15/30: Bartending Poem 538 or Eight O'Clock O'Neill Shutdown

You won’t win an argument with Kelly.

Damn your intentions,

Hang your execution,

Garrot your rhetoric,

Flay your dialogue.

She’ll take your drink offer,

One for her husband too,

And you’ll wave your point

About like a broken finger

As she, right, wrong,

Or just stubborn,

Shake-heads you out of the room.

You came to the bar ready for some

Hot-tongued neighborhood mingle,

Some bar-slapping laughs

And throat clearing gesticulations

As the lights dim, and the shots

Get stiffer, and the families get

Self conscious, and the music's

all songs of fucking or fighting,

You do not have to leave

With anyone, but at least

Would like to prove yourself right.

But you

Won’t

Win

An argument

With Kelly.

David, maybe, but not Kelly,

She has defeated crosswords smarter

Than you and riven sudoku more complex.

Pick your dialogues wisely, and know that

Once she’s gone, the new set takes their place
And you should probably be going too.

Evenings/Weekends/Holidays

Rain always on the edge of snow and my instagram feed fills up with pictures of evergreens mounted with shiny baubles, LEDs strung on walls, by windows, outdoors. Your friend (back) from DC, posting pictures of the airports, families together after three, eight months, one, three, seven years. Adorable slippers and sweaters we're told are ugly. In the spots with food or drink for public consumption, surrounding choruses of "how've you beens?" and "oh my gosh LOOK AT YOU." A lot can change in a year, sometimes nothing does.

I am skipping the holiday party. The religious reasons for the season are one thing, the faith swell, the secular stop-and-breathe-in, some sort of great siblinghood of humanity. But the scheduled reality of the holiday season is a dedicated break for everyone with work seasons recognized by the Government as Regular. Say 7-10am to 4-7pm, five days a week, give or take a project here, three day weekend there. The holiday party is, was, and will always be scheduled on a Friday night, or maybe Saturday afternoon, depending if the hosts have children, how many hugs they want to give in one evening.

This is why, anymore, as a service industry worker, when people ask me about the Holidays, it's roughly the same for me as Friday afternoons when a well-meaning will say "so, looking forward to the weekend?" and I make a decision whether to say "yes, sure" or whether to say "actually, it's my Tuesday. I work tonight, tomorrow. . ." But that analogy assumes a direct, linear work week, when often, shifts are scattered in such a fashion that there's no functional end of week.

This extends far beyond food-and-drink workers; think also of the Nurses, Bus Drivers, Cops, Firemen, Grocery Store Employees, and many  more professions that are so necessary to society as to not be able to shut down for more than a day (I'd say the food/drink is a soft-necessity; there's an amount of emotional labor that bartenders take on during the holidays especially).  . .

It is a bit surreal to have the lights up around town, the constants of holiday greetings sincere and ironic on every feed, the cousins and friends in from out of town that, likely, I won't get to see, the entirety of Puget Sound rushing to relax, connect, get Meaningful during a handful of days, to walk in, and among it, but feel so solidly disconnected; like watching cars on the freeway from Jose Rizal Bridge, wondering if they'll get where they want in time.

23/30! Time Lapse!

All your e-mails are timestamped 1 a.m. or later
early.

Each sunrise comes and goes without you
hopefully, the post noon ritual
of coffee
shower
sandwich for breakfast.

to catch up with visiting
relatives at 11 a.m. and they
think you a bit rougher
than you are

this is your six a.m.

Every night there comes a turning point
where it starts to feel like evening,
like the dark isn't

just mocking you for being up,
but all the possibilities of
evening.

Rode past in nightowl bus rides
the windows out to anything.

14/30! Jokesandsighs! 15/30! Nu Diner Life!

A note from my manager that in the two days
without phone access I've been fired and
replaced by rookies or robots doesn't
surprise me much.

I crossed ts, dotted is, tacked posts
in necessary places and crossreferenced
plans in the hope of a getaway but these
are no match for wind, treachery, or just
bad luck.

This is a joke he's made before, and my
response is quick and jaunty, the parry,
but still, I start compiling a list of spots
to turn in the resume I start updating,
take my leftovers
home.

15/30! Nu Diner Life!

Any new taxidermy must be approved:
first by the manager, then the health board.

Dinner party punk and post-washboard, pre-
beerbelly stomache in brief shirtlifts.

No sweat in the cosmos.
No beard in the food.

A planetary refrain from too-loud laughter,
save the blue corner table rattling all glass.

The waterfall in the center of the room-- unplanned.
What do we do about that?

4/30! Walk Happy Or Don't Walk At All!

