Your friendly neighborhood aging bartender went on a little 15 hour field trip yesterday. From LA to Lompoc, CA, on a fourth of July weekend. Yup. The Perceived Stress Scale ticker went through the roof as me, and my trusty, beautiful assistant, Jo, sat in gridlock traffic for almost five hours on our way into the northern regions of Southern California. A picaresque countryside awaited us and our car stacked to the gills with booze, ice, and citrus. We were supposed to be there early to set up for Aperol spritz hour at 3:00. We arrived right on the dot, but only five people were there. The rest of them were in the same traffic we had just suffered through.

The whole set up was free of potable water they told us. Ok, what the hell does that even mean? Well, it means no fucking running water. It makes bartending a little interesting, no? We were hired by old friends and regulars, M&J, and old friends awaited us who were also hired for the event, the Slow Burn team of Sweet T and the Koji Kid himself. Pretty cool to see these two doing their thing. Wait, that’s not all. Deep in the weeds, looking out and seeing a long ass line of people licking their chops, clamoring for a drink after the ceremony, I heard a familiar voice among the crowd and looked out to see a man with a wide smile pushing a baby carriage around. Could it be?

“Sergio?” I said. He looked at me, said my name, and smiled even wider. We gave each other the prerequisite hug and back slaps. I met this guy years ago in a Clubhouse chatroom that J ran. This was in early 2021 and all of us, I think, we were all still reeling from 2020, wondering what the hell had happened. It was a pretty cool experience, actually. J was the voice of stoicism and Sergio and I were living parallel lives.

I wish I could have chatted him up more but we were in the weeds from the get go. This wasn’t one of those mellow weddings. It was western themed and these thirsty guys and gals had a craft cocktail bar at their disposal. I almost panicked and thought we hadn’t brought enough liquor. These 70 cowpokes went through the booze like a buzzsaw, nine liters of Negroni batch, five liters of old fashioned batch, four liters of mezcal, two liters of tequila, four liters of gin, and a liter each of green chartreuse, maraschino, house noyaux, and Aperol. Respect.

A sight to behold. Here’s the menu:

The Army & Navy ended up being the most popular. No one knew what the hell it was, shit, I didn’t know what the hell it was before M&J came around. I made it my way, this way, and used the amazake nut orgeat method as well as made it with seasonal waste in the form of cherry pit noyaux. Hey, this old dog’s got some tricks up his sleeve. That’s the Rustic way, after all…If you haven’t been paying attention…Use great, seasonal ingredients, mix in something fermented, and then also incorporate something most people would throw in the bin.

I kept a tin for each shaken cocktail and when I had to switch back and forth between gin and mez for the Army & Navy, I used cheap sparkling water to rinse the jigger out in the trash can. Hey man, that’s how you do it. You improvise or die.

The Hilltop Guest Ranch sat below a swath of lumpy hills dotted with common scrub trees amidst the dry grasslands and random cows. Fresh air and calm. The breeze free of city noise. A single lane dirt road. Not a single slab of concrete to be found. Trees. Bugs. My kind of spot. Yeah, I could live in a place like that quite easily but then where the hell would I work? Down in Buellton at the Industrial Eats (actually the menu looks pretty goddam good). Yes, a man is allowed to dream. A few books suddenly take off and just like that I’m taking long walks down dirt roads and wondering whether or not I should kill a chicken for dinner.

Let’s juxtapose that with my morning. Out of coffee and a few choice cleaning products, I walked down to Bristol Farms on Wilshire and Berks. A quick jaunt as the sun rose, my nostrils treated with the acrid scent of dried urine, my eyes turning aside as I witnessed abject human poverty on the gum spotted sidewalk. More than one man sleeping in a closed storefront under whatever they could find for warmth to cushion themselves against the hard ground. I let out a long exhale each time. It’s getting harder to see because as I age I also feel more pain seeing fellow human beings in these conditions. It’s rampant here and there’s nothing that can be done about it. From this point, I’ll dissuade myself from making political statements about where my tax dollars go. I know the situation is multifaceted, but I can’t help but be affected by it more and more. It’ll never go away. It’ll never end. I tell myself they suffer in order for me to live such a great life which is a selfish and horrible way to think about it, but I can’t help it. To go from one place to another so quickly, from the lush background of the countryside, along the foggy coast, and back to the scab encrusted city is yet another privilege I take for granted.

Shit man, what is life? Sometimes you’re aware enough to realize it’s kismet or just blind luck or probably a mixture of both.

When the ceremony ended, M&J strolled up to the bar with huge smiles on their faces and I thought to myself later “This is why I do this shit.” We all laughed at each other. They were so fucking happy to see me back there. I was supposed to be there for them at their best moment. I gave them big hugs and made them their favorite drinks just like I have been for the last eight years. But this time, under trees with my girl at my side. Goddam.