Filed under: alcohol | Tags: alcohol, alexis, bar, bartending, flirt, liquor, new york city, shots
As I have previously discussed being a bartender isn’t just about pouring the drinks. It’s a complex dance of flirting, strong will and oftentimes loose morals. You have to have the power and control to take over any situation that may arise at your bar. A weak personality will never survive in a good bar. Sure, weak personalities could survive in a convention hall bar where they serve beer and wine, but they will never survive a NYC club or Montana pub.
Leave it to the professionals. Bartending for seven years now, I have seen a lot, done a lot, heard way too much and experienced crap beyond belief. So it is time to share some trade secrets on how to be a good female bartender! Of course the main thing is to know your drinks and be quick and efficient, but everyone knows that, so here are the tips that not everyone knows:
- Be tougher than any bitch or bastard who enters your bar. You need to be able to throw someone out without the help of a bouncer. You need to be stern enough to scare the pants off any drunkard and smart enough to avoid being shot in the process. I have worked at bars where gunshots were fired outside, where knives were pulled inside… you have to be prepared for it all.
- You must be the biggest flirt without giving it all away. Can’t have that shit for free. You need to be able to lure the men without them following you home and make the woman feel flattered to be hit on by a woman without them thinking you want them. I have been followed home once… not a good time. I can’t tell you how many numbers, business cards and men willing to cheat on their wives that I’ve encountered. In my experience, however, don’t mess with the ones who are married… they tend to come with baggage.
- Know at least one bar trick to entertain your customers. At the bar in NYC that I worked at, I was able to draw the attention of the entire bar with my bar trick. My boss would bring in friends and demand that I show them the bar trick. I had customers bring their coworkers to see it… I was a crowd pleaser. The trick you ask? Well I can’t give away all my secrets, but it involves drinking a beer with no hands.
- Provide entertainment for the annoying ones who want to chat with you constantly. Mind games are the best. Lay out a straw puzzle in order to keep their mind occupied. The annoying ones are hard to shake and you’ll never make it as a bartender if you have to sit and talk to one person the entire time.
- Know how to make a bar towel into a penis. That is a great quality to have in a bartender. If you have a penis towel you can attract the females or use it as a weapon against the males. Threatening to dick slap someone can help you control the crazies.
- Handle your liquor. This one is EXTREMELY important. Your patrons want to drink with you; they want to buy you shots. So unless you live in a ridiculous state like Washington, where you can’t drink behind the bar, you best be able to handle those shots. I’m not talking about 3 or 4 shots. I’m talking about 9 or 10 over a 6 hour shift. One night I took 15 shots and was still able to count my till at the end of the night. Granted I can’t do that anymore, I max out around 8, but that is because I work at a lame bar now. If you can drink with your patrons, you will make a great bartender. I remember the shifts after I worked a 12-shot shift and I told the patrons that I wouldn’t be able to drink that night – I completely lost their respect. I learned quickly from that. You need to be able to function on a shitload of alcohol. If you can’t, then might I suggest becoming a shoe salesperson as opposed to a bartender.
Martini at a NYC bar
- As a female bartender you have to know when to say no. It is never smart to sleep with your customers, bosses, bouncers or other bartenders. I have done all of the above and learn from my mistakes… not good. Everyone knows it isn’t smart to sleep with people you work with for obvious reasons so I’ll move on to the customers. Sleeping with your drunk customers can just prove to be difficult. You may lose their business, which will piss your boss off, they may fall in love with you, which will make it awkward for you, or since they are frequent bar goers you may wind up with a disease… and well… you just don’t want that. Also if a man offers you $10,000 to sleep with him – just say no. That is just never a good idea. I said no, my coworker did not. People haven’t seen her since then, apparently she moved to Denver.
- Be physically fit. I’m not saying that you have to be a body builder, but in the instance that you need to drag a 300lb Alabama construction worker out of the bar after he passes out in the girl’s bathroom, it’d be nice if you were strong enough to do so. Plus if you can’t change your own keg then you have no business being behind the bar.
- Have no judgment. You can’t judge people if you work in a bar. After all you work in A BAR! You flirt for money, so don’t judge the hooker who hangs on the business man or the chubby chick who takes advantage of the drunk hot guy. You are there for the money and they are there for the drinks.
- Be a good fake listener. Don’t actually listen to all of the tales of heartache, divorce, indiscretion, fantasy, lust, etc. You’ll go crazy. Listen enough to respond with basic answers but don’t listen enough that you’ll have to start drinking to get over their problems. If you fall into that trap, depression can ensue, which results in hitting up the late night bars for two gin martinis before catching the subway. It happens and it’s not pleasant. Patrons look at you as a cheaper version of a therapist, so be just that. Don’t be the full on therapist, you aren’t paid enough. Listen enough to get their money but not enough to send yourself into a drunken spiral.
Now not everyone can be a super rock star bartender such as myself… (*clearly modest) but to be a good female bartender these tricks of the trade should help you out!
