added in the middle and the two chapter conclusion. In about two weeks you can view a preieview draft of the first couple of chapters as they will appear in the book at which will as of launch have regular updates including a weekly blog, a comic strip, and a profile of Colorado area artists. When the book hits shelves (first week of January at the latest) It will be available on and several bookstores in major cities across the country. As of next summer I start my book tour to promote the book with a series of readings/rock shows across the country so check the website for updates. If you want to be on the BartenderJournals Mailing List, just e-mail me at RE: BJ-Mailing List. Once again thanks, amd I hope you enjoy the book.

Since you guys have been such stand up cats, here's a new story seprate from the book just for your pleasure. Enjoy.


….is a bitch. So you’re this guy. A normal type of guy. You’re looking for a job. You hear bartenders make a lot of money. You have a penchant for the creative (bullshit), you lie on your resume. You get the job. The job pays well. Along with flexible hours, all the patty melt’s you can eat, pay like a Hollywood STD practitioner, you get to flit about to your penis’ content amongst the staff. The job seems ideal. You make your money. You fuck your waitresses. You hear that a bunch of sports retards are going on strike. You get fired. You write about your experience. People listen. You fall in love. The people are happy. You are happy. The woman you fell in love with does an eight ball and twelve Stoli and Red Bulls and tells the cops that you’re David Koresh incarnate. You get arrested. The woman you fell in love with tells the D.A. it was all a big misunderstanding. You get unarested. You’re alone, you’re broke, but best of all, you’re free. This is my life. A story has been told. For months I strove for an ending. I haphazardly decided on one. Despite my best efforts. The story continues.

RE: The Bartender Journals.

Hello. I was looking through some blogs and saw yours. It's not a hobby of mine to do, but I felt like seeing if anyone out there had something to talk about. I read your blog "Catharsis". It reminded me of some Hemingway I have read, or maybe Kerouac, I don't know. I only compare you to them for the constant stream of thought you were going for. Working with an ex is hell though. Anyway, I also guess I want to meet(or chat) with a few people from Denver since I am moving down there for school sometime soon. I guess I have a soft spot for the life of bartenders since my sister has been one since I was eight, and we couldn't afford a sitter so I sat in the corner listening to the drunks.

I don't know why I am sharing all this, just felt like I can relate. About the working in a sports bar and hating sports, it's a feeling I can commiserate with. My father sold comic books and collectable fantasy artist cards, and Anime at shows all along the East coast, mostly at sports shows. He despised sports. He also was nice enough to pass along that trait, for the most part.
Now I know why I wrote this. I guess it's my way of saying thank you for sharing your thoughts, and I want to ask you why you enjoy The Sun Also rises, because I am waiting for someone who doesn't say the read it for school.
If you like, feel free to write back sometime.

I get these a lot. E-mails from girls. Girls who think its all just so funny so tragic, so… fictional. They write and tell me how creative I am, unbeknownst to them my imagination knows not the bounds of my experience. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t read far past sentence two without a picture. Luckily this one came in tow with the most beautiful pair of eyes I’m yet to see. I’m a sucker for eyes. I reply. As to what I replied I’m not sure. My time betwixt the computer monitor and the rest of the world is seldom remembered. Alas I was apparently humorous. She proceeded to tell me how I was the funniest person she’d ever talked to. Now I’m fucked. The most dastardly cold hearted thing a person can do to the funny to be is to tell them that they are so. Such a compliment brings about a livid expectation of hilarity that can only be met with awkwardness. She wants to meet. Why the hell not. I’ve spent months dodging my former personae like a rogue in the night persistently fearful that my past has an aluminum baseball bat with my name on it. For now I shall re-emerge and it will be good.

She lives far away. In a suburb I’ve only heard mention of on the weather reports outside of Boulder. My being without transportation I have to rely on the uncomfortable new comrade that is public transportation. Upon which I see these people. The downtown bus is like a time machine. If you sit in the middle, you can see both your future and your past. Up front are the people you dare not to become. In back the people you dread you once were. This weighs heavy on a man making four connections and traveling via the loser cruiser for three hours. Wait, here’s my stop.

Boulder Colorado. Once the bastion of long haired pinko idealists, now the Mecca for urban assault vehicle driving sycophant latte addicts who will “Just lose it” (sic) if Pottery Barn has a sale this weekend. As popular culture turns to the gutter, the former denizens of the gutter shall rise. Or so I would like to hope.

This is a place I am fondly familiar with and at the same time completely alien to. The landscape of your youth has a way of changing at a drastic if not sickening pace. I book a room in a local Hostel and bounce by bags off my military style cot just like I did at camp. I have an hour before I have to meet her. Plenty of time to get acquainted with liquid confidence.

