Friday, October 29, 2010

It Gets Better?

I am so tired of these so-called "it gets better" videos. While the effort is nice, it's not real. They show successful, famous people, that may as well be sitting on a pile of money that talk about how they once were bullied and it eventually got better. Really people? Why not be honest? I would like to do my own "it gets better" video that tells the truth. Mine would be called "first it gets awkward, loose weight after realizing food isn't love, get slutty, black out, then it gets better... unless Obama changes his mind. Then it goes back to just okay." Just thinking out loud here. What do you think?

Friday, October 22, 2010

Roseanne! On Carson.

Bits and crums

I have decided that I will start every comedy set off by apologizing for what I look like. I know what I look like and it's, well not great. I look kind of like an inflatable Raggedy Andy on roids...

There are a lot of things in the world that I don't get. I don't get how we live in a world that makes the show Glee a phenomenal success, but not allow gays to marry. I don't get how anyone would want to elect someone to office who has to utter the sentence "I am not a witch"... anymore. Some say tomato, I say tomahto. Some say bisexual, I say greedy... whatever.

Like I said, there are a lot of things I don't get. I don't understand marriage. It's a serious commitment like adopting a dog. Unlike a dog, you can't put your spouse to sleep when need be. By the sounds of it, marriage is at least a 3-5 year commitment, and should be taken seriously.

If marriage is so great though, why do they need to keep filling our heads with propaganda?

"why marry someone who gives the milk for free?"

I say "Why marry someone who's saved it until marriage?"

What if you wait until marriage, get to the date, blue balls & all... just to find out that your milk's all curdled up, or your partner finds out they are lactose and tolerant? What if your partner spits the milk like a $2 whore? what then?

People always talk about marriage the way they talk about kids like it's something magical that the rest of us couldn't do... Anyone can have sex without a condom and make a baby... I just not all of us... I guess that's how some of us get aids... what?

Anyone have suggestions as to which direction I should take this rant?

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Marriage rant and maybe a comedy set?

I always hear people talk about the Sanctity of marriage which in itself doesn't make sense. Sanctity is derived from the word saint and off the top of my head I can't think of a single saint that was ever married, but I digress.

Everything seems to be ruining the "sanctity of marriage." Let's blame everyone else for our problems. It seems to be the way of the times. Example: Tiger Woods, Sex addiction? Really? Really? The rest of us double-click, clear the browser history and move on with our day.

Everything is apparently harming the "sanctity of marriage" like the government, the gays, double-sided stick tape! Everything gets blamed for ruining marriage. What's ruining marriage is marriage, lets get real. What about people like Larry King who gets a new wife with every heart bi-pass? Or Elizabeth Taylor who has collected husbands the way I used to collect unused condoms that had expired in my wallet since I obviously have a booming social life.

One thing I never heard talked about is the "sanctity" of divorce. What about the affect of Marriage on the institution of divorce? Where are those stats? Actually, the number one cause of divorce turns out to be weddings... Get this, everyone who has been divorced has had a wedding. Coincidence? I think not.

I have decided that we should make it easier across the board. I don't think that anyone should ever get married! I also think that getting married is an important commitment, should be taken seriously and is not the time to be tweeting pictures of you and your boo's stuff all over the Internet. Demi and Ashton, that comment was directed to you.

Marriage is a time where you apparently only have sex with the same person for eternity why anyone would sign up for that, I don't know. It's at least a 3-5 year commitment and should be treated with respect. If it doesn't make it past the 3-year itch, I want my wedding gift back. $100 dollars on a wedding gift, are you kidding me?

Then the people who get the gift have the never to say this "how'd you know what I wanted?"
To which I respond, "it was on your registry."

Where is my gift for not getting not getting knocked up, actually going to college, not saving it till marriage, and having 2.5 ugly and or fat kids? What would happen if people actually registered for being unmarried? I would love to be send out an invite, "I'm 30, unmarried, registered at Nieman Marcus. It's their 'I have goals and aspirations registry."

I think that getting married is like scheduling a car accident.
You may as well say “hey ma, no airbags.”

What is it about getting married that instantly turns people into ass-holes? They make u watch the side-show of their wedding or honeymoon. Listen, no one wanted to see a wedding slide-show, not even the people who were in it. The rest of us use Facebook to keep score of who got fat and so forth instead. They always have to work in references to being married or engaged into every sentence.

"Have you met my HUSBAND? My WIFE and I... My FIANCE and I just came back from Italy... I hope that one day you can be as happy as us."

