Friday, December 31, 2010

My holiday hangover tips!

I tried creating a link to the page but for some reason i can't, so check it out at :

Copy of Article from Gay Cities Travel Blog:

Jewish funny-man bartender Yuri Kagan knows that drinking with the gays can end up as the worst kind of joke the morning after. The stand up comic is found most often tending to the ilk of well-spirited gays at San Francisco’s groovy Blackbird Bar, and is an alum at mega-twink tourist trap Badlands. We caught up with Kagan, who shared some tips for dealing with your soon-to-come holiday hangover.
Yuri Kagan recommends:
1. Keep drinking; No one likes a quitter.
2. Waking up next to someone you don’t remember meeting instantly cures or at least delays any hangover.
3. In Ireland it was said that the cure for a hangover is to bury the ailing person up to the neck in moist river sand. If you don’t have moist river sand handy, just bury them in disappointment and guilt. Ask any Jewish or Catholic friend how this works.
4. Ride a bus in any major city. This alone should kill that hangover instantly by making you reach for that vodka flask you hid in your jacket pocket.
5. Hydrate, hydrate, and hydrate, especially with a Mimosa breakfast.
6. Hangout with Lindsey Lohan. After hanging out with that mess, anyone will feel better about their life.
7. Watch E True Hollywood Story for a mandatory four hours, followed by drinking an entire pot of coffee and eating your hangover away. If the coffee doesn’t do it, you may in fact be dead inside.
8. Have a Bloody Mary–or five.
9. Look at yourself under any florescent light. The horror of it all will help you come to your senses quickly.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

One of my Fav. Marga Gomez bits!

If you are in San Francisco and free on New Years Eve, check out the Marga Gomez NYE Spectacular!
Here is a phone number to call for tickets: 1800 838 3006

Happy Birthday Tracy Ullman

Kanye, Go away already

When will Kanye come back with an actually good song?

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Story 9, (edited and resposted) part 2

It’s morning now. I just woke up with the taste of last night in my cotton mouthed-face, on the couch of a living room that I can’t recall, alone in yesterday’s cloths. My shirt is on the ground for some reason and covered in the smell of puke. I think I’m in the apartment from the night before. There is that powdered sugar plate which is now empty on the coffee table in front of me, next to a bullet looking thing that kind of looks like one of those magnifying glasses used to look at jewels. I am hugging my favorite black hoodie like it’s a lover and have some strange cat, who has set up shop on my thigh. I have no recollection of how I came to be here shirtless, alone and on some strange couch. I left shirtless in my hoody with the taste of vomit and moth-balls in my mouth. On my way to the bus, being in San Francisco’s wonderful Lower Haight, I stop by Walgreens to get the usual hangover treatment of pepto, gatoraid and mints. While eclectic, I hear this isn’t always the best part of town. This particular part of the Lower Haight area happens to currently be peppered with cracked out homeless people and recovering hippies that took one too many doses. These people are the hippies who haven’t sold out, end up in corporate America or as Whole Foods junkies.

Once inside, the maze of aisles again, I am reminded of the night’s events with one burp. That burps makes me realize that I am, a still astonishingly drunk chemistry lab, ready to explode everywhere. Once I have the Wallgreens version of Gatorade, in hand, peptobizmuf, mints and random crap that I find near the register, I am ready to get going. As I get to the register the clerk looks me straight in the eyes. It’s as though she is looking into my soul. It’s freaking me out. She looked like she has seen a ghost. She mutters, the amount I owe and then says in a stern tone “Ya’ll best be safe out there. Take care of yourself.” I don’t get what she was talking about, pop open the drink in hand and ran to approaching bus right outside.

Once I walk into my apartment, my mother calls that instant. Being a good boy, I answer because I am like many gay men, a self-admitted momma’s boy. She asks me about the upcoming holiday plans and I then confirmed that I am coming. By the third step into the apartment I can feel a grumbling in my gut. I burp and tell my mom I have to go, hang up on her and run straight to the bathroom. I puke all over the bathtub because that is the first thing I see when entering the bathroom. I turn around the sink and begin to wash my face, brush the sins off and put a clean taste in my mouth. As I looked in the mirror, I realized how fucked up I look. My eyes are met with purplish-bags and my cheeks are pale and flushed at the same time. My skin has this off grayish hew. Within seconds of seeing this horrid vision that I am trying to wash away, I feel the grumble again and end up hugging the toilet bowl as though it’s a long lover and puking.

This morning, being is more brutal than any I have seen since the 9th grade. It’s like I’m fourteen years old all over again. I am more hungover than I was the first time I got drunk enough to puke all over the Denny’s bathroom. Like that faithful New Years eve, last night I drank every alcoholic type of beverage within site to show I could roll. Unlike that New Year’s I did not professing my love to my best friend who would later be my girlfriend and then become my best fag hag and smoke 10 cigarettes in 1 sitting because I could. So much has changed, yet so little. Like then, I am just a small fish in a big pond, learning to be me in just another coming of age story.

Story 9 (Edited and reposted again), part 1

It’s about 6 months now that I have been working there, about 5 months since I have enjoyed the peace of a weekend and the world of the living. My life is now all about "school" (at least that is what I tell myself), going out, meeting guys and working at bar. Actually, it’s less about school and more about everything else. My waist is about 2 inches smaller now. I have contact lenses now and am rarely seen in those clunky glasses buddy holly glasses that are windows into my boring, snoozer of a past life. Life seems to be getting more confusing, while are the same time, it’s starting to make more sense. I now wear a size medium tee shirt at work, which I have cut the sleeves off of. For many this may be no big deal. For me this is a major step for me. I am the same guy who has always avoided showing off my body because I have never been at that comfort level. My hair now is also 4-inches shorter and well groomed. I fear that I will soon start looking like one of the guys from that lame “Queer Eye For the Straight Guy” show.

It’s three weeks before Thanksgiving and I want to go visit my mother who has just moved to the lovely state of Texas, a place I really know nothing about. I am from San Diego, which seems to be a very different place. All I do know is that Texas is a red state. Why would I go to a red state? For this reason alone, I have no interest in the place and I imagine my family to be of the only Jews who are calling that state home.

I write down my request in letter-form to the boss, which I am told to set in his mailbox because there really isn’t anyone to talk to about this. The odd thing is that I have been there 6 months already and have yet to really meet or see the owner Phil since I got this job. He is like Charlie from “Charlie’s Angels,” only to be known via telephone conversation, through other coworkers or through notes he mysteriously leaves on our time cards. In the note I nicely ask for Thanksgiving off and tell him that I will though be available for other holidays. Then, as I am writing my time off request, there is Aaron a few feet behind me staring at himself through a mirror we have perched above the time clock. He is putting on his usual Spackle routine of eye cream, powder and a sheer gloss. Aaron’s routine of getting ready for work is much like that of a show girl’s in the old movies, powder and a mirror with a lot of lights. He then glances over my shoulder to see what I am writing. I hate when people glance over my shoulder it makes me as uneasy as when you’re driving and notice a cop behind you, and even though your doing nothing wrong, you feel like you’re going to get busted for something. Aaron proceeds to fill me in and explains that“daddy” may not like me taking off on a major holiday. Aaron then explains how I could easily get fired for the request alone because I am inconveniencing him. Another possible outcome apparently is that he could simply make it hard for me later, with bad shifts or no shifts. The way he warns me, it comes off so unreal, as though my life is now destined to be under the thumb and of Phil who will guide my future’s fate. The way people describe Phil is almost as though he is the god father. The amount that my coworkers fear Phil’s wrath is immeasurable and hard to put into words. He has this power over many of us that I just can’t figure out.

A week later, on a Sunday night I had finish working happy hour and decide to then stay out for one drink. One thing about working in a bar is the second you are off the clock, everyone wants to get u loaded. Keeping this in mind, one drink soon turns to shot, after shot, random drink, after random drink. I was about an hour and a half into my night, I am happily trashed when I bumped into a group of my coworkers who are seemingly equally obliterated. Since they find me at our bar, we all decide that it’s Jagger Bomb time. Whoever thought up the idea of Jagger bombs, should be shot. It’s a almost as evil a concoction as a Long Island Iced Tea. It’s at this point when I know I’m going to be sick from this, but decide to keep going because I’m young and stupid. Soon we are off. This is where my night normally ends. Tonight this is where my night just begins. We hop from bar to bar. They all start to blend together and really after a while all the drinks taste the same. The one thing I can remember is that it’s like going out with celebrities. These guys get us the best drinks, set our group in the best locations and always tip like money was toilet paper. I have never seen money used so frivolously. I am someone raised by immigrants who actually came to the U.S. as refugees, spending money so casually like it’s nothing astonishes me.
By the end of the night/the beginning of the morning, our group has thinned out. We end up at someone’s house, I’m not exactly sure who’s, maybe Johnny’s. Whoever’s home it is, he has and entire bar set up in their kitchen. In my drunken stooper I can’t tell how and when we had left the bar and how we are now at someone’s at-home bar. This is the first time I have ever been smashed with these guys. It’s odd to be this fucked up with co-workers around. Is this standard? By this point I am so drunk that I can’t exactly remember how long I have been in this person’s apartment.