- Alexis Patron
Filed under: this and that | Tags: alcohol, anastasia, new year's eve, new york city
Side Note: We are taking this week to share our respective New Year’s Eve events, enjoy!
There are a few things I hate, no…despise. Just a few.
For example: people who don’t use turning signals. I’m needlessly waiting for you to drive straight into my path at an intersection in the frigid New York City winter and you shamelessly turn left without alerting me in the slightest fashion. Now I look like a tourist asshole who doesn’t know when to cross the street. Thanks.
Also, I take quite a big issue with those who have zero concept of personal space. It’s not fucking hard, people. We’re both waiting in line at the bank. I’m struggling with a ten pound bag of pennies and nickels to exchange for rent money and you’re off in your own world behind me, completely ignoring the foot-and-a-half invisible bubble that’s supposed to protect me from your hot breathe on the back of my neck. I move forward to try and reclaim the personal space that’s rightfully mine, yet you move even closer to me. You’re encroaching on valuable personal space and it takes all the willpower in my body not to turn around, swinging my cumbersome bag of metal at your head.
Last but certainly not least: New Year’s Eve. I fucking. Hate. New Years Eve. I hate it so much that from this moment forth I will abstain from using proper capitalization in reference of this despicable “holiday”.
Number one: rarely can a large group of people agree on plans. Friend A wants to go to this bar. Friend B refuses to go to that party. Friend C wants pussy; any pussy. Friend D just wants to stay home. The list goes on, and on, and on, until I have to waste precious drinking time trying to play peacemaker in the decision making process. Ultimately, said “peacemaker” roll equals tiresome negotiation involving how many drinks will be allowed at bar A, bribing people to make an appearance at party B, reminding drunks to use condoms with girl C, and disregarding my personal feelings that staying home is really the best option. Appeasement.
Everyone knows what Appeasement got Churchill in World War Two.
Number two: the fucking weather. Since some member of your group appeased each person’s individual whims, your group ends up trekking across Manhattan like the Donner party. And it’s never a mild December 31st. This year? Rain, snow, and that poop-colored slush that ends up all over your brand new pair of Louboutin’s that you just HAD to wear to that party. Last year? Negative wind chill and sheer misery. Lovely. Looking forward to next year.
Number three: drunk fucking assholes drinking like it’s January 16th, 1919 and congress just ratified prohibition. New year’s eve is the last excuse you should ever have to get black out drunk and make bad decisions. There are three hundred and sixty four other perfectly acceptable days to get hammered and sleep with strangers. Why do it on a night where drinks are blatantly over priced, drastically under filled at bars that mimic a Turkish bathhouse? Give me one reason why new year’s eve is the best drinking night and I’ll give you 364 reasons why you’re wrong.
Number four: anxiety. That fucking clock is always ticking. Tick, tock. Tick. Tock. It’s almost midnight. Who are you going to kiss? What’s going to happen? Will the world end? Will Carson Daly bust out the black nail polish and pay homage to his sprightly days at MTV? Will the drunk girl in the corner stop crying? I can’t stand it.
I’m on a roll of impressively lame and disappointing new years. This year was no exception to the rule.
My ladyfriend’s buddy from college came to visit from California. He’s a lovely young man but wanted more than anything to kick off the new year with Astoria’s gayest of gay bars. None of us wanted to go. In fact, I think we all made a large list of things we’d rather do than listen to the repetitively loud dun-dun-dun-dun techno beats playing over old speakers while men dance in cages. But in an effort to be kind to our out-of-state visitor, we agreed to go for an hour.
The bar was entirely empty with the exception of the bartender and my three friends. We stayed for one overpriced, watered down cocktail before heading back outside to the slippery, slushy disgusting NYC new year’s weather and making our way to a party.
I’m not even going to waste the time to explain how lousy this party was so I’ll sum it up with this: frat boy douche bags using the word “gay” as an adjective, crying women nearly falling over balconies, and one big, nearly-empty pitcher of sangria. Had my friend not guilted me into ringing in the new year with a bunch of strangers I wouldn’t talk to if someone paid me, I would have left five minutes after we arrived. I could have brought the new year in on the street, in a cab, in the bathroom, literally anywhere else in the world would have been better than that place.
Here’s to 2010. I’m already getting more sex than all of 2009, so I’m confident the shitty party was not a representation of how my year will be spent.
-Anastasia Beam
Filed under: douche baggery | Tags: alcohol, alexis, anastasia, boyfriends, commitment, dating, friendship, green bay packers, kissing, new york city, rangers, relationships
I do not scare easily. Spiders gross me out, but I can handle them if need be. Love heights- flying is like home to me. But throw that “commitment” word around and I bolt faster than a shot fired from a gun. There will be an Alexis-sized hole through the nearest wall.
My horoscope characteristics: a nagging need to feel free (which can lead to trouble), fears responsibility, impatient, a risk taker and gambler at heart, argumentative and has a lack of commitment. Soooo very true.
So when someone tells me they want to enter a committed relationship, I freak out. Especially if I don’t see it coming. Now you know why I haven’t had a boyfriend in the last eight years. There were some events that triggered this fear, but that’s a much longer story best saved for a therapist.
