Live from...an undisclosed location on the East Coast...

Like Cheney's bunker, y'all'll have to guess. I mean two and two can be put together, but I still ain't saying. Because I forgot to bring my phone charger, I've had to come down to the car to recharge. Luckily, I have my laptop. The following is the world's gain, pre-gaming at 8PM and tipsy-inspired.

Spending a weekend in a beach town, the overarching theme is that, god...dayam, there are a lot of fat people in America. What balls on these people to waddle around looking like that, as if it's all right! I mean, Bokolis is not soccer-player skinny (despite being a soccer player, I look more like a rugger), but I look fucking good...not important though.

Well, it is semi-important because I'm about to relate some bullshit. I'm at the spot last night, working the place (I should mention that I hunt lone-wolf). I've been coming down here for years. The difference is that, this year, my trusty bartender is nowhere to be found. This is terrible, as she would keep me out of trouble.

I've previously (in the tipping post, one of my first) went though why it's important to have the bartender on your side. I hunt lone-wolf, because, quite frankly, a bartender is as good a wingman anyone could hope to have. I've had 4 good (non-bartender) wingmen (I'll call them my running partners) in my life. 4 is probably 3 more than most people...I know how to pick out quality and I'm a good guy to have around because nobody fucks around while I'm around. I've also had the need for 4 because they inevitably fall by the wayside to marriage, drugs, etc., etc.

Roping in the tangents, without my trusty bartender, I am exposed. I'm working the place, only to get accosted by a fat chic. It's a hazard of the game; Bokolis is put together and the fat broads consider me a great prize. In the ultra-long shot that I could rope in her two hot friends and under the theory that, when life throws you a lemon, you make lemonade (she wouldn't leave), I decide to engage her.

She's not quite the water buffalo in the ">Jerry Ball category (and, that's Jerry Ball from his SMU days, not the fat tub of shit that lined up for the Vikings), but she was plenty fat...but not ugly; justl like there's Irish girl cute, there's fat girl pretty.

Almost needless to say, Bokolis was not entertaining the thought of throwing her over the shoulder. But, I figured that she'd be good for warming up my game. Of course, she had different designs, but I've dealt with this before. Some breeze and a few pecks on the cheek later, she starts telling me how I'm the first white guy to whom she's ever been attracted. I immediately thought of the Nik Richie post on Amanda Bynes, where he commented that he loved how, as soon as white chics start getting fat, they automatically think they are attracted to black guys. My only reponse was that her womanly intution must have sensed that the purple crayons have nothing on Bokolis...I didn't use the term "purple crayon," but Bokolis is, at least in my head, a porn star. This bird treated herself to a feel and another peck.

Anyway, I eventually got rid of her. A quarter hour later, she was in the arms of a purple crayon. Some, somewhere along the line, some suitable talent starts working me. 21 and petite in a little black dress. Surely looking to get steamrollered. At some point, she instructs me to buy her a drink.

Many girls- girls that haven't yet graduated to bottle rat status- will chat up guys to work a free drink out of them. Of course, the money means nothing to Bokolis. I'd throw 2, 3 hundred, even a nickel on the table and proposition them, if only to remind them that they are just whoring themselves and to cut to the chase. I'm a little more chill than that and I don't think of it as paying for a drink. I'm paying for information, like calling a better hand just so you can see what the guy played.

Nonetheless, because guys should never give any woman what she wants when she asks for it, I string her along. She's a bartender (whythefuck isn't she working on Friday night?!?) in a little black dress. While I never pursue a bartender when she's working, under the theory that a salesman is the easiest person to sell because they will sell themselves, I've got this all worked out. Further boosting my cause, people actually knew her...and I engaged two of them (guy and his GF) to where they gave their implicit blessing.

This is all in the space of maybe 10 minutes...I got felt up yet again. I have the seal of approval, I'm in...it's just a matter of closing.

But, in the end, as Joe Pesci explained in Casino, I fucked it all up. I waited too long to get her a drink, so she took it upon herself to order. She gets carded by my unfamiliar bartender because of a particular bracelet she was wearing. After an awkward moment, she asks me to order her drink. Too fucking late now, I'm thinking. She pulls out her ID to show me that she's 21 ("look! 1989!"). I looked, but, as I was about 12 drinks in, I couldn't settle my eyeballs to see shit. A bouncer quickly showed up and escorted her out. I went out there to try to work some magic, but it was only half-hearted. She was borderline hysterical and, even though the friends appreciated it even more, I knew I was sunk. It was abut 3AM, and she was too hysterical to even suggest the room party with her friends (and work the full swap), so I cut bait and headed back to port.

And, no, I didn't go looking for the fat chic. I sure hope my homegirl is working tonight...that NEVER would have happened if she was there.

