it was this bar that i ended up in on sunday night due to my (sudden) desire to not be in my empty apartment, working on the variety of projects that need to be worked on (watching copious amounts of bizarre streaming porn is a project).*
i didn't even realize it was sunday.
sunday is an interesting time for me. on mondays i usually don't work, or go into the office fairly late, or recently i'm filming my feature, r & d, available soon for your emo kung fu lesbian pleasures (and hard earned dollars).
sunday still feels like the weekend to me, but it's not for anyone i know, like people with real jobs or careers or futures.
my roommate also lives on this "sunday is the weekend" schedule, 'cause sunday is usually her day off (see also: tuesday). but her recent and sudden search for meaning means sunday and tuesday are generally reserved for dates with exes (october), or old co-workers, or tall standup comedians that are funnier than me. **
meaning sundays i'm on my own.
so i go to the park and i work on my jump shot (3 for 25!) or take the dog on a four mile walk or hang out at my parents and watch their tivo or sit in diners writing things like this blog entry on a notebook with a red sharpie while wearing a vest and tie and wishing i lived in a film noir where i'm an intrepid reporter uncovering corruption and looking for the truth - and then i become a vigilante and then it's less noir, more green hornet.
for all of you thinking - tim, you're presenting an untrue image, you're not that hip and cool (WHICH I KNOW IS NONE OF YOU cause, duh, of course i am), i offer to you this photographic proof:
some sunday nights i go to this neightborhood bar, but, honestly, not that often, which is why this story works.
everytime i walk into this bar alone on a sunday night, some shit goes down, and the cops get called, and i have to shake my head slowly and knowingly while smirking wryly and thinking, "oh, you."
ohhhhhhhh youuuuuu.
really, though. not an hour ago i was in the bar with colfax five oh.
guess what i was thinking?
i was thinking, "i need to stop coming in here on sundays," DON'T EVEN TRY TO PREDICT ME PEOPLE I'M A GODDAMN WILDMAN.
unfortunately, tonight's events were rather lame and tame compared to events previous (people not payin' their tab), so i figured i'd share with you the most interesting (entertaining? horrifying? sexy?) experience i've had on a sunday night at the neighborhood bar.
it starts with a charming english bloke and ends with me scrubbing the hardwood floors with bleach before the blood stains set in.
sunday night. full moon. as i approach the bar, i notice a variety of police outside and a large amount of yellow caution tape. somebody shot and killed two people in the middle of the street. the front of my bar is part of a crime scene. this doesn't make me giddy, because i know that would mean i'm going to hell.***
i go through the back door. i can do that, you can't. i'm like ray liotta in goodfellas or the faces in saturday night fever, 'cept there's no hallways, just a backdoor, and there's puke in front of it, so i kinda have to hop over.
the bar is mildly crowded - though not with any customers, really. the waitstaff is sitting around and drinking, along with some off-duty waitstaff from their sister bar, down at the dtc. i say hi. hugs are exchanged, and right then a charming british fellow who looks just like a 70s haired huckleberry hound comes prancing his way through the front door. he doesn't look at all perturbed by the image of american violence he's just walked through (should i be ashamed of my country? fuck no, at least we shoot each other over something cool, like drugs. british people do that shit over soccer. also their food sucks and all their women are either the greatest lookin' broads ever or fuckin' hydra and shit and really who needs deep fried snickers bars?).
he's a drunk but 'appy bloke. he's tol' ye ol' sadness to bugger off, ol'l tell ya, 'is chap roight 'ere.
he comes into the bar and orders and begins to drink cheap red wine and talk about how's he's on this big american trip and he's never been to america before and he talks to some girl about her backpacking trip through london and he's drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking.
the bartender and i are talking about baseball. she is from new york, and thus a lifetime yankees fan. i can't really abide that, but i hate the red sox, and so does she, and thus we are best friends who really enjoy discussing the way the red sox:
1) are stupid.
2) are probably legally retarded.
3) are racist (we have no proof, we just KNOW).
4) deserve to be spit on, specifically by the two of us.
5) probably would be hitler's favorite team.
skinnyuglynotcooljasonstaham hears us talking about baseball and says something like (slurred), "oi! are ye talkin' 'bout american baseball? game's for pussies."
the bartender responds, "it's not as cool as soccer, i'm sure. also, your country is for pussies."
we think, however, that we're still having fun.
but he's been drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking, at high altitude, no less.
so notcharmingnotattractivehughgrant stands up from his chair and says, "what the fuck is your problem?"
and we realize we have a problem.
"you fink you can stan' 'ere wif yore big american tits an' judge me?" he says.
"you 'on't know me," he says.
"calm down," says the bartender.
"you wif yo' big ol' rack," he says.
he's harping on the breasts.
he knocks his glass on the floor and it crashes and shatters, just like the british rule of our country.
"okay," she says, "you're out! you're done! cut off, kicked out, done!"
"you wif yore chest," he says, "frowin' me out."
"you gotta go, buddy, and if you come back in, that's trespassing. also i'm trying really, really hard not to jump over the bar and break the shit outta your limey ass, right now. ask him, i'll do it."
i have seen this.
"she'll do it," i say.
"fuck all ye," he says, throwing down a twenty. he walks out.
five minutes pass.
he walks back in.
"i wont me anova drink," he says.
"we're all outta ale," says the bartender.
"i won't be leavin' 'ere wifout anova drink," he says.
the bartender looks at him, then at me. she steps outside the front door. i hear her say, "excuse me!"
thirty seconds later a cop comes in. he's alone. i will learn later that he's handed her his flashlight and instructed her to go outside and direct traffic, in his place. i am neither kidding, nor exaggerating.
the bobby looks at the chap. the bloke looks at the constable.
"i'm gonna need you to put your hands behind you, sir."
"i jus' want a drink."
"well, you were told you had to leave. i need to you to put your hands behind you, and i need to search you."
the cop starts frisking the guy, takes out his passport. terrible photo.
"you understand that when you're told you have to leave, you have to leave, right?"
"i left," he says.
the cop looks at me.
"did he?"
"he came back," i say, snitching.****
"put your hands behind your back," the cops says, pulling out his handcuffs.
"now listen 'ere," says youngbritishdonrickles.
"put your hands behind your back," says the cop.
the brit throws an elbow.
the cop responds by hip checking him onto the ground, by way of slamming his head into a menu rack.
i have seen a british man's skull. blood starts pouring out.
"ah, fuck," says the cop. i will learn this later, but outside, the bartender has caused nearly four wrecks, and a car is squealing past her, right at this instant, yelling obscenities at the scantily clad cop with the great rack.
the cop calls an ambulance. he goes outside. the bartender comes back in.
the british guy says, "ohhhremmmeoh." (with an accent)
the ambulance comes. they ask him a variety of questions, like, what's your name? and where are you from? and how ya likin' america, chump?
he answers, respectively, "amurrph," and "durrrm," and "not very much at all."
they strap him to a big yellow board and walk out. they make us sign some papers. the bartender and i put on gloves and get rags and clean up the blood with bleach and rags.
i go home.
i go to sleep.
the story actually ends with me asleep.
*not really a project.
** of course that's gotta be the one that takes.
***i'm going to a special part of hell.
****i break the rules of the streets all the time and it adds to my self-loathing.
