overheard at the wreck room
proof positive that rockarall crowds ain't what they usedta be:
so the bar is fuckin' _slammed_, carl and billy have been running their asses off since nine o'clock, and it's three deep when this dipshit comes up and wants to order a drink.
dipshit: hey. hey! HEY! HEY!!!
carl: fuck you!
dipshit: hey, maaan, what's your attitood about?
carl: i don't like fucking getting yelled at!
dipshit: is there like a manager around here someplace?
carl: I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING MANAGER!
dipshit (deflated): oh.
after he finishes taking care of his other customers, carl goes over and takes the kid's order, but jayzus! little dude, here's the deal: there's no "why, i'll have your job!" in rockaroll. especially when you're talking to the man (or one of 'em, at least) who built the house that you're standing in. take your bullshit-ass sense of entitlement (like certain musos who've decided that they and however many of their friends they wanna bring, even if they're not playing, don't evereverever have to pay cover and aren't afraid to give the door girl shit about it, because other musicians don't need to get paid and being rude to the hired help is s-o-o-o fucking cool) down the road to bennigans, or better yet, just stay home, put on your rockaroll clothes, look at yourself in the mirror and jerk off. interacting with other humans is a futile path. forget i mentioned it. end of cranky old-man rant. where are my khakis? where's my shotgun?
so the bar is fuckin' _slammed_, carl and billy have been running their asses off since nine o'clock, and it's three deep when this dipshit comes up and wants to order a drink.
dipshit: hey. hey! HEY! HEY!!!
carl: fuck you!
dipshit: hey, maaan, what's your attitood about?
carl: i don't like fucking getting yelled at!
dipshit: is there like a manager around here someplace?
carl: I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING MANAGER!
dipshit (deflated): oh.
after he finishes taking care of his other customers, carl goes over and takes the kid's order, but jayzus! little dude, here's the deal: there's no "why, i'll have your job!" in rockaroll. especially when you're talking to the man (or one of 'em, at least) who built the house that you're standing in. take your bullshit-ass sense of entitlement (like certain musos who've decided that they and however many of their friends they wanna bring, even if they're not playing, don't evereverever have to pay cover and aren't afraid to give the door girl shit about it, because other musicians don't need to get paid and being rude to the hired help is s-o-o-o fucking cool) down the road to bennigans, or better yet, just stay home, put on your rockaroll clothes, look at yourself in the mirror and jerk off. interacting with other humans is a futile path. forget i mentioned it. end of cranky old-man rant. where are my khakis? where's my shotgun?
posted by stashdauber at 6:51 AM
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