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?
            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 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. 

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.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

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.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

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.