Bartender Confidential

Who dun sung it better?

2013-08-14T10:15:00.003-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, my verdict?

Shame on you.

Shame on me.

Shame on all of us.

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

How to piss off your bartender, part 1.

2013-03-06T21:48:00.001-08:00

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

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

And you're still gonna drink it.

"Can you turn the music up?"

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

Dancing on the bar.

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

Helping yourself to my fruit.

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

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

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

"Can I get a Beer, and you?"

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

You got served?

2013-03-05T13:04:00.001-08:00

http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/opedcolumnists/you_got_served_J0xciA8V4GfJ55VsILSGxL

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

This is my response to this wonderful human being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So look forward to serving you again.

How to not be a douchebag!

2011-11-14T17:47:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-06-13T15:18:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-04-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-04-19T01:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-12T01:54:00.001-07:00

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!

2011-04-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-25T02:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-19T00:29:00.000-07:00

          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

Step away from the homo, girl.

2011-03-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

We've all seen them. We've all heard them. And yes, most of us have had one or two. No, I'm not talking about an average to large-sized asian dick (we know those don't exist). I'm talking about the fag hag. Sometimes they are called a fruit fly, or fairy god mother, or Dorothy, but mostly I just call them annoying.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the ladies (in a strictly, lets go get our faces painted on us at the Mac counter kind of way, not the lets go bump uglies kind of way). But all my lady friends have a life outside of the gay community--like, oh I don't know, straight men. And that's something I can get behind, because I like all my friends to be extremely sexual active (if not down right promiscuous), and you can't do that if you're hanging out with a bunch of queens who are terrified of your bleeding vag.

The fag hags come in many shapes and sizes (ok, usually they come in one size--severely overweight.), but after years of training, I have been able to pin point a couple different categories that they fall in.

First, you have the annoying girls who think they can turn their gay best friend straight. Which, on a very basic level, is extremely rude, suggesting that if I try hard enough, I'll actually want to stick my pecker in your hole. Not going to happen, sister from another mister. And trust me, I had a fag hag who loved to make out with me, to "teach me how to kiss better." Bitch, I know how to kiss like a fucking god--you just get wet everytime I do it, and want a little taste of my man nectar. I got your game figured out, girl. I like dick as much as you do, so go find your own and leave mine alone. You will never, ever turn a gay man straight. Just like you can't turn a straight man gay (unless they're really drunk, and then a hole's just a hole, right?) Stick to finding a man that isn't convinced that the vagina actually has teeth.

Next, we have the family member. Now bless your precious little hearts for supporting your gay son, or nephew, or brother. Really, it's awesome that you accept and embrace his sexuality, but here's the problem with going out to get drunk with your family--people act like fucking idiots when they get drunk. And no one wants to do that with their mom. Or worse, no one wants to babysit their mom, when they get drunk and end up throwing up all over the Ramada hotel room that they are staying at (not that that's ever happened to me). Or, you could have a crazy ass family like mine, who will kill a bitch if he so much as glances at me in the wrong way. I spend my night making sure no one dies in the line of fire. It's exhausting. Family, it's awesome to hang out with you, but let's leave the crazy black-out drunk saturday nights to the professionals, ok?

Finally, we have the fat chick. Now before any of you try to eat me, let me explain--most fag hags are fat chicks. Ok, maybe that didn't help my case. But it's true. Seriously, the reason being is that they have such low self-confidence that they think a straight guy will never find them attractive because they're so fat, so they hang around all the homosexuals because they are fulfilling two missing emotional puzzle pieces. One, they are around people who will still call you fabulous, even if you're a fatass. We'll still love you, because we think big boobies and curves are fantastic--plus we don't have to screw you, so we don't care what you look like naked. And secondly, you're still getting your fill of testosterone that I know y'all are craving. You might not be getting a dick up your baby maker like you really want, but you're surrounding yourself with them, which is really the next best thing.

Girl, put down the rainbow flag. Find yourself a nice sports bar, and locate a man who likes a fluffy chick. Try the black guys, they seem to love large women.

There might be more types, but I've used up my daily time I've alloted to thinking about ladies. And I'm going to a birthday party tonight for, you guessed it, a lady. So that'll have to do for now.

Back to thinking about penis.

Lord, I need a drink.

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Grand Finale.

