An attempt at a slightly anthropological study of the gay bar scene in NY, part 1.

And by anthropological study, I mean I went out and had quite a few tasty cocktails, and decided to write about it.

Night 1.

I started out much, much too early for New York standards.  As soon as I got settled into my hotel room, I ventured out into the city, immediately getting lost.  Luckily, my trusty gaydar directed me to the closest bar (and by gaydar, I mean the GPS on my phone), which just so happened to be the Stonewall Inn.  I enjoyed the fact that the first bar I went to also happened to be the most historical and socially relevant bar you can possibly go to. 

The bar itself seemed to be a neighborhood bar, lots of older men with nothing else to do, and a dusting of out-of-towners.  I immediately made friends with the off duty bartender, who proceeded to get me awfully tipsy at 5pm.  He took me to the bar next door (owned by the same person), which was empty.  We had more drinks, and he and another bartender helped me with a map of Manhattan, explaining which bars to go to, and which bars to avoid.

By that time it was 7pm, and I was a little buzzed (that Jameson catches up to you), so I decided to venture back to the hotel.  After all, I had a long night ahead of me. 

I relaxed, sobered up, and got ready for the night.  I figured I’d go back to the places I was at earlier, but when I got there, they were playing bingo in one bar, and singing really bad show tunes in the other bar.  And the crowd went from mature older men to people who didn’t even look 21, and not a whole lot of homos.  So I decided to explore.

First I went to a place called Rock Bar.  They played Katy Perry, which is not, in fact, rock.  Also the solitary go-go boy looked to be in his 50s, which was awkward.  Luckily, I met a very nice woman doing an AIDS research study, and she directed me to East Village, and some bars over there.  And so I went to the Boiler Room, which, when I got there, smelled like incense and broken dreams.

At this point, I wasn’t really getting a sense of community from the gay bars.  In LA, so much of the gay community surrounds the bar culture, so I assumed there would be a similar sense of family.  But that didn’t seem to be the case.  I couldn’t tell if it was because, maybe, there is still a certain level of taboo surrounding homosexuality here, or if it’s so commonplace that there is no need for a united community to stand against the dangerous homophobia that we all face.  I’d like to think that, but as I was walking alone on Christopher Street, I certainly didn’t feel like I was accepted, or safe.  In fact, I had to cross to the other side of the street because of a large group of straight black men who were hooting and hollering at, well, everything.   

There’s clearly a level of understanding here about the history that we, as a community, have had to (and continue to) endure.  But I’m not sure if there is as much forward thinking activism as the west coast.  Still, this was my first evening out, so I’m not making any conclusions, just observations. 

The bar staff, as a whole, seem incredibly friendly, welcoming, and helpful.  I enjoy being able to walk in, say hello, make eye contact, and have a pleasant reaction.  Perhaps some individuals in the service industry on the west coast could learn a little bit of that.  I have yet to feel like I am bothering a bartender by asking for a drink, which I often feel in West Hollywood.  But then again, I’ve only gone to bars that have distaste for pretention.  I suppose I should try out the other bars and see if this excellent customer service is universal here.  I doubt it.

I was disappointed by the patrons.  It wasn’t the fact that all the bars were virtually empty (it’s a Monday, so I wasn’t expecting much), but their lack of inclusivity was a little intimidating, even for me.  I made an effort to smile, look eager, earnest, and approachable.  In fact, the only people who approached me were the old men looking to pay me for sex—so I guess some things are the same on both coasts. 

And then I went to The Cock.  At that point, I was pretty much disappointed in my evening.  But as soon as I walked up to the door, I was treated like an old friend.  The door guy was sassy and amazing.  I walked into the very, VERY dark bar, which had maybe 10 people in it, and was immediately greeted and within 5 minutes I had been introduced to everyone at the bar.  Trannys, club kids, otters, and go-go boys all treated me like a human.  Only one person put his hand down my pants, which was surprisingly refreshing, considering the place I was in.  They welcomed me into their group, invited me to events for the rest of the week, and were sad to see me leave. 

They helped humanize the city.  Being here, alone, is a fairly daunting endeavor, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.  A little humanity in this concrete jungle is tremendously endearing. 

Woof woof woof.

