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.

Shebonics.

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.

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?

            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 10^th 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 Letsfuck.com, 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. 

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 18^th 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.

You look like you just smelled some poo.

            You know what I fucking hate? 

The Bitch Face.

Y’all know what I’m talking about.  I see it all the time—these queens who walk around looking like they just smelled something foul.  They might be really nice guys, but they look like bitches, and it’s really irritating, and completely off-putting. 

Why in the world do you think it’s attractive to look like you’re always angry?  Honey, you aren’t a super model on the fucking catwalk in Paris, so quit trying to act like your god’s gift to the gayborhood.  Don’t any of you realize how powerful a genuine smile can be?  You can get away with some pretty crazy shit, if you have a nice set of pearly whites.  Hell, I’ll overlook a lot of drunken annoyance for someone if they at least look like they are nice, even if they aren’t.  But when you look like a bitch, and act like a bitch, I’m going to treat you like a bitch.

That’s even worse, though—the boys with the bitch faces, who act like a bitch.  I mean, I have a couple of really nice friends, but they’ve manicured the shit out of their eyebrows, so they always look like they kind of hate you, and I can overlook that eventually (and after enough to drink).  But if you’re going to look like a bitch, and act like a bitch, how in the world do you expect to make friends?  Or, even worse, how do you expect to ever get laid?  Who wants to fuck a queen who raises her nose at everything around her, unless there’s some cocaine around, and then you’ll lower that nose right onto that straw, now won’t you?

One of my biggest pet peeves is when I’m at a restaurant, or a bar, and whoever is serving me has a look of disgust, like I’ve done something so offensive just by walking into your establishment expecting to be served.  NEWSFLASH, douche bag, you’re in the service industry; it’s your job to serve.  You aren’t better than anyone else just because you happen to have been born (or later in life, purchased) a pretty face.  And if you’re so much better than me, what the hell are you doing working in the service industry?  Oh, that’s right, you can’t get a big boy job because you always act like a tool—and the only tool I like is the one in between my legs.  Oh and drills, I love drills.  Hammers scare me, I’m always afraid I’m going to hurt myself. 

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have quite an attitude when I work—but it’s kind of my shtick.  I’m a smart ass, I talk back to everyone, and I love saying no.  But it’s all done in jest, and I think most of my customers can attest to my excellent customer service skills—when I’m working, it’s my job to serve you (not service, you dirty mother fuckers); I understand that, and I don’t think that it’s beneath me to do so. 

My boss told me once that I can say whatever I want to someone, as long as I have a smile on my face when I do.  And, oddly enough, it’s true.  A really good smile can warm the cockles of even the most stubborn of grumpy old men.  How do you think hookers get so much money from their clients?  Because they pretend to be nice.  Unless their clients are into guys who tie them up and humiliate them, but that’s just weird. 

I guess I don’t really have a point with this blog.  I just wanted to bitch for a hot minute, and since it’s my fucking blog, I get to do whatever I want, so nah nah nah.  Imagine me sticking my tongue out at you right now; it makes the previous sentence much more effective. 

Please ladies, take the butt plug out of your ass for a minute, it’s clearly too big for you to enjoy.  Eat a damn cheeseburger, because I always get extra bitchy when I haven’t eaten—maybe y’all are just hungry all the time.  And don’t throw it up afterwards, because that’ll give you a nasty case of halitosis.  Maybe you should even take off those super tight jeans that give you a moosenuckle in the front, and back fat in the rear, because perhaps the lack of blood circulation is making you so mean. 

Save the bitch faces for the Kardashian sisters, Drag Queens, and the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.  It’s kind of their thing—don’t take that away from them, because that’s all they have.  I sincerely hope the same can’t be said about you. 

PS, to any of my customers who think my customer service skills aren’t amazing, you can suck it. 

Or learn how to be nice to your bartenders. 

Because you probably deserved it.

Lord, I need a drink.

Girl, you just crossed over!

