I'm Jewish, so what?

A comedy bit I am working on... please feel free to comment with tags or ideas...


This situation happens to me all the time and I don't really know what to do with it. I was chatting with a friend about my over-bearing mother.

He was like, "oh, your Jewish?"

My response, "oh, your blind?"

The thing is I get what I look, I have looked like this my whole life. I look Jewish people.

Him, "I just didn't want to assume."

Me, "Didn't want to assume? You can assume there are 7 days in the week, just like you can assume I'm Jewish."

Him, "I didn't want to offend you."

Me, "Offend me? For thinking I'm Jewish? It's not 1932. I wouldn't be offended that you assume I'm Jewish, I'ld be offended if you thought I had horns."

People often tell me, they say "Yuri, being Jewish is just a religion."

If that's true, then why is it ever flight I go on, strangers offer me their kosher meal? Or whenever a comedian I dont know tells a really good Holocaust joke, they have to stare at me for awkwardly long periods of time, just to see if I'm okay with it?

They say Jewish is just a religion, I say it's a diagnosis. Symptoms include having relatives who complains so much at restaurants that the managers know them by name, guilt that hale marries can't fix, and a Jewish mother... A Jewish mother is kind of like acne. They tell you that shit will go away, but she just lingers on and on... you can use all the Pro Active in the world and she wont get out of your business!

As a kid, I always wished I was black, then someone would look at me and think, "maybe he could be athletic."
The best part about being Jewish is that no one ever asks you to help them move...

Not sure where to go from this...

This shit doesn't just happen! My night with Loni Love.

It's Monday and I'm trying to figure out what to write, what to make of the weekend I just had ad like many comics, the ultimate dick joke.

I performed at Cobb's Comedy club on Thursday with an amazing lineup, in a show I co-produce, "Recovering Commies." It was my first time performing in such a large venue. It's a pretty crazy mind fuck. Kind of like graduating college or high school. A lot lead up to it. Like when I graduated college, there was this odd feeling where I felt like I owned the world and after could do anything. My last day of college was like that. I didn't walk because I was poor and didn't see the point in spending money just to walk town a carpet and get the Degree I had already paid for. I was bummed though that I didn't get to throw my cap the way they did in the later seasons of "A Different World," but worked past it. I got wasted and enjoyed about a gallon of ice cream to keep the recovering fat guy inside quiet. It was glorious. Then there was the next day, hungover with the taste of food in my mouth that I couldn't remember eating. The day after any of these events always suck. That's when the question comes, now what?

I spent Friday in an odd bubble. I proceeded to watch 2 hours of Will & Grace, cause I'm a 'mo and drank about 4 cups of coffee while watching the View. I wrote some jokes like everyone's favorite one-liner:

"Suicide bombers say they do it for the 72 virgins... who wants 72 virgins? that would be like getting 72 of the girl you dated in high school who thought dry-humping would get them pregnant."

You're welcome. Then, I just stared at my computer screen for another hour while doodling a picture of a penis on my wrist cause that's how I role. I went to an open mic in a college mess hall which for some reason had ice cream just sitting there. I did what any other broke comic would do. I ate a bowl of ice cream for dinner and planned on figuring out a hot 5-set for the crowd of pre-rehab/dropout art students (4 kids and a room of comics). I then made my way to see my comedy idol, the one, the only Ms. Loni Love. This was after I went to Macy's and sampled the cologne I never planned on buying of course.

Ever since I started doing comedy and before, I loved Ms. Love. She has always been laugh out loud funny and supportive of new comics. In my experience this may be a rare thing in comedyland to find. I secretly viewed her like a comedy god mother of sorts who liked food and brown liquor. I would tweet her jokes of mine and sometimes she would actually respond which I never expected. I would watch her comedy sets on youtube all the time, back to back with old Joan Rivers and Roseanne sets on various occasions for years, especially after the second day job laid me off. I always loved how she could take the most educated topic and explain it in a way that everyone could relate. She talked about her weight and issues in a way that we could understand without over doing it. After bombing, and trying to figure out why the Chinese restaurant I did 10 minutes at didn't like my Hitler-suicide-political commentary joke, nothing felt better than anything salty followed by a gallon of ice cream, drinking wine and watching comedy online.

I planned on seeing Ms. Love years ago. Unfortunately the schedule never worked out and I would either out of town or have to work. Finally I was in line to see her live at the rRazz Room. I was alone cause no one else would go with me. I made friends with 2 girls at the show. We got schnockered while watching Ms. Love shred. Being that I had only had the ice cream, I was pretty happy with the comedy and vodka at this point. At the end of the show the 2 girls I sat with were trying to remember my name and how to pronounce it. One kept saying "Yur.... Yurrr... Yurae?" Ms. Love was in ear shot and I guess heard my name. She knew who I was off of twitter! We took a photo together. I was so high (rhetorically speaking, if my mother reads this) that I was speechless. She then asked me what I was doing the following night and offered me 5 minutes. I almost literally shat myself.

My response, "For real?"

Loni Love "you're a comic right?"

Me, "um. yeah."

She just smiled and then said to be there by 9:30...

Me, "for real?"

She nodded as I thanked her and made my way out of the place. I may or may not have squealed at that moment a few octaves higher than a dog whistle. On my way home I left 4 drunken messages for my mom, my boyfriend and my bff Yegvenia about what happened and hopped on the subway home trying to keep myself in check on the way home.

That Saturday, I rushed through my happy hour bartending shift trying to figure out a good 5 minute set for that night. I got to the show 30 min early with my friend Gretchen and Ms. Love walked by her fans and waved to me. I forgot why I was there and almost pissed myself from excitement that she was even waving to me.

I got to chat with Ms. Love for like 20 minutes in the greenroom about comedy and life. I felt like a "make a wish kid." She was so nice to us. Ms. Love didn't have to do any of this, like chatting, giving me stage time and talking business with me. During these 20 minutes, I forgot how nervous I was about my set and just enjoyed the moment.

Once on stage, I don't really know what I said or completely remember the bits I told. I do though remember making eye contact with the first table in front of me. Of course it was my Dr. and his date which added to the randomness of the night. I proceeded to tell my jokes and introduce Ms. Love.

It was a night to remember and to remember for my E True Hollywood story somewhere down the line Thanks Loni Love!

the Castro Bubble.