               

            Sometimes when I go out for a tasty libation, I like to be a part of the crowd.  I like to mingle, make friends, make bad decisions and drink a little too much.  And by a little too much, I mean my body weight in beer and tequila.  But sometimes I like to sit back in a corner somewhere and watch.  Most of my life, I’ve always felt like an outsider looking in.  Which isn’t a complaint, I don’t mind it.  In fact, I thoroughly enjoy watching.  I learn a lot.  It’s amazing what you can learn simply from taking yourself out of the equation. 
            But I digress.  I’ve spent the last couple days going to bars, people watching.  I’m not looking for anything in particular; I just want to see how gay men behave.  And the more I watched, the more I noticed something very familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  You know, that feeling when you smoke way too much pot, and have a brilliant idea, and then forget about it 30 seconds later.  But you know you had a brilliant idea, you just can’t remember what it was?  Yea, that feeling.  Minus the munchies. 

            And then, this morning, my neighbor’s dog decided to say hello to me as I was walking back in from my early morning coffee and bagel run (I’m a Jew).  And by say hello, I mean the dog decided to come into my apartment behind me, because my idiotic (yet gorgeous) neighbor lets him run around the apartment complex without a leash.  The dog is nice, so I don’t really care.  I put down my coffee and bagel, and said hello to my furry fellow.  He proceeded to stick his face in my crotch as a greeting.  And that’s when it hit me. 

            A lot of men act like dogs. 

            And I don’t mean in the proverbial sense that women always talk about.  I mean, quite literally, we behave like dogs.  The similarities are astounding. 

            I’ve found an awful lot of gay men who are slightly obsessed with the way other men smell.  Especially the “bear” culture (where I am usually laughed at because apparently my lack of body fat is clearly a sign that I am beneath them socially or intellectually).  They are constantly running around, sniffing each other’s armpits, smelling each other’s nether regions, and doing it with complete disregard for anything else around them.  I mean, call me old fashion, but I like my man to ravage my body in the privacy of my own home, not at the local Starbucks. 

            This single-minded, animalistic focus on the need to hump, lick and smell everything that moves is quite fascinating.  Now, you don’t usually see your average run of the mill queen running around and behaving like that Chihuahua that I owned for a week but got rid of because I didn’t like to pick up the poo.  It’ usually the hyper masculine men with awkwardly large muscles and perfectly groomed chest hair.  The ones who have odd tribal tattoos that don’t mean anything and have a penchant for wearing leather arm bands.  They are the ones you have to look out for.  Every time I go to the Eagle (gay leather bar), or Faultline (like the eagle, except slightly less classy, which is hard to accomplish), if I’m not getting my armpits licked or my ass sniffed, I can look around and see it happening to any number of people.  If I wanted to be submitted to this behavior, I would go to the god damn dog park. 

            But perhaps I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I’m not usually one to go out with sex as my ultimate goal.  And if I go out and find someone attractive, I usually use my words and say something like, oh, I don’t know, “wanna screw?”  Perhaps it’s just me, but I enjoy having sex with my fellow man, and part of being a human is the ability to stimulate more than just my penis.  Use your words, they are surprisingly useful. 

            Now, a lot more could really be said on this subject, and I probably will talk more on this at some point. But for now, I will leave it with this:

             If you come up to me, sniff my armpit and go “woof,” please don’t expect dramatic porn music to start playing and for me to wag my proverbial tail at you, giving you the "thumbs up."  If you act like a dog around me, I will treat you like a dog.  And I don’t have sex with dogs; I usually give them away to a better home, because I really don’t like picking up poo.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse.

Bar Etiquette

When I go to a bar, a restaurant, a coffee shop, I’m always respectful of the “rules of engagement.”  Everywhere you go, there’s a new set of rules to play by.  There’s a certain etiquette for every establishment.  If you are at one of those fancy restaurants (you know, the ones that have 4 forks and costs a small mortgage to eat there), you stand up straight, wear a jacket, put your napkin in your lap, and always wear underwear.  At a coffee shop, you always put your change in the tip jar, you bring your lap top and look like an important writer, and you never dance to the indie rock music playing, merely bobbing your head on occasion.