Just cause I'm not married doesn't mean I can't live in sin!

Then I hear people get brainwashed into marrying for "tradition." That doesn't make sense either. I wouldn't buy a car without anti-lock breaks and power steering just because that's what my dad and his dad did.

More propaganda they always tell people. "Why get married when you can get the milk for free?" (Which I agree with completely)
I usually respond though with, "why marry someone who has saved it until marriage?"

What if you wait until marriage only to find out that ur partner's milk has curdled up or even worse, they are lactose and tolerant? Or what if they spit the milk & avoid it more so like a common whore?

What is it about marriage that makes men sound like Vietnam vets? You ask a buddy how their wedding planning is going… they talk like they are shell shocked when you ask them how they are doing…

“um, ah it’s too painful to talk about man, she’s making me get a manicure.” As you see them oddly in a wheelchair with a french-tip manicure rolling away.

If you do choose to get married, you shouldn't complain about it. Especially not to your fruity best friend, hair dresser, wedding planner, power lesbian boss, or any other gay person. A wedding is stress you choose and we all have seen enough Lifetime specials to know what happens to Tori Spelling and her oddly spaced boob-job in the end. Complaining to gays is like being that guy in high school who complained about getting laid while the rest of us just had to lie about it.

People always think that just cause I'm gay I must want to get married. Just cause I'm gay doesn't mean I'm good at it. It also doesn't mean that I have to want to get married. It's about equality and having the same rights as every other American. That having been said, this Prop 8 in limbo fiasco has been really confusing for me. For the 8 hours gay marriage was legal I had to figure out a new excuse to tell my mother why I can't marry Jewish.

I have been in a relationship for about a year and a half which is equal to about 20 straight years. While gay marriage was illegal, the BF and I would always joke about getting married. We would be watching a romantic movie, he would turn to me ask me to marry him sarcastically. I would wipe the sweat off my brow and laugh with a sarcastic "too bad we can't," which was always the greatest way to get out of the situation. Then a day came where we played this game again. We watched "Never Been Kissed" for the millionth time. After 5 minutes of working on our Drew Barrymore impersonations, I turned to him and jokingly asked him to marry me. I had no idea that prop 8 was overturned a few hours before. Then the BF turns to me with a huge smile and agreed. Needless to say, I didn't go home for a few days until gay marriage was put back in limbo. Thanks California for giving me more time to work on my commitment issues!


Monday, October 18, 2010

See me LIVE!

Come watch me perform live with a great lineup at the famous Purple Onion in North Beach! I will be performing in an amazing line up with a lot of other amazing bay area standup comics brought to you by Jabari Davis and Associates. Please le me know if you want tickets I can provide you with a link.

If you are coming or considering coming to the Nov. 12th show at the Purple Onion please let me know. I can provide you with tickets if you would like to buy them from me. You can also by tickets online at:

Make sure you request tickets for the right date Nov.12 & mention that you are getting your tix to see Yuri Kagan. :)

Friday, October 15, 2010

Working on new material at the Blue Room in SF

This is the Audio from Tuesday night. You may be offended...

Monday, October 11, 2010

Story 22, edited and reposted, Tipping

Every single night these people come in. They are the ones who simply can make or break the night for unsuspecting bartenders and servers alike. Anyone who has ever worked in the service industry has encountered these jackasses. We all have met them. We have even dated them in many cases and get into this situation only after we find out that it’s too late. Then we learn what kind of person they really are. It’s something that these people probably don’t even know that makes them bad people. I am talking about those know-it-alls that tell their friends how to tip even when they aren’t the ones paying, like it really matters to them. We know who you are and don’t appreciate your input. They are like the backseat drivers of tipping.

It usually goes down in several different ways, but one thing always remains constant, the jackass part. To understand the dilemma, I will try to paint the picture to the best of my ability. Every night there this happens. Two plus people come up to the bar and order drinks just like every other nomal-ish person in a bar. Once they have all ordered, payed, received and maybe even started sipping on one of their drinks before they step away from the bar it happens. The person who received the change from this transaction puts down additional money for a tip as most Americans are accustomed to doing when they are in a bar and ordering drinks, standard protocall, not to mention good karma, since many people understand that we live off of the tip part of the night. Anyway, as the one with the money is paying, another person out of the group will make a move within 10-20 seconds of watching the tip being placed on the counter. This is the moment that you can literally watch a person turn to pure jackass. They will then reach down into the tip and pull out a few dollars if not the entire tip from the cash that is left of the counter from their friend’s tip before the bartender has a chance to intercept the original intended tip. Maybe this jackass decides that the tip is simply not necessary or too much for their taste? I am not sure. This often happens with larger orders, which take more time and effort on the server’s part. Regardless of the case, it’s downright tacky. To any hard working person in the service industry, this action is like telling them that you think they deserve to live on less than a descent wage and have no compassion for them as a human being.

