My Joy Comes On Silent Feet

Update: I wasn't entirely sure if I should even post this one as I'm not completely satisfied with how it was worded. I was in a very strange mood that day so my ability to articulate my thoughts was a little off-kilter.

Today I was supposed to be on a boat on the river, basking in the sun and drinking in calm happiness like sweet clear mountain spring water. However, that wonderful mess of human drama that links us all together had other plans, so instead I spent the day with a dear friend watching a movie and having some very satisfying sushi. I had mentioned on several occasions to random friends and coworkers that I was really looking forward to being on the boat today, and then it went massively south through no tinkering of my own.

I've noticed that this happens a lot in my life. An event that I want very much will loom. I'll set things up that I can participate in said event. I'll speak to assorted close friends about how very much I'm anticipating the upcoming event. The event will loom closer still. Then something will go HORRIBLY, IRREVOCABLY WRONG that I have no hand in and I'll end up doing nothing instead of something I'd been looking forward to, sometimes something planned months in advance. Friends will have a falling out or go insane and can't leave their rooms for fear of more mental breakdown. The weather will mysteriously turn vicious and cruel. Planes will fly into buildings. Like I said, stuff that I have very little control over. These events will be mysteriously absent should I choose not to tell anyone about my plans. My hopes seem to only be cursed when they are shared with others.

So I plan my hopes in secret, it's like a game I play with the world. If I sneak up on happiness it can't elude me, but if I announce my intentions ahead of me glee will flee like a startled cat. I don't know why my life is like this, it just is. Maybe I seek out things that I don't really want, and some divine part of myself beats me to the punch. Or maybe this is just another way in which the world I live in is more challenging, because I'm never satisfied by an easy life.

I dunno, maybe I never will. All I can really say is watching Graham Norton do a Belgian Chocolate scene is equal parts funny and very, very wrong. At least I'll always have the movies.

If there's a better job to aspire to, I can't think of one.

I think this woman just might be my newest inspiration. Is it creepy for a guy to be a sex therapist whereas it's liberating for a woman to be one? Check out her awesome personality in the Toddy and Pony podcast, also the Toddy and Pony are a hoot.

Pet Peeve

Why is it that right after I finish talking about how foolishly in love I am with my man back in Houston with someone they then proceed to ask me out on a date? Is "I'm madly in love with someone that isn't you" a secret Portlandish code phrase for "I'm just making this up to get into your pants"?

I'm thinking I should get one of those colorful Applebee's-esque buttons made up that says "Ask me about the drink specials and my out-of-state boyfriend!"

Hydrodynamic Physics Is Harshing My Game

I don't want to give the wrong impression with this story, as I think I'm one of the few men I know who actually goes to the gym with the express purpose of not talking to or scoping out anyone. There's just something about it that creeps me out, like when someone tries to check out my johnson in the men's room. So here goes:

During the course of today's abdominal workout I found myself next to what turned out to be a pretty cute guy whom I eventually noticed was sneaking glances at me. I was flattered and intrigued but really couldn't think of anything remotely appropriate to say without it coming off as a cheesy porno-esque pick up line. So I said nothing. We both continued in our workouts next to each other, he and I occasionally catching the other looking. It was fun but a little distracting.

I eventually got to the set where I lay on my back and lift my legs all the way over my body and head in fairly rapid succession (it's great for building up that sexy v-shape that points right to my no-zone when my pants ride low or my shirt goes high). Because I'm wearing a loose and unflattering shirt it starts to ride up my chest every time I launch my legs up and over my body in what would be a clear invitation to a gang-bang were this maneuver performed anywhere outside the gym. I'm sweating like it's going out of style, and my shirt is riding up higher and higher, when all of a sudden my sweaty back meets with the smooth mat I'm lying on, catches an air bubble perfectly and releases a noise akin to the worst case of squirts a person is likely to have without it actually being fatal. There is simply NO WAY to pretend the noise didn't happen, and I don't want to turn to a complete (if cute) stranger and tell him that the mat farted, not me.

Horrified, I continued with my set, while Mr Cute Abs Guy got up to grab a mat for himself.