                The same goes for when you are at a bar.  Just because your primary goal may be to put something up your nose and not remember who you put your penis in, doesn’t mean you get to ignore the rules of a bar.  But I realize that there might be some people out there who aren’t being disrespectful, they are just stupid.  So I’ve compiled some thoughts on the subject, in hopes of enlightening those that annoy me on a regular basis. 

                We call this “Bar Etiquette.”

                Firstly, let’s talk about your bartender.  You really, REALLY want him to be your friend.  The best way to do that is by tipping, and tipping well.  Don’t ask a bartender to make your drink extra strong, with a flirtatious wink—you think you’re the first person who’s tried to flirt with a bartender?  If you want a strong drink, be nice to the bartender.  I guarantee you, if you tip mister man behind the bar $5 for your first drink, he’s going to remember you when you come back for round two, and he’ll be generous, because of your generousity.  Bartenders like to feel special too, remember.

                And for those who aren’t sure about what is a decent tip, I understand, it can be confusing.  When I go out, I tip $1 a drink, unless I have a large bar tab, and then I tip 20%.  Oh, and if I’m being an annoying drunk, I try to tip more because of the extra energy it takes to deal with me.  Yes, even this bartender has had some not so flattering moments at a bar or 2.  Or 5.   

                Don’t try to be sneaky or smart by asking for “easy ice.”  We get it, you think that if the glass isn’t full of ice, we’ll put more booze in there, and you won’t have to pay for a double.  Well guess what, honey?  We aren’t idiots; we realize this is your goal.  And it’s insulting.  And usually, we just make your drink weaker, just to spite you.  Same goes for saying “my last drink was pretty weak, think you can make this one stronger?”  I don’t go to your job and tell you how it’s supposed to be done, so please don’t presume you can do the same to me.  Respect me, and I shall respect you.  Fairly simple concept.  Oh and by the way, you don’t need a stronger drink.  If you are so desperate and cheap that you have to behave like that, you don’t need more booze, you need rehab.  And I rarely say that (after all, alcoholics pay my rent), so you can understand the seriousness of that statement. 

                If you are at the bar, ordering a drink, once you get your drink, say thank you, tip, and MOVE.  Unless you are sitting at the bar, or not in the way, then stay out of the bartender’s service area.  We love talking to you (it’s my favorite part of the job), but remember, we’re not there to party; we’re there to make money.  So move over and let us make our coins, girl.

                Ladies.  Ladies, ladies, ladies.  Why in the world do you find it necessary to go to the gay bars and make so much noise?  Do you really need to scream every 30 seconds?  Don’t you realize that, as gay men, we aren’t interested in seeing your vaginas and we don’t appreciate a drunk slut the same as a straight man does?  Do you see me going to Red Rock, or Loaded, or Barney’s Beanery, and standing on a bar stool going “HEEEY GIIRL?”  No, you don’t, because I would get my ass kicked.  And I should, because that’s fucking annoying.  So stop being so annoying when you go to the gay bars and maybe you’ll get invited out again. 

                Always, always, ALWAYS have your ID.  And don’t question someone when they ask to see it.  We aren’t being dicks, we are doing our jobs.  I’d rather my bar didn’t get shut down, and if that means you can’t have a glorious night of black outs and STDs, so be it.

                Please don’t bring your backpacks into a bar.  Or your luggage.  Or your dog.  It makes you look homeless.  And while I don’t have a problem with homeless people, they don’t usually tip, and if you aint tipping, I aint serving.   

                Lord, I need a drink.

                Jesse

I am homo, hear me roar!

I don’t know if what I’m about to say is correct.  I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do.  In fact, I’m almost positive there is a better alternative out there; I just don’t know what it would be.  But given the recent bullying related suicides, and October 11^th being National Coming Out Day, I feel the need to say something. 

                When I was a little boy, I was bullied.  A lot.  I was tiny.  I had long, unruly curly hair.  I had huge glasses that covered half my face.  Most of my clothes were dirty, had holes in them, or were much too large for me.  And I was a smart-ass even back then—in short, I was a pretty damn easy target.  There was even an “I hate Jesse” club in elementary school.  They had signs and everything.  Don’t ask me why, pre-teen girls can be pretty damn cruel.  There was one who beat me up every time I saw her—Jessica.  We eventually became friends (feuds in elementary school usually last about as long as a stoner’s short term memory), but that’s not the point. 

