My notes app was overflowing with bar stuff that I finally relented and sat down at my computer two weeks ago. Nothing happened.

Two more weekends went by and the notes got fuller.It’s finally time to unpack the last two months, and prepare for the final stretch of IDs on the way to 1,000.

Quote Me, Bitch! Part IV

Some blogs are purely quote-driven. Occasionally I’ll skip the context and let the reader figure out what happens, but I’ll dive deep into most of these. Quote Me, Bitch Part !, Everything In Here, Including You, Is Trash (Part II), Quote Me, Again (Part III).

There’s some holleration in this dancery.

Of all the Mary J. Blige songs to drop a line from … this is actually my favorite. My dad gave me the CD for one of my birthdays. I have no context as to why the woman said it. But I’m happy she did.

But it has my name on it.

If you guessed something about an ID, you’d be right. If you guessed it was about a man trying to use his drug test receipt as a backup for his temporary ID paper, then you’re a co-worker or clairvoyant.

Yes, a grown ass man really brought a drug test (I didn’t confirm the results) to the bar as proof he was of sound mind to drink that night.

Am I being punk’d? This isn’t really happening, right?

I said this. This was 100% me in response to a 5-foot-11, late 20s/early 30s white guy using a 5-3 Latino’s ID. I did a septuple take, not believing what I was seeing. How? How would you think this would’ve worked? Plus the name. THE NAME. Obviously, for security I will not say the name on the ID, but it was WILD.

The closest comparison I have is Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez, Sean Connery’s character from Highlander. But the real name was even crazier than that. The man was a third, and his first and middle names were each four syllables long. And was 5-3! And not a white guy! I honestly thought the new guys were setting me up

If it wasn’t so cold I’d pull it out for you.

Indeed. What she said.

I can see all of you. Everyone is 5-feet tall. You’re not outsmarting anyone.

Again, also me. There were two sides of one group. Half inside and half outside. The group inside was all of age, and the group outside? Three of the five had braces.Not an exaggeration. At least two looked like they were sophomores in high school. Did I mention they were all 5-feet tall? So everything is happening below me as if I’m sitting on Mt. Olympus watching the lives of mortals play out, and typical of us mortals, we’re dumb.

One woman inside literally took out her own ID and gave it to one brave girls jutting out from the group. The sacrificial lamb, if you will.

I kicked the woman who tried to pass back the ID out and she said something to the effect of “well then the whole group is leaving.” Cool, gotcha, yeah, tough loss on our part. Oh, and the difference between the two women, aside from the braces and the fact I saw everything play out in real time, was about 100 pounds, 10 of which was makeup.

That wasn’t me, no cap, it was my brother. You just can’t tell black people apart.

You know, the race card gets played a lot, but it’s not as effective as people think. I will not go into other examples, but for this one all you need to know is, Man throws up in THE MIDDLE OF THE BAR FLOOR and walks to the patio. He is the only man on the patio who doesn’t work at the bar, the only black man outside at that moment, and I saw him do it. But once his friends showed up from the parking lot and the bar to see where he was, it became the race thing.

He’s just profiling. He didn’t see me do it. I would never throw up in a bar.

But once his family left him, he was apologizing, saying a shot just hit him wrong. He didn’t eat food, yada-yada-yada. Then he tried to come back inside!

Seriously, you just told everyone in your group how much of a liar and racist I was.

Yeah, that was true. I did that.

Some people.

His brother who he claimed I mistook him for, and tried to throw under the bus, was 6 inches shorter, light skin, and wearing blue jeans whereas the puker was tall, thin, and wearing all black. Also, no cap. In the literal sense, he was not wearing a hat, while his brother had a bucket hat covering his bleached dreads. If I mistook the two, I’d need some Trailer Park Boys Bubbles glasses STAT.

I know her! And the other girl. I know them both. What the fuck?

Jorge Salchichas is a new door guy for us, and this time he just happened to know both the girl trying to use her friend’s ID, and the woman the ID really belongs to (from Texas). What a world!

Fabulous. Can I get a picture with you?

No. 900! It happened. After long COVID delays, I finally got 900 celebrated with my long-awaited plan — giving the person a copy of Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4 on the Game Boy Advance I bought on eBay for $6.84.

He already had the flower in his hair, which is why I disarmed him with my charm and wit, asking for a picture while his ID was in my hand. He was in a group of five, four women and him, celebrating a 21st birthday. He was the token gay best friend. And part of me wanted to feel sorry for the GBF, but he was going home with gifts. Yes, gifts. In addition to the game that came out before he was born, he also got a Tech Deck my stepdad found while cleaning the basement.

Plus, look at his smile. Such a trooper.

As soon as Travis Chorly (other door guy, we’ll get to his name in a second) snapped the photo, I told him his ID was faked and walked inside. Such a seminal moment. I’m sure he’ll cherish it forever.

