Reader Mailbag: How To Move Back In With Mommy

"I recently accepted a similar position in DC, which on
its face should be legit, but for the first few months I'll have to move back in
with my mother to save some cash....However, I know that you've remained
steadfast in the pursuit of the fairer sex despite this obstacle, and was hoping
you could offer some advice on how to handle these first few difficult
months." - Reader Submitted Question

As an almost grown, 25 year old man who lives with his mother and someone who has "remained steadfast in his pursuit of the fairer sex", I feel very qualified to answer this question. So to the reader whose name I had to redact due to his top-secret job, listen up....

How to move back in with Mom and still keep a small piece of your dignity intact (in no particular order):

• Make it very clear from the get go that you will be living by your own rules and not the previous regime's laws that presumably dominated your life from the ages of 1 to 18. My recommendation is going out hard the first night you move back in, only returning when the sun is on the rise and your Mom is in the kitchen eating breakfast. Show her whos the boss by demanding/slurring for bacon and eggs, and then promptly proceed to vomit all over the kitchen sink. I like to pull this maneuver once every few months just to remind my Mom that I'm a wild card and am very capable of snapping and killing many small children at any given time. Fear equals respect, which you will earn by simply being the unremorseful party hound that you are.

• Don't ever try to lie about living at home to girls. I bring home girls to my Mom's two bedroom condo (while she is there) and there is simply no point in trying to hide the fact that I live at home.The floral patterned couch and the multiple baby pictures of me scattered about would make it difficult to lie anyways. Of course I don't actually tell the girl we're going to my Mom's house until we get there, and then it's too late for them to back out. The only awkward part is when I start duck-taping their mouth closed before sex.I don't need some ho waking up my Mom at 4 AM with her unbridled screams of passion. That would just be plain rude.

• Living with one's Mom is all about mind games. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my mother, but sometimes living with her turns into a subtle, real-life game of Chess. Here are some key examples:

• Almost every Mom out there likes to ask questions, and then some more questions and then for good measure they like to ply you with more questions. Where have you been? Where are you going? Whose red thong panties were in the hallway this morning? Why are their 20 crushed up cans of Bud Light in the passengers seat of your car? Are those lines of sugar you left on the dining room table? Clearly after awhile this barrage of questioning can become a bit vexing. My advice is a tactic I coined when dealing with my Mother and it's called "selective listening".

• I simply answer the questions that I feel warrant a reply, and then I usually leave the room when I feel the line of questioning is beyond my level of expertise or the answer is too incredibly obvious for me to have to waste my breath on. It's hard not replying to your Mom when she asks you questions, but you'll get used to it after a few days or so.

• Another tactic is "the stall". You will be asked to do many chores around the house. "Clean your room", "Mow the yard", "Take out the trash", "Take a shower and brush your teeth, it's been three days for christ sakes!", etc. I almost always obey my Mom, but never in a timely fashion. A good example is the month long power struggle I recently endured over the cleanliness of a certain bloggers room. I kept agreeing to clean it, but never actually took action. Finally I came home to a strongly worded note that threatened to throw all of my clothes and prized possessions (my porn box) in the dumpster should I not comply with her demands.

• I ended up straightening up the room, but in a very half-assed manner. That maneuver says, "okay okay, you win...sort of...". At the current time of this posting my Mom is out of town and my room is back to looking like the Ninth Ward after Katrina.

• Back on the subject of women. I was hesitant on this here blog and in real-life to mention that I lived with my Mother, but then I got over it and just started using it as an excuse to be self-deprecating and funny. It actually works to my advantage. I've never been a slouch with the ladies, but my sexual proclivities have seen a pretty huge increase for the past year and a half that I've lived at home. Coincidence? I think not.

• Here's a good line to use when telling girls that you live at home: "Yeah I live with my roommate Mary (or whatever your Mom's real name is). She's a wonderful lady and a great friend. Oh, she also does my laundry and, interesting sidenote here, she once covered me in blood and gooey placenta while slowly pushing me out of her uterus, which from what I can recall was really awesome." However you break the "M" word to your future conquests, say it with a smirk and mention something about how you love your Mom. Then watch as the girl immediately proceeds to tear your pants off and bang you. Go downstairs after you're done and give your Mom a hug for helping you get laid. Maybe wash your hands first though.