An hour or two and a tequila or four later I’m sitting at a coffee shop downtown wheezing through some Faulkner and cursing myself for brining only one book on this trip when I see her. More to the point I see her eyes. The eyes. I'm a sucker for the eyes. I straighten my collar, check my breath, crack a smile and as I say “Hi, I’m Dave.” I know immediately that I’m fucked for good.

Some weeks and godly amounts of blueballs later, I find myself in my room, drenched in sweat, struggling for breath, with a feeling as if the almighty has just anointed my tallywacker, rolling off her. I have broken a long coitus based hiatus just now and require a Newport and a cold glass of water to collect my thoughts. I gather these things. Lying there after a bout of lovemaking that just woke the gods, we struggle for small talk. I ask her what she’s doing on Thursday. “I have plans actually. My friends are taking me out. Its my birthday.” Oh really, I Inquire. Why didn’t you tell me? We gotta do something. How old are you gonna be? “Eighteen.” She says. No, seriously. “Eighteen.” Thus began a tirade of disbelief that does not end until she procures documents from her Hello Kitty purse and proves me wrong.

O.K. I’m gonna level with you. She didn’t really have a Hello Kitty purse. But the fact of the matter remains that it would be hilarious if she did. It’s just one of those stereotypical high school girl affectations that if it had really happened to me would be ingeniously ironic. Alright, I leveled with you. On with the show.

So now I’m a statutory rapist. I’ve been called worse. I could write volumes right now about how she’s mature for her age or you just have to meet her but it would all just be mental masturbation and after the fact justification. Jail bait or not, this girl’s a keeper.

So I keep her. Another nanosecond summer rolls by and another millennium long autumn rears it’s ugly head. Its about this time I receive my drivers license once again. Its about now that I am ounce again a motorist. Let the vagabonds and crazies on the downtown bus be dammed. I’m buying a fucking car. Like most decisions in my life my choice in automobiles is unwise. Having limited funds I opt for a late and I mean late model little British number with a rag top and an electrical system that the devil himself hath designed. The conveyance works well, in the beginning. First the headlights are inconsistently in operation. Then the turn signals. Then the gas gauge. These are minor contrivances compared to driving through the mountains with the wind in my hair. For all I’ve learned, I’ve managed to unlearn twice as much.

Whilst driving to see my fair lady one brisk fall morning, I am contemplating the existence of the horizon, my place in the world, who would win in a fight between Sgt. Slaughter and Muhammad Ali, when all of a sudden a battle between British engineering and Newtonian Physics is fought beneath my bonnet. I wrestle the fair beast to the shoulder and smell oil on hot pavement like it were my own entrails spilt upon the ground. Thus begins the foreshadowing of my stupidity.

A $180 tow ride to a Brit mechanic later and I have this limey prick telling me that I would require Slovenia’s deficit to repair my once fine chariot. At a crux financially I am at a loss for words as to what to do. He prods me once again with a “So mate, what’s it gonna be?” I toss the keys across his office and onto the Guinness calendar on his desk and walk out of the brigand’s den and into the nearest tavern.

“So are you like Johnny Cash or something?” The pink lipsticked downtownophile at the barstool next to me asks. I can only assume she is referring to my mode of dress. A second hand paisley shirt, jeans, and a first hand pair of snakeskin boots I splurged on after a good night of cards. Do I look as thought I should be Johnny Cash? I inquire well into my fifth tequila. “Well, you’re dressed like a cowboy.” I think about this for a moment and tell her that she is dressed like a hooker but I didn’t ask for a hummer.

It’s been almost nine months since I’ve had a black eye. One of the first things that goes with inebriation is peripheral vision. Within that peripheral vision were the two stout young men on the other side of the hooker’s barstool. Oh well. Lessons learned.

What have we learned here tonight kids? Well, internet personals can be deceiving. You know why the Brit’s drink their beer warm? Because Lucas makes refrigerators too. (British cars suck for the non automotive inclined.) And a good joke shall and will remain worth the occasional shiner.

All I know is that I have ice on my eye and a bottle of Souza in my hand and my newly graduated from jail bait to barely legal goddess of a girlfriend on her way to my place forthwith. Somehow. Everything’s going to be okay.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Another good story from you, and Congrats on the book deal. It's one I'll definately look foward to.

What happen to the wife to be? Or was she the reason you ended up in jail to begin with? My comprehension isn't quite up to par, it seems.

Anyway, keep doing what you're doing man. I'm slowly spreading your popularity in Philly by telling random people at my college about your blog.

6:30 AM  
Anonymous Aussie said...

Fantastic! Nice One on the book deal!!
Just hope that I'll be able to get my hands on the book over here in Australia!

4:24 PM  
Anonymous superkain said...

GawDAMN, Dave. Bout fucking time you got a book deal. Thanks for the latest story. Book Tour: You making it down to Phoenix at all? If you do, a night on the town is on me. See you around.

10:54 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow... A book I might actually buy. Fascinating. Can't wait to hear it's out.


2:53 AM  

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