2011-03-01T00:14:00.000-08:00

I think my most commonly asked question at work is “What’s fun to do tonight?” I usually try to respond with “me” or something similar. I mean, really, I would prefer if you stayed at my bar and threw your money at me. But I understand the need to wander. So, I’ve decided to do a bar review, of all the gay bars in the area. Every bar has a personality. It’s like being in high school. The Abbey would be one of those socialite kids that everyone thinks is perfect, but she’s secretly snorting cocaine out of her Jesus necklace. Motherlode would probably be that really fat art fag that, when he grows up, will be a little eccentric, but gorgeous. Rage is the jock who failed his senior year and had to be in high school for another year. Fiesta is the cool kid that everyone loves. Mickys is the cool kid that everyone’s afraid of.

You get the picture.

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the second part of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it. If not, get drunk and read it again.

******************************************************

No good EVER comes from going to Fubar. But hey, who’s honestly out in West Hollywood to do good? This place is dirty, it’s raunchy, and it’s usually so dark and packed that I can’t see a fucking thing. It takes me approximately 7 days to make my way from the front door to the bathroom in the back. And another week or so to get a drink. And, by the time I pee and get a beer, I’m so stressed out by the battle I just waged, that I need a cigarette, which means I have to make my way through that fucking crowd all over again. So basically, I chug my beer while I’m crowd surfing to the entrance, smoke my cigarette, and say fuck it all and stumble home.

That being said, the crazies tend to inhabit this bar—the gender fucks, the drag queens, the boys who look really sexy in black eyeliner and boots (you know who you are mister Mo-Hawk, you’re damn sexy, call me sometime, I promise I’m not stalking you, ok?). And I love crazies. On Mondays they always seem to have this trashy, coke-whore party that doesn’t get started until really late, and the freaks start stumbling in, looking horrible and fabulous at the same time. It’s fantastic. And of course, we can’t forget about Thursdays at Fubar—Big Fat Dick is what the night’s called, and it’s, well…actually, it’s kind of lame now. The dicks are getting smaller, and the trash is getting less trashy, and no one really wants that.

Eleven is one of those clubs that I secretly like, but pretend not to because I can’t afford to go there more often. It’s so beautiful inside; it’s my favorite space out of any bar I go to. I just imagine circus acts flying through the giant building—but they never do it, which is going to get them an angry email very soon, if they don’t listen to my suggestions. Not that I’ve ever talked to anyone who works there, but that’s not the point. They have an upstairs area that is fun and you can dance, and they have a gigantic staircase that you can strut up and down—and everyone knows how much I love stairs. That wasn’t sarcasm by the way, I really like stairs. I like elevators more, but that’s not the point. They also have a pool table upstairs, but I’ve only ever seen people have sex on it, never actually play it. That’s cool though, whatever floats your boat.

I have two complaints. First would be the bartenders, who tend to be incredibly rude to me. I mean for crying all night, don’t be a dick to the person who’s paying your rent. Just because you’re really pretty and spend a shit ton of time and money at the gym (aka getting pounded in the steam room), doesn’t mean you can’t treat a fellow ‘mo with a little respect. Ok?

And secondly, the bathroom. Am I the only one who gets so fucked up in there? They have mirrors all over the walls or some crazy shit, and I can’t tell how to get out once I get in, and sometimes I get trapped in the stalls because the doors are really heavy. It’s terribly confusing—like vaginas. And it’s terrifying—like vaginas. And you get sucked in and can’t find your way out—like vaginas.

Trunks has a long history in West Hollywood. I don’t really know what it is, and I don’t really care, but they have some really cute bartenders. And they are very flirty. And most of them are “straight,” meaning they’d probably let me touch their junk if I got them drunk. Which is probably why none of them drink much on the job. Pussys.

They really like pool at this bar—so much so, they have 2 pool tables. One table is just for the massive amount of Asians that are always at this bar, and the other is for all the old men who like to fondle the hairless Asian boys. Seriously, why don’t Asians have hair on their bodies? It’s weird. And why do they always seem to have a 6-pack? It’s not fair.

This place has carpet, and a vending machine, and a fucking miniature train running around the ceiling, and like 300 TV’s all around the tiny little bar. I don’t get any of that, but hey, I don’t like it when people judge my fetish for popping balloons, so I won’t judge their choice in decorations.

Anyways, they make their drinks so strong, it’s kind of obscene. I actually won’t drink a mixed drink there unless I specifically watch them pour it and tell them to stop before I get alcohol poisoning. But hey, a lot of people like to black out and make a cab driver stop 5 times while you puke on your way home (in my defense, I think I was drugged), and if this is your thing, Trunks is the place to do it without spending too much money.