• All in all moving back home after being free for 7 years has been a nice experience. I'm saving money and eating high on the hog. I don't go grocery shopping, I don't deal with bills, I really don't do much of anything except bartend, sleep and drink. Soooo, in the end, dear reader, you just gotta suck it up and try to stay optimistic.

• Oh, and crying yourself to sleep every night while thinking of the mistakes and the failures that have brought you back home and into utter loserdom seems to help too. I usually like to ball up in the corner of my room and sob for an hour. The crying tends to follow my nightly masturbation session. Oh who am I kidding? I usually sob while I'm masturbating too.

• One more thing.... Always lock your bedroom door! Moms will and can open the door to your room at anytime. The last thing you want is her to catch you jerking it to "preteengangbangjapan.com".... you sick fuck.

A Jack Goes Forth Editorial Reply

As I scanned this morning's Richmond Times Dispatch (the paper I mercilessly lampoon, yet still read religiously), I ran across local sport's columnist Paul Woody's latest column. For those that don't know Paul, he's sort of like Richmond's poor man version of Denver's Woody Paige, or at the very least Dallas's Tim Cowlishaw. Which is to say, he's not that bad of a writer.

His column today focused on the great Richmond ballpark debate and how he thinks the new ball park should be put out in Short Pump (the vast strip-mall/eye-sore 5 miles west of the city).

Are you back on the sauce Paul? Really? Short Pump? The area whose traffic and driver retardation level make D.C. and L.A. look like pleasant drives down a country road? The place where almost every single bar/restaurant/ store/ neighborhood lasagna party* is owned by some giant corporate conglomeration? The place where almost all of your "60,000 people within a two mile radius" are affluent and white? The place where "supporting your local business owner" means getting the Sizzling Jack Daniel's Fajitas from TGI Fridays?!?

I admit that there are many problems inherent in the creation of a downtown ballpark. Traffic and parking would be a bitch. The vagrant hobo population would increase threefold. Construction would tie up streets and basically slow down the entire city for at least three years. Dirty strip clubs are located downtown. Costs. Taxes. Bluh. Bluh. Blah.

On the other hand, Richmond is our city. We're the Richmond Braves or the Richmond Defenders, or whatever shitass Double-A team we get to move here. We're not Henrico. Let's make the city better. Let's improve business in the city. Let's rejuvenate downtown. Let's bring jobs to the city.

I did agree with Paul on one major point of contention though:

"When deciding where to live, most parents look first at the schools their children will attend, not whether minor-league baseball is played in a downtown stadium.
Richmond needs stronger schools, not an 8,500-seat stadium with a nice berm."


He's right. My kids will never attend a George Wythe High or an Armstrong High, or any of the other city public schools. Maybe the solution is we stop harping on crappy minor league baseball and begin trying to find money to improve upon the basic necessities of our city. Use all of this "research money" and use the hours of countless, worthless, baseball meetings to talk about something that isn't just mere entertainment. Where does it say that a medium sized city needs minor league sports? Oh wow, Toledo has a successful minor league franchise! Louisville is a perfect model for how this can work!!! Who. Gives. A. Fuck.

Either way, Short Pump, Paul? Seriously buddy? I might be wrong, but the smart money says that Paul Woody lives out in the West End somewhere.

*"Lasagna Party" is the West End code word for swingers parties. Couples invite each other over for lasagna, and then they trade spouses and have sex. I'm not kidding. I found this out first hand when I used to bartend out near Short Pump.

Everyone Is Good-Looking Over The Internet

"However, I really need to set you straight after that last
blog... you can't go around referring to "not-so-attractive Jersey Shore girls" like that! ....REAL Jersey Shore girls are way less into the Juicy velour jumpsuits and waaay more relaxed. Also, we sound educated when we speak, and only let the Jersey out when it's necessary :)"- Email from a Jersey Shore Girl.


"Well I appreciate the info, although without a picture on your part it's hard to verify your claim of Jersey shore girls being hot." - My reply email.

I get a few emails from girls, mostly they're completely obsessed with my blog and want nothing more than many many years of passionate love-making, intelligent discussion and the joint ownership of a blog/cat, and sometimes they're just complete nutjobs. The excerpt above is from a girl who was defending her home turf (South Jersey) after I basically called all the girls in Jersey trash. My response to her was basically, "well, prove I'm wrong then". Turns out the emailer in question is a little cutie, but you can understand why I'm generally not that enthused when a female reader emails me and refers to herself as hot.