Kennesaw Mountain Goodell

It's Friday and I have some time to kill before I get to yelling at some people over whom I hold no explicit authority.

So, Goodell sits down Roethlisberger for 6 games after the latter was cleared of criminal wrongdoing for doing whatever it is he needed to do to knock down a 20 year old bird. All views Bokolis has heard from everyone reflects their ideology, that this sumbich did this and that and that Goodell was right to slap a 6 game bid on him.

If we're going to look strictly at this situation, then sure, Ben may have gotten just desserts. However, there is a bigger picture and a bigger issue.

When the MLBPA puts the screws to the owners, everybody blasts the players. The media have portrayed Donald Fehr as a sinister, almost satanic presence, a stain on baseball. When the owners were found guilty of collusion, they were slapped on the wrist; nobody batted an eye. Bokolis isn't saying that there are good guys here, because there aren't.

But, the lesson was always that, if ownership can push around such a powerful union, the rest of us are fucked. I'm sure that, were I to go downstairs and ask 100 (largely) random people on the street whether they were paid their self-perceived worth, I couldn't get 5 of them to say yes.

That is why I always root for the unions and won't bat an eye at the salaries, grossly overpaid though they may be...even if it means the owners are going to raise ticket prices to cover it.

The Roethlisberger case, and those of the other NFL derelicts before him, present an interesting parallel and are setting a dangerous precedent.

After having 4 or 5 drinks at the bar, anyone (we're talking a regular, grown-ass man) that drives home knows that, should some shit go down, they have strict liability. So, if you're going to blow a .12, like Jim Leyritz and Donté Stallworth, if some slob jumps in front of your car, you're on the hook for him. It doesn't matter that whether on foot or in a vehicle, Miamians have this issue with wandering into a traffic lane for no apparent reason (that doesn't just happen in GTA; this is a real phenomenon). It doesn't matter that the woman that caused the accident that killed her was more drunk than you were*, it's your ass.

*- That's not to suggest Leyritz be absolved.

If some shit like this (just the getting pulled over part...God forbid, not mowing down someone) happened to Bokolis, I'd be fucked; likely out of a job, with a future of events that will only drive me to drink. My career in corporate America: D-O-E-N done. I'd have the state telling me how to live my life and I'd probably have to sell my ass for cash.

Just desserts, scumbag, right? Sure, you self-righteous cunts. Like Tony said, you're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie.

I digress. Let's change the scenario to something that everybody does: Drinking on a worknight, 2 or 3 drinks over 90 minutes. That's not illegal. Do we want to raise the ante? Let's say you'd blow a .06 and you drove home afterwards and, like 99.999% of the millions of people who do this, you get home without incident.

A .06 would get you a summons, I think. But, at .06 how tired you are has a far greater effect on your driving ability and judgement than your BAC. It's highly unlikely that you'd do anything to get yourself pulled over.

Let's further suppose that, because you're a moron, you tweeted it. Corporate Big Brother picks up on this and docks you a day's pay because some cunt in HR feels you couldn't possibly have put in an honest day's work. That's some bullshit, right? The lush CEO is stealing money every day.

You want a little more credit than that, don't you? It's 20 years from now. Indians still haven't developed critical thought, so you still have your job. Yet, globalization and the Information Age have taken such hold so that, effectively, you are on call 24 hours per day. Along those lines, Corporate Big Brother has intruded to the point where it can now observe virtually everything you do and has the AI to analyze it. CBB observes that you are out boozing and hunting for poon-tang, which, it deems, limits your ability to absorb and convey information (assume your job doesn't involve the conveyance of information on how to pick up tipsy 20-something birds). Your pay grade is lowered for the rest of the week.

Too creepy? Too fucked up? All right, before leaving the office/signing off, you are now made to file an agenda of your evening plans. This information is conveyed to the establishment you will patronize, you are cut off at the appointed time, dumped in a cab and sent home. Change the options; you can stay longer, but you have to concede a vacation day, or a day's salary.

How about, while on vacation, you engage in similar activities to Roethlisberger; I'll leave it up to your imagination as to whether the girls went willingly and you had a bouncer at your door.

You're not that cool? Fine, you pass out drunk on the beach and your buddies have to drag you back to the room. They do some forgy shit to you, like make you piss yourself or draw on cocks on you with a marker or, worse yet, draw directly on your nutsac.

Not that Bokolis would know; I can hold my liquor.

The public figure, role model angle is bullshit. We're now blue-skying an employer sanctioning for perceived transgressions in personal lives in the face of signed contract- never mind that it is non-guaranteed and contains imposed morals clauses that give the employer the right to terminate...just so we can feel- WTF do you care?- that justice has been served. The rest of us don't even have that protection, but it's only a matter of time until these rules are applied to us.

