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.

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