PS, did anyone know that people ACTUALLY get off on popping balloons? Fucking crazy, right?

To every other bar I didn’t talk about, please be better. You’re boring, and don’t deserve an entry in my prestigious, high profile blog. You’re like those kids in high school who everyone knows but no one’s really friends with—your yearbooks are probably filled with generic “Have a Great Summer!!”

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Part 2.

2011-02-22T00:46:00.000-08:00

You get the picture.

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the second part of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it. If not, get drunk and read it again.

*****************************************************

What can I say about The Abbey? The drinks are so expensive that you basically have to have a credit score of 720 or higher to be served. And I’m pretty sure that you have to sign a form when you walk in that says something to the extent of “I hereby give you full custody of my soul, and I will forever worship you, my dark lord.”

This is the bar that you go to when you want to be seen, which is incredibly ironic because everyone looks exactly the same in there—like a bunch of queens with too much money and drugs on their hands. This is the place where you hope to see a D-list celebrity. This is the place you go to to be ignored by the ridiculously gorgeous wait staff. If you want to spend more money in an evening than I make in a week, then please, by all means, spend your evening at this bar.

That being said, wow is this place beautiful or what? I mean, come on, if I can just fag out for a minute, okay? It’s so pretty, I love almost everything about the space. And the one time I used to bathroom there, I was tickled pink by the bathroom service. And, I must say, as long as you’ve already promised them your first born son, you might as well check out their brunch—it’s, as the northern Californians say, “hella” fun. They have a great patio, and during the day you can scope out all sorts of sexy men that want absolutely nothing to do with you, unless you drive a fancy car or have a bag of cocaine in your pocket.

(By the way, if the owners of The Abbey ever came to me and offered me a job, I would eat my words faster than I eat my McDonalds, which is really fast. I bet those bartenders make a shit ton of money off all of those rich suckers.)

Here Bar is like that guy that you keep going out on dates with, hoping that he’ll get better, but really he’s just not that great in bed and doesn’t look so cute in the daylight. I keep going there, but I really don’t know why. It’s not all that much fun, and it tries to act like it’s The Abbey, but it’s really just mediocre. Their drinks are still too damn expensive, considering they make them so weak my grandma couldn’t get drunk there. The strippers look like they just weren’t quite good enough to be working at Mickeys. Sometimes they have a drag or comedy show or something like that, but every time I’ve gone to it, it’s so disorganized that you can literally hear the groans from all 5 people who they convinced to come see it.

They have a nice patio, but I almost always trip on those stupid steps, or hit my head on that fucking tree growing out of the middle of nowhere. Seriously, why the fuck is there a giant tree in the middle of the patio? Can’t they at least cut some of those low hanging branches or something? Jesus.

How is East West even open? Seriously, does anyone know? Anyone? I only go in there to pee when the lines at Trunks or Eleven are too long, because I know that I won’t have to wait in a line and the bathrooms make me feel like I’m in a secret underground lair. The only reason I’m even mentioning them is because the one time I’ve seen that place have anyone in it at all is when the lesbians took it over, and I don’t want to piss of the lesbians.

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Part 1.

2011-01-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

You get the picture.

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the beginning of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it. If not, get drunk and read it again.

**********************************************************

Motherlode is probably one of my favorite bars. I like the little smoking patios. They make me feel like I’m in a zoo. I haven’t been able to figure out who would be the caged animal—me, or the trannys walking the street. Very strong drinks, very large drinks, and surprisingly cheap. They usually play really, REALLY weird video clips on their TVs—I never know why they do it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that the place usually smells like pot. On Tuesday nights, it turns into a super ghetto hip-hop dance party, with so much fog from the fog machine that you can’t see who you’re making out with, which is usually a good thing. The bar staff is friendly, and they have a pool table—but no one seems to know how to play pool here, which is cool, I guess.

Whenever I’m there, I usually get a boner, because there’s lots of hot, easy guys. It’s a very diverse crowd, sometimes you get muscle daddies, sometimes you get twinks, and I even saw a lesbian there one time. We kicked her out though.

Before it burnt down, Mickys was a dark, dirty bar, full of trashy strippers. And mostly, it was FUN. I can’t even count the number of times I did something I wasn’t extremely proud of in there. Now it’s lit up like a fucking homosexual beacon. It’s so awkward to get groped and fondled and licked when everyone is watching you. It’s also awkward that the mostly naked gogo boys are dancing on the patio, while children are going next door to the yogurt shop.