I find myself staring at this beautiful, blue tequila bottle and listening to some random dude chatting into my ear who’s name escapes me cause he is obviously so memorable. Is I am staring at the bottle, I can see my horrid reflection in it. It’s at the point in the night when your own reflection begins to look scary. It’s like I am in a trance, “snap out of it girl, I got some frosted flakes!” He passes me this plate that looks like it’s covered with powdered sugar. I am not known for passing up stuff with powdered sugar. I am not really sure what’s going on so I take my finger to the plate of powder then wipe it on my tongue and gums. This isn’t the kind of sugar I am used to. I pass the plate on. Aaron then says, “look boys touch of the gums, like a pro.” My entire mouth is numb, the sensation is uncomfortable while euphoric at the same time. I feel like a mess inside, yet I for some reason can’t stop smiling. I watch as they pass around this magical hors d'oeuvres. They keep passing around a bowl, while James played bartender and puts on some pop music selections off of his ipod. I can’t tell how long I have been there, although I feel really chipper now. James keeps topping off my glass while calling me stud. As James fills my glass for the millionth time, Paulo in his Latino gay accent says, “I heard that princesss is taking Thankssssgiving off, ha, nice working with you babe.” He then gives me a hug and a playful peck on the cheek.

(to be continued)

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Don't flater yourself. No gay wants any of that. What do you say about the straight Sodemites? It's okay if she lets you?

DADT, Who doesn't shower with a homosexual? How is this an issue? When the opposition gets to a real issue, let me know.

The response to this question is great. Do they expect the showers to turn into an episode of Oz? (i always would tune in as a kid for the shower scenes and then change the channel when anyone would come by, the way any glitter-blooded boy would).

Christmas time for the Jews :)

Story 8 (Edited and reposted, again)

Now I’m about 10 pounds lighter. My jeans have lost 1-inch on the waist. I still keep the sleeves on my work shirt even though no one else does at work. Keeping the sleeves on your shirts here is like being the guy who goes swimming with a t-shirt on with a bathing suit. It just looks out of place. I was at one point in my life that chubby kid that did this just because I thought that would keep people from focusing on my chub boy-bitch-tits or what my cousin Nicole calledmy “pleasantly plump” exterior. Many of my hotter, less inhibited, limber, more fit coworkers cut off the sleeves of their shirts to make themselves feel like they are sexier. When they stick to the appropriate size shirt, the action of cutting the sleeves does actually make them look better, but when they don’t…. It looks like sausages squeezing out of a tiny trash bag. I actually also just bought my first pair of Diesel jeans today, also known as gay man jeans. Actually, they are from a local thrift shop where I found them for just $10 because they have a pen stain on the crotch area, but I don’t mind the staring... It's the boost of confidence every young man needs to start their day with.

For the past couple weeks I keep getting scheduled shifts with this guy Jose. He is becoming a good friend. He is also my only real ally at work. This guy is fascinating to say the least. This boy is about 2 inches taller than me, making him somewhere around 5’10. He is one of those gay boys with perfectly plucked-eye brows, the kind that simply add to the botox look on his haggered 23-year old face. He is Latina eye-browes that have a bit of a drag queen meets cholo/greaser look that they bring to his face blank, glazed-over face. He is perfectly androgynous, spews overt sexuality, which adds to his mystique. He never allows his emotions to be seen, so it seems. This guy is always ready to give anyone a show. He has a whole bunch of tattoos that tell his story. His story is tough, shitty upbringing, the type of guy who has nothing good to say or at least the story he wants to people to believe.

Jose and I are about a month into being “friends.” Hanging out with him is like watching that lame Anna Nicole Smith reality show was. You want to not like the show, but after a while, you realize you have been watching for hours and don’t realize how much time you spend together. Like any friendship it’s still new and I am still trying to figure out if it’s just a part of some larger game connected to the bar. Is he really my friend, an ally or just someone with a good game face? Ricky, the little Chinese guy pulls me aside the yesterday and day to tells me that I should watch out for Jose. According to Ricky, he feels “that Buddah have evil plans for Jose.” I write off what he is telling me such utter nonsense, so I ignore this whole concept. Jose and I get oddly close by the virtue of the fact that we both like similar things. We both like to go out, have fun and are stuck living on the schedule of the bar. This job puts us both on the vampire schedule, which is fine because I too ignite in the sun. When one finishes work at 4am what is there to do? I am in school still. Any time I am free, not working and probably should be doing homework, everyone else is sleeping or it’s the middle of the day and they are working. They are on the schedule “of the living” so we call it.

While I am new to the scene, Jose is one of those people who acts like he knows everyone and everything. Whether this is true or not, I don’t know. I assume that he has been around the block a few times in his day at the ripe-old age of 23 by the way he acts and holds himself. I assume that he has been around because of all the different types of men who approach him when where are out and about. He is the type of guy that can go to a club and for some reason get everyone to fall in love with him. He has already worked at bars for a while. Maybe this is how they know him? Not from sleeping around, but more so from working in the neighborhood or most likely a bit of both. This guy is always ready to be the life of the party, and if that isn’t the case he will bring the party to wherever he is. He is also one of those guys always ready to fight anyone who gets in the way of his party life. By ready, I mean he essentially is Marty McFly waiting for someone to call him chicken so he can tear some shit up. He is a bi-polar mix of a down to earth, relaxed guy and absolute outraged hostility. It’s okay though. In my case it seems to work well. It’s like having a styled, male, Chola, personal bodyguard wherever I go. Within seconds he can go from chill to breaking bear bottles on any bully’s head. I love the security I feel in that regard.

Being the responsible guy I have always been, its odd to spend time with someone who doesn’t think about the next step. Jose lives in the moment, something I know nothing about, everything I do is as planned and thought through as a TV guide. I admire how he can just let go and have this unexplainable freedom of not thinking about tomorrow. The truth is that this is because his tomorrow is never certain. He is on the run from his baggage of problems that will eventually catch up with him. He is all about the now and in the moment. While I can see the problems associated with this train of thought, I can also feel the refreshing breeze of this concept. It’s a life of freedom from the stressful world I currently live in. It’s an escape from our problems and inadequacies. He seems to live life without responsibilities of any kind. I can’t understand it. He seems to have never learned the concept that with every move there is a reaction and vice verse. With him there are just moves, the reactions are not his problem or at least that is how he carries on. We are grown men in our early who are from “broken,” single-parent households. We are the guys they make specials about on Dateline. His story will feature one about him in prison for something stupid, like starting a fight at Sephora. Mine will be for starting from nothing and now having it all. We both have currently though, take care of ourselves as we have our whole lives. Maybe that is why we have a soft spot for each other? We both seem to understand the other’s struggle. While they are different, they are very much the same. He will never let anyone know this though. He is a very thick skinned-poker face type of guy.

Jose is a guy who always has the money and time to party. Always ready with a little bit of weed and cash on him. Always dressed in expensive jeans and designer crap that he buys the same day in cash, he is always ready to impress. In retrospect, I don't think he could be a hooker, but wouldn't be surprised. He never seems to think about tomorrow, just about now. It’s amazing how he can just shut out the fears of tomorrow’s failures.
Our first time I out, is also my first Gay Pride. This was a few weeks into being at the Labyrinth. That Saturday, also infamously known as “Pink Saturday.” It’s like Marti gras in New Orleans. Jose somehow has the day off. Me being new to this game, I don’t really get the big deal of this gay pride crap. At 9 o’clock, I am off. As I punch my time card out, all of a sudden Jose is there, out of nowhere. It is as though he had just materialized from thin air. He pulls me by the arm and says, “I got a blizie in one pocket and another full of cash, we are gonna have some fun tonight.”

Within seconds, we are pounding shots at the first bar tending station of the bar. Shot after shot, they all are blurring together. Before the liquor sets in, Jose pulls me out into the street which now was filled with men, women, glitter, bowas, drag queens, trannies, clothing is now optional. At least that is how the crowd looks. There are DJ-vans set up everywhere and the streets are now blocked off. As Jose is pulling on my arm with one hand, the other is grabbing every ass of every hot guy he sees. It is the same way elderly people use railing to help themselves down stairs. He uses the asses to lead his way into the crowd. Out of nowhere he hands me a little blunt. We are right in the center of it all and smoking pot. I am amazed at how nonchalant he is. The carefree spirit is something I don’t really know how to embrace. I don’t know how to be as free as Jose looks. I turn to hand Jose back his blunt and he is making out with 3 random dudes at the same time. They are for some reason, dressed as angels and covered in glitter. I turn to my other side and there are naked lesbian on stilts who are tapping heads that they pass by to gain balance. They are wandering muffs out, tits bouncing. Now I was am so stoned that I don’t realize I am full on watching the Jose show as though it’s late night HBO and I’m 13 years old.

Eventually Jose and I end up drinking some booze with some shirtless lesbians we have just met minutes prior. While I am gay, i can't help but stare at a great pear of tits, I mean, they are called fun-bags for a reason. Luckily, none of these lesbians have nice tits. Their boobs look more like runny eggs from years of telling the "man" to fuck off and not wearing bras.
It’s interesting to watch how Jose can work people. He knows what he is doing most of the time and if he doesn’t, he looks like it. He appears to be very good at manipulating things to go his way. Jose plays the whole gay boy card where he starts complimenting one of the girls on her makeup and the other on how perky her tits are. Such simple, stupid compliments and they work. These girls eat it up like cheesecake. He then asks if he could buy a beer from them. He ends up taking their whole box of MGDs, hands me 2 and then handing them $40.

We end up with the lesbians at some house party a few blocks from the “Pink Saturday” aftermath. This party is much like a San Diego State Frat party, but instead of bro-men, it’s full of lesbians of all walks. Then again I turned around and Jose is making out with some old daddy-man with a big beard who looks like he could crush skinny little Jose. I then realize that man is an ex-woman, a Female to Male. I notice this when Jose peels himself of the dude. Jose then takes out of his magical pocket yet another blunt. That pocket is like Mary Poppin’s bag, it keeps magically giving us more blunts. His pocket must be filled with them. Jose then looks right past the man/woman as though they have never met and takes an un-opened MGD he finds on a near by coffee table.