Chapter 8.
Often people have asked me questions about working in the Castro. They always have leading questions. “I bet you meet hot guys all of the time right?” If by hot they mean men who probably do enough crystal to make Courtney Love look like straightedge, then probably. This is always the first of many questions, which often are followed by a smile and a silence that can cut-glass. I assume, that people who don’t know what this job actually entails, seem to think it’s just a great social event every night. It can be that too. What people often forget is that it's just a job like any other job. Clock in, clock out, and replay. They often glamorize this pretty regular, blue-collar job into their mythical descriptions. There is always this odd intrigue with the idea of being at the center of attention. While behind the bar at a busy bar, 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. Even the description has all the makings for a B rated porn. Unfortunately, that is where the similarities stop. 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 “money shot” 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 drink a lot though.

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 a 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 my first few months here. I’m 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 criticizing 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" and crappy Lifetime movies. I can't even put either on my DVR without fear that someone will see I have watched it. Back to Cher. now 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 the 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.

Recovering Commies Podcast!

Check out our "Recovering Commies Presents: Behind the Curtain" Podcast. First we interview Christina Paszitsky, then Chris Garcia and most recently Janine Brito!

Here is a link to our podcast: http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/recovering-commies-presents/id463087309?i=96974074




You can also see us live at Cobb's Comedy Club in San Francisco on December 8th.

Here is a link for tickets: http://www.cobbscomedyclub.com/event/1C004751E8346E2C

Who's gay?

Coincidentally, the first gay bar I ever went to was in the Castro. The circumstances were not the norm though. I was seventeen. It was the summer before my senior year, or as I like to call it, the last year to freedom. I lived in San Diego at the time, worked at Starbucks part-time and still thought I was straight. I had a girlfriend who I loved at the time and still do. It was summer time, right about the time assholes start using a certain quote when they hear you’re are visiting San Francisco. “The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco."

It was a cousin’s birthday in SF. I went with a few of my cousins to San Francisco for the weekend to visit extended family there. This was when I still thought Rice-A-Roni was the San Francisco treat and years before I would learn that it actually was homeless people pooping on stoops and passive aggressive arguments completely consisting of eye-rolls.

After a lovely Friday evening of stuffing our fat Russian faces with as much Russian food as possible, we got to my cousin’s house in San Francisco and continued to snack on leftovers and regret. This would lead to a Saturday waking up late, hung over and not feeling like doing jack shit. I sat for hours chatting, eating and drinking coffee with three of my cousin’s and one of their husbands. After the fourth course and second pot of coffee my aunt, who’s house we were in came in to her kitchen, which was now covered in food wrappers, crumbs, poppy seed cake, koogle and empty doughnut boxes. She of course yelled at us about the mess and then told us to go out and stop wasting the day away. This was after she yelled at the two girl cousins for eating too much and then offered myself, along with the only other male in the room all of the food that was left on the table. That was of course the Russian way. After another hour of stuffing my face with caviar, bread and guilt (Russian/Jew food staples), while the girls at the table were working on their eating disorders, we decided it was time to do something. We didn’t have a plan, but all decided to get dressed.

It was around 8 or 9 in the evening and we just drove around the city. We went to Twin Peaks, Lombard (the curvy street) and Golden Gate Park, all without getting out of the car because it was food coma time. Eventually the older cousins decided they wanted to get drinks but couldn’t because some of us were under age. This didn’t stop us though. The conversation about drinking came, as we happened to be driving near the Castro District. We parked there and decided to look around. We had heard that this was where the cheapest bars in the city were and being the Jewish family we were raised as, we couldn’t help but check out the bargain.
While walking around we chatted, joked around and my cousin’s husband, who was with us brought up an intriguing idea. He proposed a bet that we all pick a gay bar, all try to go in and then see if we could get someone of the same sex to buy us a drink. The first person to do this would get a $20 from everyone on this outing. There were five of us.

I was so excited about the getting to go to bars part that I didn’t care about anything else. The first bar we approached smelled like rotten beer. As we waked in, no one carded me and I was ecstatic. After 30-seconds of rejoicing about that in my head, I looked around the bar. It was all fat, older, hairy men watching the original Ellen Show. It was such a stereotype it was ridiculous. It was of course the episode where Ellen where she came out. After 40-seconds of being in the bar Ellen had announce that she was gay on all five of the television screens in the bar, maybe this hit too close for home, not sure. We left quickly soon after.

We walked a few minutes and found another nearly empty gay bar. The entrance to the place just had these stairs that took you to the top of the building where the bar was. Another place where I didn’t get carded, I was near shitting myself as a result at this point. Out the windows of the bar we were looking over Castro Street, the HUGE rainbow flag and the years of bad decisions that I would follow this moment with in bars.

We all split up. One of my lady cousins hung out near the pool table of the place. It was a few minutes earlier we realized that the pool table was lesbian territory. After two seconds of being there, a big, fat man-woman person, dressed like Bruce Springsteen approached her and chatted her up. I assume the conversation did no cover makeup or orthodontic work.

Next, that cousin’s husband went to another room and started chatting with some random college dude who in retrospect looked like an older version of the kid from the Terminator movies.

Every cousin had picked a person to talk to. I just sat alone sipping some neon blue drink that had way too many garnishes. After about a half-hour of sitting there I started to daydream about my next meal, hoping we would go to a late night diner and be able to get milkshakes. It was then, this little Dominican fellow walked up to me. He asked me if I was okay.
Unfortunately it came out as “JEEEEW KAY?”

I misunderstood, gave him an “I’m insulted” face and looked away while I finished half of my drink in one gulp.

The guy walked away and within one minute came back with a drink he handed me with his number on a napkin. He was so gross that I think my penis shrinked up into itself or at least that’s what I felt like… I smiled, guzzled the drink down and told him I had to go. I was headed to the exit. All the cousins saw my accomplishment and one by one came up to me and gave me $20. I glanced back at the guy in the distance who bought me a drink. He looked up hauled. Maybe it was cause all these people were handing me money and it looked like I was a prostitute.

Ironically it would be three year before I realized that I was in fact a gay and five years before I would be good at it.