Girl, I’ve been waiting out here forever!

Damn, she wasn’t lying, either. Ten minutes is a long time to wait in the cold for someone who had their fake taken in less than a half second.

She’s with me

Right, but who the fuck are you?

This girl came up twice in five minutes trying to just … walk in. But not a power walk like she was determined and self aware. No, a slow, casual walk like she had short-term memory loss and forgot our first interaction. Her friend downplayed it and said they were together. People, I don’t know you. And if you did know me, you wouldn’t know to do that.

Ya know?

I never sat in a chair!

Picture a white guy. That’s it. Nothing more. Imagine a Caucasian adult male in your head. That’s this guy. No, it doesn’t matter how tall or short he is. How round or slim. How much facial hair or not. A white guy. The white guy you’re thinking of is exactly the white guy that said this.

Because that’s who was looking for him at one point. Part of his group didn’t go, “Hey have you seen Bill or Mike or Trevor?” No, they said, “have you seen a white guy?”

Yes. We did see a white guy. And this was him. We found the whitest white guy. And not in complexion. Just in general whiteness. He was the USPS flat rate box of white guys.

There are three different flat rate boxes, but you all pictured medium, didn’t you?

So, now that we’ve got the who out of the way, let’s move onto the what and why.

WG came outside in the freezing cold to take a phone call. One problem, he was pretty intoxicated, and he wasn’t actually talking to anyone. We thought we were in the clear when, after about 15 minutes, he got up and left, presumably to get into an Uber. Not so fast. After a few minutes of being outside, he did a small u-turn at the corner and tried to come back inside. He was not up for more, so we told him his night was over and he should call or text his friends.

Then he asked why he was not to be let back in. “I did nothing wrong.”

We explained what we saw — he came out int he cold, slumped in the chair for 10-15 minutes, looked at his phone and swiped a few times, and then got up and left.

He claimed to have never sat in a chair. Not that night, in that spot. A chair in his life.

He was serious.

We mentioned again that he was out there with us for 10-15 minutes. That’s a long time to be outside and not drink, but be warm enough to handle it. Something’s coursing through his veins and it’s got nothing to do with nerves of steel.

Then he dropped this pearl.

10 to 15, that’s 35. Test me. I’ll get everything right.

Ten to Fifteen. That’s Thirty-Five.

He thought we were giving him a math problem to determine his sober status.

Not only did this man claim to have NEVER SAT IN A CHAIR IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, he also believed he got the SECRET MATH PROBLEM correct.

Sparrow asked him again. What’s 10 and 15? “Thirty-Five,” the white guy said, with confidence.

In between spurts of chaotic laughter (mine, my brother’s), he asked Travis Chorly (again, we’ll get to the namesake in a minute) a math problem of his own.

What’s 8,000 divided by 55? See, you don’t know it.

Yeah, because we didn’t need to know math in the first place, but I am glad we were minus one white guy after that.

You must’ve been bullied in high school

Travis and I stopped four dudes with fakes. Some bad ones, too. Now, the quote doesn’t come from anything about the games themselves, they were bad. I had three in hand and Travis wanted in on that action. Damn, the newbies are catching onto my widely public schemes!

No, these kids were mad that we were going to keep the IDs, as they thought it was unfair they didn’t get away with all of their criming.

One kid posited that I was confiscating them because I was bullied in high school. Which caused a Travis Chorly Chortle.

You think the 7-footer was bullied in high school?

I admit, high school wasn’t all that much fun, but it wasn’t because I was bullied. I honestly don’t remember any instances of bullying around the school. But no, nobody bullied the 6-7 kid in high school (I grew just over an inch in college) so bad that I had to earn my revenge on future college kids in the dead of winter.

Since when can’t you dance on tables!

I love the 80s parties are complete shit shows. Mainly because, as my mom will attest, women who go to them only dress like one particular 1981/82 Jazzercise/Let’s Get Physical hellscape. It’s just spandex and fanny packs with loose sweaters. Now, there’s no splitting hairs, that is 1980s attire. But change it up a little. Because people who put on spandex act like they’re background extras on Miami Vice, and the last of the cocaine just ran out.

One pixie was dancing in the street, an advance from the other horde soon to follow. She was already annoying me when I turned to Chorly and said, “we’re going to have to kick her out, right?”

Sure enough, we did. For dancing on a table, and then hiding in the bathroom when she got yelled at.

Unless you’re being paid Coyote Ugly style to dance on tables and bar tops, don’t dance on tables and bar tops. You know what else was 80s? Run DMC. Hair Bands. Shoulder pads in suits. Road House was made in 1989. Why can’t we see some denim vests, way-too-tight jeans belted over the belly button, and women in halter tops made from the same fabric of New England bed & breakfast tablecloths?

Put yoor fookin phone away.