The swagger. The shuffle. The near defeat crawl.
The slump. The skip. The swing out. The stomp.
The startled scare. The game loss drag. The short of a
run. The short of a dance. The short collapse.

The doorman wants your identity, your drink count,
your reason for not smiling. The doorman wants to know
why you are walking this way, will he have to deal with
you later, what (the fuck) is your problem.

The stagger. The swim. The sidewalk stain.
The swerve into traffic. The stereo bounce. The late
blink and you missed it, you're in the road now.

The doorman explains it's just his job, because it is.
Eight hours nine hours, twelve, means nothing
when you feet won't pick up the right way.

Elements of comfort, safe place, dependent
on thirty second explanations. You can let him
know, or you can let him know.

The slog. The trek. The amble. The gambol.

I'll see your "do what you love" and raise you one "that's why they call it work, kid."

So lately a variety of people have posted this article about the culture of unpaid arts and academic work, and while Slate is increasingly becoming about as reliable and readable as Salon, the article (which was originally posted on Jacobin, natch) nicely articulates a lot of frustrations I have with the culture around writing, arts organizing, and "getting involved." The writer does a decent job of balancing practical and philosophical concerns, and while the author (wisely) doesn't propose a practical solution to the free-work/dismissal of labor problem, I like the ways-of-thinking suggestions in the last paragraph.

Because while a lot of the internship/volunteer/lowpay positions came into existence because of economic realities surrounding pursuits of artistic, spiritual, or intangible value, they are increasingly re-enforced by a sorta beatific, pie-in-the-sky mentality truly available to only a few. The human soul needs to be nourished, but folks tend to nourish the body first. So unlike nurses and mousetrap-makers, most people with any type of say, humanities degree, won't always have a market for their work.
I think the do-what-you-love-and-it-isn't-work paradigm ironically creates a self-love/self-loathing hamster wheel for artists, writers, designers, researchers, who don't feel they have any "real" skills, yet also see themselves as elevated by "pursuing their passions" after years of having their professors tell them to. (or you know, years of following the blog of an oil heiress who decided to quit her job and "make a living" selling necklaces made out of chicken feathers while practicing a self-invented form of yoga and tutting disapprovingly at those in the "rat race.")

There's a longer discussion here with regards to ideas about what it means to be "serious about your art" that tends to get caught up in these pinwheels as well.

At this point I've made an evolving, uneasy peace with ways I pursue my art, ways I pursue my livelihood, and how often the two do or don't intersect. Every individual has to do that on their own; I sort of figured on getting a Creative Writing Degree that bartending, or record store working (ha!) was going to figure heavily in my future.
This is why I roll my eyes at the precious snowflackes who complain that they just "aren't being fullfilled" or feel like they "just, you know, want something more. . ." from their work. I mean, if a job sucks, yeah, get outta there, go for the promotion, etc. but sometimes work is just, you know, work. And that's fine.
Necessary, even.

2013: A recap full of recaps.

Having just spent the last forty reviewing what I wrote, and wrote about in 2013, one thing that stuck out at me is how many of the substantive posts were dealing with endings. The end of 2012, the end of the Greenwood Lit Crawl, the end of my tenure as host of Works in Progress.
There were other endings I didn't post about with as much depth; the end of my tenure at North Seattle Community College, after nearly four years of tutoring. Spending 3 hours daily on rickety buses for 5 hour shifts at a wage that hadn't raised in almost a decade had become untenable, especially paired with subsequent 8 hour shifts behind a bar.
My Grandma, who taught me to love poetry at the age of 10 years old, passed last Christmas, but it was January when the services were, when we could all get together to acknowledge loss. This was a thing I tried to keep private, but that loss definitely cast its net into 2013's waters.
I also moved. For the second time in my life, and the first time as a non-student, I live alone. It's a studio apartment, but it has its own bathroom, kitchen space, plenty of natural light, a view of the smith tower that makes me feel pretty writerly late at night. this is a beginning, but it's also an end (for the time being, at least) of me living in the South End. I've lived in the South End for the last three years, since moving back to Seattle Proper, and in a sense, its become part of my identity. Not that I never left it; contrarily, it was long trips on the 7 that helped solidify my self-identification as a South-ender. Meghan K says that technically I am still a Southender, as my address has a S in it, and I'm past Yesler. . . but I'm not in the Rainier Valley, I'm on the edge of downtown. With Rachel's recent move to Capitol District (where the CD and cap hill meet and no one knows what to call it!) that leaves my job at the best bar in the RV as my only tangible connection to the 98118.

I also noticed how text heavy my posts were this year. So here's this little bit of Pop Culture that also ended in 2013:

If you didn't watch that show, I recommend it; especially if you like romantic comedies in which a jimmy-stewart-esque every man triumphs over corruption, vice, and every day hurdles through a simple purity of spirit.

