diary of a hollywood mixtress: 031709

so I show up for my usual tuesday night shift at a live music venue in silver lake, which is a well known favorite of hipsters and music lovers. I had no idea it was st patrick's day until the guinness started flowing like water and every other order was for irish whiskey and car bombs. well, at first I thought it was just an irish band playing or something. it was only after several green clad lads and ladies accessorized with glitter blasted shamrocks approached the bar that I put two and two together. and b.t.w. you plastic paddys: stout and cream spirits leave a cloudy film that is a bitch to get off of glasses and make the murkiest dishwater. but bottoms up: its all part of the job.

holidays always sneak up on me. I've done well in sheltering myself from the collective craze and capitalist franchising of culture and celebration. but I know something’s up when there’s an unusual fluctuation in traffic and an overtly dominant theme in dress and decor. holidays and weekends are universally recognized in the service industry as "amateur night". all of the young bucks, homebodies, and worker bees emerge in droves and use the nationally sanctioned day as an excuse for mere merrymaking and to break the habitual ritual of the mundane. people have contorted and ignore the true intent of these traditions in our contemporary and sterilized society. history and heritage are trumped by a repressed rogue drive that settles on expressing itself in the form of flagrantly spending money, frivolous repetition of cultural rites, sporting silly props, playing hooky, and eating and drinking excessively. most amateurs can’t resist the urge to get fucked up and act stupid. this rabid energy culminates as a pseudo mass-hysteria and a lot of puking.

rule of thumb: beverages in green bottles are ok, but green beverages are gross and will make you feel the same sickly shade of whatever you just drank, especially when downed in copious quantities. many amateurs fall prey to the hype of party favor flavored specials and aren’t apt in the knack of sipping and moderation. over consumption, schnapps, and shots are three of the novice’s prime vices. speaking this truth is counterintuitive to the liquor business and sales. amateur nights pay big in this profession, but my personal ethics override my desire to exploit and profit off of poisoning the ill-informed.

it’s ironic how a roman catholic saint and a clover have become mascots of march’s annual carousal. the saints official color was blue not green and old irish texts reference no association with him and the shamrock (which is also a christian symbol for the trinity). the drinking aspect actually has nothing to do with common racial slurs and generalizations about the irish having a tendency towards dipsomania, but is influenced by the pagan festival, bacchanalia, a celebration in reverence of the roman god, baccha (also known as dionysus in greek mythology), the god of wine. however, dionysus would approve of the "amateurs" behavior and even further encourage everyone else to make the escape from sanity and engage in ecstasy, epiphany, drinking and debauchery.

right now I’m thanking my lucky leprechaun of libation. the gregarious gods were looking out for me. everyone got muddled, but all were able to maintain their manners. the night turned out alright.

existentialism: shaken not stirred

so my recurrent monday night shift at a particular noho arts district bar is usually pretty mellow. this area of the valley is also known as "industry-wood". the random birthday party will spontaneously erupt, but it's typically a night that I am able to alternate my preferred reading material in between rounds and bond with the patrons.

there is a group of regulars who frequent this drinkery. they cabal in the west corner of the bar. these are the kind of guys who compete with the planters as fixtures of the business. loyal pillars of their local watering hole; this is a staple element of their social life. I know most of their drinks like the back of my hand and have it ready for them before they even sit down. they sit, smoke, and shoot the shit but rarely pick up on chicks or start trouble. (with exception for the occasional politically charged kerfuffle) they usually talk about their jobs, current events, recount their crapulent memoirs, and gossip about the other regulars and staff. most of them are pretty nice and intelligent guys, but I tend to leave the boys club to their own devices and let them entertain themselves without my interference, aside from the intermittent interpolation for a replacement libation. I'm not well crafted in the art of small talk, although, this bar has inspired me to improve on my performance of the intrinsically worthless convivial skill. I don’t work in the "industry", I detest high profile spectator sports, I don’t have cable and I rarely watch movies. there isn't enough common ground between me and these dudes for weekly conversation at length. I know some of them think I’m just retarded and socially inept.