            Things happen to you when you get drunk.  Your personality seems to get amplified, or change completely.  Different liquors affect people differently—I personally avoid any libation that makes me feel like taking my clothes off in public settings (not that I’ve ever done that… very often) or makes me want to throw a shot glass at someone’s head (but in my defense, if you wouldn’t act so fucking annoying, I wouldn’t want to throw anything at you in the first place). 

One of things I find so interesting about alcohol is also the thing that I abhor so much about it—The drunk personality. 

            I’ve gotten pretty damn good at recognizing when someone “crosses over,” as we like to call it—that’s when you have too much to drink, and you personality officially switches into overdrive.  I started taking a closer look at the basic types of drunk personalities we all seem to have—I, personally, can be the most bi-polar drunk in the world sometimes.  I might be a happy go lucky drunk one night, and the next night I cry myself to sleep listening to some sort of slit-your-wrist music.  Mostly, I’m a good drunk.  Mostly.  Just keep the fucking gin away from me.

            So which personality are you?

The EXTREMELY Happy and/or Loving Drunk

            The more this drunk drinks, the happier they get.  They suddenly become very open with their hearts.  Everyone they meet is a soul mate, everyone they talk to in the line for the bathroom is their new BFF.  Every conversation they have is deep, profound, and somehow meaningful in an almost existential way. 

            These are the people who think that their drunken hook up was “love-making,” and they change their relationship status on Facebook to “it’s complicated” after someone buys them a shot.  Bless their hearts, even if they are saturated in Stoli. 

            It should also be noted that these people are, usually, those crying drunks you see.  Things are so profound, and deep, and painfully beautiful that they just can’t help but let the tears flow.  It’s at this point that I stop giving them alcoholic libations, because I don’t deal with crying people very well.  Everyone should avoid crying in public, and never because you heard a Ke$ha song that moved you.  Girl, it’s Ke$ha, calm the fuck down.

            Oh, and also, these are the annoying fucks who have to talk really close to your face, and usually have to touch you a lot.  In fact, they touch you so much that it’s almost impossible to get them off you.  Y’all know what I’m talking about, when that drunk asshole comes up to you and grabs your arm, and starts talking, and at first you’re like “ok, he’s just going to hold on for a second, then let go,” and then 4 hours later he’s still holding onto you like a Jew holds his money, and your just trying to pry your arm from his vice-like grip, and hoping there isn’t any permanent nerve damage.  Sometimes I just play dead.  That usually works.  But, after having you scream right next to my ear, not only have I probably gone deaf, but whatever germs you might have had are probably all over me, so I might as well just let you have your way with me. 

            Girls are the worst when it comes to this.  I don’t know what it is about alcohol that gives them super strength, but it’s amazing how sometimes the smallest girl is the hardest to get out of my personal bubble.  Way to make me feel like a little bitch, girl.  Get your superman-like strength away from my easily bruised body. 

The Angry Drunk

            Or, as I like to call them, “gin drinkers.”  These drunks get mad at literally everything.  If they don’t have enough ice in their cocktail, it’s unacceptable and they get mad.  If their drink is too strong, you’re trying to kill them and you’re the reason the bar isn’t making more money.  If they have to wait too long for the bathroom, it’s absolutely the end of the world, and if they had a gun they would just kill themselves. 

            These are my favorite drunks to play with, because they’re usually so fucked up that they don’t even remember the evening, or are too lazy to actually do something proactive, like hit me or call the police because I kicked them out for pissing their pants (true story).  They kind of remind me of that crazy lady that used to come into the Starbucks I worked at, the one who called mall security on me because she thought I was shooting her with radioactive lasers, via my cellphone conversation with my mother (PS, I was totally doing it, you bitch).  Except the drunks are much lazier than the crazy lady.

            Also, for some reason, I always get a really fat tip from these grouchy pants.  Maybe it’s because they are usually old dirty men and they like that I sometimes look and act like a prepubescent boy.  Or maybe it’s because, whenever they snap at me, I snap back with just as much sass.  It must confuse them, and the only solution they can come up with is opening their wallet. 

