Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Who dun sung it better?

                So, this week, Katy Perry and Lady Gaga both released their highly anticipated singles, “Roar” and “Applause”, respectively.  And because we can’t just appreciate each artist for their own Creativity, Uniqueness, Nerve and Talent, our community has decided to pit one against the other.  Which, if we’re being completely honest, is probably just a way for both artists to get as much publicity as possible—so the final conclusion really isn’t all that important, because they’re both going to sell more records because of all this nonsense.    

                Well, luckily for you all, I’ve decided to weigh in on the matter.  So let’s ask the question—Which song is better?  Katy Perry’s “Roar” or Lady Gaga’s “Applause”?  Who’s going to be the queen of pop for 2013?

                The same old arguments against Gaga are rearing their incredibly boring heads again.  She sounds too much like Madonna, or virtually any 80’s female singer because that’s clearly the type of music she likes.  She stole her look from Annie Lennox, or Roisin Murphy, or maybe she just stole it from a clown who had a little too much to drink.  She’s taking advantage of the gays by going to every gay club she can think of and whoring herself out so people will love her again. 

And then we have Miss Perry.  She made a big point of saying that the old Katy Perry was gone.  She has a video of her burning that stupid blue wig (thank you baby jesus), and one of a cat eating a bird or something.  She’s all grown up now, after she realized that marrying that hot mess Russell Brand was probably not the best idea in the world (girl, we’ve all been there), so her music’s all hard and shit.  She’s a tiger, man.  Except her song sounds just like everything else she’s ever done—super-duper catchy and fairly innocuous.  And she makes the same sound when she sings “Roooo a-a-a-a-r” that she always does, and it’s weird.

So, after listening to both songs over and over (and by over and over, I mean I listened to half of each before I got bored), I’ve come to a conclusion:

Russia is starting a fucking holocaust, people.  This is how Germany did it too, ya know.  Our gay brothers and sisters are being imprisoned, tortured, and killed.  You wouldn’t even be ALLOWED to have this discussion in Russia.  And, if we take a look back in history, you know what happened after The Holocaust?  World War II. 

                Thank god West Hollywood decided to dump Stoli bottles filled with WATER into the streets as a metaphorical gesture of support for our LGBT brethren.  I’m sure that all those gay bar owners didn’t do any of that for the publicity—of course not.  That would be disgusting, capitalizing on our poor, scared gay brothers and sisters so that they could make an extra buck.  I bet Russia was so terrified of our fearsome bar owners—man, we sure showed them.  And, no doubt, the gays being imprisoned and tortured saw all that and thought “man, that’s totally going help us out.”  I’m so happy that we showed our support, so we can get back to the discussion of who sang their new mediocre song best. 

So, my verdict? 

Shame on you. 

Shame on me. 

Shame on all of us. 

What’s happening in Russia right now is so far out of my realm of understanding.  Even though I read about it, and I know it’s happening right now, I still have trouble comprehending that this could actually happen—my mind just can’t wrap itself around that kind of hate.  I mean, gay teens are being kidnapped, tortured, and forced to come out on video.  Seriously?  It makes me sick.  I don’t really know what to do about it, but I know that arguing over Katy Perry and Lady Gaga isn’t going to help anyone, and makes us all look like fools.    

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

How to piss off your bartender, part 1.

     In general, the best way to insure a pleasant trip to the bar is to not piss off your bartender.  You see, at the bar, we're kind of the boss, so it's usually a good idea not to screw with us too much.  The way I see it is like this--you are a guest in my establishment, which means you need to show a little respect and decorum.  In return, your gracious host (that would be me) will try to get you very drunk and  extremely laid.  Would you go to a house party and act like a dick to the host?  No.  Well, I don't know you, you might.  But I wouldn't suggest it, if you want to stay.  So here's a few things that you probably shouldn't do, if you don't want to be called a dick.

     ....Then again, maybe you do want to be a dick.  Like I said, we're the boss, and we know it.  Sometimes we even have a slightly inflated sense of self worth (aka, we can be cocky little bitches sometimes).  I've been served by some hardcore assholes, trust.  I'm talking Taylor Swift level of assholiness.  On occasion, maybe we need to be knocked off our high (drunk) horses on occasion.  Chances are it isn't the best idea in the world, but the same could be said for that last shot of Jack Daniels you just ordered.