Story 19, LURKERS

In San Francisco, “people watching” becomes sport. It’s far more entertaining with a drink in hand or maybe that’s just a personal preference. SF is the perfect place for anyone on a budget just sit, observe and judge. Actually, the last one is not necessary, but making up stories for the strangers you’re watching is always fun. There are countless different kinds of people who come into gay bars, all for different reasons. Watching one group in particular never ceases to amaze me. I like to call this group the “lurkers.”

We all have seen them, or at times met, or may even be lurkers ourselves, though few will ever admit it. These men and or women can be observed in their natural habitat, the bar. Here is where they live often. They hide in the shadows where they feel comfort. There are two types of lurkers. One is the pure alcoholic type. They can bee seen sitting there for 8-10 hours at a time going unnoticed to the untrained bar-going-eye. I have personally observed one of these guys, a lurker kill at least 10 cocktails on his own without leaving his perch in the dark corner of the bar. When ordering his last round, he doesn’t even stumble, trip or anything. Aside from the bad breath, one would never know he has been drinking. The ways of a lurker baffle the mind.

There is a second type of lurker. This type is the post-rehab type. They are often accompanied by countless redbulls, which they drink interchangeably with mineral waters and plain non-alcoholic beverages. They too can drink enough redbull to give the average person a heart attack, but seem un-phased. They too are astonishing because they can sit for hours and go unnoticed… They somehow blend into the wallpaper. Both types of lurkers have similarities. Some wear clothing that would be better suited for their children, nieces or nephews, the type of shit someone may buy at the gap or Miller’s OutPost or Mervin’s (I don’t think that those stores are even still in business). Others dress in the blan, Wal-Mart-type of solids to help camouflage better in the bar shadow terrain. They sit, sip wait, move fast, swift and quietly once they have found their prey. These wallflowers look for any hint of attention or a warm body to feast upon and presumably suck the youth out of, like the witches in the movie “Hocus Pocus.” Although, I am sure that the entertainment value is lost without Bette Midler and her simantics.

When I first start working at the bar, I too never notice the lurkers who are sitting in the shadows. Some of them are even stationary during my whole shift, just watching my every move and observing my every mannerism. The day comes when I watch this cute little twink get ambushed for the first time. I watch in amazement as I am not really sure what is going on. This kid is the “barely legal type,” who just turned 21 or at least that is what he says and how he presents himself. He has the body of a young boy, and is so thin that I just want to feed him a sandwich to give him the strength to run from this trap. After a few rounds, his friends grow tired of the mid-afternoon ghost town that Monday happy hours often are. Before I know it, this kid is, more F- up than Courtney love at an open bar. It’s too late for this kid now. He has no idea what he is in for. It’s like watching one of those horror flicks where we all know what Is going to happen and want to yell at the bitch running from the killer to just shoot herself in the leg and get it over with… Within seconds, like a vampire, this lurker has swooped in to catch his prey, the poor, soft skinned, rail-thin twink. Within seconds Mr. Lurker, gestures for another energy drink from the bartender. He then smiles at the child/boy. To which, the kid respond with an innocent, “hey.” Again I want to tell him to run, but it’s not my place.

One word with these lurkers and one is stuck. They it becomes hard to walk or even talk away. Then they start to spin their rhetorical web around the guys they meet and make their prey.

Now, Mr. Lurker unbuttons the top of his Abercrombie shirt, to show his freshly wax, tann, liver-spott chest, complimented by a pookah-shelled necklace from Miller’s Outpost. He offers the boy a birthday shot. Within seconds of the shot, Mr. Lurker has the boy gathering his stuff as he offers this child a ride home. Hand in hand, and they are off.
This companionship can start out with a shot, an ear to talk to, or a hand to hold. The reasons for needing this type of companionship very I suppose. Within the time that it takes for a martini to be made, the lurkers can get a hold of their prey. Often their prey for the evening are so drunk or lonesome by this point, they are easy to hypnotize. They are ready to leave the bar with anyone who gives them the slightest bit of attention. Soon, the lurkers are gone with their new pet/flavor/toy/friends of the evening.

There is another lurker, who I on occasion have the privledge of watching work on many occasions. Once in a while, he will pirch himself at the very end corner of the bar. He is a rather large, depressingly unattractive fellow. To paint the picture a bit better, looks like a male version of Nell Carter as a man, with a mustache. He somehow always finds ways to sit there for hours going unseen. He also, will always come alone and then find a way to leave with enough boys to make Tonka jealous.

This lurker in particular will drink cavasiers or a “beautifuls” (Carvoisier with a touch of Grand Marnier) seemingly by the gallon. Often this type of drink is ordered by they type of fellow who idolizes Puff Daddy and others who may be found on a yacht pouring champagne on bitches. This man is not a one of cheap taste, in that regard, but cheap clothing. This one will catch dudes from all walks, young jocks, twinks, average handsome joes, right before the drink to blackout. He always tries to hold my hand when I am whipping the counter near him, as I move away, he then tells me that he can buy me a bar… I respond and say, I will buy my own. He then smiles and responds “precious,” you’re just too smart and beautiful for me.”
After numerous drinks, he will take out a few $100 dollar bills, set it on the bar He then proceeds to offer the guy and or his friends a round of top-shelf shots. I watch this gravy-train unfold each and every time into a plain old shit-show. These poor saps will soon be off with Mr. Lurker. Like the Hamburgler with a sack of burgers, Mr. Lurker’ too will leave with a car full of blacked out, hot, dumb, young faggy boys, fill with enough alcohol, that they could probably start a fire with as little as a burp.

Story 6

Being there is like living inside the eye of a traveling tornado. That is a tornado covered in glitter, that loves to dance. There are always new people flying in and out of that place. I'm constantly waiting, to one day glance out the window of the bar and see the drag queen/witch on the bike. It’s San Francisco and here that’s very likely. Often it seems like more people go through that place than a toilet at a chili cook off. 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 where they are at the bar every waking moment. We just end up being a part of the foundation that holds the place together, the glue, so to speak. 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 and make the money you can’t. 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 here 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. Be jealous!

I am usually lucky enough to get at least a shift a week where I worked with Michael who quickly 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. Mikey, 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.

For Michael, if I 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 for Christ’s sakes. 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, anacononda-esk, elephant trunk, noodlesk, wine corkish, and microscopic, we see them all. There is no racial divide here, equal opportunity all the way.

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.

jokes and premises...