One time I made the poor decision to meet one of my readers at a bar without getting a picture first. She told she had big boobs so I was like, fuck yeah I'm gonna get me some blog groupie sex! Of course she then proceeds to show up looking more like Freddy Jackson!

No but seriously, she was 250 pounds. I can't hate on the girl that much because she wasn't lying, she did have ginormous boobs, which I guess is pretty much the only thing you have going for you when you're grossly obese.*

*Yes, I'm an asshole sometimes. Welcome to JackGoesForth.... Thanks for reminding me, email crybabies.

The Blogger Is Back

I know there have been some serious holes in my blogging schedule lately, but that is all changing today. My two shit ass computers have been on the fritz and having to borrow my Mom's computer is just sad. Not to mention I think it really irks her when she sees "Pornhub.com" or "Blondechicksmassiveblackdicks.com" on her web browser. Soooo.. I did what any red-blooded, free-spending American fat cat would do, I went out and got another computer:

The Dell Studio 17'. Isn't she pretty? I'm confident that my new porn machine/ blogging command center will serve me well. Dell is lucky I stuck with them after I gave their Dell Inspiron Mini a shout out, only for it to be a complete piece of shit.

Now I intend on getting down to some serious blogging. ...And due to the suggestions of three local media "celebrities" at the bar the other night, I plan on bringing back some more serious, somewhat intelligent posts now and then. Don't fret though, the Anal Sex posts are staying in heavy rotation.

Pre-Shift Bartender Thoughts

• I got a semi-job offer-talk last weekend. A friend of a friend thought I would be perfect for a job in Finance, up north, near NYC, which if you have ever read this blog, you would know is my dream place to be. Getting to NYC is my ultimate goal and I was flattered that they would want me to look into the opportunity, unfortunately I just have too many miles left to wring out of this bartending thing. While I'm certainly not giving a flat-out no to any opportunities, I don't think I'm ready to re-enter a world of daytime hours and stress. Although it's nice to know that when I decide to grow up something might just be there for me.

• If you take anything from this blog, take this... A bartending life is about as much fun as a person can have while still working full-time hours and making good money. I wouldn't lie to you...

• I'm considering taking a road trip to AC at the end of this week, or probably at the end of next week. I've written about my visits to AC before (here and in haiku form- here), and I'm sure something ridiculous will happen again, especially if I make the trek alone. I assume the scenario will probably involve not-very-attractive Jersey Shore girls, the beach bar in front of Harrahs and about 29 tall Miller Lites. Or maybe it'll be a 50-year old mother of three, the poker room at Caesers and about 11 Crown and Cokes. Either way I come out the winner...

• If anyone gambles up north a lot and has a player card/can get me a comped room, likes to wager on craps and drink for 30 hours straight, likes women, etc. Email me. I've got a seat in my Altima with your name written all over it.

• I find when I go places alone (bars, AC, NYC, wherever) absurd things seem to happen. It's also pretty exhilarating to be somewhere foreign with nobody but complete strangers surrounding you. Lucky for me, I'm a people person (when I've had a cocktail and it's after 7 PM).

• Memorial Day is Sunday/Monday. I'll be at work and not on the Chesapeake Bay and not at a cook-out. I'm sort of bummed. I adore my job, but not on days like this. I'll have to make myself a few Baybreezes and pretend like I'm not in Richmond Virginia for a few hours.

Twitter For The Immoral Gentleman

*Why is there a picture of Larry Flynt, the First Amendment Warrior, Head of a sleazy adult entertainment empire, and proud gold wheel-chair owner at the top of this blog post?! Keep reading, unless you're 17 or under...

My fellow colleague/mentor/drinking buddy was sitting at the bar last night, and as is our custom, we started coming up with ideas, ventures and other various money-making schemes. Now keep in mind, this "colleague" is the guy who I last wrote about in a post entitled "Stoner Talk". An excerpt from that post:

"Jack, picking up young girls is like holding onto a small bird
with both hands. You hold it too tight and you'll kill it. You hold it too
softly and it'll fly away..." (Ed Note: The colleague in
question is 35 years old.)

We frequently tend to get into hour long conversations about these grandiose visions and ideas that we want to collaborate on, ideas that would eventually make us very very rich and very very famous. Most of the ideas fizzle out, well, because most of the time we're both black-out drunk at night and too hungover the next day to call each other.