there is one regular in particular with whom I have a friendship beyond the parameters of duty. he's older and certifiably more formally educated, having a collegiate background in both philosophy and law. we both favor anarchistic ideals, but disagree on several fundamentals of tenet. I totally respect his well informed wit. it's a fine tuned and double edged sword he uses as a weapon to wield dominance and control. he is argumentative for sport. everyone else is wisely impervious to his provoking; knowing any dialogue with him when he's feeling litigious is futile. but I always get into it with him. especially when I'm bored and/or feeling a bit bibulous myself (yes, that means I've been drinking on the job. it's no secret, working in a bar spurns pilfering of the establishments fine potables).

so I was perfectly content silently reviewing my word of the day flashcards, but he threw out the bait and I bit. he was teasing me about being more interested in a little book of words than talking to him. the taunting took a detour to the preference of ideas to people, how fantasy compares to actuality, and the limitations of masturbation. the badinage quickly turned into a contentious verbal exchange on existentialism. he is a seasoned squabbler but his techniques are at times hostile and immature. he often resorts to ad homonym attacks (uh-hem: name calling). his favorite insults are: imputing arguments as "sophomoric" or "clichéd", and people as "sociopathic" and "racist". he interrupts and will talk right over you. he'll nit pick at insignificant semantics, bloviate a barrage of padded and/or rhetorical questions that he then wont let you finish answering before he finds fault with another triviality.

I've seen him rightfully put a fool in his place and cruelly crush unwitting dupes. tonight, once again, I willfully threw myself on his chopping block. I'm a fun playground sparing partner for him because I’m as stubborn as he is intransigent. half the time I can’t get a word in edgewise, am thrown off by his tactics and distracted by other things at the bar, but I stick to my guns knowing I've got a point even if it's not getting across. another reason I'm sure the regulars think I'm an ass.

I was unsuccessfully attempting to describe what difference, if any, there is between me and the rest of the world and what the "me" is that I refer to. I said something about us all being temporal manifestations of thought form and each of us at the bar in this time space continuum a projection of an idea in my own head. he, of course, disagreed, insisting I'm wrong and that's just my opinion which doesn't dictate his reality. I responded by saying that's his opinion, he's validated in having one, and both truths can coexist in the same space because the basin of reality has a holding capacity for an infinite number of perspectives, and truth is all circumstantial anyway, having varying degrees of relevancy. he called me something to the effect of "wishy-washy" and said I'm just spinning my wheels. upon hearing which, I defensively asserted my position as superior because I have a broader range of understanding and compassion for multiple points of view. it would have gone on like this but the debate was cut off by my needing to address another customer. note: in the actual colloquy I stuttered a lot and was much less cogent than it appears here in the text.

well I get the last word in my story.
my final thoughts on the topic:
the eye that is "me" is "not nothing but is no thing", a process that is occuring, and merely a reference point, which is but another flavor on reality's palate.
man, I always think of the perfect things to say after the fact.

speaking of reality: the skinny/effeminate dancer guy with the frizzy/light brown/medium length hair, who was one of the finalists in the reality series, "bromance", recently aired on m.t.v. came in with three friends. he stayed for just one beer. not much of a partier for a reality t.v. star. maybe that's why he didn't win in the end.

2:45 am

this is the crap my mind takes in these wee hours. it comes out in alphabetic fragments but the sentiment behind it, in the closest audio-to-verbal translation I can configure right now, would be something like "bluhhhhuuhhh-uhhuhh-eehgeheh--ehehe-ah (insert clangor of bottle breaking here)".

this blog is solely for the purposes of autocatharsis. I pity a fool who actually reads it. I've kept the floodgates of my imagination barred off for awhile. afraid to unleash these symbols of speach because I fear the words won't stop flowing. that they'll take me over and I'll never sleep again. I'll quit my job. starve. loose my apartment. my feral mind is a force to be reckoned with. I've tried to tame it. with bikram yoga. with vitamins. herbal remedies. fish oil. wine. eight hours of zzz's every night. with positive thinking. and the results: BLUUUEHEHE-EEHEHE-UGHHH-EHHE-UGEYEHHH! CRASH!

fifty belligerent fucks asked for my number tonight. not because I'm anything fancy, but because I'm illuminated in an oasis of alcohol. and I'm the only poor bitch who can't run off too far. I'm an easy target while stuck behind the bar.
even after countless encounters with strangers, and with all of the "after I get off work" offers: last calls post mortem-term is so solemn sometimes; I need myspace as a witness to break the spell of my loneliness. I feel like a somnambule, a night crawler, writing boozes eulogy in the wake of an addled nightmare...

word of the day: my new love and fecund ichor