Trying to write... nothing comes to mind that's particularly funny.... here is what's on my mind.

As a bartender, when someone orders a long island they are essentially asking u to put your finger down their throat.

....

Leave it to gays to pick a depressing song and turn it into a dance mix. The words may make you want to slit your wrists but we will dance the fuck out of the song.


______

If you go to a bar and ask for the cherries without a drink more than once in a night it's possible that you either have never had sex with another person.

_____

Guys who tell a bartender "I'll get you next time" instead of tipping every time, chances are they are horrible in the sack.

STOP using the word PARTNER!

I am not sure if I have already written about this issue or not. Something that I really don't understand is the word "Partner." Maybe it's just my personal issue but I hate the word. I hate when people use it. I hate even more when people in heterosexual relationships use the term partner when they very well have the option to get married. Lay off that pachuli! Maybe it's gay culture's fault. We convince out heteronormative society that we also need a term to call our mates in place of the fact that we can't really marry and even in states where we can, it's not federally recognized anyways. Either way I hate when people use it. I don't get the term.

When I as a gay, meet someone new they either one assume I am single cause all gays must be single, cause they apparently can't keep it in their pants. This is partially true. Or we must be at that place... The one were we use the term. The new whoever will ask, how is your PARTNER? We aren't in business together. We aren't a writing team, mostly because we are one of those couples that doesn't have to do everything together and like having separate lives and well, we sleep together.

When straight people use the term PARTNER, I get it. They get confused. They are just trying to be respectful. When gay people use the term it annoys me even more. Call the person what they are, husband or wife, with or without the paper. That's what they are. Does your partner make you take the garbage out? No. Does your partner complain that you don't want to cuddle after sex? Does your partner hold your hand when walking down a street unless the two of you are walking in a conservative/Republican neighborhood? Does your Partner get in arguments with you as to how you hog the bed, or need to open up with your feelings cause you push those close to you away cause you have trust issues? No, cause that wouldn't be appropriate for business. The point is that we as gays do NOT have to use politically correct terminology because it does not convey our actual relationships. If more gay people used the terms, boyfriend, spouse, husband, or wife it will sound less frightening to people. Even without the right to marry using these terms will help those against "they gay lifestyle" understand how little difference there really is between us and them.

Check Out Recovering Commies!

I produce a show called "Recovering Commies" with fellow comedian Vladimir Khlynin. Here is a promo Vlad created for our touring comedy show. If you want us to come to your town, let your local comedy club know!



See us live with Headliner Kira Soltanovich from "the Tonight Show with Jay Leno." We will be performing at Cobb's Comedy Club on 12/8. Tickets are available here: http://bit.ly/vlTcsO

Growing up poor, Acting and stuff.

Growing up, we were pretty poor. I didn’t have to turn tricks to get the lunch money and later hand over to bullies or anything like that, but we were poor. My mother and I were poor enough that I was able to get California’s finest pubic school lunches for free. Where the corn dogs were occasionally green for no apparent reason and fruit was covered in enough corn syrup to piss off Paula Dean and the food was good enough to clog an artery with one bite.

We were poor enough that in high school I didn’t have to work because I wanted to or was forced to. I worked because it was something I needed to do to get where I wanted to go. It was in about seventh grade that I realized that I would need to get a job and that every grade past 6th was a joke. I hated school in the way other kids hated Brussels sprouts. This was when I decided that I wanted to be an actor. This wasn’t a new revelation, but it was a new action. It was then that I figured it was my duty to become a famous child actor like the Olsen twins or the chick from “Small Wonder” that no one remembers.

I made my mom drag me to auditions in LA. We lived in San Diego at the time. I pushed to get headshots and go the whole nine-yards. This was also my excuse to get out of school, which was brilliant. I imagined that some tutor, would educate me eventually, like the kids I had heard about on TV. I would buy a $50,000 car cause I could. I would go to some amazing Ivey league college like Brooke Shields. I would fit a B-rated film, maybe a “Poison Ivy” sequel, “Poison Oak” during that hard freshman year of college. There would be many awkward scenes in this movie that I would later regret according to People Magazine, as I would try to break away from that teen persona. I would also end up on the cover of Rolling stone wearing a leather jacket and burning one of those little American flags on that was the toothpick on my sandwich for controversy.

Back to seventh grade I worked to make these daydreams happen. I got an agent who sent me to a few big auditions including playing Jason Alexander’s fat blob son on a show that didn’t make it past it’s pilot (I was too thin so my mom said) and one for a JCPenny Commercial. The commercial auditions were my favorite because I would pretend that I was the guy from the infomercials that always sounded surprised and smiled for no reason. It was great. At the JCPenny auditions I auditioned as the nerd prom date for some hot girl and her father was played by the dude who was in a whole bunch of 80s movies including “the Boy Who Could Fly.” It’s okay; no one else remembers his name either. It was odd that he was playing a father figure when he was only 10-12 years older than me at the time.

By sixteen or seventeen I filled some of my time with extra-work and a part-time job at the amazing Carl’s junior. I was practicing my on air voice while working drive-through. People there hated me cause I would pretend the drive-through was my radio show and ask customers inappropriate questions, like “when did you’re love of food take over your life?” I oddly was never fired from there.




I took many drama classes and on-camera acting classes taught by jaded actors, along with has-been casting directors. I met parents who had no life and lived vicariously through their children. I knew kids who thought fame and popularity equaled happiness. They had all the personality in the world while the camera was on, and were like talking to paint when the camera was off. This would be my experience later in life with guys who did porn (they called themselves porn stars, but you’re not a star if no one knows who the fuck you are), but that’s another story. I was an extra on every Disney show that people are embarrassed to admit they watched, and a few Aaron Spelling Shows, which were quickly cancelled. The highlights of my short-lived television career included over 10-episodes of “Lizzy McGuire,” an Aimee Mann Video and a reenactment scene of “America’s Most Wanted.” I played the Jewish kid the neo-Nazis were chasing around campus.

During the acting days I met Yasmine Bleeth a few weeks before an alleged coke bender, which landed her on the news. I met Hillary Duff before anyone knew who she was or that she was and Miley presumably stole her thunder.