     And you're still gonna drink it.

"Can you turn the music up?"

     Listen honey, I'm sure this is your favorite song, like, EVER, but I have to cater to an entire bar, not just you.  And I'm not going to go turn the music up for ONE song, and then turn it down again right after.  I'm not the DJ, and if you think I have an attitude, try asking the DJ to turn the music up.  Talk about EGO.  One time a customer asked the DJ to change the volume a little at my bar, and he turned the music almost completely off for 15 minutes.  Perhaps if you stopped screaming every time you got wasted, you might be able to hear the music.  Shut yo mouth and open yo ears, gurl.

Dancing on the bar.

     This isn't Coyote Ugly, and you're just going to hurt yourself.  Knock it off!  And you really aren't going to look hot, I promise.  No seriously, have you ever seen a drunk fool try to get up on a bar and dance?  It's really the most ridiculous thing to watch.  I'm usually laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath to tell them to knock it the fuck off.   Most of the time, they end up falling before they even get up there, and the rest of the time, they're cut off.  Just dance on the floor, that's what it's there for.  There's so much of it, and it's really close to your feet already, silly.  I don't want your feet so close to my face, swinging around all willy nilly.  The bar is for putting YOUR drinks, putting MY tips, and occasionally passing out when the bartender isn't paying attention.
     (Also, the bar is not for throwing up on either.  The floor works just fine for that as well.)

Helping yourself to my fruit.

     Dude, I don't know where your hands have been.  Or worse, I do, and I don't want those hands touching my fucking fruit.  Especially when you get all up in them, instead of just plucking one off the top.  What is wrong with you?  Clearly you never played Operation as a kid.  Or you just sucked at it.
     I wash my hands approximately 300 times a night (which is why my once lovely hands now feel like sand paper and look like my dead grandpa's feet), so I am allowed to touch the fruit.  Also, don't just sit there and eat all my damn cherries and olives!  This isn't self serve, and you aren't at Home Town Buffet, fatty.  Get your grubby paws out of my shit.  If you want something, just ask, I'll get it for you.  And I wont give you an STD in the process.

"Dude, your coworker cut me off, he's such a dick.  Can I get a drink?"

     Ok, so I don't know about everyone, but at my bar, my coworkers are my friends and family.  Why in the world do you think it's a good idea to talk shit about my fellow bartenders to my face?  I promise you, if I have to choose between siding with a drunk douche bag trying to get that last drink in before we call last call, and my coworker, I'm going to side with my coworker.  Don't be that guy, because you look super duper desperate, and the only thing you'll get from me is an address to the closest AA meeting.  Don't try to go to each bartender working and order a drink, don't try to get your friends to order you a drink, and don't try to steal a drink that you think no one is sipping on, because that's fucking gross (you know who you are).
     Again, I don't know how it works at other bars, but at mine, when one bartender cuts you off, you are cut off completely.  He's not saying "I'M not going to serve you," he's saying "THE BAR is not going to serve you."
     It's also usually followed by "go home."

"Can I get a Beer, and you?"

    I hear this at least once a night.  Really?  I mean, really?  That's the best you got for me?  It is always, 100% of the time, followed up with "I'm not for sale."  And an abrupt change in attitude.  I understand that I work at a gay bar, and as such, I'm seen as a sexual object by a lot of people (thanks, by the way, it makes me feel pretty)--but I'm not a hooker.  I'm a bartender.  I make drinks, and I flirt, and sometimes I will even have sex with someone if I think they are attractive, but that has nothing to do with my profession, just the fact that I'm a horny bastard.  But I don't have sex for money.  For a lovely dinner, charming smile and witty banter?  Absolutely!
     I can't tell you how many times people have propositioned me for sex in exchange for money, and I tell them the same thing my bank usually tells me--you can't afford it.
     On that note, the best way to flirt with me is to tip really well.  I recently had a customer order 4 drinks from me, and then demand that I take off my shirt for him.  I politely declined.  He then asked me to show him my ass.  Again, I declined (not so politely this time).  He asked me why, and I pointed to the 50 cent tip he left on the bar.
     See, for me, it's not so much about the money, as it is about the respect.  Tipping, at it's core, is to say that you appreciate what I do, and the effort that I put in to my job.  If you don't respect me, then I'm not going to be very attracted to you.  But don't worry, there's TONS of other guys out there who fall for people who don't respect them, just keep tryin!

