Happy 420! Light up a doob! I used to smoke a shit ton of weed in my youth but haven’t partaken in a really long time. I tried it a couple of times a year or so ago and all it did was make me super tired and groggy the next day like I took Benadryl. Such are the foibles of middle age my fine feathered friends! Everything, and I mean everything fun, now causes some sort of discomfort or shame. Sleep is the only true drug and even that isn’t a “given” every night. For the youngsters out there…Prepare yourselves…Laugh now and forever hold your peace for you too are on a road from which the path to death shall not waver.

We had a little private shindig last night. A buy out. The easiest and most boring way to earn a buck. For those who have never worked in a restaurant, buy outs are simple ways for restaurants and their employees to take a little break and make more money than they would while working about a quarter as hard. It’s like catering. Lots of scrambling during set up and break down, and not much in between, just watching people. But at least at weddings people get hammered and you can watch the white guys dance.

And as usual, everyone, except for myself, was overpreparing and freaking out. “Put a case of prosecco in the cooler!” Including the event planner in charge who was becoming increasingly agitated at my apparent lack of urgency. What they were unaware of is that I refuse to participate in nervous nelly syndrome. Does anyone remember the old adage: cool, calm, and collective? I would have made a great entry into the Top Gun program. Codename: Boulevardier.

“Are you going to have a bunch of beverages ready for when everyone arrives?” they asked. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Plus we can’t really do that. Everything will be too diluted.” The GM peppered me with his own anxiety too. “I can make ten drinks or sodas all at once in less than in five minutes,” I said. “It’s going to be ok.” The event person paced the dining room, asking for help to move one table over a foot, pacing, pacing. God, I’m so glad I gave up offices years ago.

As usual, the people swarmed in and barely ordered anything. That’s how these things always go. I can say this with 100% accuracy. You’d think on the boss’s dollar they’d all go ham, but it’s the reverse. No one wants to be the swilly asshole at a company event anymore.

The biggest eye opener, in terms of cocktail sales, was the NA bev section we offered that far outsold the cocktails and wine. And here’s the thing, it was mostly the young people ordering them all. Yeah, it’s a thing. A health trend? I don’t think so. Maybe a perceived health trend. Do they all know how much sugar is in that stuff? Whatever. It’s part of the norm. With most trends, it’s just a way to make another almighty buck. It’s marketing. Soda, bad! Housemade seasonal fizzy mocktails, good!

As usual, we offered our fancy ass spicy margarita variation, the Marjie, and it outsold the other “real” cocktails. In the face of trends, this ditty will always reign supreme, that, and the fact that people will always follow trends.

In my twenties I drank beer, heavy micro brewed Vermont IPAs with ridiculously high ABV levels (also a trend). A beer below 5% alcohol was considered an NA bev A.K.A. a “water beer” which aided hydration. Never in a million years would I have ordered a fancy soda or phony Negroni, etc. If I wanted something fizzy and sweet, I’d simply pop open a can of Dr. Pepper (the G.O.A.T.). I once ordered a raspberry Stoli and soda with a lime (refreshing!) and my friends gave me so much shit for it, I never made that mistake again. I don’t think I ever ordered a Negroni while ensconced in my thirties, shit, I may have ordered only one from a restaurant in my life. Never in a real bar. The reason you order a bottled beer in a dive bar is three fold. 1. It’s fast. 2. It’s going to be clean. 3. You can use it as a weapon if needed.

I did go through a gin martini phase in my mid twenties which ended badly. Me power barfing on the sidewalk outside my favorite bar, being denied entry and making a stink about it. I had been oblivious to the rules at the time, that martinis are like breasts. One is too little, three is too many.