That being said, I still usually have a pretty fun time. The “dancers” are, for the most part, very attractive, and fairly uninhibited (meaning, I don’t have to use my imagination to picture what their junk looks like, they usually just whip it out). I put dancers in quotes because a lot of them just stand there and rub themselves. The bartenders don’t seem to have any personalities at all, I think they might have bought them at Costco—but then again when the music is so loud that I can hear it when I’m at a live show at the Key Club on Sunset, they probably don’t have much opportunity to let their charming personalities shine. At least they’re pretty.

They also have a second level, though I don’t know what it’s used for. I think bar mitzvahs, maybe.

Fiesta Cantina used to be my go to bar. I was there 7 days a week. It was like my version of Cheers. And then I realized that it probably isn’t healthy (or financially responsible) to be drinking 7 nights a week, so I cut down. Still, I go back on occasion, and very little has changed. The staff are all ridiculously gorgeous, and are well aware of this fact. I hear rumors of bad service and major attitude problems, but everyone’s always nice to me when I go there—but then again, I pay in cash, and I tip really well. HINT HINT.

They always seem to have a decent sized crowd, despite the fact that the much snazzier Mickys is within spitting distance. One time I played beer pong upstairs. Completely unrelated, but it should be noted that I kicked ass.

They serve Mexican food, which is actually pretty damn good. One time I had too many of their endless taco Tuesday tacos, and ended up throwing them up when I got home. It might have also been all the margaritas. Their margaritas are delicious. And they are fantastic at subtly up selling the Patron.

Gold Coast is not quite the oldest bar in West Hollywood, but it’s damn close. And while other bars have kept up with the times (and kept the young crowds coming back), Gold Coast has enjoyed the 1980s for the past 30 years. Here you’ll find lots of older men getting their drank on, a hustler or 6, and some really, really odd bartenders. And if you’re looking for some extra entertainment, go out back and take a peek at Vaseline Alley—never a dull moment. There is a fierce liking for pool at this bar, and most of the people who play take the game a little too seriously. In fact, the only thing that people fight over more is probably the jukebox. You never know what’s going to be playing—it might be a Latino playing an hour of Spanish music, or a depressed old man playing 20 dollars worth of Barbara Streisand, or a drunk idiot playing Pokerface 10 times in a row.

Despite the severe lack of teeth, and deodorant, you’ll definitely have a good time at this bar. Everyone’s treated like family, and most people there really don’t take themselves too seriously. The drinks are awfully cheap, and extremely strong. It’s a great place to start out your night, and depending on how you look at it, an even better place to end your night.

Rage was once a place worth going to, now it’s generally a place to avoid. It caters to the 18-22 crowd (and the 80 year old men who love 18-22 twinks), so maybe that’s why I avoid the place like I avoid smelly people, or Jews. It’s filled with underage, overweight latin girls (or, “latinas”) who wear skinny bedazzled jeans from Wal-Mart. They wear too much perfume, are obsessed with Twilight and/or Justin Beiber, and usually puke outside of US Bank at the end of the night. This is fag hag central. I feel weird going there because I’m white, and I don’t live with my parents.

The only redeeming quality of this club is the black security guard who dresses like a cop. He’s been there for approximately 300 years, but he hasn’t aged a day—black don’t crack, yo. No one knows what he actually does there, or if he even works there, but he takes whatever his job is very seriously, which I can respect.

What your drink says about you, Part 2

2011-01-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

There’s an old saying that I once heard, “you are what you eat.” So, it would stand to reason that you are what you drink, as well. I hope it’s not entirely true, otherwise I am a giant monster made out of spaghetti and coca-cola. And last night I was a gelatinous blob of Jose Cuervo.

When I worked at Starbucks, I could usually tell what a customer was going to order based on their appearance. 14-year old black girls usually got caramel frappucinos with extra whip cream and extra caramel. Asians usually got green tea lattes. 50-year old skinny white ladies always got non-fat lattes. And anyone who came in without shoes or reeked of urine usually just wanted water.

Now I know, I know, this might be considered “profiling,” or “offensive.” But I think it should be called “genius” and “hilarious.” And, as I transitioned from the crazy loons addicted to coffee, to the crazy loons addicted to alcohol, I noticed that there are a few trends with the alcoholics as well. And so, I started compiling a list. It’s a “what your drink says about you” list.

If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it.

Or have another shot. It gets better when you’re drunk. Most things do.

