Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Taking the Good with the Bad

The good news is, we've got a new photobooth!

The bad news is, the motherfucker is brighter than the surface of the sun. Seriously, wear your swimsuits because the Buckshot has got a new tanning booth.

The good news is, the pictures are now digital process, so the front of the bar no longer smells like the rotten egg stench of photo chemicals.

The bad news is, now when I fart, I've got nothing to blame it on.

The good news is, the booth works more than the old one.

The bad news is, it was still broken most of its first week in the bar.

The good news is, it doesn't take as long to get your photos.

The bad news is, it's a digital photobooth and not a film one, so it has no fucking soul.

The good news is, most of our customers just sprouted pubes and have never owned a vinyl record, so they don't give a fuck about soul.

The bad news is, the photos are in a square of four, not a four photo strip.

Well, that's the long and the short of the new photo/tanning booth. Aside from the fact that, in a shocking victory for the bad news column, there's also no Farrah Fawcett poster on the outside.
We still love you, Farrah.

Also gone are the old photo strips with hot chicks showing their tits. And what the world needs now is more tits. Oh, and love, sweet love:

Jackie DeShannon: the '60s hottest wax museum figure. Jesus--have another dilaudid, Jackie--your 15 minutes of fame will be over soon enough. You're gonna be on television!

In other camera related news, my Nikon took a shit right after I promised to take more candid shots for the blog. Just refused to turn on anymore. So I sent it to El Segundo to be resuscitated, which I'm sure will cost me my left ball, at the very least. When you see me at the bar, feel free to give me a $20 spot towards my poor one-eyed baby's reanimation. Either that, or you can write an angry email to the owners and demand they buy me a new Nikon. I'm sure that'll work--there must be upwards of 6 or 7 die-hard fans of the Buck blog. And by "die-hard fans" I mean people who smoke too much weed at 4am.

Clearly, I'm making the bar millions in PBR sales:
The above picture is like a bottle of water floating in a lake. Really, is there any difference? Is that you John Wayne? Is this me?

Jesus, no wonder the Italians got their asses whooped so bad they had to change sides in WWII. Their drill sargeants sound like complete pussies. R. Lee Ermey goes from the most bad-ass gunny on earth to a prancing Shakespearean in translation. The only thing missing is tights and a ruff collar.

And finally, let's end in the toilet. A different toilet. The fabled piss trough fell off the wall the other night:
Luckily, our handy handyman Roberto fixed it all up again--now you savages will have a place to piss besides the floor. Rumor has it that it broke when some genius stood on it to tag the ceiling. Look, Hervé, if you can't reach the ceiling, don't tag on it--because if I catch you standing on the piss trough you're going to be taking a bath in it.

Monday, January 31, 2011

Ketchup Portraits, Brass Bands, Chinese Moustaches, Subtle Grills and the Like

Okay, first things first. Let's get the important shit out of the way. News! News is happening!

Yeah, you heard it here first: Philo got a grill.
You'll notice it's on his bottom teeth. This, Philo tells me, is for "subtlety."

All right, now that the important stuff is out of the way, allow me to apologize for sleeping on the job, as it were. The majority of the pics in this entry were taken on (or around) Saturday, January 15. With my iPhone. It seems that I just haven't felt like mingling about--or, as the Murder City Devils might call it, "goin' out mincin'"--with the Nikon, through the great unwashed masses, yearning to breathe free.

I promise you this, Sweet Tits and Swingin' Dicks, that come this Friday, I will take a few smiling, happy trips through the sweaty throngs to document the Buckshot madness.

Movin' on.

The guy below was asked not to come back in because, well...we pour stiff drinks. Anyhow, despite the photographic limits of a phone camera, I did get some sweet action shots of him taking a concrete nap in the bus stop.

He held this pretzel pose for a surprisingly long time:
Okay, this is starting to feel a little more comfy:
I'm not sure if this is the agony of defeat or the thrill of victory:
I must say, despite handling his booze like a teenage girl at homecoming, dude was a pretty good sport about getting the boot. Sure, he tried to get back in, but he wasn't a dick about it, and he knew when to leave us alone.