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

You got served?

The New York Post recently posted an open piece (link above) from a delightful young man named Kyle Smith, about how much he apparently hates servers (and good customer service), compares them to servants and dogs, tips them 11%, and has no soul.

This is my response to this wonderful human being.

Hi Kyle, it's Jason! Thanks so much for dining with us! I don't actually care how your day is going, I'm just trying to make the fact that I have to serve assholes like yourself a little more bearable! I'm super duper sorry that I'm overly attentive to your needs, it's just that I'm trying to insure that you'll leave a decent tip after I run my ass off being your bitch for an hour or two. On average, servers make 3-5 dollars an hour in America. Sorry for trying to pay my bills. 

And I'm super duper sorry that you didn't get that second drink immediately after finishing your first one. Sometimes it's confusing when a dick like yourself gives me attitude for being too attentive, and then gives me attitude for being not attentive enough. Oh, and don't forget that I'm probably dealing with 20 other dicks just like yourself at the exact same time--sometimes all you dicks look the same. Tell ya what, Kyle, why don't you just put a shock collar on me, and whenever you need my immediate attention, just give me a little zap. 

I'm also incredibly sorry that I have to use bussers and food runners to help me out. Again, it's a little confusing, because I'm pretty sure you'll bitch if you don't get your food in a reasonable amount of time, and the only way to make that happen is if there's a team working together. It's kind of like being mad at an idiot blogger after I find out that he has an editor. Oh, and don't worry, I'm tipping my team too, so that 11% tip you're leaving me? I won't really see much of that.

Oh, and Kyle, I'm so happy that you get to spend so much time in France, where being a server isn't the same thing as being a slave. You see, they get paid a fair salary, so they don't have to hustle for tips just to survive. If I got paid 20 bucks an hour to serve you your food, I promise you would never compare me to a dog. 

PS, thanks for comparing me to a dog, I really appreciate it. 

Now, listen, I understand you probably have some compassion, because, like being a server, being a writer is so, so hard. Really, there's so few of you out there. And ones with talent, and voice, who have something worthwhile to say? Man, writers like that are a rare breed. Luckily, there are tons of douchebags with little blogs, writing about things they have no business writing about, which sounds like your true calling, so you should be good to go. 

So look forward to serving you again.

Monday, November 14, 2011

How to not be a douchebag!

When you’re at a bar, it’s important, for many reasons, to not be a douchebag.  Maybe it’s because you want the bartender to serve you quickly, or to make your drinks extra strong, or maybe even get yourself a free shot.  Maybe you want to get laid, or even make some new friends.  Whatever your reasons, here are some common douchebag moves that should be avoided. 

-If the bartender is obviously doing something, like helping another customer, try not to interrupt.  It’s fucking rude, and disrespectful (not just to the bartender, but to the person he’s trying to flirt with), and it will pretty much just make the bartender serve you last.  Chances are, the bartender is aware of you, but he is doing something else and can’t really stop what he’s doing (like pouring a pitcher or shaking a martini) to make sure you get that extra scoop of ice you so desperately need.  Yea, if he’s just not paying attention, or talking to a coworker, or just spacing out like I tend to do, by all means, get his attention—but not when he’s just doing his job. 

-Waving your money and/or empty drink in the bartenders face is really, really annoying.  If you are standing there with an empty drink, or money in your hand, logic would dictate that you need a new drink.  Quit acting like you’re on fire, or literally dying of thirst.  I get it, you need another drink, I’ll be happy to make one for you.  Unless you’re trying to sterilize a wound, there really isn’t any reason for you to be acting that desperate for some alcohol.  Also, if you snap your fingers in my face, I’ll do it right back to you.  See how you like that shit, asshole. 