Jose comes up to find me engaged in a conversation with one of ladies. She has the most beautiful dreads that I have ever seen. I am so drunk that I am staring at it like it is the meaning of life. Her hair is blonde with natural copper highlights. We are talking about how we both had realize that we both loved PBR and living in San Francisco. We both had decide that we must become best friends right then and there. She starts talking about the Middle East, Gaza, politics, and of course peace. I hate when SF hippies start yapping about politics if they have no idea what the hell they are rambling about. Then Jose jumps into the conversation. He literally stands right between myself, the lovely girl who I am now best friends with for the moment. He then starts talking about how pretty the girl is. He tells her that her hair was so pretty, but looks a bit damaged. I thought think to myself how odd to say something like that in a backhanded compliment the way he is saying it. He then says,“this place is tired, I’m out.” Within seconds he was gone. Just as he so quickly materialized earlier in the night, he is now out of site all of a sudden. Before I know it, I wake up safe and sound in my bed some time hours later. I am still clothed, covered in the smell of smoke, pot and booze all rolled into one. I am just confused and unsure of the night’s events. I am sure though that this is a night I will remember.

Monday, December 20, 2010

When people say "Happy Holidays" to you, they are really saying "Merry Christmas."

When people say "Happy Holidays" to you, they are really saying "Merry Christmas." Lets keep it real people. Being that I am a Jew both ethnically and culturally, there are many things that I don't get about the Christmas Season. For some reason people feel compelled to be politically correct and use the term "holidays" to make sure that every group feels included when the truth is, we aren't. Gentiles, sorry to break it to you but Channukah, however you spell it, has been over for weeks at this point. It also is to jews equal to president's day for Americans (some may celebrate it, but if you changed the date it fell on, no one would notice). It's not in the least a major Jew day, nor is it equal to Christmas. I do though have a spot for Christmas in my yidishy heart, don't get me wrong. It's a great time to enjoy booze, Chinese food and of course the movies.

Another thing I don't get about Christmas is the Nog. I had it for the first time about a year ago. Who thought of combining alcohol, eggs, sugar, cream and nutmeg? While it isn't the worst drink ever, you may as well ask someone to stick their finger down your throat. I do though like any excuse to drink and eat. For this reason I enjoy the holiday season. I do though being a doggy bag with me to most xmas parties cause well I'm Jewish... more commentary to come soon....

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Story 7 Part 2 (Edited and reposted again)

The Broadway gym is the one and only place were my father seems to feel at ease, something that will take me years to understand. He is always worried about life’s daily struggles, money, his relationships, possible mistakes of the present and past, the list goes on. This is the only place where he has real control of his life. As an adult I can still clearly remember him making me go with him so that I could “watch him workout”. This is similar to the episode of the “Simpsons” where Homer makes Bart look at the Virginia Slims ad for hours to make him feel more machesmo-ish. The gym is his way of showing me how men are supposed to be. Even though my dad always tries to be close to me, we never really connect in the way he hopes. The gym though is his time to show me his concept masculinity and tries to extend it as a role model. While I couldn’t grasp this concept as a child, now I understand the point of watching him box with other beefy men, beating eachother’s brains out. Mostly, it just made me want a beefy, sweaty man of my own to play with, but that is not really the point. Boxing proved to be just another one of life’s million games where men work on proving who has the bigger balls. Boxing though, seems more interesting and more skillful than other games of this nature. It’s definitely more interesting than watching a guy show off their ridiculous sports car. At least with boxing, you can the only person the boxer can blame for getting beat up is himself.

I will always remember my father in this specific way. Him rolling up to the Broadway gym while blairing his hip-hop or hard gangsta’ rap, loud enough for people to hear he was coming. As he would get out of the car, he of course then takes out a Bensin Ultra-Light, his cigarette of choice. Maybe swig a sip of water, which in his case was always a coke or seven-up and then ask me to grab. I am always about 2 feet behind him like a golf-cattie carrying his bag. An ironic side-note about Russian immigrants, incase one has never had the delight of being raised by them as I have. All the families like us that I know, they always refer to sodas of any kind as water. Generally, drinking pure, crystal-clear water is considered unusual. Even plain water would have alca-seltzerish bubbles simply because that’s what they are us to from the motherland that treat them like prisoners, but we digress.

As a child, I have no clue that the Broadway Gym is in the city of Compton and known for being a bad area. This is my dad’s version of a country club, so I never really think about it. While he looks like the odd man out there to most onlookers, it is here that he feels he belongs. As he puts out his cigarette on his shoe, my dad’s voice drops 3 octives lower and he then begins to swagger, much like JJ on “Good Times” or LLCool J. He then grabs my hand and is greet by this big bald black man who goes by the name B-bell. He is about 35 years older than, and balding like my young father. The few hairs on his head, are grey and slicked down so much that the wind can’t make a dent. This man always treats me like I was his own grandchild. As a child he always has handed me a jump rope and treated me like I was training for the Olympics or a big Vegas fight. B, is an ex-famous boxer, friends with the greats during the time of Ali and the “rumble in the jungle.” His place here is to be the mentor for up and coming boxers and those who need fatherly guidance. He is like the trainer from “Rocky.” He even has a slightly east coasterly way of talking. He is a father to the fatherless of Compton’s Broadway gym.

In this gym they have these rows of seats, much like the benches one may see in church, which was perfect since this was my dad’s church. I will always remember sitting there, watching my dad going back and forth, between punching 2 different bags, one the size of a human, and the other, a little one above his head, he seems happier than I have ever seen him. This is his time to show off and be proud. He always waits for me to look over and applaud. Every now and again he will stop and chat with someone about old fighting-scars from knife fights and so-on, but that again is his way of showing me what he thinks men do. Fights, exaggerated talk about sex and making fun of those who can’t get it. In between these conversations, he then looks up to see that I am still happily watching him. He then tells whoever he was talking to, that I am there to watch and soon will start to spar myself. At which point, I am be half-asleep, dreaming about things that most boys seem not to, with a ribbon of drool soaking my shirt, then I would wake up, wave and go back to it.

My dad, generally is not a very outgoing person as the way most people know him. The ring is the only time he will step up and let is hair down, so-to-speak since he lost most of it at 26 when his father died. In the ring is when I learn the most valuable lesson he has ever taught me, how to strive and defend myself. This is the only time that I don’t fall asleep is when he is in the ring ready to fight another human being and does just that. Watching, I don’t realize how much of this brutal, savage and somewhat complex sport I am absorbing. My dad is very observant, always practicing his opponent’s next move before they made it and then combating by doing the opposite or hitting them first. Maybe this is what has and always will get me out of major fights?

I use my intuitive senses to spar out a conversations, this in turn to make a bully tired. This way they don’t have the energy to fight like my father does with his fists. He plays the game as he talk the other person down, like any good fighter does.
Once I start at the bar, I don’t realize that I will have to at times be the security of the bar. I would have to play the battle of the bigger balls via my speech and way of holding myself. Me, at a statuesque 5’8, 5’7 and ¾ in actuality, responsible for kicking out guys the size of houses and drunks ready to beat up anyone within a square foot of them. The second time I have to ask a guy to leave the bar, he tells little old me that I was am a kid and he knows when he’s had enough to drink. Then I inform him that I am sorry, but he is done drinking for the night and should leave. He then tries to swing a punch at me, I duck as my father does in these situations in the ring and the guy hits the brick-wall behind me. This fist is now scraped and bloodied. I then tell him that we can take it outside but now that he had tried to hit me, I have every right to defend myself, not only physically, but also make sure that he is taken to a drunk tank. The mix of poor reflexes and lack of words make him slowly walk out. This was just one of over 2,000 similar stories. Every time I have to kick someone out, my voice for some reason travels down around 3 octives and the adrenaline takes over. It’s as though I channel my father every time someone picks a fight with me.

Every time I need an extra shift, I end up being the bar’s door man on and off for about 3 years. The ironic thing is that I am one of the few to make it without a single scratch. I use the tools and ghetto-know how that my father has provided me with. If not for my father, I couln’t defend myself the way I do. I make it through these times without fear because of him. My father is the only light-complexioned man I know who during the famous LA riots is stuck buying a pack of cigarettes right in the middle of it all. The same man that since grade school tells me that, “if anyone fucks with you, hit them back 2 times harder.” Even though he is absent from many of my childhood memories, his tools for defense are ones that will always help me become a stronger man in the long-run and in turn even stronger knowing I won’t need use these skills. I can keep them safely stowed in my back pocket for emergencies. It was like that condom in the wallet that many guys keep there just incase but never use because they aren’t sure how long it’s been there, but feel empowered knowing they have it just in case. It’s things we don’t necessarily know if and when we’d need them, but feel good knowing we are prepaired.

Story 7 (Reposted, again and edited kinda)

Learning hot to fight?

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The first time having to kick somebody out of the bar scares me shitless. I don't like the idea of having to be confrontational. Ideally, I will be surrounded by hot muscular men who will want to do the fighting for me. The truth is those only hang out with me in my dreams and even though it looks like we are fighting in these dreams it's all consensual, but I digress. Back to the bar. Gina is doing what she does best, yapping and making a round of drinks. Right as she pours the drinks, this drunken guy walks by and knocks over all the drinks she is making so that they spill all over her. Word to the wise, do not under any circumstances piss off a lesbian, it never ends well. The guy has a body shape similar to that of a MR. Chaz Bono (ex-Chastity Bono). His belly looks like what I assume an industrial sized Jello bowl would look like. He is I guess more of a summo-wrestler type. You can see the cheese beneath his boulder thigh, he is wearing a dog chain around his neck and has a striking resemblance to a one aging Mr. T. Little does he know, that one should never piss off a lesbian, especially Gina. They will make sure you pay and get what’s coming to you. She is so angered she snaps for me to kick the drunken mess out. Being her servant, barback for the evening, I stop and think of how I will get this guy out of the bar. I also start to wonder how such a large person could fit into the doors of the bar and if when he goes on airplanes, does he need to purchase 2 seats?