Last night though, we thought we had landed on the big one. This was the creation that was going to allow us both to retire in the next year and spend the rest of our days down in the Islands, and/or Las Vegas, surrounded by nubile young Eastern European girls, kilos of illicit substances and various other fellow titans of industry. The idea you ask? Well, before I tell you the idea, just try and keep an open mind. Oh and try to remember that I'm a complete pervert with no discernible shame.

We decided to start a sex-based Twitter service, only it would be called "Clitter.com". Obvious and vulgar? Yes. A name of such utter brilliance and simplicity that instantly taps into and brings together the two huge universes of pornography and Twitter?????!!?? FUCK YES.

I immediately had my cohort watch over the bar and I ran back into the office, credit card in hand. Our plan was to hopefully snap up the domain, Clitter.com. Unfortunately, and not surprisingly, someone "had already parked there". From what I can tell though no one has done anything with the domain yet, so we decided to come up with an offer for the site. If any investors are interested, all you have to do is send me money. My boy and I will be the well-oiled figureheads and the aggressive salesmen for this new empire. You can just sit back and collect your cut. I'll even give you boxseats at the brand new Clitter.Com Arena I plan on building, which will eventually house Richmond's very first professional sports franchise, The Richmond "Roughriders".


The best (and most disgusting part) about Clittering? Whenever you decide to write something about sex, or during sex, etc, it's not called "tweeting" (as it is on Twitter), no, on "Clitter"........ it's called "queefing". Yep, you get 69 characters and you can queef 24 hours a day.

....Recoil in horror if you must, but just remember, people thought Larry Flynt was crazy and vomit-inducing when he founded Hustler, and now look at him... wait, that's a bad example, but you understand what I'm saying. I'm not stupid, even I think the Clitter idea is a little "out there", but people thought Eli Whitney was a little "out there" when he was touting his cotton gin as the next big thing...and I think we all saw how that turned out.

UPDATE: After doing some extensive research (one Google search), I've found a few sites that have joked about some sort of "Clitter" service, but none of these sites seem to be serious. So the idea is already out there and I'm sure that there are people with more drive and more capital who could make it happen before I could. Still, this blog post and our eventual offer on the Clitter.com domain should solidify our stronghold on the soon to be booming Sex/Twitter business.

Bartender Thoughts From 11 AM

Editor's Note: Since I got a pretty good response from my last "bartender thoughts from 4 PM" post, and because they're easier to write than a post solely devoted to one topic, I've decided to make it a more regular thing. I went back and categorized all of my "thoughts" posts under the Label, Bartender Thoughts, just in case you guys want to see what a nutcase I was in 2008.

• A group of bartenders came in on Sunday for another bartenders surprise birthday get together. I was the only bartender working, with no bar back...Meaning all of the tips were mine all mine. One of my customers said he could see the dollar signs in my eyes.

• I love it when bartenders come in because they universally tip well. Of course I usually go to their bar and hand it right back to them. It's the circle of life, so to speak.

• A few minutes ago the coffee shop girl tried to hand me back my change (from a 50) in all big bills, and I go, "hey can I get some ones in that change?" She replies, "Dammit, I was trying to block you just once from tipping so huge, it's just a coffee shop, dude!"

• It's Karma, and it will come back to me tonight when I'm slinging drinks. And that's exactly what I told her.

• The hotter a girl is, the worse you will perform in bed the first time, in comparison to the first time with some slam pig. I think there's an element of depravity that fails to come into play with girls who are super-hot, or girls that you like. On the other hand girls who are less than stellar and you have no feelings for, well, you can rape and pillage them like the fall of Rome without giving it a second thought and it tends to be awesome. I wonder if this theory correlates with my refusal to break out the nipple clips and car battery until the second time I sleep with a hot girl? It's possible...

• I went to a launch party for this new Jim Beam Red Stag Bourbon last night. It's basically Jim Beam with a hint of Black Cherry. I worked for two liquor companies and I'm a bartender, and I'll say this again... The proliferation of flavored liquors is too much. Vodka has every flavor from a 64 pack of crayons available to the public, and now Jim Beam comes along with this crap. I'll say it, it's not that good. Maybe Beam should stick to what they kick ass at, making a great bourbon. You don't see Jack Daniels releasing shit-ass flavors do you? At least I hope they aren't...