Rule to the wise, do not mess with a bartender’s tips. It’s like taking food right out of our hands. To those unaware of how important tipping is for those in the service industry obviously hasn’t met my coworkers or had to work in this environment. If you don’t like our service, fine, don’t tip, no skin off of most of our backs, life goes on. If you don’t tip, are repeatedly rude or make the server/bartender’s life hell throughout the night be aware that we generally remember you. If you are visiting, maybe you simply don’t care, don’t plan on coming back, then who cares? If you live in a city like San Francisco, that is a mear 7x7 miles and then patron one of the most popular local gay bars on a regular basis (at least once a month), and still you don’t tip? If the bars you regularly patron also have the same type of catty bitches I work with, then the common courtesy tip would be my suggestion, because some of them will take it personally.

Most of us, the more passive ones I should say take the shitty tips with stride. We often do nothing because really it’s not worth the battle. Once in a while people like myself will actually hand the quarter or dime tip back to the customer and childishly tell them that they probably need the laundry money more than we do. We may even try to school them on tipping educate if they are from another country and unaware of our strange customs.

In my experience foreigners often appreciate this instead of a comment like my co-worker Aaron says “Honey, tipping aint a river in China.” Or “I love Jesus, but he didn’t tip in bills.”

There is another type of bartender who possibly takes the poor tips as a personal assault on their work and character. These are the ones you don’t want to mess with. They are the people who as servers will mess with your food. They are the ones who will make sure you regret your thoughtless move of being rude or not tipping. They are the ones who will make sure you get the plate full of something that will make you hate your life later.

There was this guy who used to work at the bar, Alejandro. At least once a night he would take a 2-minute bathroom break, where one could only assume he had a snowstorm brewing in his nose. He would come back with pupils so large, one could only assume there was something more than peeing going on during that bathroom break. On his way back to the bar, or once behind the bar, he would ask me for eye drops. He would ask for them in a very snappy way, as coke-heads often do. This is yet another thing I hate about people who do coke on a regular basis. It’s like dealing with a bi-polar freak at all times. Sometimes he would demand them from me while he was in the middle of bartending, while talking a mile a minute. I would hand them to him, walk away and not think about it. I assumed that all the cocaine in his system caused some sort of dry eye or maybe the fog shit they used on the dance floor bothered his eyes. I was so niave then, a little boy. I would later find out that Alejandro, being the catty, vengefull bitch that he was, would use the drops as a little additive to shitty customers and ex-boyfriend’s drinks! For those unaware, when eye drops are added to a person’s cocktail or food, it has a laxative effect. It’s like instant ex-lax. The Alejandro version of revenge I have since found out is not uncommon amongst bartenders at least. He later was fired for an unrelated reason.

When I worked in fast food at the age of 15, there was a girl who was angry at the world and would spit in the shake machine. There was this other guy there, who would do something even more messed up. When he would hear a customer at drive through do that thing where they pretend that the mic is cutting out and add static, he would get pissed. He then would laugh as he picked their burger up off of the nasty floor that place and then make sure that the drive through customer was getting what was coming to them.
The point is this. Try to put yourself in the service industry person’s shoes when you are out. Like my mother would say, treat them the way you would like to be treated, especially because they handle your food, one of the most delicate things you can let them do.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Just kinda funny...

Story 21 Edited & Reposted (part 2)