Gina’s selective butchness kicks into high-gear once a shift, where she usually ends up kicking drunken messes out when we need her to. This time, she tells me that it’s my turn to be the man of the group. Why should I have to be the man of the group if I have a butch lesbian in the group? They have super powers I could only dream of. Gina, for example has tits that could distract any warm-blooded gay man, let alone a straight dude. Even a Vulcan at once glance of her tits may all of a sudden break into emotion. Besides the tits, butch lesbians have this intense strength that I don't understand or question. I assume it's because they never get penetrated by men, they have a heightened sense of adrenaline that pumps through their bodies at all times. I assume that this is why straight men are so threatened by the true lesbian. They can fight you, take your woman, and get her to always have a real orgasm (I don't think that women should have any reason to lie about that stuff with each other). This is all my assumption though, lesbianism is as confusing and foreign to me as the straight fist-bump, which I assume is what lesbian sex is like.

While Gina’s logic is true, I have never really had to confront another man in that way and tell them to leave an establishment. I have been in little quirels before, but nothing like this. I am the kid that has always been picked on for no reason other than my general awkwardness.

While I have never really been hit or injured from a fight, I have been threatened to be beaten up many a time in my young life. I have never really been in any major physical confrontations though. In my dreams I have imagined that in the right situation I will reach into what I learned from years of playing "Mortal Combat." The truth is that in reality, I would need a controller to do the things I could do in that game. I wont have a game controller in real life. Often these threats, in real life are harmless and once some kid threw their yogurt at me while I was leaving school. After being mortified, when I got home, I washed the strawberry yogurt out of my hair and then ate a gallon of strawberry ice cream to heal the pain.

Once, at camp, I a counselor sent me to tell this kid Wes that it was time to get his ritalin. His response was to stab me in the leg with a pencil and then try to battle me to the death. I was so shocked by his response that I did as I had learned on Ricky Lake and pulled his hair until he screamed for mercy, but that was barely a fight.

I ask the guy nicely if he will walk out with me to the exit since he has had too much to drink and maybe needs some fresh air. His response is of course less nice. My slutty co-workers, in this situation will ask these guys to come out side "I'll show you my dick outside." Then, once outside they leave the drunks high and dry. If only I was that smart.

Doushy Mc Dousy informs me on how I am “a little faggot mouse” who has not right tell him what to do. Calls me a fag in a gay bar? WHAT?! I am infuriated. I am so angry that I'm steaming inside, but outside I can't talk. Not knowing what to do, I just freeze not sure of what my next move should be or what to say. Then Gina comes right up from behind the guy, puts her arms around him in what looked like an old fashioned bear-hug, while restraining his arms down. She then walks in a waddling fashion (similar to the way one walks when conscealing a fart) with him to the door while keeping his arms tight to him. She leaves him outside of the door with the doorman and then tells me that next time she won’t be there to help me.

The concept of even possibly getting into a fight makes me think about how my father always makes me spar with him even as an adult. It’s been this way ever since I was a small child. Sparring is another term for practicing boxing, punching a given hand, item or punching bag. This is a great self-esteem strengthening exercise for an awkward kid like me. Little do I realize how this practice will come in handy when I will be dealing with drunken assholes for a living. This will lay the bricks for many things later on in my life. It is like an informal training on how to “handle it” as my good friend Tracy would say. My dad always explains it like this, “one day you’ll be walking down the street with a hot girl and some guy picks a fight with you. What will you do? Chat it out? Compramise? No, you’ll hit him harder than he can hit you and look good in front of your girl.” Such simple cut and dry logic.

My dad always fancies himself to be this amazing boxer much in the way that others dream of being a rockstar. He has an unusual obsession with boxers, their world and life they live. He idolizes boxing legends like Mike Tyson (before the ear bite), Lenix Louis, Mohamad Ali. According to him, some of these guys are on par or equivalent to modern day gods. He replays Tyson’s fights any time he needs inspiration or something to do. I have consequently seen every Mike Tyson fight at least 3 bazillion times. Where I fall asleep to “Golden Girls” and “Roseanne,” he falls asleep to the fights.
Living in the city of Angels, my muscular father is like most Southern California men. He is obsessed with going to the gym and making sure that people know he does such. The difference is his preference of gym. My 5’7, fair-skinned, four-eyed, bald-head father travels to Compton and workout at this place call the Broadway Gym. Dad says that he can’t go to another gym because real men don’t workout there. Apparently he needs a Rocky Balboa type to workout there or a man with tears tattoo on his face working out at a gym to feel like he fits in.

just for a giggle.

Monday, December 13, 2010

When I was a Fat kid, keeping it real... a rant. not sure where I'm going.

What a lot of people don't know about me is that I was the fat kid growing up. "Bitch-Tits" was my middle name until my late teens. I was that kid who was rarely seen in a pool without a T-shirt on because frankly I didn't want any of the late bloomer girls to be jealous of the voluptuous rack I was packin'. Unfortunately, what would be appreciated for a girl, would not be okay for a young boy. What they don't tell you as a recovering fat kid, is that you can loose the weight. You can forget that kid Monica Gambinni who told on a daily basis for the entire durations of fourth, fifth and sixth grade to use a thigh-master. You could loose the weight, gain a vindictive side, but body-dysmorphia is for life.

Whoever said that food wasn't love, obviously was not Jewish, nor were they raised by Russian-Jews. Seeing the look of disappointment, sadness and gas-exhaustion (Enough with the cabbage already!) on a Russian woman's face when you've told her that you were full was reason enough to keep eating, so I did. Unlike other cultures, ours key events have always been marked by food. My relatives and numerous cousins often described the struggle of our people by the restaurants they complained about.

We, Russian-Jews eat at weddings, brisses, holidays, every event including funerals were marked by marvelous food. Jewish funerals, for those who haven't been are the only funerals in the world, where people will complain about the food sometimes more than the person in the casket. Jewish funerals are also are probably the one type of funeral where at least half of the guests will ask for doggy-bags.

I ate through much of my childhood and teen years. I ate all the way to the "husky" boy's section at Sears. For those who never had the sweet delight of being forced to shop in this section as children because they actually had visible ribs F-you. For those who did get to experience the joy of this department, finding a pare of jeans in this section that were not only too tight but had to be shortened, my sympathies.

As an adult I choose to be in good physical condition. My waist is about 5 inches smaller now than it was in high school. I workout with the same vigor I used to on a daily basis eat a half-gallon of ice cream, followed by an entire quiche (cause I was gay, even as a kids, it's a lifetime deal people) and bag of gummy bears while watching "Xuxa" and "Tale Spin." Now I just focus on the good stuff, a bottle of wine, followed by a pint of ice cream, a good cry and something on Lifetime, Television for Idiots.

The odd thing about loosing the weight is that I still have what I would consider "phantom weight." While I am aware of how people see me, I still often think they are looking at the rolls and tits from years past. These days I get an odd kick off of seeing on facebook kids who made fun of me for being fat and now the tables have turned.

The other day I went to Subway. As I was in line for my footlong of happiness, I realized that the large Asian tourists in front of me were filming me. By large, I mean that they were the largest Asians I had ever seen but I digress. I assumed that they were filming me cause they had never seen such a large American. They must have been focusing on the phantom fat. I then realized that it had been years since I was the fat kid from years past and realized that they must have been filming me because I was now famous in Asia! Maybe my mother wasn't the only one watching my comedy sets on YouTube! I started to get excited as I started eating one of my 2 for 99cent cookies while in line as the camera man seemed to be zooming into me. I then realized he was zooming into my chest. All of the Asian people in this Subway, including the ones working laughed and yapped about stuff that I couldn't understand while this was going on. That's when insecurities came in and I felt like "bitch-tits" from years past. As I left, I realized that they weren't filming me because I was famous, but because I had cookie crumbs all over my shirt and ate 6 inches of the footlong before I even got to the register. They probably hadn't seen someone like me who couldn't wait until they left to start eating. I know, I'm not sure where this story is going either.

my Friend Kevin Munroe, Hilarious!

Friday, December 10, 2010

Story 6 (Edited and reposted, again)

Often people have asked me questions about working in the Castro. They always have what I would consider leading questions. “I bet you meet hot guys all of the time right?” This is always the first of many questions which often followed by a smile and a silence that can cut-glass. I assume that people who don’t know what this job actually entails and seem to think it’s just a great social event every night. What people often forget is that it's just a job like any other job. They often glamorize this pretty regular, blue-collar job in their descriptions. There is always this intrigue with the idea of being at the center of attention. As one is shaking people’s drinks, they are also the main attraction and the reason people come into that bar, the “hot” bartender. Every night this person gets ready knowing that there will be men lined up and ready from all around, waiting to be serviced. Meeting hot, available men all them time with a pick of a different hot guy to go home with at all times of the night sounds interesting. While serving them shots, you get to watch hot guys get drunk and raunchy as they show off for you. The fantasy seems to make this image seem like the setting for a porn scene. I wish. At least then, I would be getting laid more. As cool as that idea is, it unfortunately is far from reality. There isn’t a “money shot” in this reality, at least from what I can remember. I do though drink a lot.