It was at 18 when I did my last Hilary Duff Music video (if you watch really slowly, you can see my back), when I realized that I was getting too old to be the next DJ Tanner and didn’t know if I had it in me to become the next Balkey from “Perfect Strangers.” It was then that I decided it was time to go for plan B. I went to college. I decided that LA wasn’t ready for me and I would become a writer or maybe go into advertising and if that didn’t work out, revisit the concept of turning tricks.

I was 19 and working as a shift manager at a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, attending a local Junior college when I decided that I would really let go of the “dream.” I realized that I wanted to write, live, travel. It was then I decided that I would transfer to a college in San Francisco and become a writer. I of course wouldn’t major in creative writing because well what is that useful for? So I majored in something equally useless and general, Speech Communications (Public Speaking). It was this choice that set the stage for everything I have done since. I would spend the next few years living, writing, drinking and working on creating the shit-storm that is my life and my stand up. You’re welcome.

Chapter 6.

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 constantly waiting, to one day glance out the window of the bar and see the drag queen/witch on the bike. It’s San Francisco and that is very likely. Often it seems like more people go through that place than a toilet at a chili cook off. 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 where they are at the bar every waking moment. We just end up being a part of the foundation that holds the place together, the glue, so to speak. 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 and make the money you can’t. 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 here 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. Mikey, 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.

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 for Christ’s sakes. 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, anacononda-esk, elephant trunk, noodlesk, wine corkish, and microscopic, we see them all. There is no racial divide here, equal opportunity all the way.

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 "Atlanta"

Often I don’t know what to do after my shifts. Going home is an expensive cab ride, where once home, one has to be sure that is where they want to be. That’s how living in a city without a car works. It’s something we get used to and the reason cities seem to have more happily inebriated people. It’s cause we can without worrying about who we will trick into being our designated driver. Even if you have a car, good luck finding parking. If one goes home, once there, the question will be, “now what?” Being a Leo, I often yearn to be out, to be seen, to meet new and interesting people. I hope to one day meet the love of my life or at least make a new friend. Most of the friends that I have made within the past year of living in San Francisco, from on campus life, all seem to lead such different lives from my own. If it isn’t dropping out for rehab (no one likes quitters), or taking too heavy of a school load, having a significant other or being stuck in their own quest to put together the pieces of their own lives, it is something else. I am never really free to hang out with them because I work every weekend and evening that “normal” people are free. I call their schedules the schedule of the living. My current one at the bar schedule is that of the dead, vampires, and those stupid infomercials with Tony Little, and “Girls Gone Wild” commercials. Maybe it is the fact that my friends don’t have the same intrigue with figuring out the gay world that I do. Being straight, and used to it, many of them understandably don’t have an interest in breaking the codes that San Francisco’s gay-world behold.

Finishing work at my prior service industry jobs, the shifts are often followed with a meal, hanging out, a drink, a cigarette, and then eventually sleep. The bar quickly has become a family member, much like a television becomes an only child’s close friend. It’s my family member who doesn’t have to give you the weekly Jew update that my mother has to give me weekly, “I know he’s a killer, but he’s Jewish, single and has some money.”

My coworkers in some ways are becoming the siblings I never had. Being an only child, I don’t know what it’s like to have brothers and sisters. I always dreamed of being a part of a large family much like that of “Family Ties.” Once I had a dream that I was on “Growing Pains” and lived in Mike’s apartment above the house. That dream had the makings of a good porn or D-rated horror movie. I digress back to the bar. Here everyone is that family that I never had growing up. Those behind the bar with me, just seem to get it. At the end of every shift, it’s always the same thing. I clock out and always wonder what will be next. It’s that same feeling I get when flipping channels hoping something cool will pop on but eventually settle on an infomercial for a food slicer. I clock out and realize that most my friends now are the people working. I then feel obliged to hangout with my family and have a drink because one mustn’t be rude. I end up staying the night and drinking enough to embarrass myself but not so much that I do things that make me look like a complete idiot. It’s that fine line between happy drunk and turning into Courtney Love.

My new bothers and sister, educate me on how to drink smart to the best of their abilities, while at the same time getting me blasted drunk. They also teach me that “well” drinks, are now to be drinks of the past, only to drink in emergencies. I chat with them, while the served me drinks and I sail down on a burning boat to oblivion. I am told that other gays can smell my “minty-new gay scent,” as James puts it. I am fresh meat and have no clue how to cover it up. No matter what I do, they all seem to know, all the gay men I encounter. As I stay lingering at the bar stirring my straw in a glass filled with melted ice and remnants of a vodka soda, I chat about local gossip with a bartender friend, I would also observe the crowd. Being here, I feel like prey in the wild. I feel that there are predators watching me, yet I can’t really tell who, it’s just a feeling. I always stand there hoping that someone will come up to me or that someone worth my time approaches me. I wait for someone to strike up a conversation with me. All who come up to me seem to have something off about them, but I find it good social practice. I study them, watch their “moves” and then digest. I have never really even been on a date, let alone do I have any idea of how to talk to another guy or really how to flirt with them. To make a long story short, reading between the lines in this regard, is not my forte.

One night, I am alone chatting with my friend Michael at his bar station, also known as a well. We are just chewing the fat about random bar gossip, then his being, starts walking up to me out of the shadows. Michael being the married man that he is decided it only fitting to whisper a bit of advice into my ear: “go get it for the team, be a slut for all of us, what I wouldn’t give to be single for one day”… Then, as this guy comes closer, Michael changed his tune to. “Hey you can at least put a bag over his head and stare at his hot body.” I still don’t really know what Michael was talking about since I am oblivious and in my own world. Then, he tapped my shoulder.

The man at my shoulder side is one who was trying to defy gravity, physics and deceive my intelligence. He is wearing a low cut, tight V-neck with a low hanging chain weighed down by a heavy diesel pendant. His eyes have no wrinkles around them, in-fact his face is completely absent of expression. His chest/pectoral “muscles” are nearly as big as Gina’s, but obvious implants matching his horrendous ass implants. His dark fake tan and absence of any body or facial hair only make me more uncomfortable. He opens his mouth, which is the only part of him covered in wrinkles, although he tries to cover it in shinny lip shit. Now, the noise came out of him. It’s one that pierces the my ears over all the music playing in the background. It is so high-pitched that I can’t understand any of it. It’s like the sirens from Greek mythological tales. His subtle lisp and use of the word “honey” is the only way I can tell that he is presumably of some sort of Latin descent. Then he reaches down and pinches my butt cheek…. Catching me by of surprise, I accidentally spill the drink in my hand on his 7 jeans that are so tight that his ass was leaking out of them trying to get air. Quickly his high-pitched siren goes off once more, I assume to curse me out. Then out of now where, he unexpectedly slaps me on the right cheek, snaps and says something in his high-pitched, Portuguese that I assume was an insult and then the man vanishes back to the shadows. I am so stunned an utterly confused by tonight’s events and the fact that a grown man slapped me, I drink more.