The Violent Drunk

            These are the ones you have to look out for.  I’ve been working at a bar for a hot minute, and I’ve learned how to pinpoint this person before they get too bad.  They are the super aggressive ones from the get go.  They probably have small genitalia and have to overcompensate by beating the shit out of anyone who accidentally bumps into them in a crowded bar (how dare you, sir). 

            These are the annoying little asswipes that get 86’d out of virtually every bar they go to.  And just for the record, if you get kicked out of another bar, the LAST thing you want to do is brag to your bartender about it—not really instilling confidence and trust in you, idiot. 

            I don’t like these people. 

            No, like seriously, I really don’t like these people.  They can suck my left nut.  I don’t go to your job and shatter a glass over someone’s head because I thought I heard them talking shit about my friend, so please don’t come to mine and do the same.  You give the rest of us responsible drunks a bad name, and you aren’t fucking cool, or masculine, or tough—you’re fucking retarded, and should never drink again. 

            These are the people that I will happily call the cops on.  And I hope you get your ass pepper-sprayed and tased, and I hope you wet your pants, you dumb fuck.

The Dancing Drunk

            I secretly love these drunks.  As soon as they start drinking (and yes, it’s usually the ladies), they all say the exact same thing.  “OH MY GOD, I LOVE THIS SONG, LET’S DANCE!”  For some reason, alcohol makes them think they can dance like Britney Spears (back when she could still dance, oh snap), and they try their hardest to own that dance floor, when really they usually look like a writhing hot mess—I’m definetly one of those kids.  I’m a skinny white boy, and I look like a damn fool when I dance, but the only time I dance is when I’m knackered out of my gourd, so I don’t care. 

            Oh, and if there isn’t a dance floor, they make their own. 

            Personally, I love when I get actual dancers in the bar.  When they start drinking, and then start dancing, they own that shit.  And it’s damn hot; I always appreciate a good diva dance off. 

            But, a word of caution:  Ladies (and lady boys), just because you had a shot of peach schnapps, doesn’t mean you’re suddenly in a White Snake or Pussy Cat Dolls video.  Don’t get on my fucking bar and whip your hair back and forth like Willow Smith.  Don’t grind on the pool table while people are playing.  And don’t do a dirty dance that lets me see your lady bits.

            Overall, I think these are the best drunks to deal with, because other than the occasionally over-zealous individual, these bitches just want to have a good time, and it’s fairly innocent fun, both of which I appreciate while I am working.

The Quiet Drunk

            These are the ones you have to look out for, and I unfortunately fall into this category 90% of the time.  They never act particularly drunk, but they seem to drink a lot.  They’ll sit at the bar for an hour and have 4 shots and 2 beers, and act totally fine, until they try to get up, and the sudden shift in movement usually topples them over.  I always get nervous when I have a customer who just sits and drinks, and their behavior never changes, because I know they are getting drunk, and I never know when they’ve had too much until it’s too late, and you look over and they’re sleeping in a pile of their own vomit.  Or urine.  Or both. 

            Now, if they are a responsible quiet drunk, they know when they’ve had enough, and they usually just slip out of the bar and stumble home without anyone knowing they ever left, so they don’t get pressured into drinking more—because they never act like they’re drunk, everyone assumes they are sober, so they try to get them to drink more.  Bad idea kids, bad idea.

            Personally, when I know I’ve had enough to drink, I usually hang out until everyone I’m with is too fucked up to notice my missing presence, and then I slip out.  I deal with drunk assholes every day, the last thing I want to do is make another bartender have to deal with me being one of those drunk assholes. 

            And yes, that usually means we don’t get to have as many drunken hook-ups as the rest of you, but don’t feel too bad, we usually have a companion at night—our toilet, when we’re puking our brains out all night.  I’ve found my toilet to be an excellent spooner.  And there isn’t any of that awkwardness the next morning when you wake up—my toilet hardly ever judges me.    