Well, when I went to visit Anastasia, not only did I have a wonderful time with her, but I also was put into a “scary” situation. A man told me he was “head over heels crazy about me.” Fuck that makes me shudder even now.
I knew a lot of people from this bar I used to work at in NYC, one of which I had gone on a date with about two years ago. Billy is a super nice person and I enjoyed his friendship a lot. But dating? Yeah, not so good of a time. He just wasn’t for me. I was in my “nice guys finish last phase,” where I only dated horrible men. So, Billy, he would never have worked out. I ended up avoiding him until I moved.
Since being away from Billy, we were able to establish a pretty sweet friendship. We have a playful football rivalry (Packers v. Giants) so we tend to talk a lot during football season. Finally I decided to go back for a visit (to visit Anastasia) and I ended up mentioning this to Billy. He got excited and told me he’d take me to a Rangers hockey game while I was there. This excited me because I wanted to see the old gang.
In the weeks leading up to my visit, Billy and I had begun talking a lot. Even to the point that I may have developed a slight crush on the guy. It was a I-like-you-only-because-you-live-far-away kind of crush. But who knows. Maybe, since I’m now 25, I am mature enough for a relationship? So I was excited to see him and therefore told him so.
Things turned sour fast. Our flirtation turned into “I’ll do anything to be with you,” in zero-60. It was bad. It didn’t help that I got hammered at the game and ended up making out with him. My bad. In my defense I didn’t know it’d lead to the following text conversation that happened the day after the game.
Billy: There’s something I wanna tell you when I get home tonight
Me: Um OK that makes me nervous
Billy: Haha don’t be. It’s nothing bad. Just something I’ve wanted to say for awhile.
Me: I hate waiting
Billy: I promise it’ll be worth the wait.
Me: Just give me a hint
Billy: It has to do w/how I feel about you but I’m a little nervous to say it
Me: That’s what I thought
Billy: I’m just gonna say it now… I’m head over heels crazy about you
Billy: You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had the honor of meeting
Billy: Honestly, I want to do whatever it takes to be w/you even if it means packing up and moving out to where you are
Billy: I mean it. I want you in my life no matter what it takes
Billy: I love being near you. I miss you so much and I wish I had you in my arms right now
Ah, ah, ah… cue hyperventilating. Yikes. What the fuck happened. I know I’m a damn fine kisser, but holy shit, I did not see that one coming. I had to squash this shit quick.
The texting continued for the rest of the weekend that I was visiting Anastasia. He said more things like “I want to protect you,” and other creepy shit like that. I had to agree to meet with him on Sunday in order to “discuss” what we were going to do.
Sunday rolls around and I really didn’t want to go, but I felt it necessary. I go to meet him to watch a football game somewhere downtown. When he sees me, he immediately goes in for the kiss. I turn my cheek. He tries again. I turn my cheek again. HE FUCKING TRIES AGAIN. Yes, he really did for a third time. That last time I finally just pulled away. That shit wasn’t happening. Then he goes for the hand holding. There is nothing that scares me more than public displays of affection… but I felt bad. This man was going to cry if I didn’t do something.
We end up walking around for almost an hour trying to find a bar. It was rainy and gross. Did not help the situation. We finally found a bar. We sat down and took off our coats. He was wearing the EXACT same outfit as me. Son of a bitch. I AM THE PACKER FAN, NOT HIM. But to impress me he decided he would wear a Packer shirt. Fuck, I had decided to wear mine as well, in remorse of the fact that the Packers were out of the playoffs. Never thought he’d wear a GB shirt as well, especially since he’s a Giants fan. We looked like morons.
As soon as we sat down he said: I just want you to know that I’m serious, I’d do anything to be with you, even if that meant moving.
My response? - Oh… uh that’s not necessary.
In the next two hours I proceeded to tell him that I didn’t want to date him, didn’t want him to move, that I’m a tad bit crazy, that I sort of married my yoga teacher in Bali… and so much more. Nothing scared him. My goodness, all you have to say to me is the “C” word and I’m scared out of my mind. Shit son. He’s like Earnest on steroids. Where do I find these men? It didn’t end well; I think he thinks we are getting married next month… I didn’t want to crush his soul so I tried to be nice. I’ll have to go for a more drastic tactic next time. Anastasia saved me half way through the “date.” Our code text was “I hate Brett Favre.” Which was appropriate because I was watching the Vikings game. She called and said I had to meet her sooner rather than later so we could go to a dinner party. I made Billy leave the bar shortly after.
He walked me to my train, kissed me, and I ran for my life, slightly fearing he may have gotten on my train in a different car. Yikes.
-Alexis Patron
Filed under: alcohol | Tags: alcohol, alexis, anastasia, new york city, rangers, reunion
I just wanted to inform you all that I leave tomorrow to go visit Anastasia. It is going to be epic. It is her 25th birthday weekend and we haven’t seen each other in over a year. Craziness for sure will happen. We probably will be too drunk to post for the rest of the week, but we will share our stories with you next week after the hangover subsides!