Vodka Soda—this is the type of person that enjoys the taste of booze. Congratulations, sir, you are an alcoholic. You’re the guy who runs into the bar before his AA meeting and downs one of these because you know it won’t leave your breath smelling completely like alcohol. And then you run in after your meeting for a couple drinks before you have to head back to your sober living housing. Chew a lemon rind, it also helps with alcohol breath, you alchy.

Cuba Libre without a Lime—you’re an idiot.

Stella—you’re a fucking hipster. Your pants are too tight, and you’re wearing too much eyeliner. You just drink this because you think it makes you look cool. It doesn’t. Well, ok, it makes you look a little cool.

“Dark Beer” or “ale”—you’re probably from the Northwest, like Portland or Seattle. Or you think you’re too good for a bottle of Bud. Or you’re a lesbian. Probably a lesbian. Either way, you definitely own lots of flannel.

Anything that starts with Glen (Glenfiddich, Glenlivet)—get off your high horse. You’re at a bar, leave your fancy ass shit for your fancy dinner parties, you rich old man. I’m so happy that you like the finer things in life, but really, calm down. Either that, or you’re a fucking badass chick, and you probably have huge tits. Kudos to you ma’am, I hope you get laid tonight.

Wine—who the fuck orders wine at a bar? It doesn’t make you classy, especially if you can’t even pronounce whatever wine you are ordering correctly. Oh, and to the lady who orders a “white chardonnay,” THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A RED CHARDONNAY. YOU DON’T HAVE TO SPECIFY THE COLOR. And the “t” in “pinot” is silent. And finally, if you are ordering wine with ice…that just makes you an extra level of classy, now doesn’t it?

Champagne—hoooooooomo. You, sir, are a homosexual. Or it’s some birthday party, or bachelorette party, or some sort of celebration. But if you aren’t celebrating, and ordering champagne, you are a big, giant, homo.

(as a side note, I LOVE champagne.)

Water—just leave. What the fuck are you doing at a bar if you aren’t drinking? Go back to AA you quitter.

Jager Bomb—the only people who seem to order these are frat boys, and middle aged men trying to relive their glory days. Or me. Either way, maaaaan are you going to regret drinking that.

Belvedere Vodka—seriously? You’re too good for Grey Goose? You aren’t Chelsea Handler, you know you can’t taste the difference between this and Absolut, and you know you’re just ordering this to look cool. Too bad looking cool costs so much? Especially since you’re probably at one of those fancy bars, like the Abbey. Y’all can keep your Belvedere, I’ll stick with my Ketel One.

So there we have the next installment of my highly scientific, politically correct list. I hope this is of value to you all.

Class dismissed.

What your drink says about you, Part 1.

2011-01-13T01:39:00.001-08:00

If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it.

Or have another shot. It gets better when you’re drunk. Most things do.

Vodka Cranberry—you don’t really like the taste of alcohol, but you like to hang out with the cool kids so you drink this. Also applies to Rum and Cokes. Don’t ever order a “cape cod” without a lime, because then you’re being an idiot (bartenders, you know what I’m talking about).

Vodka Redbull—you’re probably a youngster who plans on dancing the night away, or you can’t hold your liquor well, so you hope the Redbull will balance you out and keep you going, but it really just makes you act like a crack head. Or you haven’t discovered the joys of cocaine, and you’re trying to keep up with your friends who go to the bathroom every five minutes and come out with renewed energy and a runny nose.

Bloody Mary—someone had a little too much to drink last night! Great way to get rid of a hangover. Should ONLY be ordered during the morning and/or lunch hours. If you order it at night, that’s just weird and you’re an asshole for making the bartender make something like that when he’s clearly busy. You know who you are, bastard.

Corona—Mexican.

Corona and a shot of Tequila—Mexican who can’t speak English.

Long Island Iced Tea—maybe it’s your 21^st birthday and you don’t know what is actually in it. Maybe you’re looking to play catch up with your drunk friends (not a good idea). Maybe you’re just trying to be cool because that’s the only drink you’ve ever heard of on TV. Either way, you’re an idiot, you’re going to get FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition), and you’re probably going to end up on the street puking (and if you’re a girl, you’ll probably be crying as well).

Any drink that is Blue—you’re probably black.

Frozen margaritas, or “slushies”—you’re probably black.

Hennessey—you’re definitely black.

Gin and Juice—black.

Gin and Tonic—no one should be ordering this unless they qualify for the senior citizen discount at the movie theater.

A beer and a shot—you are a professional drinker, sir. Good job, welcome to the club.

