Image by Frank Rich of Modern Drunkard Magazine

Once upon a time, before Sordid Tales, before CityBeat even, there was a column called Sordid Tales of a Bartender in Heat that appeared in a magazine called SLAMM. It was, as I mentioned in the FAQs, a column about the comedy and the tragedy of the nightclub scene as told by a veteran bartender. When CityBeat bought SLAMM, the editors and I agreed that it was time to change (slightly) the name and the focus of the column. Hence the shortening of the title to Sordid Tales. There are about 100 of those old bartender Sordids so I will post them here gradually, over time. Stay tuned.

Note: The first article in the string (Turn, Turn, Turn) was the last one I wrote for SLAMM before it was bought out by CityBeat.

EJD
3/31/07

[Author's Note: This is the final column to appear in SLAMM magazine]

To everything there is a season my friends. In case you haven’t heard, our fearless leader, Kevin “Give-em” Hellman, is no longer the owner/publisher of SLAMM. He has sold the magazine to some big-time publishing firm -- who will probably turn our beloved grass roots paper into some glitzy, soulless, alternative weekly, ad-rag, distributed straight from the printing presses of hell, with horrific column titles like, Why I Love Kittens and Happy World, and inked with the dripping, toxic, searing blood of the damned.

But I kid the new publishers.

"Well that drunk tank in Atlanta
Was just a hotel room to me."
-- Tom Petty

Tequila gold, a.k.a. "Satan’s urine," is a very evil and dangerous liquid. This story begins and ends with tequila.

There is no question that I was too drunk to drive home that fateful April ’93 evening. But I was very hungry and Tequila -- my nemesis -- insisted I drive to Roberto’s for a carne asada burrito.

It was 3 a.m.

When the colored lights flashed behind me, I panicked. I liken that terror to what a diver must feel when he sees the silhouette of a shark coming into view from the murky darkness of the ocean floor. I was polite to the officers, as usual, but Tequila was uncouth. He called the male cop a fascist, told the female officer that her gun was a poor substitute for a penis. As they cuffed me (tightly), and walked me toward the police car, I gazed at the alluring red and yellow tiles of Roberto’s shimmering like the walls of the Emerald City only one block away.

“So close. I had been so close.”

From the Mailbox: “Dear Ed, I’ve been reading your bartender column for over four years now. I’ve always wondered, is bartending as exciting and fun as it seems? Does it pay well? If so, how do I get a job?”

Dan/La Jolla, CA

Yes Dan, it is as fun and exciting as it seems. A world where peppy bouncy party girls burst out of their tank-tops like a microwave popcorn accident and where time flies faster than a clock on the Concorde -- but there is a flip side. Bartending is also a dirty stinking grind. It takes a certain type of person to be a bartender. The question is, Dan, are you the right person?

There will be adjustments you know; a turbulent transformation of lifestyle and worldview. For instance, when you are a bartender your social life is the bar. You go out to bars when you’re not working. Your friends and acquaintances are primarily other bartenders, waitresses, and ever-boozers. And you all become this enormous, deranged, dysfunctional family: Your co-workers are alcoholics; your customers are alcoholics; your lovers are alcoholics; you are an alcoholic (that’s why you want the job right, to be just a little closer to all those shiny pretty bottles?)

“Yea, though I walk through
The Valley of The Shadow of Death...”
--Psalm 23:4

It is morning. You are viciously hungover.

Hangovers are bonfires in Hell to be sure, but they wouldn't be so bad if you were home. Then you could deal. Then you would merely crawl out of bed (slowly, slowly—so as not to disturb those tender brain cells), inch toward the refrigerator, grab anything that resembles a fluid, inch back toward the couch (slowly, slowly) and remain there forever.

Alas, you are not home. You are laying on an unfamiliar bed in some unfamiliar female’s peach-colored bedroom with the goddam morning sun barreling through the window and splashing all over your pallid face like a crucifix searing a vampire’s flesh.

What happens when a person loses consciousness from consuming large doses of alcohol? What are the dos and don’ts of a black out? How do you protect yourself and others too?

We at the Yearning Annex feel that, while there is an abundance of information explaining how to avoid a black out, there is little said about how to comport yourself while in the midst of one. Which is why we are offering a new course called, Black Out Strategies for the Beginning Alcoholic.