West Hollywood Bar Review, Silverlake Edition.

Just as each bar in West Hollywood has its own little personality, so do other bars around the city.  The gay bars in Silverlake are like the older, dirtier, and usually smellier brothers of the bars in West Hollywood.  It’s an entirely different crowd, visually—but, as I’ve come to discover, it can be just as pretentious and clique-like as their hairless and overly tanned counterparts. 

I got an oddly large number of requests for a Silverlake Bar Review, and so, here it is. 

Before I talk about the bars specifically, let’s just speak on the men of Silverlake for a hot minute, shall we?  Firstly, let’s make no mistake here, they are every bit as gay as the boys to the west.  They try to act all butch and macho, but they’ve just replaced a V-neck American Apparel Stripped T-shirt with a leather vest, a fedora with a page boy cap, and expensive jewelry with handkerchiefs in their back pocket.  These generally (and yes, I am speaking in general, there are exceptions everywhere) are the “leather” guys, or the “alternative” guys—guys who never felt accepted  in West Hollywood, or the main stream gay scene, so they created their own little niche, where they could feel welcome. 

The problem, however, is that they are just as exclusive as their slender brothers in Boys Town.  If you don’t look a certain way, or act a certain way, or weigh enough, you’ll get the cold shoulder.  In my experience, most times I go to the Silverlake bars, people give me looks of disdain, as if to say “you don’t belong here, go away you little twink.”  I find it unsettling that a group of outcasts can be so unwelcoming.  If I wanted to feel like that, I’d go hang out at a straight bar and listen to frat boys call things gay (as in stupid).  Or with my father. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the bars in Silverlake as much (or as little) as I do the bars in West Hollywood, but I find the hypocrisy a little ridiculous.  I watched a documentary on LOGO about “butch” guys, such as you would find in Silverlake, and was insulted at how they thought they were somehow more of a man because of all their facial hair.  Honey, just because you’re fat and hairy, doesn’t mean you’re more of a man than me—you still like it up the butt, and there’s nothing “masculine” about sucking a cock.  Calm down.

Alright, enough gay bashing.  Let’s talk booze.

I used to go to The Eagle all the time.  I’d go with my boss a lot, because he liked to be around people like him (or as he calls them, Fatties), and I liked to be able to play pool and smoke at the same time.  If you’re looking for a fetish bar, this is your place.  There’s so much hardcore porn playing on the TV screens that even I blush on occasion.  They have 2 pool tables, one inside that is kind of awkward to play on, and one on their “patio” (which isn’t a patio at all and I still can’t figure out why we can smoke in there, but I’m not about to complain) which is much more popular.  They also have a pin ball machine and some arcade games—both of which make no sense, but hey, if you want to relive you’re incredibly awkward childhood, then by all means, insert your quarters there. 

They’ve got a fantastic selection of beers, and when you order a Hefeweizen, it comes in a glass the size of a large black penis.  It’s fantastic, one of those things and I’m down for the count (the beer, not the large black penis).

The bathroom is really fucking scary, I won’t step foot in there.  Someone’s always getting blown, or getting their ass eaten, or pissing on someone.  It’s weird, and not in the fun, “let’s get weird” kind of way.  I use the ladies room, like a classy gentleman.  Or a girl.

The bartenders are, in my humble opinion, gorgeous.  Most of them seem really nice too, at least the ones who will give me the time of day, considering I don’t weigh 200lbs and I don’t have a big bushy beard, and I take a shower every day.  

The best part of this bar, however, is the patrons.  These people are fucked up!  And I love it.  One time I saw a guy dressed head to toe in latex, wearing a dog mask.  I’ve seen people bound and gagged.  There’s a guy named Principal Bob, who goes around the bar with his paddle, spanking people (I’m up to a level 7 with his plexiglas paddle—yea bitches, now what?).  It’s like a fucking freak show in this place, and it’s hilarious.  The best part is wandering around, looking at all these macho men with their leather outfits and disgusting cigars, knowing that they are all, most likely, big power bottoms.  I got your game figured out, daddy.