-Don’t try to impress people by saying “I know the owner” or bouncer, or bartender, or anyone, really.  Chances are, what you actually mean is you met them once when you were drunk, they don’t remember your name, and you certainly aren’t going to get special treatment.  No one likes a name dropper, honey, especially if you’re full of shit.  Also, and I can’t stress this point enough, don’t try to strong-arm your bartender with that “I know the owner” bullshit.  I think it’s safe to say that the bartender knows the owner better than you probably do, and I’m sure the owner doesn’t want the bartender giving out free shit every time one of his friends walks into the bar.  Important people don’t have to announce their importance.  Douchebags, on the other hand, do.

-Don’t hog the bathroom.  If you lock yourself in the stall with another person, it means you’re either doing drugs or having sex.  Either way, I don’t really care, just make it quick or you’re going to get yelled at or kicked out.  I mean, come on, how long does it really take to get a BJ, or do a bump of coke?  Trust me, not long.  And avoid taking a shit, too.  That’s what you do at home, or at Starbucks. 

-No Ed Hardy.  I just can’t take anyone seriously who wears that shit.  It’s all shiny and bedazzled and is just so annoying, and it’s usually accompanied by a horribly overpowering, cheap cologne.   You know what looks cooler than Ed Hardy?  Anything else.

Monday, June 13, 2011


Ok, so when I first came out, I did what any self-respecting homosexual would do—I moved to West Hollywood and got a job at a gay bar!  Now, at the time, I’d been out and proud for about a year or 2.  And, being Mr. Know-it-all, I thought I had the whole thing figured out.  I mean, I’m from Portland fucking Oregon, one of the most liberal cities you can find.  All we do is smoke pot and play in trees, so being gay up there isn’t really that big of a deal (lots of lesbians too, because they like plaid, and so do Oregonians).  Yea, I thought I knew everything there was to know about being gay.
            Until they started fucking with my goddamn pronouns.
            I remember when I started working at the bar, and everyone would tell stories from the night before, or about some crazy drunk customer.  And they kept talking about “her” or “she.”  I would look around the bar, trying to pin-point which girl they were talking about, only to realize that there was rarely, if ever, a female in the entire establishment.  We only allow two in at a time. 
It’s true! 
Ok, that’s a lie, mostly.
            So if there weren’t any girls in this place, who the fuck were my co-workers talking about?  And why did all these ladies have such manly names, like Don, or Will, or Mike?
            Well, as it turns out, they were talking about guys.  Apparently, in the gay vernacular, gender-words are quite interchangeable.  At first, it’s quite confusing, but soon you’re calling him a she and saying hers instead of his.  And “what’s up man” gets replaced with a simple “hey girl.”
            I also realized that this wasn’t an attack or insult on ones masculinity—it was, in fact, a term of endearment.  It could be incredibly emasculating and endearing at the same time, which is an amazing dichotomy to find, and only the most secure men can shoulder such a thing.  Some of the most masculine men I know have absolutely no problem referring to themselves as a “she.”  And, as someone who loves irony, this just tickles me pink.
            This also applies to various nicknames as well.  It took me a couple months to figure out that “Mary” wasn’t an actual person, but a nickname used to describe, well, anyone.  Except for my customer whose name is actually Mary, I call her Mike.  And “Blanche” is a character from Golden Girls, not an actual customer.  Dorothy, Wilma, and Ladyface are all acceptable terms as well.  It’s like when straight guys call each other “dude,” or “man,” or “homie” in the locker room.  Except we have sex with each other in the locker room. 
            …also just like straight men.  Oh snap.
            I can only assume this was our community’s way of taking power over the insults that often plague us.  Just like we happily refer to each other as fag, when we feminize (is that even a word?) each other, it takes the sting off when someone uses a term like that derogatorily. 
            Nevertheless, unless you have been allowed into our community, and have proved your love and tolerance, it’s never ok for a straight person to call us fag, or her, or Mary—just like, as a white guy, I would never call a black guy the N word.  See?  I don’t even want to write it. 
            Eventually I got the hang of my new vocabulary, and once I did, it became quite entertaining.  Us gays are quite witty and love playing with words almost as much as we like playing with dicks; we’re known for having quite a quick tongue.  At one point, while referring to one of my male customers as a her, my much older and sassier coworker whipped around and snapped “Don’t call him a her!  She doesn’t like that!”
            Yea, even I still have trouble figuring that one out sometimes.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Why dating in 2011 is nearly impossible if you can't find a wifi hotspot.