I have quickly realized that the glamour factor of working in a bar is everything but. Not to say that this job doesn’t have it’s advantages, because trust, it does. Busing glasses for every Tom, Dick and lesbian who ever walk into the Labyrinth along with broken glass on the floor in between a busy crowd, cleaning up vomit and leaving work with the smell of rotten beer all over your cloths everyday, pretty glamorous. The only upside to working here is all the people here. It's like watching an human ant farm in motion with drag queens. Being a fan of the social sciences, this gives me a chance to study the inner-workings of the Castro. It was much the same way that I would read case studies in college.

I am learning many things within the first few months here. I learning drink terminology, gay lingo, how to meet guys and who to steer clear of. I am learning much about men. When they say they are in their late 20s, often that means they are in their mid-30s. Everything seems to be an embellishment. One inch in conversation equals two centimeters in real life. Even if they claim to be single, you can never be too sure if that's true, cause San Francisco is the land of "open relationships." The concept of an open relationship to me at this point in my life is like being a Jew for Jesus, if you can't commit to the situation, don't do it. I soon learn that learn that gays truly run on alcohol and the criticising others. I assume that is why the post Oscar fashion shows still exist?

There I am I am constantly meeting people, all of different walks, colors, sizes, likes and studying them. From bear to twink, sugar daddy to muscle stud. Name it and I have know them often from the bar. I then notice that these “hot” guys getting less and less attractive after meeting them 5x a week and having to re-introduce yourself to them every time because of their goldfish memories. It's like a glitchy cd or record that repeats over and over. Alcohol does do that. In the bar this was more likely, especially when many people are walking pharmacies. That in itself, is a whole separate topic. I watch hot guys every night, go from Stallion to sloppy mess within shots. These sloppy messes often resemble a blend of Groucho Marx and the Hulk in one. We all have met these guys.

One happy hour in particular, there is a relatively handsome man who I watch succumb to the process mention earlier. He looks like a seemingly normal business guy, in for an after work cocktail, maybe to find someone he could chat with. Within a few rounds this guy who resembling an older Alex P. Keaton ends up retreating further away from the bar. The first round he is drinking at the front of the bar. This is still when small remnants of daylight still slightly peak into the bar. He is sitting chatting it up with those of us behind the bar. I am working with James who is explaining to this guy just why he thinks that Cher was so amazing live. Yeah, I said it, Cher, Chaz Bono's mother. While Cher is a great performer and has a face that looks like it was made by playskool, I would never get in the middle of this conversation. She is one of those guilty pleasures one doesn't admit like watching the "jersey shore." I can't even put that on my DVR without fear that someone will see I have watched it. Back to Cher though. This convo. of course is right when the “Believe” video flashes onto the screens of the bar. At this point the music makes me want to start shattering glasses… Instead, I just smile and work diligently. The conversation seems to turn Mr. Keaton off from chatting with us. So, the next round brings him to a table about 10 feet away from the bar. As the hours pass and happy hour reaches near a close, I go on yet another round to pick up glasses. I figure that this guy must be deep in the bar by this point or maybe he has left. By now I assume he is messier than Courtney Love around any substance. On this round, I check every bathroom for glasses just like I do several times daily when working.

I reach one stall and hear this groaning. At first I think someone was taking the shit of a lifetime. Then, I hear hard breathing. It was kind of like that breathing that one often hears in high school while running the mile. In my case, I was often with the last parts of the class, the fat, or smoker kids of the crowd. In response to the breathing, I assume that someone has snorted a line too fast. Then comes a grunt noise. This is the noise that made me wonder if there was a lost cockerspanial in the stall. I imagine it’s being abused by the sounds of it. Then a slurp noise and my mind drifts straight to the gutter. Another moan…Slurp… Moan …Grunt. Curious as any healthy, homosexual, young man is, I peer in. I accidentally lean on the stall door. In turn, pushing it in.

Inside of this stall to my freakish horror is that older guy, who now looks like a different person. He is the opposite of the clean-cut man he came off as hours earlier. Now the tie is hanging out of his pocket and a mouth full of gross. He is rimming the bum who asks me for change everyday freaking day on the corner of 18th and Castro. This bum, I will never forget his gnarl, scrawny body perch on the toilet. When I say rimming, I mean there that this drunken man is rimming a bums ass. The bum is just propped up dingle-berried ass hanging out, and the whole nine-yards. This drunken man has made a transformation that I could only describe as a cross-bread of a Groucho/Hulk creature. This man is also so drunk that he can’t put words together. Caught is literally caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I want to break the glasses in my hands which I just bussed this round, and shove shards in my eyes to sooth the pain.

The life of a Castro barkeep, is a desensitized one. In Castro bubble, image is been one thing. The reality is often another. When people ask about the “hot guys” I meet working where I do, they often are met with a brief. Sometimes the image that people have in their head is better than the reality.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Story 5, Part 2 (Edited and reposted again!)

For Michael, if I would point out an attractive guy in the room, he would shout out “what? You like who? Cover his face and you’re good.”

Mike would say things just loud enough so that others could hear. The best part is that he simple doesn’t care about others accepting him. He is a treckie who isn’t ashamed of being vocal about his love for conventions, Vulcan ale and all sorts of nerd crap that I would never admit to liking. He doesn’t give a shit what others think of him. I aspire to get to this point.
While Michael is an example of one of the hardest working individuals there, he also has shows me how to have fun and really make the most out of this place. He often finds a way to be playful with the people we meet while working. He casually asks hot guys that we meet to show off their “man hood”. Whenever I hear him say that I wonder what the fuck he is talking about. Sometimes I’m like a small child and need some time to connect the dots. Then I get it. He’s talking about their dicks. He gets these guys to whip out their dicks. Color, size, width, cut, uncut, he gets anyone to do it. Usually this is done strictly for entertainment value alone because really we aren’t aloud to drink while working at the bar, so we got to get our shits and giggles somehow. Now, it becomes game of sorts. It’s way more fun than Blackjack and less costly. Whenever there would be a hot guy asking Michael or myself for a free drink, Mike would ask how they wanted to earn it.

He would then go on to tell them “sweetheart, nothing is for free, we all gotta work to get what we want.”
He would then turn to me and say, “Just cause I am married, doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes and a pulse. I can look damnet. It’s like being on a diet, you can still look at food!”

While Mike plays good cop, I take on the persona of the bad cop.

I casually respond to Mike’s comments with a “he is shy” or “he doesn’t have anything to show.”

The fact that it’s so easy to play these men is both funny and really sad. What’s funny about some men when their drunk, the second you make a comment about their dick size being sub-standard, they get so defensive and over-protective. While stupid, the game often will entertain us and our coworkers while these boys step up to the plate for a free drink in the name of honor. It isn’t about the final result of seeing the little or big piece of flesh hidden inside of a man’s trousers, although that alone is worth it. It’s more about getting there.

During fleet week we have a slew of marines come in the bar. Michael is like a kid in a candy store. He always uses single me as bait. After one shot, these boys don’t even need to be challenged. They will do it willingly. It’s like one of those “girl’s gone wild” videos, but with hot and some not so hot men. Well actually, mostly hot men. The less attractive and short the guy/marine is, the more likely they are to step up to the plate. Maybe it’s due to their little man syndrome? They are those guys who probably drive little red sports cars to make up for their lack their of… Be it gay, straight, cut, uncut, black, white, red, blue, ginormous and microscopic, we see them all.

Besides the games, since Michael isn’t single there is that whole element of competition that are taken out of the mix. He is very sure of who he is and isn’t. Unlike many single gay men, he is sure of where he could has love and doesn’t need to go looking for it. This energy from him on that level is very empowering to me.

After finishing work at 3 or 4 in the am we often then head to his house. We get milkshakes or burgers and hang with our friend Mary. She helps us relax. We spend many a night watching TV and talking about everything from politics to bar gossip. Michael has become my backbone in some ways. He is also the first friend I have from this new bar lifestyle where I feel like I could just be myself without putting on a show or entertaining. There is no game face needed with him. I am not worried that he will stab me in the back. For some reason I have a soft spot for him. He is like the perverted big brother I never had.

Story 5, Part 1 (Edited and reposted)

Being there is like living inside the eye of a traveling tornado. There are always new people flying in and out of that place. I'm waiting to look out the window and see the drag queen/witch on the bike. Often it seems like more people have gone through that place than Starbucks. Besides the drifters, there are the core people who have been there for years, they seemingly keep that place together like the cheap bricks hiding inside the walls of that place. These people, though they would never admit it, are what I call the lifers. We don’t get to this place intentionally; we just end up being a part of the foundation that holds the place together. This is until we reach our expiration date. Like modeling, bartending at this bar means that eventually you will be replaced or phased out by someone who is younger, maybe prettier (but not necessarily), naive boys and girls who will be the jaded bartenders of tomorrow. It's like being a 75-year-old's 19-year-old wife, you know that if they don't die on you in 5 years, there will be someone younger and hotter to replace you. Often lifers are the ones who help keep this bubble we work/live in intact. This is until they themselves are fired. Almost nobody quits this place. The ones that do are few and far between. It’s a good gig, why leave while the getting is still good? After they quit, they often come crawling back begging for their jobs because as reality has it, the real world sucks far more than living in this suds-reality of the Labyrinth and the Castro bubble.

Besides the lifers, the rest of the staff hasn’t been there long enough for me to remember their names. As a result of this, I just call them lemmings. Like the game or reference to "Never Been Kissed," they just walk around aimlessly, a part of our homogeneous group. It’s been nearly a year that I have been at the Labyrinth and I still don’t know everyone here. If I don’t know a person’s name, I usually call them Michael or Chris because it’s generally a good guess. There is always one of those two in a crowd and it sure beats calling the guys “hey you.” It’s like when you’re taking a multiple choice text and you know if you pick C, you will be less likely to pick the wrong answer. On my SATs, I did this. I also got bored on the math section and ended up just drawing pictures of Garfield eating Pizza on the written Math section. As a result of my art work, I ended up getting probably the lowest score in my high school.