Faultline has been called the Eagle, but with smiles.  It’s basically the same thing as the Eagle, but the customers don’t take themselves nearly as seriously.  That being said, this place is basically dying.  I used to do fire shows for a night there called Blender—and that was pretty much the only time I ever saw the bar even remotely packed.  It’s a great little venue, with an awesome outdoor area, but it’s usually really fucking boring.  They have bathrooms everywhere, which I love, and the bartenders are incredibly friendly. 

Last time I went to this bar, it was on a Wednesday, and apparently they turned Wednesdays at Faultline into Wednesdays at a sex club.  They turned off all the lights and turned down the music, and everyone was having sex everywhere.  I saw things that can’t be unseen, and I was touched in places that shouldn’t be touched in public—luckily, they have since stopped this nonsense, due to a raid by the FDA, or ABC, or MTV, or some other acronym.

The only exception to “Faultline is dying,” however, is Sunday.  They have, quite possibly, the busiest Sunday Beer Bust/Happy Hour out of all the gay bars in Los Angeles.  Apparently it’s amazing fun, with sexy shirtless guys getting all sorts of frisky, all over the place.  I’ve never gone, because I’ve worked every Sunday for the last 3 years or so.  But according to all the drunk whores that I talk to (or as I like to call them, “my friends”) it’s quite the place to be. 

And then there is MJ’s.  Now, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—I hate this place.  I had a really bad experience here a few years back with the owner, and I never got over that.  I’ve gone back since then, and it never seems to make sense.  The drinks seem incredibly overpriced; the dancers look like they either belong in West Hollywood, or a rehab facility.  Every time I try to pee in the stalls, there’s either a girl in there (what the hell are you doing here anyways?) or a bunch of guys doing coke.  They have weird performances and weird nights, and I get what they are trying to do, but ultimately, it seems like they just keep failing.  It’s like they are trying to fuse the Silverlake raunchy crowd with the West Hollywood coke whore crowd, and the two just don’t go well together.  Two bottoms do not make a top.

The big night to go to is Tuesdays, they call it Rim Job.  It used to be so busy that if you didn’t get there by 10pm, you might as well not bother trying to get in at all.  But from what I hear, it’s calmed down a bit, so you might stand a chance of getting in.  But overall, in my oh so humble opinion, it’s just not worth it to come here. 

I’m also going to give honorable mention to Akbar.  From what I can tell, they used to be a gay bar, but it’s not really gay anymore.  Every time I go, I have trouble finding another homo, other than myself.  It’s really just full of incredibly young and incredibly hip hipsters.  I mean, some of these people must spend HOURS getting their outfits on.  It’s really impressive to look at, but after 5 minutes, you kind of just feel like you’re at Urban Outfitters, and only you’re not allowed to touch anything.

Act your age, not your shoe size, girl.

Last week while I was working, I had to perform what I like to call, a hand check.  Basically, what that means, is that I saw two drunk guys getting hot and heavy at the bar, and I couldn’t see where their hands were, but I had a fairly certain guess.  So, me being the subtle and extremely kind bartender that I am, I yell out in my very butch voice “Hand check!”  And for some reason, every time I do this, the guys know exactly what I’m talking about, and everyone involved (yes, sometimes I have to perform a hand check on a group of inebriated homosexuals) lifts their hands up and backs away from the nether regions.  At least until I turn my back on them, and then it’s back to sticking it wherever they deem necessary.  Which can I just say, nasty?  I mean seriously, I’ve had guys stick their finger up some dudes bum, and then try to shake my hand.  Seriously.