Today I am walking to work already in a good mood. I had a good date the night before and although I didn’t get laid as planned, I did have a wonderful time. I am still sipping the coffee from the meditation moment of the day and walking into work. One block before I get to the bar, I notice a little pebble of what looks like human shit. While disgusted, I am not that astonished and keep walking. Once at the bar, everything seems as it always is. I am ready for a good day. I keep telling myself that it can only get better. I go to the restroom before I clock in. Once in the there, while waiting for a free urinal, I watch a drunken man trying to aim into the large urinal only to hit his feet and the feet of two other men near him who don’t notice. This, I don’t blame him for, because I too have the same issue sometimes even when sober. Once done, he hiccups, burps and starts the difficult mission of trying zip his fly. This fly-zipping takes the drunken sap another 4 minutes because while he is trying to zip, he actually is wearing a button-up fly. I finish my business only to leave the guy still trying to close his fly. Finally I get to my bar station, near the dance floor, happily situated, waiting for customers. I reorganize the liquor bottles to my preference and wait for the customers to start coming my way. I am only three margaritas into this shift when it happens (margaritas for customers, not me). Two middle-ages guys come up to order drinks. One is lean, dressed in a Versace button-up dark blue shirt, dark navy slacks and pointy brown shoes. His thin, long, stringy hair is slicked back to it’s grey self as to add to what should be a distinguished look. The other is slightly taller, thicker, but still lean enough to see that this man probably drinks his meals rather than eats them, or so I assume. He is wearing a white Marc Jacobs suit with light Violette button-up within the jacket. I assume the two to be the male version of Patsy and Edie minus the English accents. They both have a pungent smell of rubbing alcohol and the Marc Jacobs suit asks me for a “Johnny Red on the ro...” As he is trying to get the word “rocks” out of his mouth, other things start to come out of his mouth. The vomit starts flowing, spewing from him and getting all over my bar station. While this guy continues to vomit for a solid three minutes I am standing there horrified and send for the doorman. His friend looks horrified as he watches what is happening and somehow continues to sip the remains of his drink. Oddly the customers of the bar just stand there, sipping their drinks, watching in silence. I notice that this gentleman who is spewing chunks is still holding on to his last drink while painting the bar. Once he stops, the doorman asks him to put the drink down since he has obviously had too much and should leave. Any sane, sober person would have realized their party foul and probably left on their own out of embarrassment. This idiot tells the doorman to F-off and goes back to sipping his drink as though nothing happened. The doorman has to eventually end up prying the drink from this drunk’s hands, his friend starts yelling at me saying that I caused the vomiting due to making the drinks so cheap. This causes him to squeal like a little girl, which creates a chain-reaction where then the barback who has to clean the reddish mess, who also squeals, a patron in the far corner of the bar sees the vomit on the bar and runs to the closest bathroom presumably to puke. The friend who call me darling, asks if he could still have his drink while he takes out a color assorted handful of random pills and puts them on the only clean part of the counter in front of my station. This is all as his friend, the vomit-monster is being carried out. I cut him off and he leaves. The rest of my shift of horrors is followed with customers trying to figure out if that smell is them or the person next to them.

The part that confuses me the most is this. I have done many dumb things without the influence of alcohol in my day. I will not lie, I like a good stiff drink, now and now. I have had moments in my life where I drank enough vodka to kill a large animal and done several stupid things. I have taken the wrong bus home sometimes. I forget my phone in cabs from time to time, I often accidentally leave my fly open due to the fact that I simply can’t be bothered with the buttons. I have on occasion have been known to make out with random gentlemen when inebriated as well . I don’t ever have the need when drunk to pee in the middle of a bar, puke anywhere other than a lawn, toilette of alleyway, nor do I ever get kicked out of an establishment.

Story 21, Edited and reposted (part 1)

Why is it that drunk people always think that they can do things that any “normal”, sober person wouldn’t even think of doing? They are like the little kid who watches "Superman" and then jumps off a building. After having essentially lived at that bar for years, I have developed a kind of routine so to speak. Some people start their day one sock at a time, while I start every day with the following assumptions: the sun will rise and eventually set, Europeans rarely tip, a homeless person will approach me asking for change at least 3 times through out the day, and that I will witness a drunk person doing something plainly stupid. This act of stupidity will happen at any point throughout the day. It may happen the second that I leave my apartment building, across the street, 5 feet away, or 5 hours into the night’s shift. Regardless, drunks make the city and world that I live in go round, so I deal.