A little preview: Thursday will be a Ranger hockey game at MSG = lots of drinking
Friday: Anastasia’s big birthday! = lots of drinking
And well you can guess the rest of the weekend. The weekend will also include the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that she owes me for being celibate for six months. It was a bet we made last February after I had been a little “too slutty” for about a year. So she bet me I couldn’t go six months…. it’s been eleven. Yep, I’m still celibate. Strange for me! Anyways, I’m sure there will be more than one bottle of Sapphire at this reunion.
We will be sure to fill you in next week!
And, Happy Birthday to Anastasia!
-Love, Alexis
Filed under: alcohol | Tags: alcohol, alexis, anastasia, beer, brooklyn, dress, friendship, martini, new york city, tequila, wine, women
Oh how people change. I moved away from Anastasia for a year and she did a 180 on me. Not that it is a bad thing; it’s just entertaining to reminisce about the old days.
I remember the day that she told me that gin martinis were vile and she had no idea how I could drink two of them. Text from last weekend: “I had two martinis and I could drive a car NASCAR style right now.” My, how people change. And only in a year.
I met this girl (Anastasia) who believed that beer was life’s nectar and a pair of clean jeans was acceptable for all occasions, Brooklyn was Timbuktu and going to Manhattan on a Sunday was like giving birth. Soooo painful. Video games were the only acceptable Saturday activity, exploring the wonderfulness of NYC on a weekend was out of the question.
Asking Anastasia to come into the city on a weekend was like asking for her first born. And trust me, she won’t even let me be in her wedding party, so I guarantee she won’t let me meet her first born. Even worse than asking her to come into Manhattan on a weekend was asking her to come visit me in Brooklyn. Queens to Brooklyn was like Germany to Bangladesh. Who would travel that far to visit someplace that wasn’t as cool as Germany and why? Brooklyn to Anastasia was like another world. Brooklyn didn’t exist. Queens was better than Brooklyn, hands down.
One time I went “all the way” from Brooklyn, middle of nowhere to Anastasia, to the Upper East Side-five minutes from her apartment. I asked her to meet me for happy hour. Her response? “Yeah there is no way in hell you are getting me to go to Manhattan on a Saturday.” Wow.
When we did go out, Friday’s only, Anastasia’s drink of choice? Beer. Beer. Beer. Try suggesting a tequila shot and you might get punched. I, of course, was going through my “dark” period, where tequila and gin martinis were necessary for survival, so we had a hard time seeing eye to eye on drinks.
I am not complaining, I loved down to earth Anastasia: the girl who didn’t know what a dress was (even in the brutal heat of a New York summer), thought that a skirt was the Universe’s punishment for women, museums were a waste of a Saturday and drinking wine and hard liquor was for pansies who couldn’t handle beer. I sure do enjoy drinking beer, sitting on the couch in jeans and a hoodie, but I also enjoy a fancy night out sipping wine. So imagine my surprise when I recently started hearing stories about gin martinis, tequila, dresses and Brooklyn. WHAT? Who is this woman?
Anastasia now: wine and gin has replaced beer, an occasional tequila shot isn’t out of the question and Brooklyn not only exists but is even inhabitable occasionally!
A status update about a month ago mentioned Anastasia buying a dress and I almost fell out of my chair. A dress?! One of those things that show legs and boobs? Anastasia? She has legs? Just plain crazy. Anastasia has sported five dresses this year, I’m in shock. Wonderment, if you will. I cannot wait to go sip martinis at a fancy bar with my “new” friend!
Anastasia has ventured to Brooklyn a few times, goes to museums, hangs out in the city no matter what day it is, doesn’t say: “Alexis, you know what day it is,” when I call her on a Saturday. To be blunt: she’s a martini whore now. Love it! I’m sure I have done just as much changing as Anastasia, seeing how we met each other during “dark” phases in our lives, but now that the sky has cleared, we are getting to know new sides of one another. She met me when I was face down in tequila 24/7 and I met her when Brooklyn, to her, was an abomination.
Times, they be a-changin’.
-Alexis Patron
New York is three hundred and five square miles of land. It’s the birthplace of the Harlem Renaissance, Hip Hop, Punk, Expressionism and millions of unique individuals. Over eight million call it home, thirty six thousand of which are homeless (almost half children). One hundred and seventy languages are spoken in the city and over thirty percent of its residents were born elsewhere and moved here, ideally seeking more from life. Over five thousand skyscraper makeup the city’s skyline-the most in the country and only second to Hong Kong in the world. Twenty eight thousand acres make up the city’s parks. Fourteen miles of public beaches provide an escape during those scorching summer days.
In a city like this – a city so grand- with something for everyone, how can one find animosity within its limits? It’s pretty easy. All that concrete, every mile of land, each person who takes a moment to marvel at the pretty buildings without stepping out of the way of bustling New Yorkers, hastily going from one place to the next, can easily crash into you when you’re in a bad place. It’s suffocating, really.
