New Year’s Eve I know I’ll spend New Year’s Eve right where I belong: behind the bar with a bottle opener in my back pocket and a martini shaker in my hand.
The thing to remember is this: You are drunk. I am not.
There are a handful of sounds that exist in the universe that only bartenders understand. Our ears are trained to pick these things up from just a few feet off to entire rooms away. Say, the tap-slap of a credit card being placed down after a meal, or the clunk-splash of a 16oz glass being knocked over and spilling. And, of course, the unmistakable sploosh-splat of vomit.
There reaches a point when you should just stop, and go home while you’re ahead. Newsflash: That girl is not going to call you. She wants pizza.