            It has come to my attention that there is a new addiction running rampant through our community.  In the 80’s it might have been cocaine, in the 90’s crystal meth—but in the year 2011, we face something even worse.  I’ve seen people from all walks of life succumb to it—sometimes it even takes over their lives, making them despondent and uncommunicative.  Even I, your pretentious blogging bartender, dabbles with this.  I’m not proud, but I’ve experimented; after all, I’m a very curious young lad, and everyone else was doing it, so I figured it was ok.  Right?
            I’m talking about on-line hookups. 
They are the ultimate demise of all things romantic, mysterious, and spontaneous.  And there are so many different applications to choose from, it’s actually quite ridiculous.  Online, we have Adam4Adam, Manhunt, Connexion, Recon, Craigslist, Men4SexNow, and so forth and so on.  And the different app’s on our lovely smart phones are even worse!  Grinder, Scruff, Radar, Recon, Boyahoy, Jack’d, Qrusher, etc..  I’m sure I’ve missed a few thousand different websites or phone apps, but you get the point. 
Not only are there all of these websites popping up faster than my morning woody, but there are new rules that go along with all this bullshit as well!  There’s a whole new fucking language that you have to learn, if you ever expect to get laid.  NSA, PNP, Party, BB, FF, WS, Top/Bottom/Vers, Anything Goes, Chaser, Wolf, Cub, Bear, Otter, Twink, Sub, Dom, Tina, Masculine, Jock, Fem, the list goes on and on.  When guys list there dick size online, you should just immediately subtract 2 inches.  If they consider themselves a top, but the only picture they have is their asshole, you know you’ve got a secret bottom.  If they don’t have any face pictures, that means that they are either in the closet, or in a sexually unsatisfying relationship and don’t want their boyfriend knowing that they are fucking around on the side.  Sucks for me, because with all my fucking weird tattoos, I think I can come up with maybe one, really awkward pose that doesn’t show any ink or face.
Screw poetry, if you don’t know the proper acronym’s, you aren’t getting laid, not matter how eloquent you may come across in writing.
My personal favorite profiles are the guys who post pictures of themselves 20 years ago, and think they are fooling anyone into believing that’s actually what they still look like.  Or the complete strangers who message you at 2am, wanting you to come over so that you can “cuddle.”  I mean really?  Firstly, who cuddles anymore?  And secondly, you really expect me to believe that I’m going over to your house so that I can just share an intimate snuggle with a stranger?  Bitch, if I go over to your house at 2am, it’s because I want a piece of ass, let’s cut the crap.  What about the guys who spend their entire profile talking about things they don’t want in a guy, and by the end of it, you’re wondering what the hell they actually ARE looking for, and who the fuck actually fits that description.  Oh, and the guys who message you over and over again, day after day, despite the fact that you never respond back.  Come on dude, if I didn’t respond the first time, or the second time, what makes you think I’m going to suddenly change my mind after the 10th attempt?    
Now like I said, I’ve dabbled.  I have more than one online account, and I’ve joined my fair share of IPhone applications.  Mostly I just like to look at all the pretty pictures.  The idea of hooking up with a random hottie that I’ve never met sounds exciting, but I lack follow-through.  I barely like to take my clothes off in front of a mirror, so getting naked in front of a complete stranger sounds a bit like my own personal version of hell.  And then you expect me to perform sexually?  How fucking awkward.  Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to get drunk at a bar, find someone who looks good in low lighting, and not remember their name in the morning.  And I refuse to do a walk of shame unless I have my trusty companion, the Hangover.  See, I’m a classy lady. 
I certainly don’t judge anyone who indulges in these activities.  Hell, I’m a little jealous.  I wish I could be confident enough to just message someone and say “Hey, wanna fuck?” and then actually do it.  When you’re home alone, and you don’t want to go to a bar to find a good lay, it’s an awesome tool to help you get your next hot hook-up.  Insert PSA promoting safe sex and the proper use of condoms, here. 
So here’s my beef.  Why the fuck do you go to a bar, and spend your entire evening on your phone, looking for hook-ups?  You’re at a fucking bar, get your head out of your lap and look around—everyone is looking for sex, and you can actually TALK to them, IRL (that means in real life).  Did we all forget that before we had IPhones and Blackberries to hook up with strangers, we had this wonderful thing called booze?  You don’t have to check your inbox to see if someone wants to fuck you, you can actually just look across the bar and give someone a wink.  If they come over and start making out with you, it’s a pretty safe sign that they’ve got a message they want to put in your inbox. 
My biggest problem, however, is this:  Guys who go out on a date, and spend their time on their phones, trying to hook up with someone else.  If I go out with one more douchebag who checks his phone every five minutes because he’s getting messages on Grinder, I’m going to swear off men all together.  Let’s get one thing straight, if I’m willing to go on a date with you, then chances are I’m sexually attracted to you, which means I’m pretty much a sure thing.  If we go out, and we have a good time, and I get drunk, we’re probably going to get it on, Marvin Gaye style.  So why are you ruining everything by sending dick pictures to your fuck buddies online?  If I’m on a date with someone, and I go to the bathroom and come back, and find them making out with someone else, you really think I’m going to be like “hey, that’s cool, when you’re done with that let me know, I’m totally still interested and not the least bit offended,”  you’re a fucking idiot.  And when I see you looking at Adam4Adam or, it’s kind of the exact same situation.  My interest goes from rock hard and dripping, to flaccid and bored. 
Most of these phone applications have a GPS built into it, so you can actually see approximately how close someone else is.  So when you’re out and about, you can get on your phone and see who’s looking to hook up.  I find this ridiculously hilarious, because if you just paid attention, you’d realize that every person around you is looking for some sexy time, not just the profile that is approximately 357 feet away. 
When you’re at home, alone and bored and horny, then by all means, have all sorts of fun with your cybersex.  But when you are out, among actually people, at a place where people actually meet and hook-up, get off your damn phone and enjoy the moment.  There are tons of one-night stands all around you, you just have to look. 
And make sure you don’t get whiskey-dick.
Lord, I need a drink. 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Can't fight the moonlight...