A few drinks later I am still at Michael’s bar station. I am sipping the concoction that he has made me. It seems to be made out of gasoline, not that it matters by now. Then I noticed this guy a few feet away from me leaning against the other side of Michael’s station. He has that look like the weight of the world is leaning on his back. He sees me staring and begins to edge towards me. He looked about my age, a foot taller, with hair much like that of Kurt Cobain in 1990. He is a stranger in a bar full of people who all while different, have are all lonesome strangers. He asks me if I will like to drink with him. Being the show off Leo that I am, I signaled to Michael to come over. Michael hands us two shots, which appear to materialize out of nowhere. I smile at this boy point at the shots. I then tell him that it looks like he would have to get the next round. Michael, being a good bartender, plays his favorite role, as cupid. We don’t connect for the reason of love exactly, it is more so through connection of needing someone who will listen.

This boy, I won’t lie, his name escapes me. I can’t seem to remember his actual name after chatting with him for a few hours. All that I do know is that he has a heavy southern accent and mentions that he was from Atlanta. Since I have don’t feel comfortable to ask his name yet again he will be known in my memories as “Atlanta” forever. Atlanta is tall, slender, white, average-looking, with long big curls, all complimented with manners, something that seems to be rare. He is to the point in conversation, unlike passive aggressive San Francisco, who can’t speak up for themselves until their lives depend on it. The fact that he gives me the time of day and cares is all that matters at this point.

Soon Atlanta and I have been chatting for about 8 hours or so, time is an alcohol induced blur by now. He is looking cuter, but so do most of the people in the bar that I normally think are repulsive, the drink is an evil friend. We keep on buying each other drink after shot, after drink. He then brushes the long hair off my forehead and tells me that he thinks I am beautiful. Rewind, what he actually does, is peel a long frizzy curl stuck to my face off of my now sweaty forehead, wipe his hand and then tell me he thinks I’m beautiful. This is the first time that I have heard this. I almost start laughing, being the cynic that I am. I am the type of person that always laughs at the wrong moments. I’m like Mary Tyler Moore in that episode where they are at a clown’s funeral and can’t stop laughing. I know, the references can’t get gayer can they? I don’t know what to do or say, so I punched him lightly on the arm and start giggling with a smirk of confusion on my face. He then leans in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. By this point I am intrigued and still unsure of how to react, I can’t help but still hyperventilate/giggle. I had never seen someone look into my eyes the way he did then and be intrigued the way he seemed to be. He then asked if we could get some food.

As we left the bar, Michael yells something obscene to us, as any healthy gay man would. It’s something along the lines of, “I want photos, details and maybe the video!” I have never at this point ever left a bar with a boy. I usually leave alone, walk to Walgreens, purchase a pint of ice cream and proceed to eat it while waiting for the bus because I have no patients to wait and eat my feelings. I’m not sure of what’s next really. It’s more that I am not sure of what I am, feeling now. I am excited, almost as much as I was when I finally got a ninja turtle of my own, way after they where cool. As we reach one block from the place where we had met, I am in a drunken snooper and embarrassed over the fact that I full on walked into a bush 5 seconds ago. He then suggests that we skip food and go to my house. Very direct Atlanta. Shockingly direct. That is a huge difference with gay and straight men. Gay men are more specific because our attention spans are much shorter than other’s I think. I suggest his. He then tells me that he has nowhere to stay and truly enjoys my company. He then says that he doesn’t want to take advantage of me apparently, but thinks that I am a nice guy and wants to have all the cards on the table. When people say that they want to have “all the cards on the table,” it’s refreshing, but one of those things that are hard to really believe.
It’s not like a crazy fucker is going to be like, “oh and here is the card that tells you just how nuts I am, here is the infidelity card, and oh yeah when I introduce you to people I will refer to you as my friend and make you feel like an idiot.” No one does that.

All I can think about in my drunken-slushy heard while he says this, is “lets get ready for a load of bull shit.” He then goes on and says that I don’t have to take him with me. There is a long pause that seems to last forever. Now we are near the bus stop at 18th and Castro where all the taxis are lined up waiting for passengers. He then kisses me again, his way of sprinkling fairy dust to put me in a trance, which is pretty easy now since even my sweat is pure vodka at this point. He then says that he isn’t expecting sex, just a cuddle and company. Luckily, the cynic in me is playing King’s Cup and not paying attention. Being alone really in the city at this point, for some reason is a bizarre concept, yet good excuse to take him. It’s will sound even better retelling the story.

In the cab, all the cards where being strewn on the metaphorical table, he tells me something else that takes the night for another turn. He says that I should know that he may or may not be positive. I don’t understand what that means. I can’t seem to connect the dots whether he is talking about his mood or HIV status. If it is HIV status, how could he not know? I then, stupidly ask him what he means. He then says that he has just found out that his ex, who he had moved out to Cali with, a much older LA/WeeHo guy has been cheating on him left and right. He has had no idea that the guy was fucking around on him, so the story goes. His man had just yesterday, texted him to deal Atlanta the card that every gay men fears. He tells Atlanta that he tested HIV positive and that he should know. At this moment, it dawns on me how young this kid is. It’s like one minute I am walking around empty handed and now carrying a bag of bricks right next to me. Atlanta is only 6 months older than myself. This thought soon turns me into a 3-year old boy. He out of nowhere begins to cry, this time I can’t laugh my way out of this awkward conversation. I can’t pretend to be naive or simply leave this guy at this moment. I begin to hug him and cry myself. Atlanta, then goes on to explain that he has moved to LA with the guy who was is enough to be his father, yet has treated him better than any relative ever has. His family back home of course disowned him for being a “nasty, fudge-packing, immoral” member of the gays who is on the way to hell. He’s been on his own since 17. He has so much to figure out. He is alone. Why would his parents think that anyone chooses this? Atlanta has a stuffy nose now and says that he fled to San Fran because he had always wanted to see the “gayborhood.” He needs to get out of LA to get over his only friend/lover, father figure has ever loved and now thrown him out like garbage for someone younger. Atlanta’s southern drawl makes it hard to decode the entirety of the story, but that is the gist, or so he claims. By now I have stopped crying, looking down at the little boy in my arms and channeled my mother. I tell him what my mother had told my aunt when she explained about divorcing my father. I explain what women have known for centuries, men are men, no matter how much we wanted to love them, they still have the potential to be pigs and sleep with anything that has a pulse.