For some reason, in a room full of drunks, there is always the guy that has to pee. By pee, I mean that this dude feels this urgent need to pee on something, anything, anywhere, but not in a toilet or urinal because that would make logical sense. He is like that little boy who feels the need to randomly and inappropriately pants himself and show off his business in public. These gentlemen, a term I use loosely, are often of a certain kind of breed. It is often the ex-frat bro-douches that do this. This act though, is not just limited to them. About a year back, I see this guy, who looks like a regular guy, even slightly more attractive than the average Joe, not that this is relevant, but one must get a fully painted picture visualize the event. He is tall and a bit white trashy, with shaved blond hair. This is the type of guy who probably has a tribal tattoo on their forearm and I assume a pack of menthols in his back pocket. He looks similar to Matt Damon with a crew cut, with Emminem’s thug-wanna be style, complimented with a tattoo of a rose on his neck, next to a tattoo of what I assume to be his area code in Gangsta-font. I'll admit it, he is what I would consider trashy hot. They type of guy you just wanna have sex with, but would never introduce to your friends. In the middle of a busy bar, right next to the bartending station, he just whips out his penis and just starts pissing right there. Like a dog he just pees all over the floor. He does it like it’s normal for a grown man to pee on the floor in the middle of a crowded bar. What is even more astonishing, is the fact that in a room full of drunks, not a single person says or notices this guy treating the floor near the bar station like a fire hydrant. No one even glances his way, to give him a sneer of disgust as I would expect. They are all too absorbed in their own lame conversations… This is until one queen with frosted tips screams as they notice their Diesel shoes getting wet and blows this guy’s cover. By scream, I mean a pitch barely audible to humans and so high that most dogs would be on alert. The ironic part is that while this is an isolated event, goes on to happen every Friday for 3 months, all different dudes.

There is another drunken fool who comes in during our busy Friday two-for-one happy hours. In San Francisco, where the gays are alcoholics and they are cheaper than a Jew in a 99cent store at the day after Christmas clearance rack, this drink special works as a gold mine for bars and is the best time to work. This is the easiest and hardest time to make fast money to pay your rent, if you can survive the craziness that ensues. Anyway, there is this guy who comes in every weekend since the bar opened 8-years ago. This man is this rather rotund slob who resembles Jabba-the-Hut, so we shall call him “Jabba” since I don’t know or care to know his real name. Jabba works his way around the bar in his wheelchair. He is an average looking guy surrounded by his own fat who is probably around forty-fiveish at the oldest. Normally I am not one to talk poorly about the physically challenged but this guy’s case, he is a flat out perv./asshole. He always whirls around the bar trashed regardless of how busy it is and makes his way to the dance floor. Normally I am one to applaud those who defy the odds life has handed them, but really, I mean, who dances with a wheel chair in a crowded bar? If this isn’t enough, not only does he dance on the floor in his wheelchair, which normally I have not issue with, but he uses it as a lethal weapon. It’s like his way of getting back at those who have two-working legs. He get’s right in the middle and whirls around, knocking everyone around him in the shins, this in turn also clears the dance floor. Many people end up walking off of the dance floor with burst, cut up shins, limping off to get some medication (a drink) and complain about the whole fiasco to me, like I can do anything about it. To make things worse, dancing Jabba also slowly pushes the joystick on his chair as he is cruising his way through, in the same fashion that Vatos cruise down streets to “holler at bitches.” He pinches every ass-cheek, cock and tits that get in his way. To make things worse, you can smell him coming from a few feet away. His odor is very distinct, like raw meat that has spoiled, covered in that rotten egg-sulfur smell that only induces the gagging feeling more when her passes by. This just adds to my disgust for Jabba. Then after a few pints he leaves a restroom even more vomitalicious than it is prior to his visit. He does the unexpected. He leaves pint glasses all over the various restrooms and bar, filled with the piss that he empties out from his catheter. It makes no sense. Again, a sane, maybe less drunk person would empty that crap into a toilette or near by lawn I assume, but not this guy.

I come into work knowing that I should always be ready for the worst, having experienced all sorts of drunken crazies in their natural habitat. I generally assume that I personally have the ammo needed to survive these for various situations both mentally and physically, without ruining my day or my money. I keep the Emminem wannabe in my pervie little head (the place that women put romance novels and men hide their porn), in a compartment separate from Jabba, in the back of my mind as awareness of what may happen and stay prepared and remember that I am the one who has carried these people out often and kept my cool. Generally, I take some time to myself before work to do my own version of meditation for this reason alone, the maintinance of sanity or at least the closest thing I know to it. Depending on the day, year, week and what’s going on in my life this may include a cigarette, maybe a piece of chocolate. Always, always, always there is a cup of coffee or shot of espresso during this meditation period. I just sit, sip and watch passerbyers heading to bars, or walking from them as they trip over their own feet upon exit. I sit for 15-20 minutes before every shift to help keep sanity and prepare for battle.
(to be continued)

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Sarah Silverman, Dear America

Jen Kirkman

Hey Guys! Go check out Jen Kirkman at the Elbo Room (in San Francisco) Nov.6th. I'm a big fan of her work. Even though I can't go cause I have to work that night I suggest that anyone who is free go see her!