I wanted to write a proper recap-- month by month, or achievement by achievement, even failure by failure. But I feel like there's been too much recapping and looking back already. The high notes have been harped on and the low notes have been struck. I'm in a different place, physically, literarily, geographically, and emotionally. And I won't be surprised if I'll be able to say the same thing next year.

Fast Music For Heavy Fingers or Six Months in a Half Hour

or what happens when we commit to communication

1. Internet Presence/ts.
I just dug through a nearly disused e-mail account to to find a password for a social media network I haven't used in four years. I didn't. Find it. So I had to sign into the New, Improved Version of a site that just won't go away (you know which I'm talking about. it's switched its focus to "music" lately and seems like an unholy marriage of Linkedin and Google Plus any more) and that gave me to the wills of nostalgia and more than a few names I'd forgotten exist. Profiles that haven't been updated and therefore remain locked.
You know, though? After about three minutes it wasn't much hard to click delete on that.

More challenging is/was/will be the 8 years worth of Livejournal. no linking. you'll have to work for that if you want to find all the bouts of self pity, the odd misdirected misogyny, half hearted apologies, and lite-artist-as-a-young-dogisms that simply saying "livejournal" to anyone of A Certain Age implies. Making this whole paragraph redundant.

2. I have acquired another birthday.
You know what I always think I'm going to do? Write some sort of State of the Union*, some three paragraph synopses of the Ats that Here's Where I. This is silly. Not because I never do, or because no one cares (you clicked this link, so I assume you care.) but because I hold off on ALL OTHER CONTENT until I've posted the Big Update. Which is why three updates in June, none in July, a dwindling amount of content even with more to write.
Basically, when people write "I've turned _____ and I FEEL SO OLD" it sounds like a hack's game, someone throwing themselves into a mindset because they think they should. But I also get that it's not always the case that 32 feels just like 31 feels just like 26. Things change, good and bad.** But I'll give you a few more years before you have to endure some smotheringly smug "Getting Older is Getting BETTER!" blog about how spiritually rewarding it is to purchase couches.

3. Seattle is a sentence.
I have not quite lived back in Seattle as long as I lived in Bellingham, but I have lived in Seattle longer than I did in Swansea, and longer than I'd planned/hoped on initial return. This isn't some sort of broken-plans post,  I wasn't sure what I wanted from my hometown as an independent entity, so the result tends to be half boxing match, half dance. A frequent frustration being that much of the work of a grad program in a creative field is making connections. . . which are 8,000 miles away. Ba dum ching. So a sense of starting over that leaves me feel like Now, after an event or two, I feel solidly part of the Seattle lit community. It's a good community, usually. Now that I've done that work, do I want to . . . oh, who knows.
This ambivalence is fairly well amplified by reading through old blog entries from both those previous towns.

4. I quit my job at the Loft.
For three and a half years, I worked at North Seattle Community College tutoring English and Writing to ELL students, immigrants, exchange students, folks returning to school after fifteen years in professions that shut down during the recession. Arguably, this was the most rewarding, edifying ongoing*** job I've held to date. Obviously there were days it felt like work, or I didn't want to be there, but there was never a sense of futility. My co-workers were all engaged, considerate, often artistic folks and whatnot.
However, thanks to the repu-  state budget crisis, there's a spending cap, meaning no raise, no additional hours. Two-three hours round trip for short shifts became the sort of diminishing returns that I couldn't idealize away any more. I quit on good terms and have already felt healthier for having a consistent sleep schedule.

5. Now I work at a bar.
It's a good bar. The amusing nightmares of past bars can go ahead and remain in the past. When people say "I bet that gives you a lot of material!" the answer is "Sure, but only for the first year. Then it's a job-- you writing a story about data management?"
I like my co-workers, it's close to my house, I make close to three times as much per hour as I did helping newcomers to the country learn the language.

6. Rachel and I are still very much a thing, but are not engaged or married or living together or whatever your conceived "next step" is 
You are reading this most likely because you clicked on a link from another site. Believe me, you'd know if something big, good or bad, happened that way. Because internet.

7. I am slowly cutting down the number of literary events for which I am responsible.
Because I'd like to write my own things again, from time to time. A longer post on this balance may be forthcoming, but that's the sort of thinking that got us to this long, list based post in the first place. Never say Probably. Now I will take a bus to West Seattle, which is and is not the same place at all.

*by which I mean Graham. The UNION FOREVER!
**More specific and illuminating insights can be found in the self-help book aforementioned blog post nets me a deal for. Did you also know that change is sometimes hard, but often worth it?
*** So not including one-night gigs reading poetry, or the time I got paid by Southbank Centre to take pics of graffiti and send them to London, where they got made into postcards.****
****Yes, that was a brag. I still think that was pretty cool.