I am usually lucky enough to get at least a shift a week where I worked with Michael who soon since has become one of my best friends. Michael is an interesting guy to say the least. He isn’t the type that you would expect to be a bartender. I guess the longer that I work here, the more that image in my head of a bartender changes. He isn’t cocky and is definitely not a beef-cake jock. He is normal, slender and genuine. He is a video game playing, trekie-loving, introvert that on first glance seems to be best suited for a different line of work. Once he goes behind the bar, it is like another person awakens inside of him. This person is outgoing, loud-mouthed and without any internal censors much like myself. This is what we all love and respected about him besides the being completely devoted to and in love with the man he says he will marry once it’s legal. They are of the few gay male couples I know who are not in “open relationships.” They are absolutely devoted to each other. Mikie is known for being that person that will talk about others behind their back, but in front of their face. It’s much in the same fashion that old Jewish women talk about each other. At least that’s how they work in my family so that they can eventually gang up on you and make you sure you feel inadequate. They will with make sure that someone is chatting about your problems and keep your insecurities not only alive but you will leave with more insecurities than you came with. It's quite the Jewie phenomenon.
(To be Continued)

Thursday, December 2, 2010

TSA Pat-Downs, Where is mine?

For those unaware, yesterday, at San Francisco International Airport a 47-year old man was arrested for enjoying his pat-down too much? While getting patted down by a TSA agent I guess this guy couldn't handle himself and spluged himself (that is the technical term for what happened). This man had many piercings in his willy probably added to his jizzem of an incident. For some reason every news media source I have read that talk about this incident seemed to find it crucial to mention that he was gay. I don't completely see the relevance, but whatever. Not knowing what to do in this situation the TSA agent had this guy then immediately thrown to the ground, handcuffed and the TSA person called for backup. A TSA spokesperson apparently declined to comment on this specific case for some reason. One of their reps. I guess, they said that anyone ejaculating during a pat-down would be subject to arrest. I assume they would be charged with something after.

Wasn't TSA blowing this whole situation out of proportion? This guy was going along with their protocall. He was being co-opperative and if he had a good time while getting patted down, kudos to him. It's not like he was hanging out in an airport bathroom waiting for a senator to come by. Arresting him for having a good time that he didn't even solicit was a bit extreme and certainly unfair.

I would like to know who this TSA agent is. Not for any other reason than to applaud him or her for having apparently the magic touch. If you can pat a man down and get him to spluge so easily it isa gift that should be shared with the world. Quit that boring job with TSA, you've hit the lottery girl, boy or whoever you are. Get ready for a life of delight! I would. Use those powers for good and not for evil. If they had that touch, why blame the poor guy who enjoyed such an unecessary, invasive pat-down who was just supporting TSA?

What upset me the most about this story was that I myself flew 3 times, pretty darn recently. I was never pat-down. I wasn't even offered! Much of the public was complaining about how they were offended by the pat-down procedure. I'm offended that I was never even offered. Not getting asked to be pat-down must be what a choir boy feels like who wasn't felt up by a priest growing up. Like a pudgy, pudgy.

What TSA basically is saying to the world with this incident is that we keep the mundane process of airport security, boring and invasive. If we enjoy it too much, we will be punished. Shame on you TSA, shame on you!

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

I Love To Bark At Weddings

I Love To Bark At Weddings

I always hear people talk about how everything is harming the institution of marriage. Let's blame everything for ruining marriage besides the obvious factor that marriage in it self is what ruins marriage. Often when arguing against gay marriage this sentence will be uttered, "if we let gays marry, what's next? People marrying dogs?" Now it happened! Thanks for holding us back Australia!

Only in Dreams...

Im the only person I know who makes fun of themselves even in their dreams. I have always been made fun of for having a rather large head. Some kids would go as far as comparing me to Charlie Brown or later in life to "Hey Arnold." I would have this re-occuring dream that my head was getting bigger by the moment and I got what I assumed to be elephantitus of the head (I'm not even sure if that really exists). My head would keep growing until eventually I would float off into space. In my dream, my head was apparently full of helium, which was an unfortunate way of thinking on many accounts.

Lately I have had a new, particular re-occuring dream. This time it had been with the character Eric from "True Blood." He plays one of the hot vampires on the show who is so hot, you want to smack your mom for being less attractive than he is. He is so attractive I would probably eat a baby if he asked me to. The point should be clear by now. Anyway, most people dream about him and other characters in the show in various sexual situations because as the show portrays them, they are supposed to be amazing in bed. In my dream I walk into my studio apartment and there he is on the couch. He is sitting there drinking a cup of that True Blood crap and staring at me quietly. The room is poorly lit with candles, and I feel magneted to sit right next to him. He give me a little half smile as though he is about to try to kiss, bite or have his way with me. A I willingly wait for his fangs to pop down nothing happens.

I then say, "do the click" (the fangs click when they come down on the show).

His response, "they're fake you idiot, it's just a show."

Eric then gives me a stare as to remind me that I am an idiot, gets up and then leaves my apartment. Odd?

Uma Thurman's Stalker -- Arrested While Googling

So Uma Thurman's stalker gets arrested while googling her name. One day I'll be famous enough to have a stalker or at least have someone googling me besides my mother...

Uma Thurman's Stalker -- Arrested While Googling

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

I don't know why i like this song... getting really into Florence and the Machines.

Story 4, Part 2 (Edited & Reposted)

I am getting to the point where I am working and look like that is what I am doing, but mentally 2,000 miles away. In my mind, beneath the little afro of hair on my head, I am on a far away island watching the tide and getting fed grapes by bronzed cabana men (why settle for boys in fantasies when you can have chiseled men?). While my physical being is there, while my metaphysical self is working through that daydream. Then Gina quickly snaps me out of it… She comes up from her station to yell at me. At this point I am already in a bad mood and want to tell the bitch to relax and that I’ll get there when I get there, but actually say nothing. She points out that she is in dire need of cold pint glasses right away. She then adds in her Gina way, “you need to wake up and start paying attention for god sakes.”

In my head, at that moment I am thinking, “bitch, get your own fucking pint glass and stop being rude.” In my head I am also imagining Julio and Avi arguing over who gets to wash my cloths. The world knows that Israeli men are utterly gorgeous so I always have at least one on hand in my dreams.

Gina likes being the resident belabusta , which is Yiddish for bossy person who thinks they’re in charge, even when they aren’t. That person who always has to be the leader of the group or whatever they take part in, because that’s just how they roll. What I probably am not considering or caring about is that she really is trying to get her job done so she could make both of us money. She is simply calling me out for not focusing on my job, which today is true. But because she gives me honest constructive, criticism, I should for the moment, like my co-workers, write her off as being the bitch I want to be.
I also find out later, that Gina herself she is working, stepping on eggshells because she had just been reprimanded for apparently over pouring a drink a day or two earlier by one second. Our bar’s shot pour standard is 4 seconds then. The cameras apparently caught her and now somebody is out to get her. She probably just wants to keep her job because it does allow her a good standard of living. The over pouring slip/moment in question is of course caught on the surveillance camera of our elusive bar owner who is always watching us.

I rush over to Gina’s station to stock her precious pint glasses. As I reach into the drop down of her station, Nick the MD to be/bartender is performing for some customer, being the show off that he is and bouncing his big ass around. He’s one of those black guys, much like Wayne Brady. He acts stereotypically black only when he needs to, but generally acts like a white guy raised in the burbs. When he works though, he often is not aware of his surroundings. He is usually too busy looking for "hot," Jewish Doctors and Lawyers in the bar. The rest of us have developed a third eye on the back of our heads that help us maneuver our way around the Labyrinth bar.

Nick has no idea about this third-eye business, nor does he care about those around him when he is working. Being the self-elected Jew of the bar (even though he was raised Baptist), he always focuses his attention on the person with the money in their hands that is within his hand’s reach. He is almost at good at guilt trips as my mother. He can guilt anyone to investing in anything he does, from cocktails to a date. The Goy has the skills of an old Jewish woman and the money sense of a Donald Triumph.

As Nick is hitting on some customer and putting a bottle back in it’s place which belong behind him, near his register. He did this without looking. In this course he also accidentally pushes me into the pint glasses I am putting away. This causes a domino effect of problems. This is when the nightmare begins. This action, in turn makes one of the pint glasses shatter into a beautiful glittery rain that looks like an explosion around my hand of glass dismemberment, which drizzles everywhere. Then a huge shard of glass is then push into the skin about three inches above my inner left wrist. I am so in shock that, I almost don’t believe that this happening. As I pull my arm out of the drop down cooler, I could see a piece of my flesh just dangling. I can’t see how deep the cut is, but all I can see is blood. I drop everything and run into the back room. Nick is still chatting with the customer oblivious to what just happened.

On the way to the back room, there are little trails of blood to show where I have been. In a fluster furry, I open the first aid kit that the bar has. Like a cruel joke, it’s of course empty, full of just a pile of napkins and 3 tiny band-aids, and a tampon. I have a double take moment. Being that this is a men’s gay bar, a tampon is highly unusual in our first aid kits. I would more likely expect to find lube or even glitter before a fucking tampon.

I start laughing hysterically, while still unsure as to why I am laughing at a horrible moment like this. I am a person who tends to laugh at the wrong moments. I am the guy who laughs at funerals, any religious ceremony, any of life’s generally awkward moments, when I look at any full-length mirror and during romantic moments in movies when most people cry. I laugh at the sight of bad news, and most people find it revolting.