                One day I ran into Jessica and her friends, and of course she went after me, laughing the entire time.  To her, this was a game, a joke.  Well I had had enough, so I punched her, as hard as I could, in the stomach—and that bitch went down!  Now, at the time, I was freaked out and ran away like a little bitch, convinced I was going to jail for hitting a girl.  That didn’t happen, obviously, and I didn’t even get in trouble with the teacher—which, looking back, shows a significant lack of discipline on my schools part.  Shame on you Raleigh Hills.

Jessica never touched me again.

She was afraid of me.

I had taken the power. 

                And that lesson stayed with me till this day.  It wasn’t the act of violence that made the bullying stop, it was me standing up and saying “No.  This is not ok, I don’t like this, I will not allow you to do this to me.”  I stopped being a victim, and people stopped treating me like one.  I kept with this as I was growing up—and guess what?  I was that skinny little awkward closeted gay boy who never got his ass kicked.  I refused to believe that I was anything less than extraordinary, I was awesome, and if anyone else thought differently, well…then they could go fuck themselves. 

                And so I ask the gay community—when are we going to stand up and say no?  When are we going to get mad?  When are we going to stop being the victim?  Being gay doesn’t make us less of a man; my machismo may be different than others, but I have testosterone and hairy balls just like a straight guy.  And the sooner we all stop thinking of ourselves as weak, the sooner people will stop treating us like we are weak.  If we want to be taken seriously, then maybe we should start taking ourselves seriously.  Maybe if we start making noise, loud, angry noise, everyone else will shut up.

                It takes more than just saying “It gets better.”  I don’t want it to get better.  I want it to be better, now.  And I don’t see why we have to wait!  Stand up for yourselves ladies.  Grow a pair.  It’s ok to be angry.  Show the world we are not victims, we are not weak, and we most certainly are not afraid. 

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse    

               

               

Is Radical still Cool?

I was bartending the other night, freshly shaved, in my not-so-vintage acid-washed jeans and silly red converse shoes.  The night was going splendidly, no one was having sex in the bathrooms, no one was doing lines of coke in the dark corners.  A group of three older men, in their 40s, came and sat down at my bar.  Being the bubbly, effervescent person that I am (that was sarcasm, in case you didn’t get that), I happily served them Jack and Coke, Gin and Tonic, and Stoli and Soda. As the liquor started loosening them up, they turned their attention towards me.  And, as always, the conversation immediately started with how young I am. 

I’m used to this; anyone over the age of 40 seems to be incredibly envious of my youthful appearance.   Normally I’m quite good about biting my tongue and endearing the patronizing remarks.  But I suppose on this occasion I was feeling a little, shall we say, feisty.  When one of them asked me what phrases us kids were using these days to talk about things that are “cool,” I couldn’t help it, I had to say something.  I politely told these fine gentlemen that I usually use the terms “cool” or “awesome,” and if I’m feeling really edgy I might say “dope” or “chill.” 

 I also suggested to them that they might be better off acting their own age instead of trying to behave like someone 20 years younger than them.

I expected them to leave the bar soon after, but surprisingly enough they found my comment funny, not offensive.  They stayed until one of them spilled their drink, insulted me, insulted other customers, stumbled drunkenly across the bar into the bathroom, and were subsequently cut off from imbibing any more delicious alcohol.  That’s when they got offended, and attempted to storm out in a huff, but that’s hard to do that with any sort of dignity when you’re three sheets to the wind (trust me, I’ve tried). 

And while that’s just a normal Tuesday evening for me, the conversation got me to thinking:  Why in the world are the homos so obsessed with youth? 

Yes, I am young.  My skin is wrinkle free, soft and smooth (I’m also a vampire and avoid the sun like the plague).  I have a fantastic metabolism, so I can eat whatever I want and not gain a pound.  And if I actually gave a damn, I bet I could work out and have one of those cute bodies I see in porn.  Oh, and I have a full head of hair.  Sounds fantastic, I know. 