A Man In a Light Brown Coat is Coming Back For Me

*

Do you remember those 5 am mornings? No coke, no parties, no one else, even, just the wind down, the heartbeat slowing after a barshift, making sure you don't forget to polish straws or whatnot. This, someday, will be the opening sentence(s) to my largely autobiographical novel. It will be a terrible novel, full of dudes having sex with girls and then feeling bad about it and girls who fall in love with guys who are clearly horrible for them, as they aren't the protagonist, and perhaps a move to a "new city" and then someone will kill someone just to keep the action rising, and perhaps then an asian drug cartel will get involved, but don't worry, one of the girls -- or maybe best friends-- of the protagonist is also asian so this particular plot development is not, in fact, racist.

like i said, this is going to be one fucking stinker of a novel, and as such will probably be well loved on literary blogs, for it's plot development, like when I-- I mean "the protagonist"-- drinks ten dark beers one night because he can't get to sleep, dammit, then vomits at church.

it's a statement about religion, baby. I just gotta be me.

*always sort of wished that in the last chorus of this song, it didn't go back to the melodic part, but they just yelled and broke stuff.
LIKE HEARTS.
No. Sorry.

Terrible seconds turn to days and still I cannot show my face

at some point I post blog full on about the new bartending job vs. the current bartending job and old bartending job and its all likely made of venn diagrams and photos of women holding beers at chest level.
nonetheless: Hillman City is like the southend equivalent of Crown Hill. Not. Ballard. (columbia city.) But, as everything in the southend is basically facing south, you have orient things that way. the potential-new-regular got the joke, even as for the fifth time in the evening a man got up to exhort the crowd on the virtues of Merle Haggard (not hating, btw) and I wondered. Things.

Ín plainspeak, I've meant to post many great things to here, to buddyhead, to whatever media source most speaks to you, but I am now working three jobs and will probably have to move again soon.

so, it's 330 am, I'm just under an hour off a 15 hour work day and no sleep in sight, unless this Elysian Loser Ale kicks in soon. Oh, Grunge, the things you gave us will always carry the ghosts of things you took away.

me five years ago, two years from now/fuck it, here's an old song.

working/but I'm not working for you!

Weeks worth = 2 entries, roughly. Apparently.
Right now= rain outside. Sunny this morning and me coat/hatless. Waiting it out.

Speaking of Waiting It Out (see what I did there?) lets look at some food-service statistics. The way I see it, all menial jobs have their upsides (free food, good stories, staying in shape if its manual labour) and downsides (obvious.) So this is the breakdown of my four year-plus food-service jobs, starting at the age of 19 at Dennys, right up through my current Pub-tending tradition at teh Rhydz. Lets see which jobs come out on top and how far I've come.

1. Money. The reason you get any job, basically, is money. Even rewarding ones must pay in order to be jobs, not hobbies.
Denny's: Minimum wage, which in Washington State was pretty good, plus tips, which weren't as good as some high-end place, but still left every night with between $20-70, depending.
Port of Subs 20 hours a week behind a sub-sandwich bar for minimum and jar tips split between four people. Left every day with maybe two to five (on a good day) dollars. Enough to buy myself a sandwich on discount, or get a coffee. I have no idea how I survived on this for two years.
Avenue Bread All factors considered, possibly the best. By the end I was making like $9 an hour (amazing considering I was just a sandwich maker/barista) and jar tips were split between up to five people. But usually still left with between $15-30 a day.
The Rhyddings Just above minimum, because luckily, I'm over 22. Every now and then a regular will "put a drink behind" (and I'll usually just pocket the £2.50) because in Britain we don't believe in things like tipping. That's fine. I don't believe in things like giving a shit if my customers have flies in their pints.
Winner/Loser Dennys and Avenue win. The Rhyddings, depressingly, all things considered, is possibly worse for money than Port of Subs. But I get more hours. And there are other factors like. . .

2. Proximity to One's House
Dennny's No. I lived in Lake City. It was in Ballard. I drove the parents' gold mini-van and it took a half hour each way. That's a lot of 107.7 The End to deal with if you forget a mix tape and KEXP is coming in fuzzy.
Port of Subs Down the hill and nearly on the other side of the (tiny) downtown bellingham. So close, but not like next door.
Avenue Bread Depends. A 10 minute bus-ride to the Fairhaven Store (during which I think I lisened to that Raconteurs album a lot) or literal roll down the hill to downtown main. About three streets closer than POS, which makes a psychological difference.
The Rhyddings *Just* closer than the Downtown Avenue. Plus I get to cut through a park if I want.
Winner The Rhyds.