We had some other kook get off the bus and sneak in a tall can of malt liquor. Folks, beers are two bucks a pop in the Buck. If you need to bring your own, you need to drink at home. No cover charge, two dollar beers. That means, if you'd like to have a sixer of PBR or Tecate, that's $12 for the beer and $6 for the tip. Bring a $20 spot and you can probably afford a slice of cheese at Nizario's after we close. Don't have $20? May I wholeheartedly invite you to enjoy reruns of MacGyver on your couch, as opposed to 1) Not tipping. Seriously, you are no longer in short pants, Bubby. If you don't tip a buck a drink, you label yourself indelibly as a cheap asshole; or, 2) Sneaking in your own alcoholic beverages. Nothing says "douchebag" louder than five jocko homos standing around drinking Coors Lights in a bar that doesn't sell Coors Light. Zero tolerance--we will kick you out for BYOB. This is not a rager at the frat house, fellas--it's a business that, curiously, stays afloat by selling booze.

Anyhow, back to the story. Dude was asked to leave and kept coming back, tall can in hand, trying to get back in. You can only ask someone nicely not to drink in front of the bar 8 or 10 times before you've got to snatch their beer, dump it out, and throw the can in their face.

"Man, I spent my last two bucks on that!"

And this is my problem how, exactly?

No pictures of said champion, but we did find this on the floor later:
Youch! Not positive it was his, but we assumed, since he was the shadiest character to come through the door. Note: prison shanks are also not welcome. Even less welcome than bringing your own booze.

Movin' on. This guy had one of those magnetic earring hoozits on. It's two little black magnets that go on your lobe and look a bit like a plug. Sort of a 21st century version of the clip-on earring. Apparently the magnets weren't strong enough, which left him down on his hands and knees searching for a little black dot:
In his words, he wasn't "tough enough" to get a real ear piercing. Tough enough? Really? My kid got her ears pierced in the mall when she was five, there Norris. With all due respect, maybe you need to harden the fuck up.

I'm a big bike guy. Here's a small bike lady with a bad-ass custom ride:
We keep this in the office, just in case:
To whomever painted this incredible portrait in ketchup: you rule.
This is Triv. He runs the skeeball league, Brewskee Ball, in addition to, you know, runnin' thangs:
Rick's Slutty Sis has had a tag up in the men's room at the 'Shot for at least a year:
Just noticed my boy Gesus One has this sticker up:
Remember folks, you can tag your ass off in the shitter, but if you write on the back door we get fined.

These cats played down the street at the Abbey Tavern last Saturday, the 29th. They walked around the hood, rippin' New Orleans jazz:

Friday, January 21, 2011

Faded Love

Okay, before we get into pictures of Buckshot patrons in various stages of wasted, let me just hip y'all to what's happening with delicious malted beverages. We've added a tap and it's got Sam Adams on it. Fuckin' yummy. I like it better on tap that in the bottle--seems like it's a little smoother.
These shots were taken--along with a lot of shots of Jameson--last Friday, January 14, FYI.

Homegirls are Siamese scarf twins:
Some kind of gang sign throwdown is happening here. And I think someone is slyly throwing me the loser "L" behind these ladies:
Yeah, I'd be giving the "gag me" face too if these were my friends. Nah--just fuckin' with y'all, mostly because I'm a dick. You can't really tell, but the guy in the Giants beanie has a Judas Priest "Defenders of the Faith" T-shirt on, which means he pretty much destroyed the fashion comp that night:
[FYI: Rob Halford is a man among men.]

Dude on the left either 1) Just cropdusted a fart so nasty it's making him squint, 2) Needs to go easy on the heroin, 3) Is having a conversation with Yoda on a completely different astral plane:
Or, perhaps, all of the above:
Whole lotta shakin' goin' on here. We've got young love in the lower left. Dude in the middle is either two-fisting it, or bringing dude in the lower right a pint. I hope it's not the latter, because dude in the lower right is about to projectile vomit by the looks of things:
A shit grip of pearly whites here. Except for "Surprised Guy," who reminds me of that elementary school joke, "Cocksucker's Cramp." Do you get it? How often?
Hey good lookin'! We'll be back to pick you up later!
Psst. Hey. Buddy. Don't look now--I SAID DON'T FUCKIN' LOOK!--but there's a zombie next to you:
Do you have a plan? Do you know the rules?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Everything You've Heard Is True

Everything you've heard about the bartenders at the Buck being complete humorless assholes is, of course, completely true. Having had the misfortune of working for these bastards, I can tell you every shift is one long Bataan Death March.

Just look at those fuckin' fascists!