            When I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist.  I didn’t know what that was, I just liked the word, and knew how to spell it.  And then when I got older, I wanted to be a barista (man, I didn’t dream very big).  So I became a barista, and that was pretty much hell on earth for 4 years. 
And then I saw Coyote Ugly, and like every fag who saw that movie, I dreamt of being up on that bar, dancing my ass off, and slinging drinks to a crowd of adoring drunks.  And, by sheer luck, I managed to become a bartender—and trust me, it’s not always like the movies.  LeAnne Rimes isn’t singing in the background, and I get in trouble when I squirt customers with water (in all fairness, they usually deserve it).  Oh, and doing body shots on top of the bar is kind of uncomfortable, and you’re sticky all night long after that.  PS, thanks Dad for getting me Coyote Ugly on VHS for my 18th birthday. 
            I don’t know if it’s just because I work in West Hollywood, but it seems like the only thing cooler than being a bartender is being a rock star (or porn star, I guess).  I mean, so much of our community seems centered around the bars.  We meet new people, network for our jobs, and have lots of awkward run-ins with ex-fuck buddies.  We hold mixers, fashion shows and fundraisers in bars.  When I have a large group of straight people in my bar, I generally get ignored unless they need a drink (which doesn’t happen very often because straight people can’t seem to drink the way we homosexuals can—we’re professionals).  But, on most busy nights, the crowd is usually quite gay, and sometimes it feels like you’re on a stage, with all these people desperately trying to get your attention.   That attention can be slightly intoxicating, like chugging a jager bomb—you get drunk because of all the jager, but you’re also super hyper because of the redbull.  Unfortunately, if you have too many jager bombs, you start to feel a little sick and crazy.  Same goes with bartending.  Or cocaine. 
            On top of all the attention at the bar, everyone seems to want to be friends with a bartender.  It’s like suddenly I’m one of the cool kids, when really I’m the nerd who grew up playing online fantasy games and Dungeon and Dragons.  And, yes I’ve made a lot of amazing friends because of my job, but I can also spot the queen trying to become my friend just so that she can get free drinks.  I ain’t stupid, girl.
            My little brother came down from Oregon to visit me for a few days, and he was astounded by how many people I knew.  Everywhere we went, I could spot someone I recognized—usually I had some hilarious drunk story about them.  We even went to a straight bar, where the bouncer proceeded to molest me for the entire night.  I still don’t know how he knew me, but I just went along with it because he was big and scary and I hadn’t finished my beer yet.  Anyways, my brother thought that I was so popular because the gay community is so condensed in LA, which might be partially true, but I told him that it was just because I was a fucking bartender, and I meet tons of interesting individuals (and an awful lot of annoying assholes) every week. 
I mean, really, I’m not cool.  When I’m at work, I definitely amp up my energy, and try to be as outgoing and interesting as possible; but when I’m not working, I’m kind of boring.  I like to stay at home like a hermit and watch bad TV, or write silly blogs like this, or smoke a bunch of pot and cook something weird.  And when I do go out at night, I’m generally an all-around awkward, introverted guy.  I’m super shy and stay to myself, unless I’m really fucked up and then it’s just embarrassing. 