Often times I have a customer who gets angry at me for telling him to stop pulling people’s dicks out, or they throw a tantrum when I tell them to get off the table, or they pout when I tell them to stop throwing ice cubes at people walking by on the street (if I’m not allowed to do it anymore, neither are you).  To which I usually respond “listen assclown, I’m not your fucking babysitter, you’re a grown ass man, quitting acting like a child.”  But the longer I work at a bar, the more I’m beginning to realize that I might be wrong.

            I’m starting to think that the bars are just a grown up version of recess.  The bartenders are just the teachers looking after the kids, and the police are the principals who send you to detention after school.

When I was a child (and that wasn’t too long ago), we played games during recess—tag, tetherball, chicken.  We’d play on the play structures, we’d swing, or in my case, I’d sit with the girls and hope I didn’t get asked to play basketball because I never understood how the game worked and the ball was about as big as me, so there was no way I was ever going to make a shot.  Sometimes I’d hunt for four-leaf clovers in the forest area behind my playground, and in retrospect that probably wasn’t the best place to let children go unsupervised.  Can we say stranger danger? 

But I digress.

Now that we wear big boy pants (ok, let’s be honest, I own some girl jeans, but they’re the only ones that I can find that fit, don’t judge me asshole) and have hair on our balls, we play grown-up games.  Instead of tag, we tag each other on Facebook.  Instead of stalking your crush across the playground, we stalk each other via Foursquare and Twitter. And playing chicken is what we call flirting.  Our play structures have been replaced with bars that have pool tables and dart boards, and the horribly wonderful high you get from too much candy and swinging until you’re sick has been replaced with shots of Patron. 

I don’t know about anyone else, but I had a horrible time in school.  I don’t understand the desire to go back to that time.  Everyone was so cruel, and thoughtless, and everything we worried about was really quite innocuous.  So why is it, that whenever we drink, we revert back to the less evolved version of ourselves?  We say some pretty awful things, and we do even worse.  And after we pass out, our not-so-restful slumber is quickly followed by regret and awkward apologies.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I mean, it’s one thing for me to stand behind the bar, relatively sober (in comparison to all you other bitches), and judge your immaturity, but it’s an entirely different animal when I’m not working.  After all, I’ve been there—we’ve all done some stupid shit. 

And while I might have learned the basics of basketball, as soon as I get asked to play a game with the cool kids, I still get shy and uncomfortable and go sit with my girls.  I always have an excellent excuse ready, just so that I don’t have to get naked in the locker room.  And I still hang out with people much older than me, because I get uncomfortable by people my own age—heaven forbid I try to relate to one of my peers. 

Maybe my desire to overcome my youth is so strong, that I overcompensate, and act like the one who has his shit together, when really all I’m doing is stumbling along through life, barely holding on to my sanity, just like everyone else.  And maybe most everyone else is so afraid of losing their youth, that they forget how wonderful it is to be an adult. 

And maybe we all need to remember that age and maturity don’t run parallel with each other.

And seriously, put your dicks away at the bar.  It’s weird.  Save that for the bathroom, or the car, or the bathhouse.

Or, even better, your bedroom.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse.

I ain't beyonce, you don't need to put a ring on it.

          So sometimes, we drink. And when we drink, we get drunk. And when we get drunk, we do some stupid shit. Or rather, we do stupid people. Now I'm not saying that after I have a few beers and shots in me, I turn into a total whore--but I know quite a few of you idiots who do. I mean really, you guys are fucking sluts! Kudos, I suppose, for being so comfortable with your body that you'll let pretty much anyone see your naked body, and then stick it in. Me, I'm one of those guys with body dysmorphic disorder--I think I'm hideous naked, even though I'm fucking skinny as shit. Luckily, I'm too lazy to do anything about it, like stop eating, or throw up, or even worse, exercise.
         
           But enough about my little ass. Let's talk about the horrible mistakes that we've all woken up next to.