Yeah, yeah, asshole. The boss doesn't even sanction for the shit we do on company time. We'll let go that you're cheating yourselves by fucking off at work. Does it make you feel better to think that you're only a hyper-diligent IT guy away, or that your company writes off a certain amount of it as an inevitability?

I'm not that smart and not all that creative. If I can think of this, you can be sure that, before too long, someone with the drive to implement worse will come along.

That's all the fuck I got.

On the subject of tipping...

Many people just don't like tipping. They look for tangible value for their tip and, not easily finding any, they see no point. The following is a response to a post on The Big Picture:

In NYC, we have the concept of buy-back, which seems to be lost on the rest of the country. Trendy Irish bars that kick you out at 1:30AM, charge douchebag prices, with women bartenders that have a sense of entitlement, "...like their pussy doesn't smell..." across the land, there's way too much of it and, except for the 1:30AM part, we're not immune. At the risk of stating the obvious, stay the fuck out of those places. If you can manage that...

...because I think there's karma involved- if you're good with a buck, it will find it's way back to you- admittedly, I tip excessively (usually over 30%). While I'm not saying that everyone should, you have to see beyond the money and what the bartender does to "earn" it. After all, you're not their boss and you'll come off as a piker.

More to the point, the bartender can be an ally in your hunt...especially if you don't have a reliable wingman...especially if the bartender is a hot piece of ass who has come to grips with her stank.

That usually takes cash, done tastefully, of course, and probably requires a return visit. It's just like with Congress; you can't necessarily buy their vote, but you can buy their ear and take it from there.

However, to avoid pointless tipping after every drink, as was noted, throw up the credit card, even if you plan to pay cash. That way, the bartender knows a payoff is in the offing...possibly a bigger payoff if, while tuned up, you think you've found a new buddy...and will work it accordingly.

Bottom line: you have to tip well.

All that said, the big picture's point about reverse-etiquette and the Louisville Slugger is well taken. Some bartenders are assholes beyond repair and it's no crime to want bang for your buck. Now that companies are freely tossing around rewards points, tipping your bartender, by comparison, is like paying the 20% premium for funny money at a strip club.

The Age of Amateurs

For many years now, I’ve noticed the slow, but steady, infiltration of the Apple by foreigners. By foreigners, I mean people from Boston, the Midwest and other assorted cow-towns. It was all an inoffensive novelty until some weasel from Boston was elected Mayor. This weasel has proceeded to make impositions on how New Yorkers should live their lives. In sterilizing the place, he has made the place corporate friendly, made it safe for amateurs to come out of their holes after dark and enjoy the New York nightlife and made it possible to extract $3,500/mo. rent from said amateurs…a new set of suckers.

Of course, the obvious retort is that out-of-towners coming to New York is not a new phenomenon. You’d be correct. But, there is one key difference: It used to be that you had to get down to be down. The amateurs haven’t done this and neither has the weasel, but the weasel is not only down, he’s running things.

These must be signs of the apocalypse... at least, a sign that it may be time to abandon ship. The beaneaters have apparently set up operations in the East Village. If you’re a fan of New York sports teams, you’d be entering hostile territory in your home town. Not that I’m advocating or would condone it, but no one has even firebombed the joint. They are even able to wear their paraphernalia in public without getting the shit slapped out of them. While I can’t advocate that, either, if I notice anyone doing so, I’ll turn a blind eye. As Bostonians are notorious for being a miserable lot, the Apple is better off without them.

That’s not the half of it. I walked into some other dive after work- this is the fun job- one Saturday night right into a packed house. The whole place was tuned into the Georgia-Alabama football game and the place was packed to the gills with Alabama fans. My only guess was that the bartender was an alumnus; he had the fight song pumped in after every big play and during game stoppages. (Both of these schools are in “The Box,” which I’ll get into at a later time). In any event, these people were chanting along, hooting and hollering.

Aside- One girl even had a full Alabama cheerleading outfit. Had the idea for this blog been conceived, I'd have considered breaking my "no pictures, no cameras" rule. No great loss; she looked reasonably fit, but not as hot as you'd like to believe.

Granted, SEC football has been hot this year and this game was no exception. I walked in with about 6 minutes left in regulation. Alabama tied the game in the late stages and Georgia missed a field goal at the gun. Alabama kicked a FG in OT, but Georgia ended matters by going up top on its first offensive play. The place emptied out almost as fast as the air went out of there. That was good for me, as I was finally able to get to the bar for a drink (after all, I was in happy hour mode), but they cut deep into my drinking time.. As to whether I behaved myself, remember the title of this blog.

The silver lining in all this is that foreign (as defined above) girls are much less crabby than the natives. It is small consolation, as it's not news to anyone that has ventured beyond Staten Island. They adapt quickly, so get them before they grow a shell.