Or you could look at it like this.  I am young.  I don’t have any financial security; I certainly don’t have a career.  I don’t have any clue what I’m doing with my life, and I barely know how to take care of myself.  I still call my mother every other day because I need advice.  I still have daddy issues.  And while I am usually considered “wise beyond my years,” I certainly don’t have many life experiences to put that wisdom to any sort of use. 

What I find particularly pitiful nowadays, are the middle aged men, who are supposed to be full of wisdom and security, running around acting like adolescents.  Quit with the damn plastic surgery, it doesn’t make you look younger, it makes you look like an old guy who had plastic surgery.  Stop wearing clothes that are only appropriate for a 13 year old girl to wear.  Use language that is appropriate for YOU, not for YOUTH.  There’s probably a damn good reason you can’t get younger, or stay young forever—the way us young people behave is usually unfit, unhealthy, and unwise.

Personally, I can’t wait to turn 30.  I’m tired of being dismissed simply because I look like a child.  I would love to have a conversation with someone and have my thoughts be considered valid.   

They say that youth is wasted on the young.  Frankly, I also think that the wisdom that comes along with age is being wasted on the old.  Stop acting like a child, that’s my job.  Start acting like someone I would aspire to be

A Homo on the Hunt.

I heard the twink before I saw him.  The clickity clack of his vintage boots signified that he was on the hunt.  You could tell, without even looking, just from the sound, that his hips swished in a way that would be the envy of any drag queen watching.  His oversized American Apparel t-shirt fit him in a “I don’t care what I’m wearing, I’m above all of that nonsense” sort of way.  And yet, as I traveled up from his boots, to his overpriced black jeans, up to his perfectly fauxed hawk, I noticed he was missing something.  A friendly face.  A smile.   Because as I looked past his look of disdain, and into his eyes, I noticed a lonliness inside that I’ve seen often.  This boy was alone, and he was looking for something. 

            I don’t know how his story turned out, I had customers to serve and am not about to stalk a 22 year old twink as he puruses West Hollywood in his search to find some sort of connection.  Maybe he was looking for drugs, maybe he was looking for a nice bear-ish man to take care of his needs.  Perhaps he was looking for his soulmate.  Who the hell knows.  But I’d like to think that his search, his effort, can be seen in most of us night-walkers at some point in our tumultuous lives. 

            I won’t speak for everyone else, but I can most definitely speak on my experience.  I’ve been on the hunt before, once or twice.  Getting all dolled up, listening to Britney Spears sing “Stronger” over and over again, feeling like I’m the queen of the world, on top of my game.   But, in reality, for the greater part of my adult life I’ve been masquerading around town, trying on different hats, different masks, different styles of jeans, all in an effort to connect with someone.  Not necessarily in a sexual way, maybe I just want to find a friend, or a drinking buddy, a confidant.  The problem, unfortunately, is that after trying on all these personas, we forget who we were in the first place.  And without that genuine, honest core, you can never truly connect on any sort of deep level with anyone. 

            And yet, even with this almost voracious desire to seek validation from the people we immerse ourselves in, the way we present ourselves leaves much to be desired.  I mean honestly, how many times have you gone out on a Saturday night and seen those boys.  You know the ones, the ones who walk about town with a perma-scowl on their face.  The ones that are just too cool to remember your names, and far too cool to wait in lines.  The ones who look like they are having an absolutely miserable time, and how dare we make their lives so hard (that was heavy sarcasm, in case you missed that).  These are the “mean girls” of our community, and these are the people that so many homos aspire to be?  Really?  Really??

            I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of disrespect and inflated egos being so cool.  The people I want to admire are the ones who go out of their way to help another person, who think about how their actions affect the world around them, the people who I can stand being around when I am sober.  I want to connect, I want it to be ok to be who I am, and I want it to be ok for you to be who you are too. 

            It doesn’t matter how much money you spent on those G star jeans.

            It doesn’t matter how much botox you’ve gotten.

            You are more than the top shelf vodka you order at The Abbey.

            I hope that twink found what he was looking for.  I know I’m still searching.

            Lord, I need a drink.