At the height of the summer, New York enjoyed a nine point six unemployment rate. That’s close to eight hundred thousand people struggling in one of the most expensive cities in the world. They face choices: pay rent or eat. Is scraping together twenty dollars for a beer with friends, a vain effort to lull the problems for a few short hours, a realistic option?
If you sit and think about it, it’s easy to get lost in the numbers. With my current unemployment, I’m getting lost in the numbers. My lungs hurt from the fifteen cigarettes I smoked tonight. The two beers (totaling twelve dollars) didn’t quite work as well as I had hoped. How many nights in a row can I drink myself into a stupor in a juvenile effort to ignore the thousands of thoughts and questions running through my head twenty four hours a day? Eight hours of sleep rarely provides an escape anymore.
I’m feeling beat up by the city lately. My friend calls New York the “abusive boyfriend we’ll never leave.” Because when it’s good, it’s better than any drug’s high. But when it’s bad, it will break you down if you let it. I’m not letting my temporary claustrophobia break me down, but it’s certainly making me rethink decisions I’ve made.
There’s something to be said for self discovery. It’s the most arduously necessary task we all experience eventually. I spent the majority of my adult life denying myself the right to discovery. If the process was always too complicated or if something stewed in me that I consciously sought to ignore, I’m uncertain. But I know my ignorance has caused more problems than good. Bliss only lasts so long. So I question: would I change for the better if it meant uprooting that which defined me thus far and provided years of protection from vulnerability? I hope so, but hope is rarely enough.
I won’t classify myself as self destructive, but I am a reckless little creature. Reckless in the city can be disastrous. I live in the moment, only ever looking forward to the good while disregarding the consequences of my actions. What a pity I only discovered this now.
I have been presented with an unequivocal opportunity for self discovery; to improve; to figure it all out. I don’t intend on wasting it. But to change I need to understand my old, compartmentalizing, numbing habits: recognize a problem, alienate feelings, store all emotion in the unmarked box in the back of your brain, and absolutely-without a doubt- do your best not to shake the box and stir up feelings that ultimately lead to questions. Ignore, ignore, ignore the questions and replace them with whatever clutch can temporarily carry the weight. Alcohol? Certainly. Pour another, please. Cigarettes? If that weak-kneed feeling doesn’t provide temporary absolution, then I’m not sure what will. Lust for comfort? Only if it feels good and it always will.
These distractions I perfected are paralytic. They will suffocate me eventually.
Let me use a tired metaphor. Imagine yourself trapped in a soundproof glass room. Friends, family, whomever you’re trying to communicate with surround the room. You hear their voices and process the information given. You speak but they can’t hear you. You scream but still nothing. A question replaces the screams: how much longer will they put up with this? Now, that glass room occasionally is my head; the screams my thoughts. This city doesn’t sleep for a reason: it’s loud. When your only goal is to communicate thoughts well with those you care about, the cacophony of trucks, strangers and screeching train breaks are deafening.
I don’t want to think about this mess I am in anymore. It’s making me feel trapped in the city that I’m in love with. But ignoring is no longer an option. So I sit and stare. I think and think and think, until my head hurts and my stomach is knotted. A thought forms, but before it hits my lips the words disintegrate into jumbled letters rather than a coherent sentence. I have a thousand things to say but I can’t. Not because I don’t want to but if I’m going to say them then they had better be right. And I just haven’t figured out the right way yet.
The worst part, the part that frustrates me the most, is that with any given situation I face I feel like I’m being far more dramatic than necessary. It’s like a roller coaster: a slow crawl to the top of the track where I feel I’m exploding a minor situation into a melodramatic state. I accelerate down and remind myself at the bottom that in all reality I’m a fairly laid back person. But this only adds to the confusion and makes differentiating between reality and what I’ve distorted quite difficult.
This is a brief and cynical view of where I’m at with New York right now. But it’s only because I’m in a rut. I don’t want to get lost in the numbers anymore and I won’t forever. Because there really is no place like New York. Even if I leave the city, if only for a weekend, I’m always anxious to come home. To embrace the numbers, the museums, each new friend I will make, each street I roam and breathe in, all the while knowing I’m a unique cog in the wheel that is New York. And the city just wouldn’t be the same without me.
-Anastasia Beam
Filed under: this and that | Tags: anastasia, friendship, humor, new york city
What was her name again? Ally, Ashley, Amber? Oh, Alexis. Hm, interesting.
I couldn’t have been more apathetic towards meeting my coworker’s cousin. I wasn’t completely sold on my coworker as it was, so when she suggested meeting her cousin one day at work, it gave me the same horrific feelings I experienced when I was six and mommy set up play dates with girls I would eventually hate in high school.
The problem wasn’t that Alexis sounded like someone I wouldn’t get along with. If anything, it was that we were way too similar. We graduated the same year with the same degree, moved to New York within weeks of each other and shared a great appreciation for alcohol and promiscuity. Her cousin put so much pressure on us meeting and becoming best friends for life, before I even agreed to go. And Christ, we both have large breasts even, a fact her cousin didn’t outright tell me; I discovered this one on my own. Strike one: too similar to myself
To this day, I don’t recall what I was thinking when I agreed to go on this awkward adult play date. More importantly, I have no fucking clue where my mind was when I agreed to a night in which the Red Sox battled the Indians in post-season glory. Our date was practically doomed before it even started.
