A Bartender Goes To The Country

*Anymore "Roadhouse" references and you may as well re-name this blog "Gay Over Swayze". Which isn't entirely untrue.

• "You want some blow? This stuff is like rocket fuel, boy. It'll make you shit rainbows." -Some redneck offering me drugs in Deltaville Virginia, this weekend.

• I declined. Taking free drugs from a guy who just told me about his last 6 motorcycle accidents and then showed me the protruding plates in his head just didn't seem prudent at the time. Plus I didn't feel like shitting any rainbows.

• If you ever want to enter a bar that is basically an exact replica of "The Double Deuce" from the film Roadhouse- Go to "The Sunset Grill" in Deltaville VA (a small town in the country, on the Rappahannock and Piankatank Rivers). Their bouncer could probably even kick Dalton's ass. Okay, their bouncer could kick the 2009 cancer-ridden Dalton's ass. (Sorry Swayze, you know I love ya.)

• I felt like the villain Brad Wesley (Ben Gazzara) from Roadhouse. If only because I had a blond with fake boobs at my side, who I probably could've gotten to strip after another orange crush or two. Now if I only had my own human weapon to kick everyone's ass with a pool cue and/or a badass white fedora....

• After drunkenly texting a buddy back home about the correlation between Roadhouse and The Sunset Grill, he texted this back: "Dude, please keep your mouth shut. You're not in Richmond and those motherfuckers will definitely take a swing if you get all uppity with them."

• Once you're out of the city you can expect all bars to not have any of your favorite liquor. What's Rumblemint (Rumplemintz)? What's Too-ca (Tuaca)? What in the hell is Three Olives Grape cityboy???

• Just order Jager and shut your mouth. Be sure to buy a round of Jager for whomever is near. I thought this was wasteful at first, but considering the fact that Jager was 2.50 a shot and I ended getting about 6 shots in return from total strangers, it was worth it.

• Always cover your tattoos in a country bar, lest you want 10 different conversations with drunken rednecks who insist on showing you all of the portrait tats of their kids, or the classic- "R.I.P.- CKW 1981-2008" tat.

• "Yeah man, this is for my brother. He died while drunkenly operating a wheat thresher on my daddy's farm."

• It doesn't help when you have literary themed tats like I do. You try explaining why you have the original cover to The Great Gatsby on your arm. Hell, try and find a single person in the bar who doesn't think that the Great Gatsby is some magician who used to "escape locks and water tortures and shit".

• I can say with confidence that the anti-smoking bill that goes into effect on December 1st with all bars in Virginia, will not be followed in Deltaville. The 50 people in the bar were singlehandedly keeping Phillip Morris afloat. Actually I'm fairly sure that most of the bar patrons were tobacco farmers anyways.

• Health concerns raised by cigarette usage are still a very urban thing.

• Please don't take this post as anti-redneck. I was, at various points in the night, in the middle of the dance floor, smoking Marlboro Menthols, drinking Bud Light and Jager, all the while doing a goofy ass white boy dance to whatever country jam the band was playing. It was a nice change to the Ed Hardy/Affliction, too cool to dance, meathead poseurs I have to endure on a weekly basis in Richmond.

Blogging And Bachelorhood

"For better or for worse, I think that the romantic status of a 20-30-something blogger has a profound effect on their work. For some, the angst of being single fuels their muse. For others, there are simply fewer stories about doing lines off a stripper’s ass and waking up next to a dead hooker in Tijuana once that special someone enters their life." -"Single Bloggers Are Better Bloggers"- BadAtLife



I woke up today in the same bed as someone else. For my regular readers, the fact that I woke up next to a woman will probably not come across as some huge revelation, or at least to the regular readers who actually believe what I blog about, it shouldn't. But trust my word or don't, it happened and I didn't have to use any date-rape drugs for once. No, the revelatory fact in the above statement is that the woman I woke up next to is the same one I've woken up next to for about a month now. Yeah... I know... Jack Goes Forth has gone soft (figuratively).

Uh-oh.

I don't mention this because I'm particularly concerned about sacrificing my past promiscuity or losing certain areas of my independence--like taking a loud dump with the bathroom door open anytime I want, or using all four pillows and the comforter to create a Jack-burrito at night while I sleep (This girl likes to get in my damn burrito!) I'm more concerned about this blog and my other writing becoming a bunch of boring, less bitchy, relationship-infused.... shit.

Okay, okay. It's not like this is uncharted territory for me. I've dated a few girls during my 18 month run as a blogger. A few knew about this blog and one sort of dumped me because of it (although I gave her a few other reasons to shitcan me as well). My situation is a bit different this time though. This new girl knows full-well about my blog. My boss knows about my blog. Almost everyone I know, knows about my blog. Starting in a few weeks, the readers of a 50,000 circulation, weekly newspaper, will know about my blog on a regular basis. The stakes are higher now than when 70 people clicked on my page everyday and I wrote with reckless abandon about throwing soiled condoms at some VCU girl's cat.

What's a blogger to do?!? Do I maintain my street cred and continue to write about having bloody period sex, beating up hobos at my bar and other interesting, albeit, private matters? Do I scale back operations and not whisper a peep about things that I feel may hurt my non-blog life?

In an effort to help you understand my predicament, here's a helpful guide to young men, bachelorhood, relationships, and blogging:


Young, angry, single, male blogger-
Has edge.
Writes about whomever and whatever he wants.
Uses his blog to get invited to parties and to shamelessly promote himself (and to get laid).
Drinks like Mickey Mantle in a Whiskey distillery.
Eats a nutri-grain bar from 7-11 on his way to score some Adderall.
Blogs 7 times a week, with hundreds of spelling errors.
Writes from a bar while swigging coffee, chain-smoking and occasionally taking a shot with the cute bartender.
Doesn't like to use condoms.


Young, a bit more cheerful, "dating someone", male blogger-
Edge couldn't cut through warm butter.
Writes in fear that his girl may see, so he tones it down and writes about some mundane crap that happened to him at work.
Uses his blog to send thinly veiled love notes to his girl ("she likes to sleep in my damn burrito bluh bluh bluh." )- See above for an example of this.
Drinks less.
Eats sit down meals that include at least one vegetable.
Only has time to blog twice a week because "it's movie night".
Uses spell-check.
Writes from his girl's bed with a Sprite at his side, while occasionally stopping to pet his girl's little yappy dog, which is nestled in one of his thighs.
Doesn't like to use condoms.



Clearly you can see my concerns. Do I really think that my situation is that dire? Nah, but this new ballgame will test my mettle and my willingness to push the envelope on the blog. Now if you would excuse me, the pasta is almost ready and we're about to snuggle up and watch a few episodes of Law and Order....


....upon hearing that last statement, Jack Goes Forth from 2008 scowls as he disdainfully punches a puppy while simultaneously holding down his own vomit.

Style Weekly Bar Guide Articles

"Watch as bartender Jack Lauterback (right) bravely fends off the relentless phalanx of cute girls who assail him at Cha Cha's Cantina. He slings so many drinks even the camera got drunk." - Style Weekly June 24th

Style Weekly included two of my pieces in their annual bar guide. Click on the links below to check em out:

Down,Simba! -A bartender reveals life on the other side of the screaming hordes.

Barhopper Don'ts (and a do)

Bartender's Weekend: Some of my favorite bars to hit in Richmond.

Of Vice And Men

--It's a truth we hold self-evident that there's nothing wrong with a little something to take the edge off. "Pot had helped, and booze," he writes in his memoir, "maybe a little blow when you could afford it. Not smack, though." In that last part, it's as if he's anticipating our next question—he knew that was where to draw the line, and that's where the rest of us should too. On the campaign trail, Obama could be seen chewing Nicorette ("strenuously," as he put it) in place of the Marlboros (and not Lights or Mediums—Reds) he'd smoked for so long. Before he quit, the future leader of the free world accepted banishment to the porch, because he wanted nicotine as much as he wanted to respect his wife's wishes. The Marlboro Man would never have stood for that, but the new archetype of American masculinity is much more willing to compromise, especially when trying to balance hedonism and harmony at home.- "Are You Becoming Barack Obama?" - Details, July 09'

UPDATE: I just saw that Obama signed an anti-smoking bill today. God damn turncoat!

Show me a man who doesn't gamble, smoke, drink, or abuse the occasional drug--and I doubt you would give me much to look at. Certain aspects of a man's character are built in the experience of the vice, not in the absence of it. Now, would I ever disrespect someone who declined a drink or a smoke with me? Of course not. Would I disrespect them if they acted haughty and as if they were above any of these iniquities? Yes.

I'm assuming a straight-edge existence is not an easy one. Denying wickedness from one's life must suck, so I won't dishonor such herculean self-control. On the other hand I'd rather not catch flack for openly talking about drug use on this blog or in person. For these people who keep deciding to lecture me via email or in person, do me a favor-- Work on your own life first.

If Obama took an occasional nose-pop, and up until recently was an unrepentant smoker...Well...I don't feel that bad about my (much worse) transgressions. Neither should my readers out there who share some of the same inclinations as I do.

So, anyways, it's Monday. Anyone looking to get shitty later? :) A little birdie told me about the 6.99$ all you can eat buffet at Richard's Rendezvous (a low-tier strip club) tonight....

- I joke, I joke. That would just be too sad, even for me. I'd be better off picking up some crackhead streetwalker from Jeff Davis Hwy. and taking her to Sheetz.

Hey! That Was My Idea!

About 3 and a half years ago I was a lowly sales rep for a liquor distributor here in Richmond Virginia. As is the case with most alcohol street reps, I usually had to do "ride-withs" and take big wigs from our various liquor suppliers around to bars, introduce them to managers, pitch new products, get drunk, eat fancy lunches on their dime, and then watch later on that night as they slipped off their wedding rings and hit on 22 year old girls.

One day I had one of the Vice Presidents of Three Olives Vodka come into town. As I drove the guy around and we pitched whatever new flavors they had just released (I think it was Berry and Grape flavors) to some of my accounts, I mentioned to him that I thought that they should create a Bubblegum flavored vodka. We laughed and I think he thought I was joking. He made fun of my idea and said that Three Olives wanted to stick with "natural flavors". I also mentioned my bubblegum idea about a year ago on the blog ("JGF Endorses A Vodka")

Well, well, well.... Guess who came into my bar the other day pitching a bubblegum flavored vodka??? That's right. Three Olives did. I'm not taking credit or even saying they stole my idea. I just wish that VP mofo wouldn't have laughed in my face when we were talking about it.

I think the lesson here is if you believe in an idea or a plan, you have to stay the course, despite the odds. It matters little what others think about it as you're the only one who has to believe in it. Unfortunately, at 22 years old, I didn't yet have the drive or the confidence to make something like a bubblegum flavored vodka happen. Plus it was only compounded by the fact that some 50 year old liquor power-broker told me that my idea was stupid.

Another lesson learned: If you don't have haters (or enemies), then you aren't trying hard enough at life. I've found that out first hand via this blog.

Someone please send this blog post to customer service at Three Olives. All I want is a small percentage of the royalties from Three Olives when Bubblegum hits the stores. Judging by my bars current Three Olives Grape, Cherry and Root Beet consumption, I have a hunch that bubblegum vodka will be very successful.

At the very least I would accept blog sponsorship and give pertinently displayed ad placements to Three Olives in return for a few half gallons of my favorite flavors.

Thoughts On Drugs Part I

*What is that? A gram?

• Sometimes you feel like it's only you and a few of your more sinister associates who partake in the shit. Next thing you know you're walking into a party and you see your sister, your old P.E. teacher, that cop that lives next door and Mayor Dwight Jones, all crouched over a finely dusted mirror on the coffee table with a crumpled up dollar bill resting on it. Then you think, "well fuck..., I was wrong." "Hey Coach Johnson, here's a ten, cut me off a rock star."

• Errr, not that widespread use makes it even remotely acceptable or a subject that should be openly discussed in a public forum (Unless it's this blog.)
• Cocaine used to be taboo. Now it's more like, "meh, what else you got?"
• The only problem with not doing drugs is the vastly decreased ability to drink immense quantities of booze with little to no effect. 18 shots of Grape vodka? 12 Buds? A few Orange Crushes? Okay, you guys feeling drunk yet? One more shot to steady these shaky hands and to fortify my already horrible breath and sweaty brow? Alright men...Let's hit the bars.

• The "staying clean" flip side is. Two shots of Jameson, two beers? Holy shit, one more cigarette and I will definitely vomit. Or, holy shit, that girl isn't overweight at all and I will gladly regale her with tales of my adventures in an effort to bed her. I think coke-goggles are the exact opposite of beer-goggles. You're actually much more lucid when you ride the white pony.

• Favorite coke-related line from a movie:

-"Is he fucking selling it by the milligram?" (He dips the corner of his Amex card in the packet and takes a snort)

-"Oh my God..."

-"What?"

-"It's a fucking milligram of Sweet'n Low!"

-"It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do enough of it we'll be okay."

-" I want to get high off this; Bateman, not sprinkle it on my fucking All-Bran!" -American Psycho

• No drugs= Better sex. I have more than a few readers (male and female) who will give me an "amen!" to that statement.

• Actual drug comment I heard recently: "This stuff must be from so and so because the second it hit my nostril I felt a gallon of diarrhea rush into my anus." -Some blow is cut with so much laxative that you have to be within 30 feet of a clean toilet during its usage. Some blow is even cut with a small amount of cayenne pepper to give it a slight burn. "Ohhhhh, this shit is hot. I can feel it dripping all the way down my stomach! This must be the dope shit!"

• It's no secret that bars tend to be central locations for drugs, drug usage, drug dealers, girls who want drugs, guys who want drugs, and fucking idiots who have the nerve to ask the bartender if they can sell them drugs, or ask them if he can find them drugs.

• My stock answer? "Not at this bar pal. Try one of the prostitutes off Broad and Lombardy."

• Most drug dealers I've met don't carry guns, although some do. Either way, if you have the balls to openly sell drugs, I ain't fucking with you.

• Like all things (except for sex), moderation is the key to enjoyment. Not that I would know....

Robot Hearts # 15

Somehow this is the 15th Robot Hearts Dating Column I've done. The smart money had this entire column ending somewhere around 7 or 8, so clearly we're playing with house money now. Surprisingly a lot of people still read the column, even though I've been through 4 co-writers and I've obviously been phoning in the column for about two months now.

This week's column turned out to be pretty interesting though, so it merits a plug. One question concerned a cheating girlfriend, a former friend, and the sweet art of revenge. I love questions like that. Here's part of my response:

"At first, say nothing. Swallow your pride, smile, and keep everything cool. Keep banging her. Grin and bear it. Whatever devious, hopefully live-shattering plan you unlock will be useless if she thinks that you know anything. Next, devise a scheme that will ultimately crush her and this asshole you called a friend. A plan not unlike the Manhattan Project. We need total
destruction… of property, psyche, parents, etc. Use drugs, guns, rabid bunnies, anthrax, whatever you need to make it happen. (Email me personally and I can meet you in a dark alley and help with the planning and for a fee, the execution of said plan.) A man should always be the “bigger man”, unless it’s time to not be the “bigger man”, and this is that time. (That last line was so “Dalton-esqe” (Roadhouse).)" - Me

To read the entire column click here or go directly to RVA NEW'S homepage.

Some Thoughts On "Meeting The Mom"

• Every year you get older, it's becomes slightly less of a "big deal" when it comes to sleeping in the same bed with a girl at her Mom's house.



• Age 15: Separate beds. Sneaking into her room from the guest room for a 3 AM make-out/ hand job session.



• Age 19: Separate beds. Taking her to visit her Mom from college. Sneaking into her room for a quiet, 3 minute bout of sex. Wrapping the condom and condom wrapper in toilet paper and burying it in your overnight bag, only for your Mom to find it when you return home for summer vacation 4 months later.



• Age 22: Same bed, but "no funny business you two". Get black-out drunk. Bang on the floor, in the shower, on the bed. No condoms. Wake up to hear her Mom shouting at her in the other room about "what a little tramp she is" and "how disrespectful that Jack is..."



• Age 25: Same bed. Closed door. Sneaking across the hall after you finish for some toilet paper, because "we can't use my Mom's towels as our cum rag."



• I suspect it will never get to the point (regardless of age) where you can just completely ball-out a girl and hold nothing back in her Mother's house.



• I like to try and stand out when I meet a Mom. Cussing, no coverage of tattoos and the copious consumption of booze helps my cause. Unless the Mom is a drinker, a cusser and has tats. Then I have to take it up a notch.
  
  
• In the end a guy just can't put too much effort into impressing the Mom. They all say that a girl's Mom holds the ultimate approval key, but I disagree.



• It's sort of like how you picked up "the girl" in the first place. You were apathetic to the point of coma, and she was intrigued. Guys, you should know by now, but if you don't: Indifference is the key to getting what you want. I know, it makes no sense whatsoever. One of life's mysterious little tricks that just works, and will never fail you.


• The less you talk, the better. Don't try and charm them with your long-winded stories about your boring job. Let the women talk and bore everyone with their long-winded stories about their boring jobs. Be the stoic-type. Only speak when you have something concise, pithy, witty, or slightly funny/slightly sinister to say.

• "Did you take the dog for a walk Jack?"

• "Not exactly. But I did give him a bunch of chocolate before letting him out the front door to play in the street. He seems much happier when he's not on the leash." Then proceed to nudge her father in the ribs and be like: "This guy knows what I'm sayin....Right? Right?????"

• If one of the women says something funny, which will not happen, ever. Don't laugh, don't smile, just smirk and nod. Fake smirk and nod when they say something unfunny (every few minutes).

• The girl piss you off somehow? Point at her Mom in the other room and whisper, "You, 6 years. Now go get me a Diet Pepsi woman."

• "So, you have a college degree. What do you plan on doing with your life? You can't bartend forever."


• "Why not?"


• "Uhhhh, well, I mean, Do you have any other plans...umm, after bartending?"


• "No."


• "Oh, okay. Ummm...So, who's hungry for some ice cream?!"

• My other favorite answer (that I would never actually say) to the bartending query: "Have you seen the movie Cocktail? The one with Tom Cruise? Well, Ima bang and eventually wife me up a rich woman. I'm just slumming it with your daughter for the moment...you know, because you're poor and I like the sex."
  


• "Jack, don't mention drugs, don't mention drug use, don't even mention that you know what drugs are."



• "You got it. I just hope that ecstasy bean wears off before we get there. I'm rollin down the glorious lazy river of hedonism at the moment. (said as I pawed at her boobs from the passengers seat)"

• I'm kidding...Does that sound like something I would say or do??? errr...Don't answer that.

Yo, Arlington Raps!

Holy shit when I saw this video I literally started crying with laughter in the coffee shop. It immediately took me back to my two years (ages 22-24) spent living in Arlington/Ballston. When I would take the Metro two stops to go to bars in Arlington, when DC was only a mile away. When I would hit on the hot career women in Whole Foods with little, okay, with zero success. When I never saw a black person in my hood'. When eating "good ethnic food" meant taking my girlfriend to Aladdin's. When I wore a tie and a sport coat out on a Friday night (shudder...). This dude Remy completely nails the A-town experience. He even gave Whitlows and The Front Page a shout out! My favorite bars!

"Now we stuck in the city, how we gettin back?!"

"We could take the green line?"

".............. ummmm...."

"So we're taking a taxi!!!"

great stuff...

"Holy crap why all these dudes wearing brown flip flops?!"

Hahahaha.

Check back later today for a real blog post....

Style Weekly Bar Guide Part Deux

Last year about this time I wrote a suggestion/attack on Style Weekly's annual bar guide. I told them how I thought it sucked my ass and how it was out of touch with Richmond and more in touch with soccer Moms from Henrico.

At some point during the ensuing year my blog became somewhat popular with other adults who still wish they were kids (the people at Style), and I happened to get a few articles written about me (here, here, and here) and some shout outs in our weekly alternative newspaper. I was then told a few months ago that they wanted my input on Style's next bar guide. I didn't really take this promise too seriously, but it was nice to be mentioned as someone "in the know" when it comes to bars and the "scene" in Richmond.

Well, Style has stepped up to the plate this year and commissioned me to write some pieces and give my two cents for the upcoming bar guide (June 23rd). Whether they want me to write because they value my opinion and think I'm a decent writer, or they're deathly afraid I'll leak a certain 25 second stream on my phone camera of a certain editor doing a certain sexual act with Sabrina Squire at my bar during St. Paddies means little to me. Either way, I have about 800 words due Friday so this blog will go silent until Sat or Sun. Not that this is anything new. My week long Adderall/Ecstasy/Rumplemintz binges have silenced this blog for much longer than that. I'm not kidding.

Be on the lookout for the Style Weekly Bar Guide in two weeks. We have some interesting, bar insider type stuff planned. I think Style is making the right decision in bringing in some outside voices and service industry peons, instead of glossing the whole thing over with articles that sound like advertisements and pieces that only hear the reporters lame, "I only go out once a month with my wife", opinions.

Hopefully they have some good editors over there, because ahhhh, I may be going out on Thursday to do a little research for my contributions. Meaning I'll be completely shit-bombed and I'll probably send the editor a bunch of illegible tribe. Although it'll be interesting, cutting, hilarious, illegible tripe.

Damn, I should've asked them for some sort of booze expense account or a drinking per diem...

Some Musings On Pooping

• I heard a character on some TV show the other day refer to people who can poop in a gas station as "animals" and "a detriment to the human race".

• I find that there are two groups of people in the world. The ones who can poop in a public restroom and the ones that refuse to do it and have to run home immediately.

• I fall firmly into the first group. In fact, my public pooping exploits are the stuff of legend. I've used the stall in a truck stop somewhere in Hillbilly Country, West Virginia directly after a 300 pound Samoan man named "Big Rig Bob". I've defecated in a porta pottie at Strawberry Hill, which many of my readers know, is incredibly disgusting. I've also been known to grab a bottle of spray sanitizer and take on the stall at my bar at 3 AM on a Saturday night. I won't even get into the filth I've encountered there. Oh the horror... the horror....

• I don't think I've ever stayed at a girls place where the bathroom is more than 4 feet from the bed. This tends to make my morning poop a logistical nightmare. Do I turn the sink on full blast before I get to my business? Do I try my hardest to silently squeak out the load? What if I just let her rip like an old lawn mower and then walk out pretending like nothing happened?

• It sucks because pooping is great, not as great as sex, but still, it's right up there in my book. Even if it's just one bathroom session, I hate to have to restrain myself.

• In the future it will be required that all girls have a "half-bath" somewhere in her place. That "half-bath" must contain at least one Sports Illustrated and many back up rolls of toilet paper.

• It takes a long time to get to the comfort level necessary to be able to take loud, disgusting poops within eyesight or earshot of a girl. Just farting while in bed together takes at least a month of constant sex and sleepovers.

• Almost every time I saunter out to my car in the morning after a night of dinner, hanging out, sexing, etc...I immediately close the door, blast the AC and then rip a fart that makes it sound like I'm tearing the strands of fabric that hold my car seat together. That's what happens when you hold a fart in for the past 12 hours. You know, where you feel the gas coming to the precipice of the anus, yet you somehow swallow and it goes back in. Then you sort of grimace and twist around in your seat until you feel normal again. I hate that feeling.

• Living with a girl must suck in that regard. You can either take shits in front of each other and that will eventually add to the disgusting plethora of things that turn you off about that person, or you can squeeze in your farts and try to silence your poops. This of course will end up resulting in colon cancer and all sorts of bowel problems down the road. I think I'd rather poop than be in a relationship anyways, so for this blogger, it's all good.

• Dutch Oven: Fart under the sheets and then proceed to trap her head under the covers, thus preventing her nostrils or the smell of your butt from escaping. If the girl laughs, she's a keeper. By keeper I DO NOT mean marriage. It's gonna take more than a girl smelling my poop for me to wife her up, although that is definitely a prerequisite.

• I had a dream the other night that I was farting. I don't know where I was or what I was doing, but I know in the dream I was farting. During one of the farts I immediately awoke and realized that the girl next to me had just turned towards me and put her arm around me. My back was already turned to her. She's shorter than me and her head was probably half way up my back at the moment. Now I can't be certain but I think I had been real-life farting in addition to my dream farting, which isn't a rare occurrence. I looked up at the ceiling with a huge shit-eating grin (no pun intended) and tried to stifle my laughter. Had I really just farted all over this poor girl? I gently stroked her head and hoped that she wouldn't wake up.

• Blogging about poop.... Yep, not only do I suck at life, I suck at blogging too! Happy Tuesday.

Some Musings On Sex

"A really hard laugh is like sex—one of the ultimate diversions of existence." - Seinfeld

"Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing." -Charles Bukowski

"The only difference between friends and lovers is about 4 minutes." -Not a JGF quote, but change the "4 minutes" to "75 seconds" and that sounds about right. :)

We've all gone through agonizing stretches of a barren, sexless existence. Anyone who says otherwise is a complete liar and probably a complete asshole too. On the other hand, many (or most) of us have had the pleasure of those transcendent periods of constant banging, locked at the mouth (and crotch) for days on end, no matter the hour, regardless of any other responsibilities. Whether that period was with many different partners or just one person, or whether that sex was good or bad matters little. Anyone with half a brain and any sort of feelings will tell you, those minutes and those hours are what make life worth living. There is no greater high in the universe. Not having a child, not a sunny day at the beach, not even a line of the purest cocaine straight from Pablo Escobar's personal stash.

I can be flat broke, creditors ringing me off the hook, sick from the flu, jobless, a poor wreck of a man with no prospects....And sex will always be the cure-all. It's sort of like walking around with a permanent pair of rose-tinted glasses. It's difficult to be down on yourself when you know there is at least one person out there who will have regular sex with you.

The sad thing is you never seem to realize how amazing these little "sex-bursts*" are until they're over.

* "Sex-burst"- A interval of days, weeks, and sometimes months, of constant, around the clock sex. -JGF-Coined Phrase. --Not to be confused with "Star-burst", the deliciously chewy candy, or, coincidentally, another JGF-coined term that denotes the act of pooping on someone while receiving a tossed salad.

Ex: "Jack could barely remember to eat as he was in the midst of a wondrous sex-burst, rendering him unable to think of anything but her and the bedroom."

Editors Note: Look for my next musings post: "Some Musings On Pooping". Seriously, anyone who knows me, knows that I have a lot to say on that topic.

The Gin Joint

I came across an interesting article in the NY Times today that talks about the fashionable return of the "speakeasy" and the small number of bar owners and much larger number of drinkers who are still captivated by the Prohibition period (Approx. 1920-1933). A time when bar-hopping included a series of dark alleys, hidden doors and bootlegged liquors.

I had heard of many of the bars they mention in the article (mostly in NYC) and I myself would kill to sit down and drink an ice cold gin martini out of a semi-clean mug in such a bar. Unfortunately the secretive aspect of some of these places probably just lost any sort of hip, underground cache that they may have had, due of course to the NY Times blowing up their spot. Nevertheless, I'm sure there are 8,000 other similar hole in the wall bars in the Metro region of NYC that you have to enter through a cellar door or say a secret password into an intercom (Red New England Clam Chowder??) to gain entrance.

It got me thinking, what does Richmond have in terms of bars that are somewhat secretive or even remotely "speakeasy-like"? Bull and the Bear? Fieldens? I always felt like Havana 59' had that type of vibe when I bartended there. I guess you could say that ODC is somewhat secretive, that is, if your definition of secrecy is letting any redneck jackass with 25 dollars in the door.

I'd like to open a small bar with no sign in an alley somewhere. We would only sell gin and whiskey. There would be bar snacks, and it would be impossible to see 5 feet in front of you due to the cigar and cigarette smoke. There might be a piano in the corner. Eventually the bar would become a well-known spot for prostitution, a spot to smuggle old-timey drugs (Laudanum?!) and a spot where you can safely obtain any types of fake documentation (green-card, 4-F card, passport). Sort of a Rick's American Cafe for the decidedly less sophisticated set.

Although a bar like that would not succeed in Richmond for two reasons. Virginia's ridiculously arcane ABC laws force a bar to sell as much food as they do booze, which means an out of the way, late night hole in the wall will always have trouble succeeding here. And two, Richmonders like big garish monstrosities. They want their Dave and Busters. They want their fried jalapeno poppers. They need big fruity, shitty ass drinks to quaff while they dance to the new Lady Gaga song.

The type of bar that implies "speakeasy" is more appreciated by the aesthetic, the connoisseur of fine, old fashioned cocktails, the educated gentleman so to speak. Imagine Don Draper from Mad Men.