• It's karaoke night tonight. I hope my gay following makes it out. I have a stirring rendition of Queen's "Find Me Somebody To Love" ready to go. Ha. Nah, I'm kidding. I'm singing a number from Elton John or the Scissor Sisters tonight. Wait, they're gay too?!? Hmmm, I need to go some place and think about all these weird feelings I'm having.

• I'm going to the majestic James River, and no, no blow jobs will be given or received this afternoon. I mean, I don't think they will at least. I guess you never know where the day will take you.

• Once again, it's Jack here, and wait let me check...yep, I'm still sucking at life. Happy Tuesday.

Jack Goes To Club Velvet

*For you non-Richmonders, Velvet is a notorious strip club in downtown Richmond. And yeah, that's a mural of Princess Diana on the side of the Club. It's not there anymore, but trust me, we're still just as baffled as you are.

Yes, I went to Velvet on Friday night. This was my 7th or 8th trip to Velvet, but it was by far the most interesting. My thoughts:

• We didn't even get there til 2:15 AM (it closes at 3:30 AM). Lucky for us, they were not breaking any ABC laws and no alcoholic beverages were being served. By that point in the evening, my crew of misfits had already been over-served at many other fine Shockoe Slip establishments.




• I met the infamous Sam "JT" Moore. Keep reading...




• Every stripper in the joint now knows my name, the bar where I work, and the fact that they are entitled to a round of shots on me whenever they visit. What can I say? I consider myself a gentleman and I like to make small talk to the girls as I stroke their girly parts with folded up one dollar bills.




• I took a girl with me to the strip club, which most every male knows, can be freakin awesome. Strippers tend to feel less threatened by a guy who has a hot girl with him.




• Said "hot girl" and I got into a faux-argument over the proper technique for giving the dancers money when they're gyrating on the stage directly in front of you. My friend was throwing the money directly at them, hitting them on the ass, the chest, the leg, the face... I told her this was rude and that you should hand them the money or slip it on the ground underneath them. We decided to take a vote with the multiple dancers that were sitting around us and they ended up being totally fine with money being hurled at them. Personally I think they were just letting the girl I was with do whatever she wanted because they thought she was hot and because she has fake breasts, which doesn't seem very fair for my argument's sake. I'm a nice guy though, so I let it slide and started winging Nolan Ryan-like crumbled up bills at the girls on stage.



• Notice how I started calling them "dancers" instead of "strippers" in the past few paragraphs? Well, let's be honest, they're strippers, but they were all so nice it just seems like calling them dancers would be the polite thing to do.



• I spent an absurd amount of money in a short period of time. I managed to spend all this money without getting any lap-dances either, which if you have been to a strip club you would know, that makes me a very foolish man.



• I was definitely offered to go upstairs and buy a lap-dance from most of the girls in the joint though. Probably because they thought I was awesome and they just really wanted to grind on my crotch... Uhh, yeah, and I don't like fake boobies.... Oh and bears don't shit in the woods...



• I shall say this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence... but I used to hate on the quality (the hotness) of Velvet's dancers, admittedly, I was wrong. I realize that it was Friday and that they had the A-team dancers on the floor, but still... they were impressive. A couple super-hotties, a couple 6's and 7's and one or two mouth-breathers. Not a bad line-up.



• When a less than hot dancer would begin her routine in front of us my drunk friend would turn around in his chair and stare at the wall, his back to the dancer. I, on the other hand would throw oodles of money at them because at that point I probably would've done it with the coin return slot on a vending machine. As long as it pretended to like me of course...



• So one of the dancers goes, "Oh, Sam (the owner) is out by the bar."



• I've been fascinated with this Sam Moore guy. A brief run-down: He's the owner of Club Velvet. He killed a man in self-defense after being attacked by 4 guys. Recently spent 30 days in jail for sleeping with a 16 year old. Has drawn the city of Richmond's ire for a number of reasons: Illegal activities going on at his strip club/where he lives, hung a huge 30 foot banner protesting a possible baseball stadium downtown, spot lights on the roof of his club that can be seen for miles and miles, etc.



• In my drunken state and with my heady self-confidence, I immediately jumped up and sauntered over to the bar. In my memory I'm considerably cooler and didn't run over to him and gush, "Mr. Moore, I'm a big fan. You're like a folk hero to me!" Unfortunately my memory is faulty, so I'm pretty sure this is what happened.