Cosmopolitan—STOP WATCHING SEX AND THE CITY, homo.

Sex on the Beach, or any other drink with a fancy name like that—if you don’t know what goes in your drink, don’t order it. You don’t sound cool when you order a “purple hooter,” you sound like a tool. And chances are, we’re just going to make up something on the spot and pretend it’s what you ordered, because you’re usually too drunk to notice at that point.

Large orders of really sweet, pretty shots—ladies, calm down. You aren’t hardcore for chugging lemon drops, and I don’t care if it’s a ladies night out on the town. And don’t order 8 shots and tip 2 dollars. And when you’re ordering rounds of shots, always ask the bartender if he wants one too, because he probably does—and after dealing with your bachelorette party, he probably needs one.

Martinis of any kind—you’re probably trying to look way classier than you are. And if your bartender is as lazy as I am, he’ll probably hate you for making him do all that extra work.

So there we have the start of my highly scientific, politically correct list. I hope this is of value to you all.

Class dismissed.

Lord, I need a drink.

Ho Ho Homo.

2010-12-27T23:09:00.000-08:00

After a delightfully morose Christmas day, I went to work, expecting little in terms of excitement. Little did I know that I was about to witness a Christmas miracle.

There was little activity for most of the night, and the usual suspects came in at the usual times. Overall, I wasn’t impressed with the evening—Santa didn’t bring me Orlando Bloom or David Beckham like he promised he would, and there wasn’t an Italian villa or Costa Rican summer home under the tree like I had requested, so I certainly wasn’t expecting a glorious evening after that level of disappointment (side note, Dear Santa—you suck.)

And then the Hustler arrived.

Yes, he was so impressive, he gets a capital “H.” Homeboy was running around, working his way around the crowd of, shall we say, impressionable older men. He openly professed to any and all that would listen that he was in fact straight (which is hustler lingo for “power bottom”). Three days earlier, I had told him that I didn’t like people hustling, and I didn’t really want him in the bar—but, as of yet, he hadn’t done anything to really warrant being kicked out, and most of the homo’s thought he was entertaining, so I let it be.

But tonight was different. He saw me working, and it was as if he had seen an angel—his words, not mine. For the rest of the night, he was enraptured with me. He couldn’t stop watching me, he couldn’t stop professing his love for me (at one point I told him he wasn’t allowed to say “I love you” until he truly understood what that meant, which made little impression, but needed to be said). He’d never seen anything like me before, he said. I have his terribly misspelled love notes on my refrigerator door. I was extremely flattered, but even more confused. After all, I was the one who told him I didn’t want him in my bar anymore. And yet, he stood there, and told me how he had been attracted to women until very recently, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to make of me, and lost out on many a client because of his infatuation with little ol’ me.

The more he drank, the more aggressive he got with his advances. Never once did he get dirty or rude, which was incredibly refreshing (I worked today and talked to a customer for less than 2 minutes before he was asking me how large my penis was). He begged me to give him a chance, he told me he would change his ways and be a better man. He gave him every bartender excuse I had in my book as to why I wouldn’t date him, but still he begged.

Was I witnessing a true Christmas miracle? Did my magical gay powers have the ability to turn a straight hustler into an upstanding homosexual citizen? Did Santa just have a wicked sense of humor, and send me a blessing in disguise?

Well, no. He ended up getting so drunk that he started screaming about how his father abused his sister, how he was a horrible fucked up person for being the hustler he was, and proceeded to try to take his clothes off and spill drinks all over people in the process. At which point, I told him it was probably time for him to go. And, after all of that, what did he say to me?

He wasn’t concerned if he got kicked out for good.

He wasn’t concerned if the police were coming.

He was concerned if I was mad at him.

I thought that was very sweet. I told him I wasn’t mad, but he probably shouldn’t come in for a while. And finally he left.

What impressed me most about this boy was his bravery, his honesty. He laid his feelings (however contrived, manipulative or fake they were) on the table with no cowardice. And that earned a lot of respect in my book, because as I looked around at many of the men in my bar, they were mocking him. They were laughing at him, they were completely lacking even an iota of compassion for someone who was scared, confused and in pain.

I think we could all learn a thing or two from this young (ok, he wasn’t so young) man. He wasn’t afraid to tell it like it was, even if those feelings were fleeting and surface—whereas most people I meet are so scared of the unknown that they won’t even come close to risking rejection, instead choosing to mock and scorn those of us who are still full of vitality.