3. Flexibility of Hours
Denny's Theoretical but not in practice. For a while I was scheduled ONLY the shifts I asked for off (including when I was supposed to be paid to do improv) at which point I and a couple other workers got the GM transferred to another store about an hour from his house.
Port of Subs Weekdays 10:30 am- 2:30pm. Everyday.
Avenue Bread Decent enough; you're either getting too many hours or far too few, but they were usually reasonable.
The Rhyds "Hey Kim, I can't work this night." "Why not __________?" "Well, my friend is visiting from Bristol the day before and we're gonna be absolutely wasted. . . " "Cool I'll get Graham/Lauren/Myself to cover it."
Winner Rhyds and Avenue beat out the other two, though Port of Subs had the advantage that I could do it for 4 hours with my brain shut off and therefore it failed to effect my lifestyle whatsoever.

4. Value In Cultivating Starving Artist Stereotype Or conversely, working at a place with enough local-goodwill that it has its own sort of respect granted.
Denny's Would have been much higher if I were a fry-cook.
Port of Subs No. Other than that I was shit-poor.
Avenue Bread "Oh, hey, I've eaten there. They have really good sandwiches."
The Rhyddings You kidding? I'm not only bartending. . . I'm bartending in Wales. The anecdotal value of starting sentences with "Well, when I was working at this local pub in Swansea. . ." is through the roof.
Winner Avenue on Local Goodwill front, but Rhyddings for life-story elements.

5. Good Stories/Interesting Regulars
Dennys Oh yeah. Like the guy who wrote on napkins about Satan and asked me if I thought God hated him for drinking. Or the kids who played D & D all night for the price of one coke and one coffee. Or the girls who left me their e-mails on a napkin, offering to take me to a public hot-tub rental place for an hour.
Port of Subs Jimmy Henry used to order sandwiches regularly and he was pretty interesting wherever he was. Everyone else worked in banks nearby.
Avenue Bread The difference between the Downtown and Fairhaven stores was amazing. Like, seriously. In Fairhaven there was this guy who invited me to his church, but it felt like he was doing it to try to get into the girl I worked with's pants. Somehow. Downtown Tony burned me a bunch of National CDs and we talked about such things when there weren't lines. One of the old guys who always came in actually died right there in the store.
The Rhyddings I wasn't there for The Fight that got Dave drinking again, but I'm pretty sure I've got nearly a book's worth of interesting characters waiting until I don't, you know, work there any more, to pop out of my head. Of course that would mean I wrote a book about bartending.
Winner Denny's has a 0.1 edge in the tie right now.

6. Interesting/Hot Co-Workers or Hey, is the Whole Staff Sleeping Together? Can I get in on that? Maybe just a little?
Dennys More interesting than Hot, but I could name about six or seven off the top of my head that ruled. Nikki, whose house I'd watch movies at after work while her and her bf smoked copious amounts of anything, (sometimes-token) Black Guy Corry, who, when he got a shift he didn't like would say things like "I guess I'm the nigger today." Many other stories.
Port of Subs I worked at all times with one other underling and a Punjab couple (Parmjit and Kudlippe) who ran the store with an iron fist. For about two weeks James "horsewhip" Burns was one of those. Around the same time Grant Cross applied for a job and it looked like we were going to be the most hipster-fried sub shop in all of bellingham. Didn't pan out, though.
Avenue Bread "It is not my 'opinion' that everyone you work with is Fucking Hot. I am simply observing a fact."-- Jake, on my co-workers.
The Rhyddings Its hard to judge when you're still there, actually. Some great folks, some run-of-the-mill, some interesting enough and then there's Huwie.
Winner Avenue for Hot, definitely, with enough interesting mixed in I don't feel entirely shallow saying so. Includes Ellie, who got the poem written about her. Rhyds and Dennys may tie for interesting, if you take into account people like Keiran or Dave Beer. Port of Subs for Movie of the Week elements.

7. Morally Redeeming Elements I.E. Am I working for The Man? Do I hate myself for serving people this terrible food? How crushed is my soul by this? What's cool about this job?
Denny's Totally working for The Man. Chewed through employees like a dog through food. Employee discounts on meals, free soda.
Port of Subs The days I felt really angry or depressed I reminded myself that I was working for a immigrant family-owned franchise. And it was paying for little Jasmine's school.
Avenue Bread Free coffee, sandwiches, pastries at the end of the day. All local ingredients, everything donated to charity at the end of the day. Possibly the Greenest place I've ever seen, and run by completely business-savvy types who didn't do it so much because they were Hippies (they were pretty right-wing) but because hey-- this is smart.
The Rhyds Its not a chain-pub (i.e. reflex) and it services a local neighborhood. So that's good. But employee discounts? Pah. Green? Er, I guess we recycle.
Winner Avenue, by a long shot.