• He didn't say a word and he looked at me with an icy stare. The kind of stare that says, "kid, back off before you get a prison shiv to the gut" type stare. To his credit, he shook my hand.



• Now Mr. Moore doesn't have a large stature, but he certainly has a chilling presence. The full neck tattoo and the tear-drop tat under his eye don't help.



• I've already notified channel 12 to begin the investigation if I suddenly disappear after this blog post.



• A side note: I was (and am) honestly considering asking Mr. Moore if he wanted a biographer. You talk about a cool gig. I think enough has happened to him during his 44 years on Earth to make for an interesting book. Of course I would only do it if it was an authorized biography.



• Unauthorized biography of Sam Moore= Jack in a shallow grave somewhere out in Powhatan.



• I would say that there were at least 3 dancers that I would consider dating at Velvet. What does that tell you? Not much. I just thought that you should know.


• I would (and probably will) go back to Club Velvet. I was just a bit out of control this past Friday and I spent way to much money which pisses me off to no end. It doesn't help that a can of my beloved Diet Pepsi is 6 bucks there, and it really doesn't help that I bought 4 of them (one was for a stripper...uhh, I mean a dancer.)


• God I suck at life.

Middle School Blow Jobs?! The Horror...

It takes A LOT to disturb me, but as I was checking out my sitecounter today, I looked at some of the Google search terms that people used and what eventually led them to my blog. People search for some weird shit, and for whatever reason they end up clicking on my blog.

The usual suspects are "Condom Flushing", "Sweaty Sex" (easily number one on the list), "Usefulness of College Degree", and anything involving masturbation or anal sex.

What search term ended up freaking me out though?


"Middle School Blow Jobs"


This search term led someone to my blog.

My thoughts: I know middle and in many cases, elementary school children are blowing each other left and right. This doesn't upset me. The fact that either some horny middle schooler or some crazy-ass 40 year old parent Google'd this term and then somehow started reading my blog? Well, that's kind of weird. I'm not trying to teach the youth anything until they (she) turn 18, and anyone with a child (the crazy-ass 40 year old), should never read my blog. It's for their own good.

Who the fuck was getting blow jobs in middle school? I guess the cool kids.... lucky bastards.



I feel dirty. Wait, that's normal. I think I just feel really confused.

Wasted Jack Rant

Update: I have a challenge: If anyone can somehow verify to me that they have vomited while blogging, then I swear on Bea Arthur's grave that they will have a 50 dollar tab (on me) at my bar, anytime they want it. It's not because I just booted while blogging, it's actually because.... oh fuck it, I just vomited my face off while blogging.... Dammit.

I stumbled across an interesting blogpost this morning. Before I direct anyone to it, let me just say...It's 8 AM and I'm fucking shithoused. I just spent the last three hours discussing whether or not a certain waitress at a certain 24 hour food joint is retarded. Yes, I'm an ass, but I'm willing to bet that most retarded waitresses don't read this blog. I mean, retarded people probably can't read. (Yeah, I know...I've already got a space reserved in hell)

Anyways, this blog confused/intrigued me....
http://gentrifyrichmond.wordpress.com/



I didn't do much research, because honestly, I can barely see straight.. But seriously, doesn't that seem like a weird blog name??? It's like.... I hate poor/possibly black people... lets push em out! Gentrify!!!


Again...

Jack Goes Forth- 8 AM, completely wasted. Nothing to blog about so he grabs some low-hanging fruit, and BAM! That's something to keep you fuckers coming back. G'night.... or G'morning.

Funny Bartender Thoughts From 4 PM

• A question: We barely know each other, so why is it that you let me continue to penetrate you without a condom?

• A better question: Why do I continue to penetrate you without a condom?

• Scholars have spent decades trying to figure out why a man will throw caution to the wind and put their most prized possession in harm's way time after time. I think I figured it out though... Because it feels good.

• Yes I'm your bartender from downtown, blah blah smile blah. Now if you didn't already notice the earphones, the beads of sweat on my forehead and the vicious hurting I'm putting on the pull- up bar, uhh, I'm sorta busy.

• ....I walk around the gym with a permanent scowl. It's shocking when someone has the nerve to start a conversation with me. It's just sad and disappointing that it's always a male who does it.