New York was still as foreign to me as a bra to a thirteen year old boy, so of course my roommate and I got lost on our way and showed up late. I didn’t acknowledge our tardiness, and played if off like I simply had better shit to do.
My coworker picked some crappy Wisconsin-themed bar for our night on the town. I am a Northeast snob with no desire to go west of Maryland, so I was obviously overwhelmed with joy and excitement when informed I’d be going on this twenty-year-old-heterosexual-blind date in a Wisconsin-themed bar. I anticipated cheesehead patterned wallpaper and shrines of Brett Favre, but decided the $2 Bud lights was a good enough reason to make an appearance.
My first impression of Alexis? Not the greatest. Her cousin verbally blew her so much that I half expected the second coming of Jesus Christ. As I rounded the bar, my coworker sat sipping a bud with a strange young lady and her two ginormous breasts. The low-cut sweater displayed them proudly; a blind man couldn’t miss them. Was she trying to pick me up? My coworker, a shallow attention seeking gossip, would have given me a heads up on same-sex interest, so I assumed I wouldn’t have to deal with any advances.
I wasted over a half hour of baseball to get to the bar and needed to make up for lost time. I found their table, plowed into my chair, threw my purse down almost knocking over beer, and put my finger in the air before anyone could say anything: I needed baseball updates asap and wasn’t about to let any introductions get in the way of that. The Sox were losing to the lousy Indians, and with each passing inning my mood depressed.
“Anasatasia,” my coworker said, “This is my cousin, Alexis”
Alexis extended an awkward and intimated hand for a shake.
“Hi,” I responded, probably ignoring her hand, “Do you like baseball? This is my roommate”
Alexis really wasn’t fond of baseball and informed me she preferred football. I. Hate. Football. Strike three. The night was going to be a shit show.
After two bud lights, my coworker decided the Wisconsin bar just wouldn’t do. She needed to see her flavor of the week and spent a half hour telling us about her young “artist” boyfriend. She viewed him as an artist, but we viewed him as a starving creeper who smelled bad. Six of one, I suppose…
At that time in our lives, Alexis and I shared a love of a sedentary lifestyle. Neither of us can figure out why we decided to let her cousin take the reigns and lead us into the bowels of Brooklyn that Saturday night. We both secretly wanted to stay at the Wisconsin bar, but lacked the balls to voice the opinion to our mutual friend who pushed thirty. And so the wild goose chase began.
Rather than call her mysterious artiste boyfriend, my coworker thought “two stops off the L in Brooklyn” was enough direction to lead us to the bar her man was at. False. We spent the better part of an hour in a maze of dark industrialized back alleyways that housed a litter of cats per homeless person.
Great. Lost in Brooklyn with near strangers after being set up on a blind date that would never lead to sex and missing Boston Red Sox baseball while sober, and Alexis wonders why I had ‘tude that night? Bitch, please.
Had we been in any other area that didn’t feel like rape way, I would have split well before we found the bar. But I was pretty confident a shanking, mugging, or raping was probable if I left the group. I stuck it out.
The bar had an impressive selection on draught and hard cider, but had absolutely nothing else going for it. It smelled like mildew. The bowling area, which was booked for hours, engulfed most of the bar space. The dark bathroom looked and smelled like it was covered in piss. Toilet paper wasn’t even an option, as I’m pretty sure a roll hadn’t seen the bar in years. I could have put up with the bar’s negative qualities if it had a single TV with the game, but of course not. I relied on sparse texts from friends which were uninformative. “OMG R U WATCHING?” isn’t quite the response I hoped for when asking the score.
Once the artiste boy was in the picture, the coworker exited stage left. She ignored Alexis and I, and left us to a booth of spilled beer and awkward conversation in the back of the bar. My roommate was off dirty texting a boy, so she was useless for any small talk.
We sat awkwardly avoiding eye contact. I desperately planned an exit strategy, but knew it was useless. Brooklyn was a completely foreign land to me. I never would have found my way home alone.
At this point, I made some smart ass comment about how the bar sucked. I expected Alexis to disagree and defend her cousin’s wise decision. To my surprise. she actually agreed, and we decided to spend the rest of the night milking my ex-fling for all the rum and coke his American Express could afford.
Bellies full of alcohol, we realized we shared a mutual love of using men for alcohol and became fast friends. Alexis even put up with my drunk ass petting horsies in Times Square for an hour before the night ended. At the beginning of the night, I was sure I would never see Alexis ever again. But the next day we fed our hangovers at the Olive Garden and I haven’t been able to shake her since.
-Anastasia Beam
Anastasia Beam, Drunk Detective.
I’m waiting for the arrival of my new business cards and monogrammed cigarette case. It’s only appropriate, as I’m currently spearheading the investigation of my actions during a party this weekend.