I remember the first tingling of real, tangible sexual attraction towards another man. I remember the first time my heart yearned, the first time my soul genuinely connected with another. Do any of you? Do any of you still vibrate with giddiness at the anticipation of another’s touch?

Someone once told me that anticipation was half of the fun. It seems to me, even letting yourself anticipate something exciting is an act of bravery that so few are willing to risk.

I don’t expect that hustler to ever get his life together—I certainly hope he does, but I am a pragmatic individual. But he did help me remember that first tingle I got when I found something I knew, at the time, I couldn’t live without.

Can you remember?

Lord, I need a drink.

In The Air Tonight.

2010-12-13T22:41:00.001-08:00

I’ve always considered myself a fairly jaded person, but the longer I’m around all these old fags, the more I realize how much optimism I actually have. And despite the fact that I’m sitting here with a $7 bottle of White Zinfandel wine and a very large amount of food from Pizza Hut, I still have hope that my life will turn out just fine.

So many of my customers (and close friends, actually) seem to have given up on love, and I don’t understand why. I don’t usually call myself a romantic (I spend too much money on lube and too much time on sexual fantasies for that to be the case), but the world seems like a pretty sad place when you’ve given up on love. Success, money, power, fame, a large penis—all seem futile if you don’t have love and joy and passion to go along with it.

And, granted, most of my customers have years upon years of failure and disappointment that I have yet to attain—after all, my heart has only been broken a couple times, and my prostate is still healthy and I can still maintain an erection. Hell, one of my co-workers has been bartending longer than I have been alive. So, obviously I’m still young in comparison, and have many STD tests and prostate exams ahead of me before I become bitter and cold (just how I like my tequila).

Still, it’d be pretty interesting to take a poll of everyone I talk to, and see if they could pin point the exact moment that they gave up and caved into the cynicism and ennui of the world. When they stopped believing in love, and hope, and kindness.

I may not know what love is (although I think I have a pretty good idea), but I’m going to try my hardest to never give up on it. It’s simultaneously the most painful and most rewarding thing in the world. It takes a lot of bravery, and one thing I am not is a coward. Everything seems hollow without it some kind of love, without some kind of magic.

I overheard one of my customers say “I don’t believe in miracles anymore,” which made me want to cry. I didn’t, because I prefer to do that in the shower, alone, listening to Sarah McLachlan, like any other respectable homo. Still, I know I’m young, but given the job I have, I’ve seen a whole lot of horrible shit go down—and I still believe, that if I put enough energy and magic into myself, that maybe one day I’ll be able to fly like Peter Pan.

Maybe it’s just that time of the year (you know the time, when you get horrible stomach cramps from all the eggnog you drink, and you have to resist strangling those people from Salvation Army that won’t stop ringing their bells at the entrance to every store you go into). Christmas. Nevertheless, I turned to my oh-so-jaded customer, puffed up my chest like there was some authority behind what I was about to say, and said “the world is an awfully boring (and scary) place if you don’t believe in at least a little magic.”

Never stop believing in miracles, in love, in fairy tales. I see magic everyday—sometimes it’s just a little hard to find.

But it’s there. You just have to look, and believe.

Lord, I need a drink.

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

2010-12-04T00:22:00.000-08:00

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

Final Night.

After a few underwhelming days in New York, I decided to give my last day in this city another shot. And while most of my day had virtually nothing to do with the gay scene (until the end, which I will get to), my faith in this city was restored. I still don’t hold any glamorous views of what this city is—it’s just a big city with a lot to do. But I most definitely had fun doing it.

I started my day off with shopping. A lot. I bought shoes. A lot. And I bought clothes. A lot. And then, when I was done shopping, I went shopping again. And just when I thought I was done, I decided to shop again. It was glorious, decadent, opulent. And lots of fun.

After a full day of shopping—we’re talking 9am to 5pm (seriously, no joke)—I met up with my eccentric and wonderful younger cousin. We decided to go to a gay bar (Stonewall Inn) for a beer. She’d never gone, and I was thirsty. So off we went. It was during this little excursion that I realized I might not have given the gay community enough credit. I ran into a friend from LA before we even got to the bar. While at the bar, we were greeted by a homo or two who I had met at some point during my stay. And as we were leaving, we ran into yet another person who was familiar with my homoland.