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Story 20, edited and reposted (part 2)

Last month, after the usual perfectly satisfying Citron soda dinner, I had fallen asleep on my couch watching the normal trash I usually do, reruns of the “Golden Girls.” I woke up to this infomercial selling this amazing sandwich maker. It made any sandwich into perfectly crisp triangles within what looked like seconds. The brilliant sales commelian/person on the screen had what sounded like a British accent, that I later realized was probably South African, but that was besides the point. He kept on making thousands of these amazing little triangle sandwiches along side this woman who would exclaim “Just set it and forget it?” every two minutes. I then switched the channel and there was an A & E biography of Princess Diana. It was at that moment, that I randomly booked a trip to London. Two weeks later I also received a sandwich maker that I couldn’t for the life of me remember ordering or get to work like the infomercial showed.

For the last hour of work Christopher is studying me. Every time I glance over, I try to barely look his direction. He makes sure to lock in eye-contact. I start to wish that I was just a customer right now, off and able to mingle with these interesting foreigners. Our eyes meet for a bit longer than comfortable, it’s even longer than it was a few minutes ago. That is when I start to actually get intrigued.

Finally my shift is over, I have changed, clocked out and gotten paid. Ready to go home and start on my 10-page term paper due the following night. My mind is already miles away from the bar. I am off. I make it through the now slightly crowded bar and go straight for the door. As I am walking out of the bar, to my left, there is a group of guys chatting. Some of them are smoking, the others are just chatting away. Suddenly Christopher pops out of this group, grabs my hand and starts telling the crowd of apparent drunken strangers how we have been an item for years.
“I travel so much, it’s hard on him.” He says.

I am silent at this point and while intrigued, I am unsure as to where this is going. One of the smokers asks him how long we have been together. At this point Christopher grabs me by the waist fairly aggressively.

“How long is it now? 5 and a half? 6 years? We are getting married in the London next year, even though his parents don’t support it. They don’t like that I’m in show business. My mother though, she thinks of him as her own.”

The smokers smile, laugh and go back to talking amongst themselves. At this moment, Christopher leans in and plants an intense kiss on my lips. It’s the kind that you see in movies and feel incapacitated after. He peels me off of his lips, looks into my eyes and then goes right back to work. The then pulls away, grabs my hand as he tries to pull me back into that abyss of a bar.

As I open my mouth to speak, my voice sounds like it did at my bar mitzvah, painfully off, like a fog-horn sort of thing. I then clear my throat and try again. “6 Years huh? You don’t even know my name do you?” I say slowly, while still reeling from the kiss.

“Babe, sometimes it’s the fantasy that makes it fun. Lets take the evening by storm. You’re adorable babe. I look into your eyes and know that I don’t want to just let you go. You are intoxicating. I have an evening here and must get to know what I can. One drink?” He pulls my hand towards the bar.

He is a smooth talker. I will give him that. It would also be nice to have someone in London to visit who can show me sights or at least to bone while I’m there. Everything else in the world seems to not matter now. I have ½ beer and listen to Christopher’s story. While he is talking, I am half listening, half wondering what he looks like naked. Then I wake out of my trance once I hear him mention that he is a dancer. I am even more interested now. He is a part of this dance-troupe that has traveled all over the world, tonight is their only night in San Francisco. He just came out of a 6-year relationship back in London. He has about 2 hours left before he needs to catch the last train back to North Bay, where the troupe is staying. I decide to throw caution to the wind, which is out of character for me. I ask him if he would like to see Twin Peaks before he goes, since it’s the best view of San Francisco. He smiles and approves this idea.

As we are walking out of the bar hand-in-hand towards my car, there is a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence standing one block from my car. She is in a tight, rubber, white dress, similar in a similar style to that of the nurse on that Blink182 CD cover. The dress on this tranny is amazing it’s complimented by white stockings containing dark, think stubble and white glitter all over his/her face. She is just standing there, handing out condoms while holding up a makeup compact to check out her face out of the corner of her eye.

The Sisters are drag queens that look kind of like nurses with Ronald Mc Donald white-faces that are a part of a non-profit that support STD education in San Francisco, and often pass out condoms.
As we pass this sister, Christopher grabs one of their goodie-packs.

“Not that we are planning to have sex, but one must always be prepared… Besides, it will be a good souvenir for my trip.”
I smile, unsure of what is going to happen.

“I’ll take you to the best view of the city. Twin Peaks. Look how clear the sky is. It will be perfect.”

“Just remember, the last bus leaves in a little over an hour.” He says.