Atlanta does end up staying over. Nothing happens though. I wake up in the morning with my mouth tasting the way Lysol smells. The hangover is set to kick in soon. He is in my arms. Nothing else matters though. Why me? Why him? What to make of our meeting? These questions now seem irrelevant and unnecessary to answer. Atlanta is asleep and soon would be gone. He says that he will soon be on the next train back to Atlanta with just the cloths on his back. We can exchange email addresses, numbers or something. For some reason that doesn’t cross either of our minds. He kisses me passionately while holding me tight. He then thanks me for listening and giving him a good time and not in the “hooker way,” he says. He is off to Atlanta to put his life together, never to be heard from again.

blah.

I hate when someone gives you a ride home and you have to pretend to be going home until they drive away… You stand there pretending to fiddle with the key to get in, cause they are watching you and you don’t want them to see you walking to the closest liquor store for as much ice cream as you can handle. Just me?

Constructive Criticism?

I am trying to force myself to write a little every day especially when I don't feel like I have anything to write about. At the moment I really have no idea what to write about though. It's like an exercise so to speak. Writing is the the only exercise where you can eat an entire pint of ice cream while doing it. That's what I'm doing, eating my way to happiness while exercising...

The older I get, the more I realize that I am not like everyone else. I'm not talking about the fact that I was born without a soul, rhythm or the floppy hair that seemed so cool in the early 90s, that I've always dreamed of. I'm not talking about the fact that I laugh at funerals, uncomfortable situations and while I can't tell dead baby jokes, I laugh at well choreographed ones. It's the fact that I don't look at obstacles the same way. If something or someone gets in the way of me obtaining something I want I will go right around them, unless there is a bar or frozen Yogurt shop near them. That's when I make a pit-stop. I don't get offended by constructive criticism. I actually prefer it.

Constructive criticism and why do we care? I don't get it. We shouldn't care. I should make it clear though that there is a difference between criticism and constructive criticism. As a comic, when I get off a stage and bombed so bar that you can still smell the remnants of my set for the next two comics, if I don't know you or ask your opinion, shut the fuck up. I don't come into your work, tree house or office, perch myself behind your neck and tell you to get off Facebook and get back to that spreadsheet. Lay off. If though I am about to go up on stage and ask a fellow comic or buddy to give me some notes or suggestions on my new bit about balls or necrophilia, then please once I get off stage and the time is right tell me what you think. Do not hold back. Be like the gay man so to speak in this situation. Gay men in this respect often make straight men jealous cause we will tell your girlfriend what she really looks like in her jeans and not care. It's the same idea.

I hate when people start their critique with "you were really good, but"... "You are very personable and have presence"... or simply point out the obvious. You do not have to pad a critique with a compliment. If I am asking for notes, or suggestions, I am not asking to get smoke blown up my ass, that's for another time and saved for behind closed rubber doors. The last part of that last sentence was a shitty joke and I'm sorry. Seriously though, tell the truth. What do you think? Give me your point of view and not a magic mirror that tells me what I want to hear. No one learns from that. I often hear that this is just a West Coast thing. Since I have lived on this coast my whole life, I don't know different (even though people look at me and because I look Jewish always assume I'm from NYC...). If this is true, West Coast people or anyone that does this. Regardless of the case, WAKE UP!

This is just what's in my head right now. Off to deal with my brain freeze now.

Story 4, We all know THOSE Girls

Chapter 4.
Night in and night out I watch this ridiculous display play out over and over again. Unfortunately it’s while I’m working and not happily sitting in those comfortable sweatpants we all wear when at home watching Lifetime and eating popcorn (everyone watches Lifetime at some point, don’t act like you’re too cool), but I digress. I am a few months into working at the Labyrinth. Little by little I am growing more sarcastic about this place and life as a whole, which apparently is the gay man’s way. I have made many observations of scenarios that tend to replay themselves like day-ja-vu with booze and Kylie Minogue/Madonna soundtrack playing in the background. Anyone can watch this stupid display acted out at gay bars across America. It’s just one of the elements of this place that annoys me to no end.

Often the participants of this annoyingness fit the following description: participants are usually a pair out of bars: the gay guy is usually so flaming that when they talk it’s like they are rhetorically shooting sequins the second they open their mouths. Usually, this gay man-person is accompanied by a slutty, bimbo, straight-girl friend. We all know the type.

The girl often fits close to the following description give or take a detail or two. She is blonde with bleached teeth. The teeth are so white that they have that blue hue that one can only stare at for a few seconds because the brightness burns the cornea of your eye. It’s a similar shade to Anna Nicole’s in the Trimspa commercials. May she happily rest in peace somewhere enjoying some fried chicken. This lady-person almost always has big tits, sometimes real, often they are real-fake. Most of these girls have what can only be described as Tori Spelling Syndrome. This is where the fake tits look like they are floating up and away, just like Tori Spelling’s with the huge space between. If they don’t have the tits they have thickly padded bras that hike their poor, defenseless, little ladies further up than they ever thought they can and should be. These girls often resembles one of those “girl next door” sluts. She is the type of girl who has been bleaching their hair so long that it is obvious she has developed some sort of brain damage. This is the type of bitch who has or would probably appear in a “girls gone wild” ads, under the right circumstances, ½ a King Cobra and a dollar. This bimbo is the type of slut that will make out with another chick at the party not because they likes it, but because she is greedy. I say, if she is doing it for the shear love of wanting sex from another woman, then, by all means, bump those Brazilian-waxed clams. We know though, that she is just doing it to get douche frat guys to take them home. Is it really worth all this subterfuge to get a little ass? She is not quite a “faghag,” but a girl who uses her “Gay” as her self-esteem booster when need be. She is possibly a good Christian girl. The type that “loves the gays” but when asked about her views of gay marriage, she smiles and talks about being a good Christian but just regularly gets gangbanged sideways on camera.