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Goats, Chimps, Birds

Not to overplay the "cranky bouncer tirade" card too much--though it's been my schtick for a couple decades now--but Thursday, Jan 13 was definitely a goatfuck. We had a promo for the Ricky Gervais Show and the USF Law School folks were there as well. Just a friendly hint folks: it is totally acceptable to call ahead and say, "Hey, we invited 400 people to your bar tonight." That way we can maybe throw in an extra door guy or bartender if need be. (Yeah, I know: the phone doesn't always get picked up. But give it the old college try, okay?)

Going from five customers to five hundred in about an hour gave me some great examples of minor misbehavin' to regale you with, mostly in terms of how to enter and exit a bar. For one, if you're not ready with the ID, why are you in line? Because you like making the people behind you wait while you dig through your jumbo-assed tent of a purse?

When the door guy reaches for your ID, hand it to him. There are certain things I'm looking for, and I can't find any of those things if you're white knuckling your license. Chances are, I'm going to give it back. (If it's not fake, right?) I'll look at it as long as I need to, nod graciously, say "Thank you," and hand it back. I will not, however, hold onto your ID as you hug your 35 besties while you scream like an eighth grader or while you play Grabass McChestbump your tight bros from way back when. I am not an ID caddy. At the point where you walk off to do whatever, I'll simply lay it on the bar and leave it to the prevailing winds of fate. I may also put it in my pocket and sell it back to you if you're especially annoying.

On a related note, I am neither interested in, nor paid for, holding your beer or watching your drink. No you can't bring it outside. Welcome to California, Frenchie. "So where can I put it?" Um, that long, horizontal slab of wood? It's called "the bar." This piece of furniture is so important to our establishment, in fact, that in a perfect example of synecdoche, the place is known simply as a bar. Beyond this, any place having one of these inside is called a bar. A whole type of business known for a particular piece of furniture. Amazing. That's how important bars are to bars, so get to know our convenient, balanced, lacquered beverage storage area, okay? Stick a coaster over your drink--international sign for "don't dump this, I'm still working on it"--and go have your smoke. "But I don't want someone to roofie me." Well, if mickey slippage is a concern, finish your drink first. Life is full of important decisions that take time and careful consideration: who to marry, where to live, whether to part your konk on the left or the right. What to do with your PBR should not be one of these decisions.

However, the single biggest party foul as far as I'm concerned is putting your ID (or ticket, in the case of clubs) in your mouth while you fiddle-fuck around with your purse or wallet. Incredibly bad form, yet not all that rare of an occurrence.

Human beings are primates, supposedly the jewel of the Great Apes. As such, we engage in codified social interactions. What does it mean when you walk up and hold your hand out for me to shake? Conversely, what does it mean when you hand me something that's been in your mouth? Are we on such intimate terms that we're swapping fluids? If I want to touch your saliva, I'll stick my finger in your mouth, all right? I don't even hand my girlfriend stuff that's been in my mouth..."Hey babe, been sucking on this jawbreaker for an hour, can you hold it for me?" If you worked at a bakery and I ordered a muffin, would you lick it before you handed it to me? Would I hand you a five spot that'd been in my mouth? Germ theory anyone? You hand me something that's been in your mouth and the whole social order breaks down--a few hundred years of this zoo type behavior and we'll be flinging shit at each other (on places besides public transit). Don't be a bad chimpanzee.

Finally, let's talk about the doorway itself. Here's an interesting bit of history: for hundreds, if not thousands of years, the architectural confabulation known as "the doorway" has been reserved for the ingress and egress of the human animal. Which is to say, people walk through that shit. It is only recently that this space has been appropriated--nay, misappropriated--for posting up and talking on your cell phone. Please find another way to signify your immense douchiness. I would've thought the popped collar and flip-flops might have been enough.

Do not stand in the doorway holding a drink and scream at your friends outside: "Joe! HEY JOE! I GOT YOU A TECATE BRO!" After a dozen or so Motörhead shows, my hearing is not the best. However, yelling in my earhole from a half foot away is still highly painful, as well as lacking the well thought out riffage of Motörhead. Put the drink down, walk outside, and have a civil conversation at a civilized volume or start your own band. Elsewhere.

On the reals, though, doo--I ain't mad atcha. I leave that to Raynie (pictured with bird) and friend. They'll fuck you up, Jack--so come correct.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Lady Lovelylocks and the Fountain of Youth(ful Vomit)

So the last post had photos from Friday night, Jan 7. I was in a good mood, the bar was packed, and I took a couple breaks to walk around, jibber jabber, and snap photos of people having fun, getting their drink on.