The smirk on his face as he tried not to burst out laughing was a very good reminder of why I don't cruise cute guys at the gym. The fact that I accidentally kicked him while doing my power-bottom leg-lifts really didn't help.

Looney for the Luna!

It must've been the full moon, but it's been a crazy week at work. That's the joy of working for a multi-club complex in the heart of Portland's Vasaline Alley I guess.

Things started out slowly, with a vacant-eyed blond manboy wandering in from the streets and deciding to take offense at and then assault one of the security guys. In the course of restraining him until the police arrived to haul him away the stitches on his chin were ripped out due to his struggling. Obviously this guy has a thing for biting off far more than he can chew. Blondie showed up again twice the next day, and he eventually had to be hauled off in a police car for the second time that week (that we know of). This, kids, is why we don't do handfuls of meth in lieu of eating.

The same day as Blondie's second arrest I had the joy of interacting with someone whom I'll have to call Grandfather Jackson. During the course of trying to hunt down the button to order a basket of french fries for one of my customers (how exactly does "B F Bskt" mean french fries?) a gentleman of questionable sobriety meandered up to the bar. He was dressed in what could easily be the height of burnt out post-drag fashion from the 1980s. This consisted of a sausage-tight black sleeveless shirt (homemade), with what could only be described as an american-tribute-to-Mad-Max-studded-red-square-of-cloth covering the upper right front corner of his shirt. This ensemble was of course completed with a pair of awkwardly tight jeans, a gaudy belt, and an odd, brassy half-necklace contraption that most of the staff originally mistook for a trecheotomy implant. Whilst my (far too cool for words) manager and I were trying to hunt down the elusive french fries order, Grandfather Jackson stood at the bar occasionally releasing ear-splitting bursts of hysterical laughter quickly followed by total and utter silence. Our interaction went something like this:

Zeroes: "How can I help you today sir?"

Grandfather Jackson: (long slow stare) "I'll have a mumblemumble"(something that may or may not have involved vodka).

Z: "I'm sorry sir, but I don't feel comfortable serving you anything alcoholic today, how about a water or a soda?"

GJ: "Well then..." (deep, meaningful pause). "Good luck" (quick, sassy turn towards the door).

GJ then saunters a few steps towards the door, turns around and says "No, I mean it, GOOD LUCK!"

Z: "Thank you sir."

GJ again saunters several steps closer towards the door "No, I MEAN it, GOOD LUCK!"

Z: "Ok, you have a great day sir."

GJ then wanders to the door, stops, turns back around, and slowly makes his way back to the bar.

GJ: "What is your name please"

I politely give him my name in as cheerful a manner as I can manage without bursting out laughing.

GJ: "Trust me, your name will live in INFAMY!"

At which point he marches out the door and hangs out on the front patio mumbling to himself until he says something unkind about me too close to the maintenance guy who tells him to get lost.

Later we had to call an ambulance for a mildly smelly gentleman who probably shouldn't have been mixing methadone and tequila. Live and learn (his bike is still locked out in front of the club as of this writing).

To top it all off we had two Code Reds last night. A code red is basically an all-clubs call that all security personnel converge at the named club. I'm told at least one of them involved a cluster of angry girlfriends (the real kind, that have their own vaginas and everything) jumping into the fray to protect their brawling mens. Sadly, the melee occurred at the dancefloor I wasn't bartending at, so I didn't get to see anyone's cheap Prada knock-offs go flying.

Full moon weeks rock! Not only am I now (in)famous with the homeless insane, but I have several reasons to feel really, really good about how I've lived my life so far when compared to these assorted burn-outs.

It's all about perspective.

Shameless Self Promotion

Ok, for those of you in the Portland areola you can now enjoy happy hour at Boxxes with me Monday through Friday. There be drink specials galore, and if you're very, VERY nice, I won't use the baseball bat that they gave me as a substitute for day time security personnel. Come in on Thursdays for the $1 well drinks and $2 call drinks (sorry Toddy, Maker's Mark is still full price).

This ends my shameless self-promotion on this site. In regards to bartending anyway.