Facts, start with the facts:
1. Started drinking around 9:00pm
2. Drank a collection of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Grolsch. I like to mix crap with class, clearly.
3. Rolled and smoked between 20 and 50 cigarettes.
4. A lot of Weed was involved. A lot.
5. Abstained from funneling.
6. Went to bed at 5:00 am.
7. Woke up at 10:00 am.
8. Looked like a disaster the whole night. Facebook pictures unequivocally prove it.
10:00 am sunday. Questions, ask myself questions:
Why am I in clothing?
You passed out in your friend’s spare bedroom before changing.
Why is there an empty condom wrapper on the bed next to me?
Relax. Your friends experimented with how far they could stretch a condom over their forearms.
How did I not funnel?
No answers to this one, only theories. Perhaps rolling cigarettes all night kept my hands busy. Perhaps rolling cigarettes all night kept my hands busy. Or it could be that generating a list of bad deeds dominated my time.
Is there a possibility I made an ass of myself?
Always. Likely. Definitely.
How?
Two opportunities: 1. During my pretentious-better-than-thou-eyebrow-raising conversation about music, in which I casually name dropped the most obscure list of Canadian indie bands while chain smoking. How much more douche baggy does it get? 2. Or possibly when I drunkenly explained to a group of men that I am, in fact, straight. Inconceivable as it may seem, it is possible for straight and gay women to drink together without ending the night in a mass fingerbanging, a difficult concept for the drunk male to grasp.
Is there vomit anywhere?
No. Thank god.
I’m starting to piece it all together, days later, and so far so good. I didn’t have sex. Sad, but all parties who would have been involved can agree that’s for the best. I have been in such a dry spell lately, I’ll admit that the thought of fucking anyone at that party crossed my mind once or twice or the whole night.
I suffered only one contusion to the knee, a minor war wound I undoubtedly gave myself during an attempt to prove I could dance better than everyone else; an effort I failed, shamefully.
Despite all the drunken urges I felt, I kept all of my clothes on, huzzah! My friend removed his pants to reveal tight boxer briefs as he ran up and down the street because he “enjoyed the feel of the wind on his bare legs and chest” I watched in admiration and pined for the same breeze across my skin, but thought better of actually stripping down.
After five PBRs I officially stopped counting and caring how much alcohol I consumed. Five beers isn’t that much, when consumed over a whole night. I, on the other hand, took full advantage of my uncanny ability to never turn down a beverage and drank five of them in an hour. Hooray! Hangover here I come!
A delicious treat for all
With five alcoholic beverages of any breed, my filter is gone. Thankfully, when I’m drunk I’m usually happy and complimentary, so my unfiltered thoughts have yet to really get me in trouble. One of the few conversations I remember from Saturday evening was probably the most interesting one.
A little history first: the first time I met my friend, who happens to be a lesbian, I went off on an alcohol-induced rant about the state of baseball. She in no way is a baseball fan but listened attentively and humored me with questions. That little diatribe, apparently, did not bode well for my heterosexuality.
Well, on Saturday night, knee-deep in beer and weed, we retreated to the porch for cigarettes and fresh air, a perfect combination. Somehow we started talking about the first time we met.
“You know,” she said as she took a drag from the crappy cigarette I rolled, “I was pretty sure you were gay the first time we met.”
I laughed and asked if it was all the baseball talk.
“Yeah, partially” she responded.
Partially. Partially? “Partially” intrigued me. What else was I doing that radiated gay?
Had I been sober I probably would have had a good laugh with a friend and let the conversation die. But because an overabundance of beer and illegal substances floated freely through my veins, I opened my big mouth.
“So…does that mean you would have fucked me?” I asked.
Awesome. Good work, Anastasia. Way to make a lovely drunk evening on a porch real awkward. She laughed, answered affirmatively, we high fived and the rest of the party spilled out onto the porch with funnels and bowls.
Let it be known, if you drink with me, you inadvertently put yourself in the line of fire for inappropriate conversation and flirting. It doesn’t matter who you are or what our relationship is, it’s bound to happen.
All in all, I consider the parts of the party I can remember to be a great success. The rest will be left for the guessing.
-Anastasia Beam
I had a nightmare last night about my first job; my first glimpse into the real world. The job that not only taught me how to stalk celebrities on Lexis Nexis (hugh jackman you’re going to be getting a visit from me very soon!! eeee.) but also to use alcohol as a coping mechanism.
I won’t waste your time with the story of how I moved to NYC and the agonizing process of finding a job. Better to skip that story and sum it up in a quick sentence: graduated, packed my shit, bought a lot of beer and moved to NYC.
I lackadaisically applied to this one job and then forgot about it entirely. Over a month later, when I was half drunk at a Mets game, my future boss called me and invited me in for an interview. Sweet. I had only planned to have 4 beers at the Mets game but decided to treat myself with 8 overpriced yet delicious beers in mini celebration.
Fast forward to me getting all dolled up for my job interview.