• Too many make-out sessions...Not enough naked, body on body sessions.

• "You telll eeett like it eeee's honey!" -Hammercanned drunk girl at the bar discussing my blog. I gave her a free shot, which she probably didn't need.

• "You promise you won't blog about this?" - Prominent Richmond Girl

• ...I need to stop making that promise. It's killing the integrity of my blog. Oh wait, my blog doesn't have a single ounce of integrity. Never mind.

• "I promise baby. Now let's do this!"

• Handy bartender trick. If it's busy and you get a drink order that you don't know or can't remember, just wing it. Actual orders from the past few weeks:

• "A Pink Taco" - Make it look pink and taste of fruity deliciousness. When you serve it, mention off the cuff that you "made it nice and wet for them."

• "A Green Lawnmower"- Make a green Long Island Iced Tea. Omit the cola and simply add apple pucker or Midori. Look at the person who is ordering this drink and you will understand when I say, the actual taste of the drink means nothing in this scenario. They want the maximum amount of booze for the minimum amount of dollars.

• " A Pantie Dropper"- Repeat the Pink Taco, don't utter any lame double entendre though. Just say something that's downright filthy instead.

• "A Jaimee?" - Uhh, grab whatever bottle is closest to you, mix with sour, cranberry and sprite. Voila! A Jaimee!

• " A red Corona" - Laugh in their face before splashing some Grenadine into a Corona. I mean seriously? C'mon...

• Sober sex always trumps fucked-up sex. The dilemma you run into is transferring your sobriety to the end of the night (2 AM) for when it's time to do the freaky. I've yet to find a solution for this one. I could stay sober...ha, yeah and I could not put any "product" in my hair... but that's just crazy talk.

• I haven't came across an interesting Richmond-based blog in awhile. Other than the usual suspects there just doesn't seem to be anyone who is putting out anything that's not mind-numbingly boring these days. I'll read a good post here or there, but most of those posts are on blogs that have no consistency and only blog twice a month. Maybe if I was fat I would be more into the 87 food blogs we have in town.

Inappropriate Cinco De Mayo Post

*I don't what's more amazing. The fact that Nike makes a shoe called the Dunk Low Pro SB Cinco De Mayo, or the fact that I don't own these yet. Esas son caliente hijo!

Tomorrow marks the annual Mexican/ Americanized booze-fest that is Cinco De Mayo. Cinco De Mayo of course marks the victory of Mexican lucha libre star Rey Misterio Jr over the heavy favorite and reigning WWF champion Kurt Angle. Or maybe it has something to do with over-matched Mexican forces defeating a bunch of French surrender-monkeys in 1862. Either way, it's a reason to down mucho cerveza with the chicas. Si, mi gusta la putillas!!!! (Yes, I like the sluts!!!!)

Some little known facts about Cinco De Mayo:

- Cinco is actually only a regional holiday in Mexico, celebrated primarily in Puebla with limited recognition in other parts of the country. So while the citizens of Puebla will get completely shit-bombed on 22 Oz. Bud Ices purchased after work from 7-11 on Tuesday, the rest of the country will only get half shit-bombed on the $1.79 cans of pure Bud-goodness, as is their usual custom every Tuesday.

- In America, Cinco is celebrated in a similar fashion to the Irish Holiday, St. Patricks Day. Both days us Irish Americans tend to get obscenely drunk with the only noticeable differences being the choice of booze (Mexican beer v. Irish Beer), and the decor (Pinatas v. Shamrocks). Both days still involve fistfights, vomiting and the age-old tradition of coming home and taking out one's deeply-rooted cultural frustrations and jealousy problems with a drunken, bloody beating of our wives. You see us Irish lads and you Mexican Amigos are a lot more similar than one would think. Salud and slainte!

- Many people like to thank their favorite dishwasher or line-cook with a small gift in celebration of the Cinco holiday. Of course most of the dishwashers and line-cooks that I know are of El Salvadorean, Ecuadorean, or Panamanian decent and would be highly offended if you included them with their Mexican neighbors. You should be ashamed of yourself you racist fuck!

- Dress attire for the day usually involves any outfit seen in the insta-classic Mexican bloodfest/film, "Desperado" (especially the knife-throwing guy and his vest with no shirt underneath-combo.) Also find some good head wear. Sombreros are tacky and only for drunken morons. So you better find a good one.