I pick up the napkins I find to soak up the blood. James walks by and ask if I am okay, while he stares at my arm from a distance. His face look horrified. James ask me if I will be able to work the rest of my shift, and whether I have insurance. I am getting even more upset by this point. I am starting to simmer by this question and the evening’s predicaments. The fact that he has the gaul to ask me such a bazaar question as I have a piece of my own flesh dangling from my arm is ridiculous.
I go from laughing like a crazy person to complete silence, give James an evil stare and tell, “yeah, I’ll work. We can turn this place into a fucking making bloody mary bar tonight.”

As I stare at my mangled arm I begin to feel a subtle sharp, throbbing. It is getting worse with every second that I stare at the blood-infused napkin covering up the glass battle wound.

I am almost in a trance staring at my arm as Gina storms in to the back room, which seem to just be adding to my angst. My heart starts beating faster and there now is a vein on my forehead popping up that I have never seen before. Gina asks me if I am okay. She then picks up the injured arm and looks at the dangling piece of flesh and inspects it. It’s like she instantly turned into the professor from Gilligan’s Island. Maybe she will turn my arm into a radio. Gina then goes to tells James who is freaking out to get us more napkins and to “chill the fuck out.” She looks into my horrified eyes, which are now more upset and worried about loosing my job, than the actual injury. She reads me very quickly even though I try to conceal my emotions from her. She tells me that I will be employed next week and have nothing to worry about. She says that I need to relax, then show me a scar in the same spot on her right wrist. I start to think great, she is trying to fucking bond right now and turn this into an episode of Oprah, get pissed and all of a sudden calm. Apparently she has too cut her self similarly five-years prior. She speaks calmly, petting my shoulder in a way that only a woman could and tells me that I will be fine because I like her am “tough as nails.” I don’t know how true that is, but for the moment she made me feel like a tough lesbian, which is way better than I had felt before this conversation and tougher than any man I know. She hands me $20 dollars and tells me to go take a cab to the hospital for stitches and to call her later and let me know how it all turns out. She makes it seem like it was just another normal day. She has this way about her that makes me calm down. From that moment on, the pain is gone and I have adrenaline that is getting me through this.

I am waiting for four hours alone in the emergency room to get seven stitches. It’s now 5a.m. and I arrived to this mothball smelling hospital ER an 11:30 pm the day before. I find a Vicoden that I guess someone slipped into my pocket before I evacuated the bar. I don’t know who the magical fairy is that left this treat was. I don’t event take a moment to consider where it came from. I of course take it instantly and start to choke in the emergency room. Needless to say, I got to cut the line right away.

The odd thing is that, if it wasn’t for Gina I could see myself freaking out in that cold sterile place that is the ER. Because of her, I don’t feel alone in the waiting room and know that all will prevail. I’m like a little kid, excited to see what kind of scar this adventure will leave me.


Story 4, (Edited and reposted again)

Gina Saves

It’s a busy Friday night, I have just gotten in to work. While tired and unmotivated I decide that I will persevere. I am ready for the normal Friday hustle and bustle routine, song and prance that we get accustomed to working at the Labyrinth. This is in between rushes, during the expected Friday night 9-10pm lull. This is the time in between, where the happy hour crowd leaves the bar for a short intermission where they snort their evening hungers away, maybe grab a quick low-carb bite or bowl of "American Fries," then come back out to the bars, drink their way to love and get plastered out of their gords. It's the American way. They get wasted enough to no feel embarrassed dancing like a fool to any Madonna tune as any sensible man normally would. The snorting part is just my assumption based on the fact that at night, many of the weekend customers can often be found grinding their teeth, with runny noses and mothball breath.

The first time I realized how prevalent and stupidly obvious cokeheads often are at the Labyrinth is when I watched the third customer in a row order a drink while he had boogars running down their face and into his numbed, overly lips that undoubtedly were covered in the latest lip-gloss Claire’s offers. When I point out the mess on their face, similar to the way one treats a toddler, the customer smiles, tells me to fuck off and then tells the bartender they are recovering from a cold. Then, a second later, as he is walking away, the bi-polar bitch told me that I am “adorable.” Being that I am adorable as this asshole put it, the compliments is always lackluster from these cokeheads and since its usually said in a sarcastic tone where you cannot tell if they are complimenting or putting you down. Since my self esteem is really low, I always assume the latter of the two because it's more likely. The second that he finally walks away for good, all I could smell is the hospital smell, like that of mothballs. It makes me want a sedative or at least a magical brownie to tide me over and keep me from slicing the overly manicured faces of these lovely patrons around me, not that I would really do that. Being that my job is to clean everything up here, I am not making more of a mess than necessary.

As I come behind the bar James is cleaning his bottles and chatting with Johnny about how he had seen Johnny’s trick of the week out earlier with another guy. It’s moments like this that makes me call the bar Castro high. Then Johnny tells James that his guy is like every San Francisco gay man and in an “open relationship.” Come to think of it, in my infantile experience, this seems to be true. In San Francisco, for some reason most long term gay man relationships I am coming to find are actually open ones. Being a young, inexperienced gay who is still optimistic and still clinging to the idea that love exists, this concept makes no sense to me (This was in a world that was different, before we knew that Ricky Martin was in fact a marry too). These couples would be committed to each other, but also openly have some thing going on side. Why this is acceptable, I will never truly grasp.

As I walk past the rambling bar gossip, I go back to my Friday routine. I stock pint glasses at every station. Even though I try to be working away in my own cocoon, I can’t help but notice that everyone around me is gossiping. If it isn’t about their boyfriends of the moment, it’s tricks and various lovers. It is kind of making me sick just listening to it and less engaged in being there. All I can think about is how I want to somehow end up at a better job than this.

(to be continued)

Friday, November 26, 2010

Ryder Strong

Like many young kids, I went through a phase where I would compulsively lie about everything. At 6, when my mother asked me who drew the large mural in permanent maker and scratch and sniff markers on the door I told her what happened. I explained that it was my best friend at the time and that I let him do it because I could see that it was his only way of making up for his dead-beat father not being in his life. I told her that it would be horrible for me to stifle his creativity. The truth was, I drew it myself while that friend had passed out after a sugar rush on top of a pile of toys in my room with a push pop melted all over his face.

I wasn't lying exactly all the time. I would just stretch the truth so much that I wasn't sure when I was doing it. I often would create elaborate stories when the truth was too dull or boring. As a budding 11-teen year old, friends would always ask me who I had a crush on. Instead of picking one of the girls in my class or someone who was actually obtainable, I would quickly tell people about my love for Alyssa Milano. While most 6th grade boys would go straight for talking about a chick's jugs or other assets, I found their descriptions boring. I would tell other boys about how Alyssa Milano's portrayal of Sam on "Who's the Boss," was believable always made me want to be good friends with Jonathon and eventually work at Angela Bower's Ad Agency and eventually leave to start my own firm and marry Sam. Eventually I needed to add more lucky ladies to my list, so Tiffany Amber Thiessen was added to the list and then Tapanga from "Boy Meets World."

At camps and sleepovers there was always that point. The time when fart jokes, shadow puppets and dirty jokes learned from other boy's fathers would make it into the picture. This was also the time when we would touch on the topic of who liked who. I would only talk about my "crushes" when I absolutely had to because I wasn't too. I would oddly get sweaty and nervous whenever the topic would turn to me and some douche would ask who Yuri liked. I felt for some reason like I was getting interrogated and wasn't sure why. Years later I would realize the truth of the fact that I always have been a big 'mo. The truth of the issue was that while Alyssa Milano was gorgeous and magically went from some tits to a full rack after playing Sam, I imagined her more as a sister and actually wanted to pay doctor with Jonathon. The only reason I loved Tiffany Amber Thiessen was because she went for years playing Zack's girlfriend on TV and in the back of my head imagined Zack leaving her for me. Then when it came to Tapanga, I really had no interest in her at all. I would for years have a secret obsession with Ryder Strong that I would document in the years of Tiger Beat Magazines I hid under my bead, next to the YM with JTT on it. The reason I liked Ryder Strong wasn't even him really. It was his hair. I always wanted things I couldn't have. I spent most of my teens trying to grow my hair to his length so I too could have that mid-90s hair behind the ears hair cut that would eventually prove impossible for my jew-fro of a head.

I'm not sure where this rant is going, or why I am talking about my crushes as a child. I did though, just realize that the only reason my hair is in it's current, long, frizz ball of a head that it is, it because of this stupid Ryder Strong obsession that will never happen with my jew head.

My set from about a week ago!

More about what it's like to be a comedian.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Story 3, reposted and edited again :)

There are so many different kinds of people employed there. It’s an eclectic, cutthroat group that works there to say the least. Everyone is in their own realm when they are compared to greater society. There is something in this place that makes us all similar and therefore creates a cohesive staff besides the fact that most of us are fudge-packing, Nancy boy queers and dyke.

I hate the word queer almost as much as I hate the word “partner.” When gay people use it, it makes me just want to punch them and say, "Hey, he's your fucking husband! That word makes us look even more like outcasts of greater society than we have to be." I hate almost as much when straight people use it. This is not their fault though. They are making an effort to treat us the way they are told we want to be treated, even though the term just alienates gay people more. "Partner" makes gay people sound like they are talking about a business venture. If you are gold-digger and marry a person old enough to remember when the Louisiana Purchase was in escrow then, you should call your “lover,” “partner,” or "investor" in Anna Nicole's case (may she rest in peace stuffing her face with fried chicken). To sleep with an old sack of skin for some of their fortune seems to be a fair deal when it comes to this kind of partnership. If you are a well-to-do hippy, who now shops at the Mac store and Whole Foods, get over the PC crap, because lets be honest, you already sold-out the second you paid your taxes and invested in that family-van.