All of this was a little surprising to my wonderful cousin—after all, I had just been complaining about the lack of community within the gay New York scene. As she noted, I had been recognized and greeted by more people in a 30 minute period of walking around the West Village, then she gets greeted in any neighborhood she belongs to. And she lives here! So, perhaps, I was wrong. I’m not entirely sure. But I’m willing to compromise, and suggest that maybe the gay community is just like a New Yorker—hard on the outside, but once you stop them and make them notice you, they are really quite kind, compassionate and helpful.

As a side note, after we left the bar, my cousin invited a complete stranger to eat dinner with us because he looked lost and she thought he was following us. This embarrassingly shy and awkward 18 year old happened to be Robin Wright’s nephew. Yes, as in The Princess Bride. As in one of my all-time favorite movies. So thank you Nora, for lessoning the degrees of separation between me and that movie. Keep being weird, girl.

My evening ended back at the Stonewall Inn, where I spent nearly 3 hours being immensely entertained by a show of truly epic proportions. I will keep the hilarious details to myself, because they feel like special memories to cherish and keep to myself, but to give you a hint: A drag queen dressed as Mary Poppins. Spontaneous dance numbers and live singing that put Glee to shame. And 3 hours where every single person had a smile on their face.

You done good New York. You done real good.

An attempt at a slightly anthropological study of the gay bar scene in NY, part 2.

2010-12-01T14:34:00.000-08:00

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

Night 2.

I decided to learn from my mistakes from the previous evening and not venture out to a bar until a little later in the evening—which didn’t help me in the slightest. In fact, by the time I made it back to my hotel, it was still only 1 am, and I was even more drunk than when I managed to stay out until 3 am. But I digress.

My first night in New York, I checked out the West and East Villages. This night, I decided to check out Chelsea, and see what the vibe was like. Specifically, I wanted to see how the Eagle and Gym Bar compared to their counterparts in LA.

Let me start with the Eagle. The whole bear/leather/fetish movement was started as a way for people who felt or looked different to be accepted. The outcasts, the overweight, the freaks created a sub-community that welcomed all who didn’t fit the “gay stereotype.” They raised their inner freak flag proudly, so to speak.

So, I found it incredibly disgusting that when I went to a place that was originally founded as a safe haven for those who felt like outcasts, I was treated like dirt. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to step foot in their sacred temple of debauchery and raunch. Because I’m not overweight, because I have a “cute” face, because I don’t smoke a cigar or have semen covering my face, I don’t belong. The door guy couldn’t be bothered to get off his cell phone while he was checking my ID. The first bartender (on floor 1) I went to acted like getting me a beer was, quite possibly, the most insulting thing I could have asked him. And then, while I was still sitting at the bar (alone), he turned off all the lights—apparently that floor was now closed, and shame on me for not knowing. As soon as I walked out onto the smoking patio (where they were apparently having a cigar party), I was greeted with silence and condescending smirks. I managed to hold a conversation with one bartender on the 2^nd floor for a minute, but I really, REALLY had to work at it.

And for the record, I didn’t sashay in wearing a pink top hat. I had leather boots, a leather jacket, and leather gloves on. I wasn’t parading around, flaunting my apparently abhorrent life choices (safe sex, no drugs, showering) –I was just trying to fit in.

Shame on you Eagle. For a community that was originally founded by outcasts and those that didn’t belong, you have certainly created a level of discrimination that rivals a straight man’s fear of homosexuality.

From the Eagle, I walked over to Rawhide. There I was much more welcomed, despite the fact that it’s a fairly similar clientele. I met a delicious bear of a man, and he and his friend were incredibly welcoming. He described himself as a “glamour bear,” which I thought was fantastic. We chatted about all sorts of stuff, and made me feel like I was accepted in this silly place. They also agreed that there is a distinct level of segregation within the gay community in New York. Because all the bars are spread so far apart, there isn’t a real sense of community like there is in LA. While there is a tenuous thread of continuity throughout Manhattan, there isn’t a real sense of “gay culture” here. There is, however, a distinct “I am a New Yorker” culture, whereas in LA, you don’t get the same level of pride for the city itself.

They also mentioned that there isn’t nearly as much social responsibility on the east coast as there is on the west coast. I am leaning towards agreeing with them.

Gym Bar was by far the most crowded (and spacious) place that I went to, with maybe 20 people in there at the time. Which, I guess was good for a Tuesday. Unfortunately, I was too drunk to stay long, and didn’t see anything worth staying for.

I believe night 3 will be spent away from the bars; my liver is trying to keep me in check. But you never know, I might tell it to shut the hell up and deal.

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

2010-11-30T09:18:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-11-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-15T13:24:00.000-08:00

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