Notes and a Friday Night Rewind
2002-10-29 � 4:54 p.m.

I bought a new cell phone. Did I mention this? I probably did, as it is a sleek and sheik little unit, and (as mentioned on some hokey card or other) gadgets are a weakness of mine.

See my cool thing here (and no it isn't that thing, you pervs).

Anyway, one of the neat things about my new phone is that, besides letting me browse the web and post stupidly worthless Diaryland entries from the depths of sin-filled bars, I can type little notes to myself (and look like a complete dork doing it, by the way).

Here is a small selection of the notes I have made for myself so far (these are not big jumbles of words -- I just felt like creating links to make up for my horrible performance this morning when trying to link to Devallyk):

First note.

Second note.

Yeah -- stupid little blurbs, I know. I was mildly inebriated, as if that is any sort of excuse.

Which reminds me -- I said I would explain about why it is bad as well as good to have the bartender be your friend, didn't I?

Okey-dokey, doggie-daddy. You asked for it. Prepare for Non-Drama!

(Such is my life...)

Rewind.

It's now last Friday night. Is everyone situated? Good.

I got off work and broke for home. I crammed my gullet with some sort of food item, washed my face and headed down to the Bonfire to see if I could find anyone to go see the Charmparticles with me. (My roommate had told me he would go, but he was MIA when I got home -- typical.)

I arrived at about eight-thirty, and the place was pretty packed. Dimitri was there, but he was intent on being Band Guy (he was at a table with his entire band and most of the members of two other local outfits), so I didn't ask him. No George, no Roger, no Eric, and Nathan took off like a shot about a minute after I walked in.

I shoe-horned my way into a seat at the bar, said a quick hello to Judy and then The Almighty Tim asked me what I'd have to drink.

I was feeling pretty frisky, as I was excited for the show, so I boldly said (as I have so often before, and with great results) "I don't know. What do you feel like making me?"

Tim paused and actually considered. "I know just the thing," he said, and started to pour and mix like a mad man.

Moments later a tall rocks glass was set down in front of me smelling of fruit and with a mild froth at the top.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a French Martini," said Tim. "I put it over the rocks because I know you like drinks better that way."

I ventured a drink...odd. Not distasteful, but not immediately appealing either. An odd aftertaste, more than a hint of pineapple. I took another sip and it got a little better.

Three minutes later I was finished.

Tim bustled back by and picked up the glass. "How was it?"

"It was good! Different...but good. I liked it."

"You want another one?" Tim asked. "Or something different?"

"Hit me with another miracle, my friend," I said, not even knowing myself what I might mean.

Another tall rocks glass was set down in front of me.

"Sweet tart," Tim said briefly before turning to help another customer.

I sipped it gingerly, thinking it sounded rather too sweet and full of stuff to be any good...but Tim knows me well, and knows my affinity for his whiskey sours made with huge amounts of fresh-squeezed citrus. This was similar, but with more of a sweet aftertaste than a whiskey sour.

Tim came back by a second later and noticed my pinched look. He laughed. "Good?"

"Mmmm-huh," I managed out of puckered lips.

Dimitri came by about then to order a round for his table, and we chatted for a few minutes. I finished my "sweet tart" during our chat, and when Tim asked if I wanted another I said "Sure."

This time it arrived in a goddamn pint glass.

"I was out of talls," Tim shrugged.

Well -- finishing that one before I needed to leave was quite a job, let me tell you. But I managed. I settled with Tim, left him a hefty tip, and headed to the show.

Okay -- so that's why it's good to have the bartender to be your friend. Service is quick, and he (or she) knows your tastes. Good stuff, no?

At the show I consumed a few beers (Blackhook Porters, since we're keeping track), watched some great rock, played with my phone, got into a conversation with a drunken sales manager from Verizon Wireless who had spotted my gadget, and then it was 12:45.

I thought about going straight home...really, I did. But I was jazzed (rock has that effect on me), so I decided I would swing back by the Bonfire on my way and see who was about.

Well it was still pretty packed at the Bonfire, but George was with Tim behind the bar, and Aubrey was sitting there enjoying a beer. (Oh lord -- this absence from Diaryland thing is killing me...I haven't told the Aubrey story either! Oh well...I'll get there eventually. Probably.)

I stole a stool next to Aubrey and started chatting with her and George, answering George's questions about the show, etc. I barely noticed when Tim asked me what I wanted -- I didn't really want anything, but I went ahead and said "Whatever you feel like making."

So George was laughing at me because I was giving him a bunch of crap for staying home instead of coming to the show with me when Tim set another pint glass full of liquor down in front of me.

All of our eyes traveled from the glass up to Tim, who was grinning like an idiot.

"What the hell is that?" George asked, as Aubrey shook her head.

"A Tim special," said Tim.

I took a slug off of it and gasped. "Jesus! Tim, what the hell is this? I could use it to peel paint!"

Tim looked smug. "A Long Island."

George groaned and Aubrey laughed.

I waggled my finger at Tim. "Now Tim, you know that they don't make Long Islands at the Bonfire," I scolded.*

Tim slapped his palm onto his forehead and said mockingly, "Oh damnit! I forgot! I meant that I made you a..."

"A Tim's Island?" I asked. (As you can see, my wits were eroding quickly.)

"Yeah, a Tim's Island," he said as he bustled away.

And that's why it's bad to have the bartender be your friend, because sometimes he doesn't look out for you -- sometimes he wants to get you fucked up.

The night ended okay. I escorted Aubrey home and then made my own way home to pass out rather soundly. Saturday was a bit of a write-off. And Sunday morning as well, now that I think about it.

Hmm. I wonder if I have a drinking problem?

Alright -- enough of this nonsense. I'm going to go pretend to do work and then go home and watch me some Buffy.

-t

* It's true -- George has a policy of "straight cocktails." He maintains that people only drink that kind of drink to just get fucked up, so he won't serve them. Except to me, apparently.

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