As we are driving up the mountain that is Twin Peaks, close to the Castro area, I notice that the clouds are starting to roll in and wonder if this trip up here is such a good idea. He seems content. As we are winding up the mountain, he slowly slides his hand on to my waist, which accidentally makes me floor the gas for a second and nearly drive the car off of the hill. As I regain control of myself and try to focus on the road, I begin to wonder how much I look like a creeper, driving this guy to the top of this mountain to see a view when the clouds are coming in. Will there be a view to see? What will happen if there isn’t a view? What am I doing with a complete stranger in my car, groping me? This seems like a bad after school special. What if he has is a serial killer and I don’t know it?

Story 20, Edited & reposted (part 1)

It’s just a run of the mill Monday happy hour. I assume it’s going to be like every Monday happy hour, slow, dreary and full of queens who think they are at Cheers. Word to the wise, if you go on a date with someone to a bar, well don't. If everybody knows their name, they are probably an alcoholic, but I shall digress. It’s James, the cameras and me, with our three customers who are drinking their sorrows away thanks to the two-for-one drink special that happy hour brings. One of the three guys is in the corner of the bar talking to himself the way he normally does this time of day. He is obviously Jewish because he is always arguing with himself. Today, he is arguing politics with his other personality. The rest of the people in the crowd are one awkward couple made up of a big old white guy with his little gaysian boyfriend. The gaysian is an interesting species. They are those little Asian guys so tiny that you could probably fit him in one of those bags people carry little dogs. The guy looks about 19, but I’m sure he is in his mid-thirties. Asian people are lucky in that way, they look youthful for so much longer than my people. I’m probably around 15 years younger than this gaysian man and I’m the one who never gets carded. When I go to Macy’s the sales people always are quick to suggest eye cream to me. It's the life of a fair skinned, light haired man. While they say black don't crack, we get the short end of the stick and start crackin' way early. Often people guess that I am 30+ which at times can at times be hard on the moral. I guess that is what botox is meant for.

About three hours into the slowest shift of my life, a group of people, most of whom have jacked-up teeth, walk in. About 16 or so young men and a woman come in. They all appear to be in their early 20s and all very lean. The first guy comes up to James, smiles, showing his lack luster teeth and orders a vodka-lemonade. This guy’s teeth are all jagged and his smile also has a slant to one side kind of like Tom Cruise’s and the mismanagement of a Dudley Moore . He orders Lemonade in Brit talk translates to 7up in American. The next guy starts off “gin-n-tonic, also where can I buy fags around this bloody place?”

James laughs while frustrated, laughs again. “Sweetie, the only fags in this bar are the ones sitting at these bar stools, and I don’t know what they are running for these days.”

The Brit is not amused, gives James a backhanded smile to show his disdain for him and then tosses down a nice, shiny penny. Then a blond girl, who looks like Baby Spice with her tits hiked up to her chin. This one, we will call Eliza Doolittle comes up to order vodka, coke-light. Brits always order drinks with Vodka or Gin in them and these drinks also are often accompanied by “lemonade” or 7Up. At this realization of the British invasion, we know that while there are a lot of people now in the bar, if they are all British then we aren’t making any money tonight. The British are not known as generous tippers when traveling in the U.S.

Soon, the group of British are dancing on the empty dance floor to the cheesy music we always play. They appear to be having the time of their lives and are turning the dance floor into Soul Train before my very eyes, but instead with white people who are thin and have bad teeth. They dance surprisingly well, when compared to the usual tone deaf dancers that normally occupy the floor. I watch them almost wishing that I could be one of them, even though I am rhythmically challenged and actually have two left feet. Then, one of the boys in this group comes up to me to order a drink. He is about my height. I say that I am 5’8, but I’m really 5’7 and ¾. The quarter of an inch seems to really make a difference in my self-description. Anyways, he is a slender man, with beautiful dark brown hair, straight hair that is just long enough to go behind his ears with hypnotizing crystal blue eyes. He has the firm skin of a young man, but the muscle tone, and chiseled facial definition of a man. His accent is one that unlike the other Brits of his group. It’s not grading, doesn’t sound like a broken fog-horn every time he talks. I actually can understand every syllable that comes out of his mouth. He sounds more like princess Dianna, and less like scary spice. What I don’t understand, I pretend I do. I tell him that I am not the bartender, but he can order a drink from James. He nods, stares in to my eyes slightly longer than comfortable, introduces himself to me as he casually looks me up and down, “Christopher, too bad.” He then is on his way to get his drink.

