Local Guys Make G.O.O.D.

Outside Minetta Tavern while my dining partner took a pre-meal smoke, ran into an old bartender friend of hers, who we'll call Steve.

How he got fired from his high-profile drink-slinging gig: a drunken Wall Streeter grabbed a waitress' ass, then puked in the fireplace. Steve told him to quit grabbing asses, and try to make it to the bathroom before vomiting. The Wall Streeter said “Fuck you. That's what I tipped you and your Mexican for.” Steve, an ex- Royal Marine, broke a beer bottle, held it to the guy's face, and said, “He's not Mexican. He's Ecuadoran.” Then he dragged the guy over to the window (they were on the 3rd floor), flipped him over and dangled him by his feet – the classic “apologize or I'll drop you to your death” move. The next day the Streeter fired off a letter demanding Steve be fired. That was his last bartending job – these days he's in construction, building boozers from the ground up.

Inside, the next table over happened to be plastered Streeters*, who spent most of the night apologizing and offering to buy our drinks. The guy closest to me described his trio as “local guys made good” (even though one was French), and the warm manner in which they enjoyed getting fucked up and raising a ruckus was kind of life-affirming. I'm not sure what officially got them booted, but it was either one of them screaming “Go Cowboys!” when he found out I was from Dallas, or that same guy actually stuffing his very expensive dry-aged beef burger into his wine glass.

Had we complained, we probably would've gotten a free meal, but since these were the nicest bombed finance guys ever, we didn't, and our sweetly apologetic waitress comped us two glasses of muscatel.


Back outside, the security team for the President of Latvia was just chillin' while he took in a Cafe Wha show by someone who probably wasn't Bob Dylan. The guy in the police cruiser's passenger seat – who's built like Mike Starr (the lumbering hitman from Dumb and Dumber) – is perusing a book about Blue Note a gray-bearded homeless guy just handed him for free after trying to sell it to me.

Finally: stopped by Home Sweet Home's “Wierd” night to say hey to a friend who works the door. Wisdom from the wearer of this t-shirt: “Why should I get a myspace page when I've been playing since before they invented the fucking cell phone?”

I actually saw W.A.S.P. on this tour, opening for Iron Maiden at Reunion Arena, end of 7th grade, also before the cell phone, at least practically speaking. I dug the song “L.O.V.E. Machine”, but I still don't know what the acronym stands for, and couldn't tell you if you dangled me by the feet from a third-floor window.

*Not trying to create an us-vs-them dynamic, but slang just reads quicker