Lovers quarrels are always interesting, primarily because half the time you can’t tell if the parties involved are lovers or not. Two young men were leaving the bar, one in more of a hurry than the other. And he was getting mad at the other. What was he doing to rile up the other? Ordering an Uber. The impatient one started subtly growling, spittle escaping in the muffled anger, trying not to yell at his partner in public.

That’s when the Irish accent started.

He was not Irish. Nor Irish-American.

Just a drunk gay kid trying really hard to get his boyfriend to stop ordering an Uber and walk with him … somewhere. It was another instance of people much smaller than both Chorly and I letting events play out with an audience. As if by virtue of being out of immediate earshot, we don’t matter to the narrative, and therefore are ancillary characters even though YOU’RE STANDIN IN DE MEDDLE O’ DE WALKWAY!

What’s the bartender’s name. First and last?
Yeah, I’m not telling you that.
Well, what’s your name?
Jon
OK, Josh. I’m going to remember you
What’s your badge number?
(Laughing in her face) I’m a bouncer at a dive bar. I don’t have a badge number.
Fine, what’s your name?

Travis. Travis Chorly.

A woman ordered drinks, and then upon reception of the made drinks, reached over the bar top and took them off the pour station, and walked into the bathroom. The bartender rightly yelled at her to pay for the drinks and didn’t get an answer from her, or any other member of the group until minutes later when a guy in the group reluctantly paid.

But the damage was done. The disrespect, the lack of awareness, the flippancy. It was all a disaster waiting to happen at 1:28 am.

Fed up with the lot of them, and with the bar closing soon, the bartender decided for the group to GTFO. And honestly, it was well deserved. There’s no prize for eventually being guilted into paying for the drinks you ordered at the bar. You fucked up, didn’t like that you were being held accountable for your actions, and then got pissy about the situation, acting like you’re the victim.

I didn’t get physical with anyone, but I did make sure they knew it was time to leave. After the woman played the race card (the whole group dynamic that was being kicked out was a rainbow coalition of assholes) the bartender rightfully, albeit a little overzealous, started clapping back. While truth was in her favor, nobody needs to cross-bar ‘bitch’ volley. I guided the main woman and her friend toward the door where she started asking some ridiculous questions.

No, I’m not saying the bartender’s name. You want her social security number, too?

My name? Sure. Here’s my name.

Yes, my name is Josh. You heard me loud and clear.

My badge number? I should’ve said something like 69420 or 8675309 or 8005882300 (great carpet install btw) but the moment came and went.

Now, for my friend here, his wheel was turning long before mine. He had a name locked and loaded.

See, early in the night there was another woman who asked for our names. I said Brad (part of my middle name), another door guy said Frank, and Travis, well, said Travis. But he didn’t add the Chorly until much later.

So, when he added the surname, my head tilted like so:

So, there we were, Josh and Travis Chorly, the only barriers to an angry woman standing in the doorway thinking she’s dealing with what? Undercover officers of the law moonlighting at a dive bar in winter. Just waiting for the chance to kick someone out of the bar 20 minutes before closing because they unsuccessfully tried to walk out on a tab. Your tax dollars at work.

You know, it’s called common courtesy. There are all sorts of liquids in the bathroom, like piss and shit!

Some men are just lucky when it comes to women. I know if I had a girlfriend that stuck up for me like this, I’d be putting a ring on it real fast.

I also probably wouldn’t be doing the following things that got me kicked out of the bar like her man:

• Being 1 of 5 people in the men’s stall trying to buy cocaine from a guy in sweatpants

• Going back to the bathroom with another friend to vomit in the very same stall

• Shooting snot rockets into your vomit

• Vomiting again

• Waving off your behavior in the bathroom as “I’m fine. I’m actually feeling a lot better. Just trying to have a little fun.”

• Stumbling your way back to your friend group, and covering yourself with a flannel robe to hide the beer, vomit and booger stains

• Complaining to your girlfriend that the bouncer mistook you for “some kid.”

Two things. First, I can see over the stalls and unlock a stall from the top. If push came to shove and someone is passed out in the stall, here’s Jon to the rescue.

The GF did not like that I was kicking her BF out. She thought I should allow him to “puke and rally” because it’s “common courtesy.“ And that I didn’t see what I saw because I shouldn’t have seen what I saw, and was a “total peeping Tom.”

Also, both of you need to see a doctor, because piss I’ll give you, but it sounds like you’ve got cases of persistent diarrhea, and not just the shit spewing out of your mouth.

Lights. Look at the lights.
Are you Will Ferrell?
I’m in graduate school.

A woman — an educated woman — laid down a decent haiku attempt before wandering off into the night, only to be tracked down by her significant other, who dressed like a zookeeper.

So, either they went home to experience the grandeur of streetlights in winter and the movie Elf, or he carefully escorted her back to the “graduate school” where she can run free and play all day.