In no way was I used to a 50 minute commute on a hot train in which I was seated next to a sweaty man wearing a track suit, but I tried to stay optimistic because I knew I had to try and impress.
I found my future office building but was not impressed. I pictured a lavish lobby with beautiful Persian rugs and chandeliers, I mean this was right across from city hall for christ sake. Instead, there was an old-milk scent and a “security” guard doubling as doorman who was more concerned with his sidekick than, you know, securing the building.
A quick scan of the other offices in the building and I learned it was filled with bail bonds offices. As I was waiting for the elevators, most of which were broken, I prayed that Dog the Bounty Hunter and his fat bitch wife would walk up behind me and head to one of the bond offices. I would ask him where he gets his sunglasses and if the feathers in his hair are absolutely necessary. He would tell me about the bounty hunter/bail bond convention that happened to take place in the exact building of my job interview.
When I finally got to the thirteenth floor (bad, bad fucking omen, trust) I didn’t know if I should knock on the door or just walk in, so naturally I decide to awkwardly half knock and pray someone heard me. When that didn’t work I knocked slightly louder and opened the door just enough to peak my head in. An absolutely gorgeous young man welcomed me. Finally, I caught a break. Now I could think of his gorgeous green eyes and what it would take to have an affair with him instead of Dog the Bounty Hunter.
Green Eyes said my boss was out on a break, but would be back shortly. Lesson number one: If you boss takes a break during your scheduled interview, you might want to keep up with the job search. I took a seat and studied a group of maps on the table in front of me, quite possibly the most retarded option for passing time and trying to calm the nerves.
As I investigated the maps, I heard a low panting coming from one cubicle.
At this point, I am actually disappointed with the whole concept of working and my an interview hadn’t even started yet. In no way was I impressed with being an adult, and believe me my standards are always low.
The panting quickly turned into a loud moans and shrieking.
“He’s NEVER going to marry me!” a panicked voice howled out.
I no longer can hide the sheer terror that is raping my face. Green eyes noticed and headed to tend to the shrill noises coming from the cubicle behind his. The neurons in my brain started firing faster than ever, desperately telling my body to move my legs and commence the fleeing process.
If only I had listened.
Two things became blatantly clear to me at that moment: green eyes was gayer than the day long when his voice turned to soothing tones that repeated “It will be okay honey. Don’t worry, girl, everything will be fine,” and the girl in the cubicle obviously was an attention-seeking whore or completely batshit insane. Possibly a lethal combination of both.
Green eyes calmed down crazy and she finally stopped weeping right as my future boss entered the room in a panic. He flung the door open, looked around like he needed to find the bomb he was about to diffuse, and rubbed his hands through his hair before addressing me.
“John,” he said and extended his hand for a shake. I introduced myself, shook his hand, and attempted to mask my disgust when I felt his wet hand in mine.
I’ll admit it, my imagination usually runs rampant all day long and apparently worked overtime that day. I had imagined my interview going infinitely different. My interviewer would be a smoking’ hot man who found me so insanely attractive that he would fumble his words the entire time. Finally, when we both couldn’t take it anymore, our bodies would meet on his desk in a fit of passion. I would moan “No! I can’t! I have a man waiting for me!” but he wouldn’t listen and would ravage my body. We would share a cigarette in post-coital bliss and he’d tell me the job was mine.
We sat awkwardly in silence for a minute. “You’ve probably been researching our website.” he said finally.
False.
“You’ll know by now that we put together a directory of judges,” he exited the room and returned with the shabbiest pieces of shit “book” on earth. I browsed the pages and practiced my most interested and impressed face.
“You’d be helping us with the second edition, but first why don’t you tell me about yourself,”
Ugh, the dreaded question. I went into my normal interview monologue about law school ambitions, the importance of real world experience, and my willingness to work my way to the top. Blah blah blah.
My future boss interrupted me for a lecture about why skipping law school was the best decision of my life. He told me of the three years he wasted in law school, and about the boatload he owes from loans. Feigning interest at this point, I just prayed his diatribe would end quickly so I could make my exit. Once I heard that the job paid an hourly rate of $12 without health insurance, I was pretty confident I could make more money reading tarot cards in the street.
As I left the interview, I had to fight back tears. I was so disheartened by the interview and the hour I had to spend on the train to get home. When I got home I called boyfriend and picked a fight. Awesome.
A few days later, as I sat suckling a bud light with my jobless roommate, John called me and monotonously offered me the position. I accepted, only because my bank account was frighteningly drained and I had a big weekend of drinking coming up. I promised myself I’d continue looking for a better job.
It was an empty promise, like every Sunday morning I spend with a nasty hang over I promise myself I’m going to stop drinking. I spent a miserable year at that job.
I retained nothing I was supposed to learn from that job. I only remember some of the questionable antics of my coworkers, locking the door to keep a violent man with a restraining order out, and that lovely time I saw a stripper on my lunch break a week before Christmas.
And if that doesn’t scream Happy Holidays, well I just don’t know what does.
-Anastasia Beam