           Sometimes, you just want a one night stand. No strings attached, no weirdness afterwards, and certainly no cuddling. I'd prefer it if I didn't even know your last name. If I save you in my phone, your last name will be how big your dick was, and what bar I met you at. I have a girlfriend who is exceptionally talented at finding these guys, and I often wish I could be her when I grow up. But alas, I, on the other hand, attract the freaks. It's like my special power (fuck that shit, I want to be able to move things with my mind).

          I hate to admit it, but I'm one of many who have woken up next to a guy, and thought "man, he looked a lot better when the lights were off, and I was hammered." You know, when you pretend to be too hungover to fool around, when you're actually hungover just enough to fool around. This is the guy that probably put something in your drink when you went to the bathroom--ok, you know he put something in your drink because you saw him do it, but figured it might be something fun, so you just went with it.

          Then you have the teases. The ones who give you blue balls over and over again, but give you just enough to keep you coming back for more. The ones who might give you a hand job in the bathroom at the bar, but just for a second, and then dissappear 10 minutes later, only to text you the next day going "where'd you go, I looked for you everywhere but couldn't find you!" These people are usually bartenders, like myself. I'd suggest going to Trunks, or Mickeys, if you'd like to find really good teases. I even have a few numbers for you, and if you'd like to go home alone and rub one out to Xtube, then I definetly suggest calling them.

          Oh, and what about the guys who you have an awesome connection with, and the sex is amazing, and you could really see it turning into something more than a "wham bam thank you ma'am." Then, after a week of really great blowjobs, you find out he's got a boyfriend. But don't worry, it's an "open relationship." Fuck that shit, I don't like to share. Maybe that's why I never had friends growing up. Whatever. But seriously, don't fucking be nice to me and flirt with me if you have a boyfriend. I aint no one's mistress.

          Or the guy who flirts with you all night long, and you might have even bought him a drink or two, you know, to impress him and make yourself feel like a big man. And then, when it gets time to get in the cab and do the nasty, he tells you how much he charges. Yea, that's classy. And, knock on wood, this has never happened to me, but I can't tell you how many times a customer has left with a cute boy, only to come back 5 minutes later, red in the face and horrified about the potential STD he almost had.

          Oh, oh, oh! And then there's the crackhead! They are awesome. You think they're just really excited about everything, but once you get them home they spend an hour in the bathroom doing crystal meth and cleaning your toilet. And somehow, even though you only left him alone for 2 minutes when you went to go get a glass of water, lube and a condom, he still manages to steal your wallet, passport, cell phone, social security number, and cat.

          My personal favorite, however, is the long term relationship guy. This is the guy who, after one night of drunken, sloppy sex, has already picked out his wedding dress. The one who, even though he's only had a handful of conversations with you, has decided that you are "different," or "special." Listen dude, you don't need to flatter me with compliments like that, just buy me a shot and I'm as good as yours. I'm a cheap hoe like that. This is the guy that really confuses me, because I like to think that we've all seen enough Real World, or The Hills, or Jersey Shore, to know that it's never a great idea to confuse one drunken hook up with a first "date." Yes, I know it can work out, I've even seen long term relationships come out of it (and by long term, I mean 3 months, and by relationship, I mean a 3 month drunken bender, followed by a DUI and court ordered AA meetings). But it's a rare and miraculous thing, like Asians with big dicks, or a unicorn.
          
          If I had a nickle for all the guys who've practically proposed to me within one week of meeting me, I'd have a quarter. That's like 5 guys. Y'all need to slow your roll. Don't plan your next trip to Cabo with me in mind. Don't even mention your family to me, and certainly don't mention me to your family. I pay for my own health insurance, please don't offer a domestic partnership so that I can get free dental (side note, if anyone actually ever offered that to me, I'd totally do it). And please, please, PLEASE, don't get all butt hurt when things just don't work out, and you realize the only connection we actually had was an afinity for Jager. I know I'm a great kisser (no seriously, I'm awesome), but put your grandma's wedding ring away, for the love of all things holy. Accept that I used you for my own pleasure, and take comfort in the fact that, undoubtedly, someone will do the exact same thing to me, very soon.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse