The Bartender Knows: It's The End Of The World As We Know It (or whatever)

Officially it’s all supposed to come crashing down at noon, and since the actual time right now writing this blog is 11:46am, I’ll try to wrap everything up in 14 minutes and “get my kicks before this whole shit house goes up in flames”, as Jim Morrison said.

And since the Mayans totally designed their calendar around American time, everybody best mind their p’s and q’s come this witching hour. They no doubt based the end of the 13^th 1444000 day cycle, commonly referred to as the Mayan Apocalypse, on California time because it’s now 12:11pm and I’m still alive sipping on a Budweiser at Teddy’s Bar and Grill.

Who were these strange Mayan peoples who predicted the end of all things?

What were they into? How did they roll as far as drinking? These are questions a bartender asks.

We do know a couple of fun facts about them.

They ate a shitload of corn (called maize), just like us here in the Grand Ole Opry of American lifestyle. Corn, being the most useless thing that grows out of the ground for the human body (sadly too, my favorite food), was apparently a quite plentiful element in their culture. They were into some severe body modification, but unlike Seattle folk, they did it to honor their Gods, not to just piss off their parents and ruin otherwise beautiful unmarred skin.

The men of the Mayan world would file their adult grown teeth to sharp points to appear more ferocious and there was even a modification to make someone cross-eyed in reverence to their Cross-Eyed God Kinich Ahau. Awesomely, the women in their culture, the high-fluent ones, would drill holes in their teeth and fill them with precious metals, Lil’ Wayne style.

Fucking straight up gangsters. Love it.

Scribes (the writers) were highly revered. Got to give a small shout out to that, since here in America writers are treated with only slightly less vehemence than the poor, and unfortunately writers are often scribes and dead broke, therefore being one of the more lowly classes of careers in the country other than hostesses (what we like to refer to as the ‘pincushions’ of the restaurant industry. Let your imagination go wild).

The Mayans also had a wonderful penchant for sacrifice, and their preferred method was to cut directly into the abdomen and pull out the person’s heart while they were still alive. Blood rituals were common.

However, suicides, sacrifices, and still births were supposedly directly sent to heaven, so that’s cool. Sort of like a carpool lane for the early dead. These fuckers were so out the box they believed in giving their own blood to their Gods, usually through cutting their tongues and genitalia, bleeding onto paper, setting it aflame, and letting the ashes rise up to the heavens.

And that was their Saturday nights.

My question is: Why listen to these deranged peoples and their prophecies? Who would ever listen to crazy people spouting off about resurrection, ‘talking snakes’, virgin births, vindictive angels, and angry Gods?

Oh, right, our last President. Yeah, the leader of the free world and the only person with access to the nuclear red button that could actually end the world.

People have been talking about the end of the world since the world as we know it began. Ever hear about the Prophet Hen of Leeds in 1806, supposedly giving birth to eggs that had scrawled upon it “Christ is Coming”? People freaked out, went nuts, until someone found this hen and watched it until it let loose another egg that didn’t say shit. People moved on.

And so will we.

Lots of trouble going on these days and people are all worked up.

As your bartender (to all of you thousands of readers, oh yes, we that level now kids), I must say, please, this drink is on me.

Would you care for a proper Manhattan (chilled glass; 1 part Rye, 2 part Bourbon, ½ of Sweet Vermouth, a dash of bitters, and orange rind floating like a motherfucking canoe in there)?

Or perhaps a Negroni? Or a Night Of Passion? A Sex on the Beach (with a towel) perhaps?

Take a little sip, savor it, sit with the feeling for a moment.

Close your eyes.

Good.

I’ve made sure I’ve put on some wonderful music (‘Steady Petty’=Tom Petty rock blocks cure all problems). You feeling good? You feeling okay?

Next, let me introduce you to my friends who also hang out at this bar.

You got Michael Blain over here. He’s pretty hilarious, devastatingly good-looking, and one of the best travel partners ever (you know the true test of a human is how well they can handle travel. I, or course, am an exceptional traveler, and have been told by many that if they had to be stuck on some lonely ass road in the middle of the Rocky Mountains they would want to be there with me. “You’re better than television”, an ex girl-friend once told me. I have always been transitory, better moving, and every time I start feeling the dust begin to settle upon my skin I get that strange feeling, much like when the seatbelt first locks your body in on the rollercoaster, I know it’s time to start ramblin’ on. A rolling stone gathers no moss, as they say ).

Right over there a couple bar stools down is my Well-Published Friend Christopher Turck. You ever want to hustle anything, you better listen to this man. Some people say in common parlance ‘they wrote the book on it’. Well, ole Turck did write the book on it, and it’s 33^rd on the New York Times Best Seller List. So listen hard and go fuck yourself.

My buddy Wyatt just walked in. There is some Brazilian term I can never pronounce or remember about a person who lives only on his wits, never seems to work, and yet casually, and with much loose class, survives and prospers. This is Wyatt. You’ll love him.

Many have, in more ways than one.

How’s that drink treating you?

Let’s do a quick shot, you and me together, just for this December 21^st, 2012.

What are you having?

Me? I’ll take cheap, well whiskey (I know, Diane, I know). You? High class shit? Of course. No problem. Here you go.

Let us raise our class to this day. To everyday.

Blain, Turck, Wyatt, get over here.

Meet dear reader.

Let me say a cheers:

“Heaven is a woman who always laughs at my jokes, a bar that never closes and a great conversation that never ends”.

Cheers.

Gulp.

Yum.

Happy holidays, folks.

I’m going to California to listen to Christmas music while staring at palm trees.

Yeah. Fuck it.

It could be a helluva lot worse.

Quick, amazing shout out to Lisette Voytko for giving The Bartender Knows her own shout out on her Facebook last week. You’re officially hired as The Bartender Knows press agent. We are trying to sell a book here, people, and every little bit helps.

Also, thank you for all the great fan letters and comments I receive weekly from this blog. Don’t hesitate to keep sending questions you want me to answer. Spread this shit around guys.

Us bartenders may know a thing or two. Unless I'm in Paris (read) or in love ( read).

Than the bartender doesn't know shit.

'Till next week!