The slut/girl’s friend is often a little mousy Gay. They are not they gym bunny type, but usually more on the awkward side of life. They are really queeny type who usually has great style advice for others, but when it comes to their own look its very abstract. They are quiet in most moments until someone asks their opinion. Then, it’s like opening Pandora’s box, these lispy queen acts like fireworks are going on inside of them won’t shut up. They are particular in the way they order their drinks, three iced cubes, vodka, never well and ALWAYS, ALWAYS a twist, like a twist makes or breaks a drink. To me, the only way my bartender can mess up my drinks is if they forget to put booze in it, the garnish is just unnecessary crap to begin with, but we digress. Often these guys love to spend every waking moment being divas because they see themselves as. Their hair is always perfectly styled and dyed if need be. Their tan is often just a shade too orange to be natural, complimented by eye brows shaped too perfect to not have been plucked. They are so orange, that their skin could double for Carrot Top’s head. These guys are usually every entertaining to watch in their natural habitat, be it Barney’s, a runway show or the local gay pop bar stomping ground. They are often what make these places so interesting.

After a drink or two, the queen always utters this sentence, “if I were straight, I would soooo do you!”

At this point I am usually rolling my eyes to myself while watching them. I want to yell at the two, “Really lady? You would sooo do her? How would that go down exactly?”

She then keeps up with this charade, asking the guy “really?”

This barrage of compliments about doing each other lasts for usually at least 10 minutes, at which point I feel like vomiting. Do these bitches have that low of self esteem that they have to play this stupid game? How vain can a woman be? She doesn’t want him to do her anyway because she knows that she wants to be penetrated right. The gay one, probably doubles over, ready to vomit at the sight of a lady’s little hairless beaver. He wouldn’t know what to do, let alone kill the mood with his high-pitched squealing. The only way that those two are going to get down is with the intervention adult toys and we know that isn’t happening so stop it already! It is a well-known fact that women come to gay bars for the attention and the compliments, but this is going too far! Stop it already! Gay men, stop enabling this act already.

Tonight I come to work to watch the described act play out. Queeny Mc Queeny and his BFF who looks like a Tiffany or Kelly, with tits big enough to make Hugh Heffner uncomfortable. They hang at my well for a while, from the first drink to the fifth drink, these two are arguing back and forth.

“If I was-ss-s sstraiiight, I would ss-s-sssso fuck yyyou.”

“Shut up. You’re so sweet!”

She then jumps up to bounce her knockers and being that she is in a room of gay men, no one even give her the time of day. Honestly, this tickles me because I hate when people think they can get everything from their looks or strictly from being a bimbo.

By drink-five, “Sss-ss-sweetie, I love your haiir. It’s ssss blonde, whats shades is that? Itssss SOOoo pretty. I would SOOOOO fuck you.”

He then spills his drink a little.

As she is about to open her huge lips, which are lined perfectly with what looks like eyeliner, I loose it and interrupt them.
“You two really need to get over yourselves! You don’t want to fuck each other. You both want a man who can push you down the stairs and keep you wanting more! Furthermore, SHUT UP!”

Chapter 3 (Part 2)

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.

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, 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. They of course are in Israeli Military uniform that is all tattered, cause that’s hot. The world knows that Israeli men are utterly gorgeous so I always have at least one on hand in my dreams. Word to the wise, Israeli men are like latin men, without the Catholic guilt bullshit and less likely to live with their mothers.

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. He is very into making his money and calls himself a self-elected Jew of the bar (even though he was raised Baptist), as an actual Jew I’ll speak for all of us when I say 1. No one wants to be Jewish, it just happens. 2. We don’t want Nick, the rest of the world can have him. Nick always focuses his attention on the person with the money in their hands that is within his hand’s reach, like a whore in a red-light district. 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 3 (Part 1)

It’s 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. 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 not feel embarrassed dancing like a fool to any Madonna tune alone on a dance floor full of men who are all left feel and seemingly tone deaf. That’s at least what it seems like by looking at the dance floor here. Many leave and chase the white tiger or whatever the kids call it these days… Unfortunately, in this world, in this place, cocaine is what many people use to have fun, while numbing their faces even though they are trying to numb their feelings, but I digress. The key train part is just my assumption based on the fact that at night, many of the weekend customers can often be found grinding their teeth, while their noses run into their and mothball smelling mouths and they don’t even seem to notice. It’s worse than that aunt we all have or had, who always has awful coffee breath. In my case, I never was so lucky. I was raised by Russians. I had this aunt who always smelled like pickled beets, chicken fat, dough, and a subtle black tea smell.

Now I realize how prevalent and stupidly obvious cokeheads often are at the Labyrinth. Within a 5-minute period here one can observe three customer in a row order a drink while they have boogies 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. I’m thinking if you were recovering from a cold, why are you at a bar? Then I remember the mantra I have learned, gay men aren’t quitters. 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 puts 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, even lower than it was when I was a chubby 12-year old and Monica Gambini would yell at me across the playground, “hey, ever heard of a thigh-master?” I would pretend not to hear that bitch Monica and then walk to my best friend, a janitor and eat three of those carnation ice creams, which of course they sold at my school. This, followed by a healthy back of flaming hot cheetos, to compliment my white trashness. Presently I hope that Monica is fat, and working on her third kid since dropping out of ITTTech.

The second the guy finally walks away for good, all I could smell is the hospital sent, 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, queer, sissy-lala 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.

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, 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. They of course are in Israeli Military uniform that is all tattered, cause that’s hot. The world knows that Israeli men are utterly gorgeous so I always have at least one on hand in my dreams. Word to the wise, Israeli men are like latin men, without the Catholic guilt bullshit and less likely to live with their mothers.

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. He is very into making his money and calls himself a self-elected Jew of the bar (even though he was raised Baptist), as an actual Jew I’ll speak for all of us when I say 1. No one wants to be Jewish, it just happens. 2. We don’t want Nick, the rest of the world can have him. Nick always focuses his attention on the person with the money in their hands that is within his hand’s reach, like a whore in a red-light district. 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.