8. General Morale How depressing IS it?
Dennys Fluctuated wildly, depending on the GM. No one wants to work at Dennys for too long, but ironically it was those who'd worked there a while, chain-smoked and read Vonnegut and said that yeah "someday" they'd do something else, but fuck it, who really survived.
Port of Subs "I have to be work here every day. No friends, no life. I can to be very depressed. Is like Jail."-- Kudlippe.
Avenue Bread Depended how hungover we all were. Our boss could tell the difference between really sick and "A Night at Rumours."
The Rhyds We love how much we "hate" it there, but somehow end up there even when we weren't supposed to be.
Winner Er, probably the Rhyds. Due more to personal growth than anything else, or the fact that it all just feels so much like a story.

alright. that's enough. the rain hasn't stopped. I'm going to take some ibruprofen and call a dentist.

. . . and half-dead too/work is for suckers and the sucker is you

As of today, I have been employed by the Rhyddings Hotel for one year.
To "celebrate," we will all enjoy a week's worth of observational Rhyddings and Other Customer Service Experience anecdotal blogging. A look back on the life and times of one Graham Isaac as he hands you unhealthy foodstuffs and drinkstuffs for minimal pay with even less dignity.

To start things off:
Queen are not a terrible band, by any stretch. In fact, they seem to be one of the few not-terrible bands that Angie and Tony (landlady and lord, respectively) like. My short-form, pre-Rhyddings feelings on Queen went like this: Like Led Zeppelin before them, they're plenty good in their own right, but they are a bad band for other bands to try to be. And a lot do.

Still:
5 Songs by the Rock Band Queen That, After Working At the Rhyddings Pub, I Can No Longer Even Imagine Enjoying, Even Ironically, Even With My Best Friends On A Summer Day, Ever, Under Any Circumstance

5. A Crazy Little Thing Called Love-- Know who else other bands/artists shouldn't try to be? ELVIS*.
4. We Will Rock You-- Buddayarrastraahngmanyahngmanbuddyyoura-- I feel myself getting stupider every time I hear this song and picture an arena full of hockey/football/basketball fans clapping along, off-time somehow, even though its the easiest song to clap to EV-AR.
3. I Want It All-- I thought this was the Scorpions at first. In a bad way**.
2. Bohemian Rhapsody-- You know what? I've never liked this song. Ever. All my friends liked it because of that scene in Waynes World where they headbang to it in the back of the car. My Chemical Romance re-wrote this song way less shitty in 2006*** and called it Welcome to the Black Parade and we won't have to hear THAT one in 30 years because everyone who deifies MCR will be dead in three years from killing themselves for their Dark Dark Masters.
1. Friends Will Be Friends-- Picture, if you will, this song, which is already the most cliched sort of expression of Friendship ever. Now picture a room full of drunk folks who aren't yours, singing along at top volume. Then they yell at you by name to get them another cider.

and, in a strange about face--

4 Songs By Queen that, Incredibly, I Don't Find That Annoying, Despite Overexposure and Someday May Even Listen to Voluntarily, Though It'll Be A while

4. We Are the Champions-- With the exception of their small, but loyal Theatre Kid Crowd who basically listen to anything you can dress up in stupid costumes to listen to (see also: Decemberists, They Might Be Giants, Dragonforce) most Queen Fans are rabidly homophobic. So the fact that this is a gay-rights anthem makes me happy.
3. Hammer to Fall-- This just sounds like generic Buttrock to me. I thought it was some obscure Guns and Roses song at first. Not bad to pour shitty beer to. I can almost pretend I work in The Office.
2. Another One Bites the Dust-- This is a good song, despite being played at so many sports games and wedding receptions, mainly because it sounds NOTHING like Queen and if you tilt your head and have water in your ears, it almost sounds like early hip hop.
1. Radio Ga Ga-- The chorus goes "All we hear is Radio Ga Ga, Radio Goo Goo". . . by all accounts it should be at the fucking TOP of the last list. But no. Maybe because it forgoes all the Big Rock Guitar shit and tries (fails) almost to be New Wave. But yeah. I actually still actively enjoy this one.

_____________________________________________________________________________
* unless you're the Cramps.
** there isn't really a Good Way, actually.
*** still pretty shitty, really only Less Shitty because its shorter, and I've heard it fewer times, and maybe if really terrible bands keep ripping off Queen people who pretend to be into music will stop trying to make me like them a lot and stop listening to new bands so I can *bask* in Brian May's "awesome" guitar work.