- You can only eat Tacos y Burritos on the big day. Just like Ms. Hennifer Lopez would do.

- Tequila is the official shot of the day. If you can find an awesome bartender who will feed you shots of water while still giving the girl next to you multiple shots of the hard-stuff, well then you got it made brother. I'll do this if you ask me nicely, I'll also call you a "punta" and cockblock you so hard you won't even be able to sleep with that girl who has taco-salad vomit all over her poncho. Man up and drink. And not that rail shit either. Pony up for a shot of Don Julio or Tre Generaciones.

In closing, Cinco De Mayo is a fun day to get blasted and then do a Mexican Hat Dance while firing your six-shooters in the middle of Cary St. Just be safe and be sure to wear a preservativo mi amigo! Also be sure to come down to Cha Cha's Cantina and party like a young Santa Anna with me.

The Bar Mirrors The Life

The bar is usually slow in the early evening and it entails me making a few drinks for the service bar, making a few drinks for the sparse crowd at the bar, cleaning some things here and there, and then sitting on my hands for hours on end. The thought of that evening and the hordes of people and the massive effort/drink-mixing that those people will bring can be positively horrifying during the slow hours. Eventually the bar starts to fill up and before I know it I'm taking 3 or 4 orders at a time, mixing drinks at a very high pace and flying from one end of the bar to another. Once the rush hits I get in the zone, the night flies by, I'm overtly happy, and then the night is over before it even began.

At 25 I've come to learn that a night spent bartending is a perfect analogy for my life, in that, when (and if) awesome things come, they always come in tremendous bunches. There are K-2-like peaks of pleasure and happiness, followed by Grand-Canyonesqe depths of despair. There is no middle ground so to speak.

One week or one month I'm swimming in sex and women are coming out of the woodwork. Everything is easy and I find it hard to remember what life was like when getting laid was actually a challenge. Then the next week a girl will flake on me or maybe a girl will end a fling with me, and all of a sudden I couldn't get laid in a whorehouse. My motivation withers up and my shaky confidence plummets. Then a few weeks or a few months later I'll sleep with someone new, and what do you know? I'm back in my "groove" and the dry period is over (figuratively and literally).

The same high/low theory can be applied to other aspects of my life. Saving money, living healthy, gambling, blog affairs, day to day moods and overall happiness come to mind.

An elder told me that I need to learn how to live in moderation, learn to calm down and learn to stop riding the roller-coaster. I saw the wisdom in his words, but it's not for me, not now. Even when I'm in the gutter, I know that the rush is coming and it's what keeps me going. Maybe the key is that I need to learn how to enjoy the highs a little more and not exacerbate the lows by abusing my body with substances. Although after reading the last few paragraphs one could surmise that I'm a classic manic-depressive and thus an ideal candidate to be put on a high dosage of the "substance" Prozac, but I digress...

I'm learning a lot about life and even more about myself through bartending and sex. Scoff if you will, just don't doubt how important these lessons are.

Against The AIDS

UPDATE: The website, though still under construction, is aidswalkrichmond.org

My buddy Scott is bringing the hugely successful, yet up to this point ignored locally, "AIDS Walk" to Richmond. I know Scott from bartending for him but I did not know that he is a self-proclaimed "queer-cultivator" and a member of the Richmond Queer League. These facts don't bother me as I at one time considered entering the draft for the RQL. Ultimately my intense discomfort of any sort of physical touching and/or bonding with another male kept me from leaving my Captainship in the Richmond Straight League.

Nevertheless, I like Scott. I like many gay and lesbian people, and my family has been directly affected by AIDS. Soooo, basically I'm ready to wreck shop on this shit.

There is no functional website for you to peruse yet (I don't think), but I'm sure Scott would love it if you want to pitch in and do something. Even just walking one lap around a track will do something...Umm, I think? Email him at Aidswalkrichmond@gmail.com if you want to walk it out or do some volunteering...or just email him if you want some hot man on man action. Send a picture though. Scott only dates 8's and above.

Apparently there will be some happy hours involved with this thing, so I'll post about it when there's one at my bar. Then you can come on out, have a drink and who knows? Maybe we'll just cure AIDS along the way to getting completely shit-canned.

...Ahhh, two of my favorite things: Getting drunk and not contracting any life-altering STD's.