            Jesse  

Discontent with my Discoteka

I decided to hit up WeHo the other night and see what kind of trouble I could get myself into.  I’m definitely the bar-hopping type, I don’t like to sit around at any one place for too long.  So I flitted about as much as I could—which isn’t terribly fast in skinny jeans when you are 4 jager bombs in.  But despite my efforts to have a good time and get stumble drunk (you know what that’s like, when you get so drunk you appear to be a ping-pong going through a hallway), I had an awfully difficult time.  It’s not like the drinks weren’t free-flowing, and there were plenty of attractive guys wearing shirts far too tight and eyebrows far too waxed.  It seemed as if everyone was just, well, bored.  And it got my little noggin’ a thinking—when did the WeHo night life becoming so boring?

                When I first started going out in West Hollywood, 5 years ago, everything was fun and exciting.  Rage on Thursdays was still fun, Mikeys had hip hop nights on Mondays and was super dirty on Wednesdays.  Fiesta was a great place to, as one of my co-workers would say, “get your tilt on.”  That means get drunk.  Eleven was far too expensive for a (at the time) barista like myself, and the lines at the Abbey intimidated me.  I’d never heard of Trunks of Motherlode or Gold Coast, I was still a young nubile newbie.  But still, every time I went out, it was an adventure, and the night ended with some sort of craziness that I usually regretted the day after. 

                I know, I know, I sound like an old fuddie duddie.  Like this was 20 years ago and I should be sitting at the Spotlight drinking a bourbon and soda (with a lemon twist), at 8am, saying “back when I was young…”  But in reality, I’m only 25, so I’m not entirely sure that I am to blame.  I think the powers that be, the ones that keep the WeHo bar scene going, have gotten into a rat race with themselves, one that’s slowly driving me insane with boredom.  Everywhere I go, it’s just so…lame.

It all seems to be the same thing.  Same dancers, most acting like they are so important that it’s beneath them to even try to dance along with the music.  Same dirty themes, Rim Job, Man Hole, “Deep, Dark, Nasty” Spike, BigFatDick.  It’s like no one wants to come up with anything that is remotely interesting anymore, unless its stimulating to your nether regions—which, believe me, I enjoy, but it’s sad to think that we’ve all become mindless slaves to the 3 P’s—Porn, Penis, and Pelvic Thrusts.  Never mind that many of us are quite intelligent (some even went to college!), are socially and culturally aware, and are not innocent enough to think that all those go-go boys are even remotely gay and flirting with me because he wants to have my babies.

                It’s time to step up your game, WeHo.  Give me something more to look at besides a dude in Andrew Christian underwear.  Stimulate my senses, make me ponder my sexuality, let me leave your club going “did that just happen?”  Not every night has to be so dirty that you feel like getting an STD test and scrubbing your body with bleach—those nights should be reserved for special occasions.  But unfortunately, since that’s all we’re seeing nowadays, the thrill is starting to shrink, much like my penis does at the sight of a vagina.  If you need any help coming up with ideas, shoot me a message, as you can see I have far too much time on my hands. 

Bring back the mystery of the night, and let’s all start having adventures again.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse

"Your thumbs move like someone in love."

"Your thumbs move like someone in love."

                 I overheard that one night, and I thought it was awfully cute.   But it also made me think about our current obsession with our damn phones.  Every day I look around the bar, the number is people looking down at their phones  is starting to heavily outweigh the number of people looking up at what's actually going on.  As soon as something happens, it's on facebook, or twitter (its not on myspace though--no one uses that anymore).  It's rather disconcerting, walking through bar after bar and seeing heads down, faces illuminated by the ever present smart phone. 

                What's even more frightening is the ability to track your friends when they "check in" to certain spots.  Hell, on a friday night, I can sit at home with my itunes dance party mix and a glass of my favorite wine (two buck chuck), hop onto facebook and track my friends progress through WeHo.  I don't even have to put on my vintage boots or skinny jeans, and it's like I'm there!  Starting usually at a dive bar (you know, Gold Coast, Motherlode, Trunks) for the cheap drinks, then to their next stop, usually for a better looking crowd, followed by the dance bar, and ending the night either back at a dive bar, or Los Tacos.  