There is another hour left of my shift. At this point I am wondering what it’s like to be a British person visiting the US. I also start to wonder what it’s like to talk with a British accent at all times. Even telling someone to fuck off, or describing diaria somehow sounds classier with a posh British accent. Being from Southern California, everything I say sounds like a run on sentences and my pronunciation of things must sound just down right annoying to people. I use the word “like” and “dude” as adjectives for nearly everything and always end my sentences with question marks. This is the way that most native Southern Californians sound. I try to change these habits, but still every now and again sound like a mix between an 80s valley girl and Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” I start to wonder if they, as foreigners truly hate Americans they way the San Fran hippies always try to tell us they do. Just then, I realize that I will be going to London in one month.

After a 10-minute drive of over-thinking and awkward groping, we finally reach the top of Twin Peaks. I park right in the middle of the currently empty parking lot. We are the only ones up there. As we I glance out the window to look for the view I was going to show him, all I can see are clouds. I reach for the door to get out of the car and he asks me what we are doing. As I look over at him I shrug and try to explain how there normally is a beautiful view and that I do not want to look like a creepy axe murderer who takes him somewhere secluded to take advantage of him.

Christopher grabs my hand and moves it on to his pants to touch what feels like a whole other arm growing under the zipper of his Levi’s. He instantly pushes his lips on to mine to start the most passionate make out session I have taken part in, to date. While making out, all I can think about is how this would be more comfortable not in my little Honda Civic. It maybe be more enjoyable to make out with someone and not have a gear-shift poking me in the abdomen. I now also have a one track mind now, again intrigued, yet alarmed, all I can think about is the abnormal and currently unknown growth in this boy’s pants.

As he takes his shirt off to reveal his slender, white body, I can see every ligament in his body. I can see every rib under his smooth, vampirishly-white flesh. As my eyes start to work their way down to his little black fuzz-trail. Just then he asks me the question.

“Mate, are you a pitcher or catcher?”

I have never heard it asked quite that way. I don’t really understand the question.

He holds up the condom and asks again, “pitcher or catcher? We don’t have to have sex mate, but it sure would be fun.”
Now he unbuttons his pants to reveal the largest hard-on I have ever seen. It is so massive I am bewildered. I don’t understand what someone can do with that. The thing is between the size of a ketchup bottle and maybe a 40-ounce beer can. I can’t help but stare at the freakish thing for a few minutes while being both amazed and dumbfounded.

After 15-minutes of the most intense sex that one can have in a small car, within the given time period, it feels like pizza oven in my little car. My windows are so fogged up that they look like they are covered with that white frost-spray shit people put on their windows around Christmas. He puts his hand-print on my back window like Leo does in “Titanic,” to remind me that he was there.

Christopher has about 30 minutes now to get to his bus and I don’t even know how to get to the train stations. He is now trying to untangle his clothing that is now all mushed into this little ball in the corner of the passenger’s seat. To completely untangle himself and get his things in order, he opens the passenger door and steps out buck naked as he puts his tity-whities on gets his massive penis under wraps. He tosses the condom wrapper on to the floor near his feet. While he is tucking his stuff in, a minivan with Wisconsin license-plates framed by several metal Jesus fishes pulls in to the spot right next to us. It is filled with a family that looks like they are on their way to Walleyworld. There are 3 children under the age of 12 in the back seats who have their faces plastered to the window, they are staring in aw at Christopher’s white, nude body and start to scream really loud. They are screaming like they just met Freddy cougar.

The dad driving the car looks like John Goodman, shouts out, “fucking perverts you should be ashamed of yourselves.”
One of the 3 kids who is this little girl, around the age of 5 starts crying now. Then the mother who is in the passenger seat starts to shout calmly. She looks like Michelle Phillips with long, stringy brown hair. I can’t understand her words at first. After a few seconds, I realize that she is repeating, “sodomy is not the way of god and only leads to hell. Burn in hell heathen.”
They instantly back right out of the parking spot that they have been in for the all of 20-seconds. As the car is about to drive away, I notice that they have a sticker on their front bumper that says “Jesus is my co-pilot,” and that the mother is now holding a cross that she is holding towards my car like that will help us. She then throws tiny red bible at my car which luckily lands right under my tire where it belongs.

Christopher gets back into the car and we drive to the bus station. The drive to the station is quiet for a few minutes and then we both just bust up laughing uncomfortably loud for the next 5 minutes straight. He makes it with 3.5 minutes to spare and hands me his email address which he quickly writes on the back of my car registration. He tells me that he I should make sure to drop me a line when in London, hops out of the car and runs to his bus. I smile and drive away knowing that I will never see him again.
(to be continued)

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