These kids, I swear, drink nike

for kids back home curious about Welsh vs. English accents, here's a broad stroke. Also a fairly hilarious interview. The band (Future of the Left) is from Cardiff and speaking for camera, so the accent is a bit toned down. But you can still tell the diff between the London interviewer and our Welsh boys here.



. . . this isn't the single they're talking about, nor is it quite representative of Future of the Left's "sound". . . its a bit cleaned up and a bit more march-y than usual. But the video and the song compliment eachother in an odd funny/disturbing way that Falkous just seems to be getting better at. I think 4AD (see also: TV on the Radio, Pixies, Bon Iver, Deerhunter) perhaps wanted something less tweaked to lead off with.
The Pub I work in is not quite as old-fashionedy as this one, but for some reason the one in the video feels very familiar and authentic, for all its weirdness. Perhaps because of all the weirdness, only brought to the surface instead of lingering below candy vodka shots and charted jukebox hits.



If I found any good Gindrinker videos, you'd have those as well. But try Youtubing "gindrinker" and you get a buncha tanned sorority girls falling over.

"I can sell you two cans of Hatred, but you can't open them in here."

The Facebook Site for the pub I work at is called "Rhyddings Hotel, Centre of the Universe." Cough. Cough. Cough. I didn't make it. This probably means, however, that I'm entitled to talk about what happens there as it effects everything to occur anywhere, ever.

so here we go: Superhappy Workfun #1.
There's too much longwinded backstory that isn't interesting to get this one across, but I'll try. There's two of the regulars who come by. One is Huwie, who is nicknamed "the horrible cunt" and then there's Ceri, who's a good few decades younger than Huwie, but is his boss. On and off. It's a complex relationship; Ceri often comes in and asks. . . So. . . any horrible cunts around?
No, no sign of odiousness.
Good good. So it hasn't been that loathesome in here today?
Not that I've seen.

It's good banter. Actually, probably 60% of the truly quality banter from the dailies comes from Ceri-- "I'll take a few pints of self-loathing with a chaser of despair and-- oh wait, you don't SELL dignity here, do you?
So it was pretty la-a-ame when Ceri was in a few weeks ago with a good group of mates I'd not seen before and they proceeded to give me and Simon a good bit of shit.
( Parentheticals you probably figure but I'll say anyway--Now-- Taking Shit is part of a bartender's job. Not enough bubbles in your pint? Here, let me pour your pint into a new glass and top it up, wasting what ends up being nearly half a pint of beer just so that your Fosters is foamy enough. Too MUCH head on your beer? Let's just top that up for you. Yes, it sure IS a shame this isn't a "Real Pub." I'll serve you so much faster when you snap your fingers. Etc.--)

But there's Taking Shit and there's some shit-- when one of Ceri's mates' pint was flat after about three new glasses, well, that's not my fault, is it? Plus by now we've put almost a pint and a half in the waste tray just trying to conjure up some bubbles. So then every time I walk past he complains, cusses at me or remarks that he paid £2.60 for this pint and blah blah blah (he actually paid £2.45.)

This isn't what got Ceri banned. Ceri was just sitting there laughing. Would I have liked it if one of my regulars who I'm always quick to serve actually said something-- anything-- to the effect of "come on, guys, I drink here every day, lay off." Yes.
But I wasn't expecting it.
However, when the lot of them started sending texts to the pub phone aimed at Simon saying things like Next time make sure my pint has bubbles in it, you hairy cunt and similarly hilarious bits (revolving around the C-word. I'll miss it's ubiquity when I go home.) that Simon refuses to serve them. I go along with it, because seriously, fuck those guys.
Meanwhile, the "horrible cunt" is sitting at his stool, shaking his head and politely waiting to be served. Ironies.

So if there's one thing I can say for Tony and Angie, it's that they back up their employees. None of this "customer is always right" rot. Tony tells me that he doesn't want those guys in here any more and if Ceri wants to keep drinking here he needs to issue an apology. Now I don't want the guy banned-- I just want his charming friends to leave me alone. However, Saturday night he comes in and gets into a proper Row with Angie and now he's 86ed. Meanwhile, "horrible cunt" now works for us as a cleaner.

Superfunhappytimes #2
Jane has worked at the pub for quite a while now. She's been in and out of the bartrade for a good long time and the customers like her. She is not, however, good at managing her drinking habits in such a way to line up with her schedule. Even by the Rhyddings standards. Which run along these lines-- "If I can go out and get absolutely shitfaced every night and still show up here and do my job for eight hours, you damn well can too."--Kim.
We don't care about hangovers, blurry eyes or cranky tempers. We do care (or I do) when we get texts at 6:30am asking for coverage of the 11am shift. Hypothetically. Which I did because 1) I'm a sucker and 2) I'm good hearted and 3) I'm broke and 4) all of the above.