            But apparently I’ve fooled everyone into thinking I’m awesome, because I can’t go to a bar in West Hollywood without someone knowing my business.  It’s kind of weird, because I don’t have much business to know about, but people are always up in it.  Hell, one night I tried to go to my favorite bar and sit in the corner and just be left alone, but I didn’t make it more than 5 minutes before some creepy old guy invaded my personal space and said “hey, don’t you work at…”  My cover was blown.  And the next day at work, I had more than one person come up to me and say “hey, I saw you out last night!” as if we had some sort of bonding experience and we were now best friends.  Of course, I immediately thought about how drunk I was and if I was doing anything embarrassing, which then pissed me off because I don’t want random strangers coming up to me, reminding me about how much of a douche bag I was acting like the night before.  Trust me, the hangover in the morning reminds me all too well. 
            Now don’t get me wrong, I definitely enjoy the perks.  Every once and a while, I can pull out the “I’m a Bartender” card and score myself some free shots (the Jew in my loves it, but my liver doesn’t agree with this strategy), or faster service—hell, sometimes I don’t even have to wait in a line to get into a bar.  One time I even got to use the employee bathroom—but that was just because the bartender wanted to see my junk.  And it’s nice to be respected within my large circle of gays, even if it’s for something as ridiculous as what I call a “job.”  I mean come on, I go to work, listen to awesome music, hang out with people and get everyone drunk.  And have an occasional shot or 7 myself.  And I get paid for that. Ridiculous, right? 
            But my least favorite thing about being a bartender is dating.  I came up with this brilliant saying, and it always seems to hold true.  “Everyone wants to fuck the bartender; no one wants to date the bartender.”  For some reason, everyone assumes that because we get hit on all the time, we’re a bunch of whores.  And granted, I know a LOT of bartenders who are whores.  But some of us aren’t (anymore).  I’ve talked to guys who are so far out of my league, guys who I’d fuck in a heartbeat, and they end up talking themselves out of dating me because of my job.  As if I fuck every guy who gives me their number, and they don’t stand a chance against something like that.  Honey, lets be real here, most of the guys who give me their number don’t even REMEMBER doing it the next morning.  An infatuation with a bartender can be very strong (trust me, I’ve made a fool of myself with more than one drink-slinging hottie), but it’s also very fleeting as well—after all, we’re physically out of reach, and that’s just too much for drunk people to deal with.  And, once the mystique wears off, you’re usually left with a pretty normal person, who usually wants normal things. 
            Remember, we get treated like pieces of meat all the time.  That’s not a good way to get me to take my pants off.  The way to my heart (and dick) is to treat me with respect, dignity and honesty.  Don’t act like a drunk fool, girl, or I’ll treat you like one. 
            There are lots of things that I love about bartending—I mean really, it’s a fucking awesome gig.  And I’ve made a lot of amazing, true friends, who seem to like me despite the fact that I’m a weirdo. 
Probably wouldn’t have happened if I pursued my other dream—glass blowing.  That would have never worked out anyways; I don’t have the lung capacity for shit like that.  And I’m a damn pyromaniac, I would have burnt down way too many houses trying to make a fucking vase. 
            Lord, I need a drink.