                While this is all fun and entertaining, does anyone actually think for one second that anybody who "follows" them actually gives a shit?  Are we all arrogant enough to think that the world MUST know where you are and what you're doing at all times?  And honestly, do you WANT the world to know that you just stuffed your face full of burritos at 3am?  I think I'm honest enough with myself to admit that most people don't read anything I post, and I know I really, really, don't care much about what you're doing every five minutes.  Hell, I have most of my friends blocked (and I know you all do too, don't lie).

                The problem we've created is this vicious cycle, where we spend all night updating our facebook and texting our friends, that we forget to actually experience a night out!  And then, when you finally do meet up with someone, you know, in REAL life, you have nothing new or of interest to talk about, because you've spent all night letting people know what you're doing.  But honestly, how are you going to get black-out drunk and wake up with a giant red stop sign, a litter of puppies and 82 packages of instant hot chocolate mix, if you spend all night on the phone?  What's worse is that you don't get to have the dreaded "what the fuck did we do last night?" conversation over bloody marys with your BFF, because all you have to do is look at your facebook and cringe at the drunken pictures you accidentally took and posted.

                Gone are the days of subtle flirting, checking the ring finger for a wedding band (ha, like that matters), and buying your lastest trick a drink.  Apparently, it's all about sexting and passive aggresive facebook status updates.  Now when I go to a bar and order my Absolut Citron Tom Collins (with a lemon and a lime), I look at the speed of which the boy's thumbs move, and whether theres a slightly mischievous grin on his face when he hears the tell-tale "ding ding" from a text message. 

                Put down your phones boys.  That neon blue radiating from your phone is so not flattering. 

                Lord, I need a drink.

                Jesse

Bartender Confidential.

            You see all these shows on TV nowadays--The Hills, Jersey Shore, Real World--all filled with seemingly exaggerated drama.  Add in a bottle of your favorite alcohol (my poison is Jager), and the drama escalates.  Drama, drama, drama.  Well blah, blah, blah.  Try spending a week at a gay bar.  No, try spending a DAY at a gay bar.  We'll show you the true meaning of "drama queen."  But we don't behave like drunk adolescents on crack simply for ratings and a chance at our own personal 15 minutes of fame--no, we do it all willingly, as if there's some unspoken agreement that it's okay for us to behave, on occasion, like horrible human beings. 

            As a gay man in his 20's, I spend my fair share of time out in the bars, looking for whatever it is we look for.  But I'm also a bartender at one of these fabulous establishments.  I've seen behind the curtain, so to speak, and the glamour has lost some of it's sparkle.  It's given me a chance to take a step back from the nightlife, to be a part of it, without drowning completely in my dirty martini and losing myself in the mystique that we've created. 

            We bartender's hear some pretty interesting things.  We see thing's that are even more outrageous.  People come to see us, they like to flirt with us for free drinks (yes, we aren't all fooled into thinking that you might actually be into us), but more times than not, you forget about us as soon as you get your vodka tonic.  Don't get me wrong, we don't care.  We're there to serve the party, not be a part of it.  But make no mistake, we are there, and we do see things, and we remember them in the morning.  Luckily for all of us, discresion comes along with the job as well.

            Still, the more I serve, and the more people I get drunk, and the more I go out and act as much a fool as the next skinny jeans wearing homo, at some point I have to stop and wonder...why?  What is this all about?  Why do we keep making the same mistakes night after night?  It can't possibly be because we all just black-out and forget, can it?  I mean, honestly, how many more times can I possibly stumble down Santa Monica Blvd., how many more times can I wake up telling myself that that will be my last night of jager bombs?  I know I'm not the only person who can mark various spots throughout the city that they've thrown up at (my favorite time was right by the Coast Playhouse, right as a play was letting out--bet y'all weren't expecting THAT kind of show). 

            That is my quest.  To understand what we're all looking for.  To understand why we constantly seem to get off on acting like teenagers with no self-control, self-respect or understanding of consequences.  To understand why maturity and "a good time" seem to be mutually exclusive.  And to have a good time and some good laughs along the way.

            So, let me offer everyone a toast, overheard from one of my dearest customers:

              "Cheers to lying, cheating, stealing and drinking.  Lying to save your best friend's life, cheating death out of one more day, stealing a young man or woman's heart, and drinking with good friends like you."

            Lord, I need a drink.

            Jesse