So working an unexpected 11-5 on a rugby day was fine; but when Simon shows up and asks if I want to cover him because "he's got to do some shit" well. . . alright. Half your shift. Til 9pm. For an even 10 hours.
But when Simon doesn't show to cover the last half of his shift, well, I'm already on a pint of bitter and sure as hell no one ELSE is picking up the slack. So Angie tells Kim to text Simon "If you're not here in 15 minutes don't bother coming back."

Needless to say, he doesn't show. I'm sure he'll have a story. On one hand I feel bad for the guy -- 22 years old, two kids and what sounds like the banshee from hell to contend with, personally. When he didn't show up for a week and returned, teary-eyed and apologetic, Angie let him back.
On the other hand, I believe Nicola put it best when she said: "Well, it serves the stupid twat fucking right for not showing up. Asshole."

Because at the end of the day, yeah man. We've all Got Problems. But we show up.

I know this song so well it seeps inside my brain

Finally delivering on long-ago made promises to people on both this and the other side of the atlantic, I've been spending my afternoon burning Jazz Records For Sale by Police Teeth; only I'm not sure my I-tunes is working properly on the burning front. Neither the mixes I sent to Lailey or to Bethany worked for them, so there are many a question mark as to whether this will work.

This has facilitated listening to the album again, which I haven't in a while. It doesn't have the same Bellingham-memory quotient that a lot of stuff does, partially because I actually got the masters copy mailed me here. It's still good and I'm sure that, should I finally wrangle the truth out of my laptop, my friends over here (the ones who like, you know, music) will enjoy it.

_______
the pub that I work at looks like this:
except that it doesn't lie on it's side.

it only lies on it's side in blog entries when I have
trouble figuring out how to edit newly uploaded pictures on my laptop.

I suggest turning your monitor on it's side for
maximum viewing pleasure.
anyway, yes. That's what it looks like. I'll be
there tonight reading out the questions to the
Pub Quiz and making many reference to the way
that my accent makes understanding me an
impediment and apologizing for my "clumsy
american tongue." Extrapolate the innuendoes if you must.
This is fine, save for the fact that it means I'm missing my supervisor (and previously mentioned/pictured Dave Beer) play in his band "A Kid Called Power," wherein they perform songs about "There Will Be Blood" and cover the Jesus Lizard.






If you've received paper corrospondences from me, chances are at least a portion of them were written from Mozart's, which accurately plays as a speakeasy, coffee shop, local pub and daytime cafe. I went in today for a delicious breakfast sandwich. Breakfast sandwiches are something I have a weakness for.

Tommorrow night Howard Webb is coming to town and crashing at my humble abode. This will facilitate a lot of cleaning on my part. Probably we'll see the insides of both pubs I've posted on here, as that seems to be the way. Close shop at the Rhyd and if one of us wants to Moz, pretty much all of us will.

"Hello. You have been invaded by the staff of a vastly inferior pub."-- Kieran.

Either way, it will be good to see Howard's smiling face.

I got a group e-mail from T. Keller to pretty much everyone who's been writing for Buddyhead as of late (there's not that many of us) talking about a site re-launch and re-organization. Asking basically "who's in?" More than that I probably can't say, but there's a good chance I'll be having musicky things to write about soon. I think this is good. And it not being a local thing would be good too--

too many nights could end up looking like this:

The McEwans was trickiest.

So last night I worked my first shift at The Rhyddings Hotel Pub. I think it used to be a hotel proper, now it's a pub/restaurant located in the Brynmill/Rhyddings Terrace area of Swansea close to the school.
One of my new co-workers didn't show up, so I ended up covering the lounge half largely by myself. I made a couple of new-guy mistakes, but I didn't freak out and by the end of the night I was feeling fairly confident. The owners of the place were pretty impressed and complimented me.
So now I'm working Sam's (the no-show) shifts tonight and thursday as well as friday and saturday (which is a Mighty Boosh-themed night). In addition to finishing up my portfolios. So, busy week.
After cleaning up, Dave and I (he on his bike, me near-jogging beside) trolled around downtown "in search of scraps," as he put it. The only place open was SO bar and their Karaoke Night. Dave went up to the mc/dj and requested to sing a song, the man said "you can only sing if you do Elvis."

So Dave did "Suspicious Minds" and we grabbed kebabs at Oasis where there was a very blonde girl being extremely rude to the proprietors. I'd like to think my voice of reason was part of the reason there wasn't fisticuffs or food-spitting.