Chronicles of Crazywood: The Guap

Chapter 3

Sorry I’ve been AWOL.  I just came off working 50 hours in 4 days. Every Thursday I disappear into the black hole that is the sports bar/ cantina where I work and don’t return to reality until Monday morning. I rarely emerge unscathed.  I always return rich, exhausted and wise. And I always come bearing scandalous stories.

I had no idea what I was getting into when I got a job at a sports bar, smack dab in the center of Hollywood on Melrose.  Not a clue.


El Guapo is a restaurant unhinged; a train riding the rails of disaster.  I probably would have quit a long time ago, but I love the girls who do manage to survive, the owners are pretty cool and the material is just too friggin’ good.

I have been here all of five weeks and I’m practically old school.  The high turnover rate reminds me of the revolving door syndrome from my days in treatment.  Women come and go.  Just when you get to know them—you blink and they are gone. Drama queen prima-donna struggling actresses aren’t the most reliable nuts in the bag—but they sure know how to make a scene.  It’s nice to see them channeling their creative frustrations into their work.

“The Guap” as I affectionately call it, is the most amazing restaurant I have ever worked at.  For the sake of pure material alone, as a writer, I can’t beat it. I’ve worked in at least 15 restaurants over the last 15 years and nothing comes close to being as hysterical as the stuff I’ve seen at The Gaup in 5 weeks.

I love it because most of the time I feel like I’m on some weird hybrid reality show—Survivor meets Hell's Kitchen.  Who’s getting voted off the island this week?  What insanity will ensue?  Which waitress will have a meltdown and quit?  Which regulars will get in a scuffle over a heated game of beer pong?


Here is a little anecdote from last week. Taco Tuesday is the shift from hell because it’s dollar tacos and half off pitchers of beer. This summons every cheap, broke high-maintenance hipster Crazywood has to offer (aka “The Poser”: an all too common breed in this town). But it is the shift you have to grin and bear if you want the good ones. Anyway, I got cut waitressing and thrown behind Bar 2 (there are two bars at The Guap).  I walk in and look at Serious Bartender who looks like she just saw a pterodactyl pluck a pedestrian out of the street.

Me: What’s going on?

Serious Bartender: You are not going to believe what just happened. This fat homeless* lady just came in and asked for a water, so I give it to her.  As I’m handing her the water I notice that she is barefoot— and I think ‘shit’ but I’m like whatever, she’s just gonna slam this water down and be outta of here.  I turn around and make some drinks.  When I look at her again she is drinking the water and letting a fucking rat drink from the same glass.

Me: (laughing hysterically) Shut up!  What did you do?

SB: (re-enacting pointing to the door) I screamed ‘You need to get the FUCK out of here now!’ The lady hesitated and I was like ‘LEAVE. NOW.’ And she took off. 

Me: (laughing even harder) That is the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all month.

SB: I have a full bar and all the customers are looking at this fat homeless lady sharing her fucking water with her pet fucking rat.  This thing was huge. It was the size of a cat.

Me: (doubled over, barely to speak) I wish I could have seen it.

*Random Brain Spark:  fat and homeless is one of those things I don’t really get. Anyone else have any thoughts on that? I’d love to hear them. Post a comment if you do.


This kinda shit happens all the time at The Gaup because directly across the street is a crazy person/homeless shelter.  They just meander in and wander around sometimes--making scenes and weirding customers out. It's great.

Last Saturday, one mentally unstable waitress made a GREAT scene before she quit.  We’ll call her Raven because she is kind of a goth chick, new to L.A. for about 6 months. She comes into work with a Diet Coke filled with Bacardi  (unbeknownst to management) and proceeds to get wasted in the middle of her shift.  About 10:30 she has a break down; sobbing, chest heaving, mascara running down her cheeks.  In the middle of her meltdown, I'm like, "Hey, is that dude you like here?"  She looks up, smiling pathetically, "Oh yeah!"  I'm like, "What? Get a grip girl!  Clean yourself up! You're a frickin' mess!"  This chick might never make it as an actress, but someone please put her in an Evanescence video RIGHT NOW. 

Now, I’m all for compassion, but come on ladies, this shit ain’t brain surgery.  Let’s pause and take a moment to state the obvious: don’t get wasted at work dumbass.  She quit before she got fired.  We'll miss you Raven.


But nothing really compares to "Rehab Sunday".  For sheer entertainment value "Rehab Sunday" is definitely the best thing going on Sunday afternoons in Hollywood.  We have a dj, beer pong tournaments, some go-go dancers and promoters. The staff is always wiped from the long weekends and the clientele is always priceless and often tacky. Last Sunday, 7 Canadians stayed at their table for 9 hours just watching the shit show.  They couldn't get enough.  I can't really either.   It's why I work all the time.


I wish I had more time to write, but I have to head to The Guap for another 10 hour shift. I don’t mind them.  They push my edges and challenge my patience.  I kinda get off on that. 

Italy would be horrified.  This Lost Angeles soul coudn't keep her titties in her shirt.  And speaking of pushing my edges: I waited on the dbags standing around her last Sunday.  After claiming that the guy in the stripes is the son of the President of Israel and can buy the whole place on the spot if he wants, (to which I promptly laugh in their faces and exclaim "Oh yeah, then what the hell is he doing here?") they proceed to ring up a $350 tab and leave me 40 bucks. 
Phetasy Poser Tip #1:  High rollers don't bitch about
the cost of a shot of Patron being $9. Or the tab. Or
anything for that matter.  A true balla throws his money around with abandon, hooking everyone up in his path. I'll remember you guys. Because a bartender never forgets.