Back to the story, here, we all have become each other’s chosen/adoptive family. We watch each other’s backs when customers would gang up on us or even more so, when it is the owner of the bar. He is the be all and end all. He simply runs a tight ship and keeps that bar packed while keeping everyone within a camera monitor, big brother sort of a hand’s reach. All the alcohol pours are watch, record, counted and then scrutinized from his office at the bar. The cameras are even connected to his home computer. Keeping this in mind, we know that even when no one is watching, he could be watching us from home maybe right after an episode of “Golden Girls,” while smoking a doubie and maybe eating a pack of flaming-hot cheetos? We are observed like pandas at a zoo. We deal with the cage because we know there isn’t another bar in San Francisco where we would make the kind of money we are making there at that maze of a bar. Gay bars are much like zoos anyways. People dance horribly, like idiots on a dance floor to the latest Kylie or Madonna single and look for every reason to take their crop tops off in hopes that Mr. Right Now is watching. It’s very animalistic.

When it comes to each other, I have also noticed another approach my coworkers seem to have. We are all “friends.” We all keep our friends closer and then their enemies even closer. It’s hard for me to tell which of us playing this game and who is truly genuine. If they like you, they seem to actually help you from getting out of trouble with other co-workers, our boss and patrons. If they hate you, it’s like working with the little girl from “the Bad Seed.” For those who haven’t seen the film, it’s about a little girl who is a murderer, but no one suspects it because she plays this whole innocent act that people eat up like lifetime movies. We all keep a game face going while working. On the turn of a dime we can go from friend to killer. Most of the others have no problem stepping on a “friend’s” toes to save their ass or make a few more dollars. I guess time will tell who is a friend and who is a foe.

This is how I’m told it works here. People here either work at this place for a hot second, a week, maybe three, and others are there for years. While the barbacks and doormen employed here keep a revolving door open for new drifters, the bartenders seem solid. Bartenders would get fired for various reasons. Sometimes the reasons can be obvious and understandable like “over pouring” and giving away free booze. Other times the reasons are more vague is less reasonable and more superficial. There is though always a “valid” reason even if it is completely fabricated by the owner of the bar.

For the owner, sometimes it looks as though we are just pawns, and maybe more like shoes. One could always have extra pairs of shoes in their closet, and then use them to walk from point A to point B. Then, when you purchase a new pair of sneakers, you start to wear them at all the times you used to wear your old sneakers. Then those old sneakers make their way to the shadows of the closet and eventually you may decide to get rid of them. This is all because they are worn down and or maybe just less shiny than the new ones. One day you could be his pet and the next, he could and simply make up reasons to get rid of the old and move the new into their spots. For all of us, keeping our jobs seems to be a calculated guessing game of watching each other’s backs mixed with a shit-load of luck.

The group of people who work there, are more interesting than words can tell. It’s because there, they all see the value in who they are to the bar. They know where they stand in the larger gay community. This is even if the rest of the world didn’t give a rat’s ass. While there, these individuals all seem to think of themselves as hot shit, most of them are recovering nerds and misfits. Most of us here are recovering kids that were teased in high school for being fagots and not being what hero-normative society tells us we are supposed to be and support. Here our uniqueness is applauded and precisely what people like about us. The shoe I hope is on the other foot. We now get to see what it’s like as the big kids on campus, it is just a different terrain.
Gina has been there for 2 years at that time. She is the resident, self-proclaim bitch and Queen bee. She is what I would call a career bartender, one of those who knows their job, does it well and doesn’t apologize for rocking. Being the only woman there, she demands respect from all of us and will not settle for anything less. Gina is about 25 years old. I guess the bitch attitude concept is her replacement for her lack of balls, literally speaking. She seems like the type of girl that probably at one point had and may still have those stupid hanging nuts dangling off of the rear bumper of her truck. If she didn't, she has guy friends who do for sure. She is a recovering party girl who went to San Diego State a few years prior. She is an ex-sorority, Capa-Delta-something. She was apparently the only lesbian there, so she said. Gina has a masculine haircut accompanied by curves that only could be described as feminine and gentile. Her frame and tits perkier than a bottle of adder often overshadow her rigid-masculine persona. I guess it is because she has to compete in a bar made for gay men, in a staff of men. The thing that many people misunderstand about her is the fact that they consider her a bitch and often write off the rest of her as being anything but. In truth, she is the most straightforward of the whole bunch. If she had problem with you, she would tell you. If she likes you, she will tell you, if not in words, actions. If you get in her way, she will make sure you get a good swift kick or step on a toe. The odd thing is that she actually does guide people whom she likes. Help them do better at their job. She always offers unsolicited criticism to those she loves and even worse critiques to those she hates to working with. When she walks through a crowd she demand attention and the same is true when she is behind the bar. Gina often offers management that doesn’t necessarily require her intervention. She is our know it all. What people seem to rarely understand is that is her way to help? She truly is the foster mother of the bunch, in a semi-butch sort of way. It is like she is the big sister I never knew I needed.

There is also James. He is a newly appointed bartender. He has been here for about a year and a half as a barback and has just recently been appointed to the ranks of bartender. He at is also roommates with Johnny, the “all American” guy from dinner. It is rumor that the two had dated at some point but I am not one to subscribe to rumor rubbish. James always talks about how he is at the bar just to pay off a few debts and then go back to traveling the world. It’s ironic since he has already been working here for a while. “It is just the mobile to get from point A to point B,” so he says. He is about 23, skinny, blonde, average height,. He seems to be of the type made for the Labyrinth. Everything about him screams it. He always jumps and waves his hands when his “jam” cams on, which is usually Mariah Carey or Kylie. He LOVES those bitches in a way that I simply can’t grasp. James does to not look like what I have imagined a bartender to look. At the end of shifts with him, he often offers to drive me home. I will admit that I do love these moments, although I would never say this out loud. We often roll up to McDonald’s late at night, get milkshakes, fries and soak our sorrows by listening to guilty pleasures of cheesy pop and talking about cute boys we meet or don’t meet throughout the week. We both pinky-swore and promise to never tell anyone about Mc Donald’s because it’s really a gross place and we don’t want anyone knowing that we ate from there. In San Francisco, going to McDonalds is like driving a Hummer there, it’s just asking for someone to slash your tires or throw red paint on it.

There is Michael. He is tall, skinny, with dark hair and light features that made him look somewhat exotic. He is a loudmouth who always assumes he is right. We are very similar in the fact that we are both pig-headed. Like me, Michael is the cynic, but in a different style. I consider myself more masculine, than Michael is, although he finds a way to bring out that part of me. He is a complimentary mixture of masculine, male hormones, with slightly feminine undertones, yet he himself is a package is more masculine than not. I love him for the fact that he is so comfortable with himself. I admire it and aspire to get there some day. He is like the jester of the bar. If he has something to say he doesn’t hold back and just says it. He is not one to hold back or sensor himself at any time in any way. No bullshitting, no blowing smoke up people’s ass. He is also the first guy I have ever met in a committed gay relationship. They have been together for 3 years. That span of time together is equivalent to a lifetime in gay years. Having been tied-down for so long, he always tries to live vicariously through me by pushing guys he thinks are cute on me even though our tastes differ vastly. We also have become friends over the love of our friend, Mary. She is would bring us up when we are down and down when we are up from the adrenaline of a long work shift going to the ladder parts of morning light.

There is also Aaron who is probably barely 30 years old by that point. He is the most exocentric person I had ever met. He is really tall and always commands that everyone notice his presence in a room. His outfits, jeans to the tiniest details where all custom made. His fashion sense is a mix of punk, high fashion and drag queen glamour. His hair would change color, shape and style more often than an infomercial. While he probably became a life bartender, I don’t think that this has been his goal. But, who end up doing the job or career they plan? He lives like a rock star. He parties with them and when he goes out he is treated like one. Going out with Aaron is like going out with rock royalty with a gay twist everywhere we went. I love working with him, I lately have started to call him “Gentle” due to the fact that he is the only other Jew other than myself who works there and has a love of Barbara Streisand. The only other person I know who loves her more than him is my mother. My mother will gladly sell her left arm to meet that woman. Aaron always fascinates me by hitting on every fuzzy little bear man who crosses his path. He always talks about how he loves their “chubby, mushy, furry, little, average bodies.” The first time I heard him say this, I didn’t know how to react to that comment. Now I just laugh.

Aaron is known for many, many things. The tag line, for which I will always remember him is the first sentence I hear him say during my first shift with him. “The human body is so resilient, I have been up for 3 days.” Aaron truly lives like a rock star. He is also a self proclaim – J.A.P. With taste more expensive and gaudy than any Jewish American Princess I ever did meet.
It is interesting how there are so many different types of people who work at that bar. Everyone works there for very different reasons. For some, it is a lifestyle, a career, a means to an end, a way to pay for their habits, a social mechanism, and for others a summertime job. It is like when I studied abroad. I’m living in Florence, Italy for a semester. I’m 18-years old. I am always fascinated when walking through the various outdoor markets of Italia and by all the random people I meet who work there. Many Americans live there, all there for very different reasons. Some come through on vacation and simply never leave. Others start off at a local university studying abroad and essentially defect there. There are some who stay for love, while others are running from the mob, or something back home.

Whatever the reason is, like Florence, the Labyrinth is a place many people run to in order to escape stuff in their lives for whatever reason, it kind of consumes people. You would start there, with one goal, end with another. Eventually you are just there and unsure why because your initial reason for being there is now irrelevant. The question all of us working here wonder is, why am I here?

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