Saturday, Jan 8 was not nearly as happening--for me. It was just as happening for the bar, and it should've been a great night, as Jan 8 is the birthday for both Elvis and David Bowie. With that kind of interstellar rock star mojo happening, shit should've been money. The thing is, the mood of a door guy at a bar--specifically, this door guy--is a delicate situation. Try balancing a pencil on its point and you've got the idea. Too many rookie drinking maneuvers and my night is in the shitter.

Don't cry for me, Argentina--I'll get over it. Yet, at the same time, let me say that drinking like a grown up--or half a grown up, at least--does wonders for both your experience at a bar, and for the staff's. And when the staff is happy, which is to say you don't infuriate them, you'll find that the drinks are stiffer--well, they're always stiff at the Buck--but free shots might end up sliding across home plate every now and again. And you'll have a grip of fun, which is to say you'll have nothing to whine about on Yelp.

When you're too much of a mess to even get through the door to begin with, you have made yourself a burden on the staff and on society. Case in point: this pile of lukewarm mess that washed up on the sidewalk Saturday night, completely unawares of Elvis or Bowie's release from the womb:
Two kind of hipstered-out Marina dudes and their wasted dates. And by "wasted" I mean completely shithoused. The girl on the left was simply too drunk to come in, while the girl on the right apparently drowned in a vat of Adios Motherfuckers. Guys, I think the idea is to get them drunk to the point where having sex with you isn't so revolting a concept, not to the point where they're completely ignoring you and are simply drooling into each others' gaping hogmaws. Keep in mind, homegirl on the right has passed the point of all shame and has got her skirt pulled up to her chin whilst girl on the left is massaging her bum in front of God, Country, Queen (Freddie Mercury is rolling over in his decidedly well-decorated casket), any Buckshot customers who might've been smoking, and the heavy traffic on Geary Blvd. This type of "Look Ma! I'm pretending to be a lesbian until I graduate college!" behavior is fake, boring, and, being as it was committed on the verge of alcohol poisoning, decidedly unattractive.

Ol' Ass-in-the-Wind (that's her Indian name) proceeded to puke about five gallons of bad idea all over our sidewalk, which my coworker Eric had to wash down with a hot bucket of suds. And she didn't even buy one drink at our bar! Really, folks, couldn't you have left your gack and Girls Gone Wild antics in front of Gravity or something?

Sunday, January 9, 2011

When the Lights Go Down in the City

Let's start this installment off with a picture of Jason. I think I took it around noon on Friday, January 7--the night of which was when the rest of these shots were taken. Let's call it the calm before the storm shot. Jason had worked the night before, so the blurriness fits his mind state.
I don't purport to know the exact reasons for why we were so busy Friday, I mean, aside from the general radness of the spot. I guess a lot of USF kids are back in town after the holidays and want to hammer some down before they have to get back to the books.

Which is neither here nor there in terms of Dick, an Inner Richmond regular. Short story made shorter: Dick rules all.
Let the madness begin. I'd say we reached Defcon 2 on the Clusterfuck Alert Levels. I think the color code for it is an orange level clusterfuck.
Fun was had by all. Mostly. Always a little drama on the weekend.
Noelle, hittin' the wine glass. Classy broad, that Noelle.
Just don't call her Kelly, okay?Hmmm...rather curious, I'd say.
Guy in the middle has been bogarting the bowl all night. He's got those Spicoli, "That was my skull!" eyes.
Come take a ride on a Babetastic Voyage with me.
Shit's about to get heavy:
Or not. Question is: would you buy a car from these guys?
That's a whole lot of pearly whites:
At the Buckshot, we're all about the love. Tempered with a healthy dose of telling it like it is:
Ohio in the house!
It's a hot blonde sandwich with Clark Kent wondering how he got in the middle:
Of course, Conan O'Brien's younger brother, Noonan O'Brien, was lit:
Intense tete-a-tete about rare Joy Division remixes, followed immediately by an elaborate fist-bump ritual:
Can I say? Can I just say it? At the Buckshot, tits are welcome. Nay--encouraged even.
Is there something in the Tecate?
Shaka brah!
Sometimes you gotta get the pimpwear out of the closet:
Local's only:
Cash is King:
Beast and the beauty:
Yes, she was sucking on a glow stick all night.
All we are saying, is give peace a chance:
Josh slipped into the grid later on in the evening:
Who, me?
The Clicker of the Beast:
Now that's love. Or eight or nine PBRs. Really, what's the difference?
Bumpin'. Another on in the books.