If you've been to Richmond, you would know, people like that are few and far between here.

A Hobo Walks Into A Bar

A hobo walks into the bar. I've kicked this guy out of the bar 4 times in 6 months. He sits down at the bar and orders a water from one of our new bartenders. I watch from the service station as this guy sits down and drinks his water. He asks two people a few seats down for some cigarettes. I decide I'm going to end this situation right now...


Me: "Listen man, we've played this game 20 times before. Either buy something or be gone."

Hobo Man: "What? Fuck you, I gotta a credit card right here in my pocket. I'll buy the fucking bar if you want!" (I can smell shit emanating from him)

Me: Lemme have the credit card and I'll make a call to see if it's valid. If it is, you can order whatever you want."

HM: "Fuck off I ain't giving you no credit card. You'll go spend my money you fag!"

Me: "As I suspected. Get out and DO NOT come back to this bar again."

HM: "You're a butt fuck faggot! You know that? I'm gonna go around and tell all of my friends how you're a faggot and an asshole. I'll ruin your reputation in this town."

Me: (bemused smirk) "As much as I'd like to keep my standing with the downtown Richmond hobo population sterling, I just can't have you in this bar anymore. Get out before we have to remove you."

HM: (slowly backing out as the bartender and I persuade him to the door) You f-in faggot. You like little boys butts! Butt-fucker!"

Me:(Trying not to laugh) "That's a good one sir."


The vagrant then proceeds to walk past our front door (which is propped open) three times, each time he shouts "FAAAAAAGGGGG!" into the restaurant and then he shuffles off in the other direction as fast as he can. At this point I'm almost falling down from the combination of laughter and the not-so-secret urge to beat down this redneck hobo and stuff him into one of our dumpsters.

As sad as it is that this guy is penniless and desperate, the bottom line is that the bar is a business. When a guy comes in and asks if I can pour the drainage from the bar mats into a pint glass for him (which this gentleman had done twice before), it just doesn't look good to the many upstanding citizens (and not so upstanding citizens) who frequent our establishment. We have our occasional characters who come in and start a fight or do something beneath what is considered the type of behavior that befits an adult, but at least they spend money. Why should I have to deal with some guy who doesn't spend a dime and then pesters other customers for beers and cigarettes? Oh and he smelt like Bigfoot's dick.

This all happened on Sunday afternoon at 4:15 PM. This is the type of work environment I wanted when I left the real world. Seriously, I really enjoy the ridiculousness of it all.

I'm Missing

Have You Seen Me?

Last Seen: Friday 29th, 2009. 3 AM. Sheetz on Huguenot Road, Richmond (Southside).

Gender: Male

Age: 25

Height: 6'4''

Weight: 185

The missing person in question is known as a Mr. Jack Lauterback, although he was heard using the alias "Juan Sanchez" according to many young, particularly buxom young women who spoke to him in various locations in downtown Richmond on Friday night. Another much older, heavyset, yet somewhat attractive patron of Friday Cheers on Brown's Island claims Mr.Lauterback was speaking only pidgin Spanish with various non-sensical shouts of "Ariba!", "Ahyiyiyiyiyiyiyi!!!!", and "Ohhhh, punta es muy caliente!" inter dispersed, as he stumbled around the concert.

A Mr.Pritchard of Midlothian last heard from Jack via cell phone around 5 AM on Saturday morning. Jack was slurring and possibly in a car (or on a bullet-train, as he so claimed), and heading for either Atlantic City, "The closest riverboat gambling ship", or "The Yucatan Peninsula, to score some ether, black market steroid shit, and to bailar con mis amigos?!". Although at this time none of these locations can be confirmed.

Mr.Pritchard went on to say, "Jack was acting like a douche last night. I hope he's getting his asshole violated in prison somewhere....fucking dick"

Mr. Lauterback is reported armed with a fake, "sorta Mexican looking" toy gun he purchased at Party City, and he may or may not have his shirt on.

Any information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Lauterback should be reported to his Mother, as he has yet to properly clean his shithole of a room and she is fearful that a small population of mice have begun mating somewhere in his closet.

Editors Note: Jack was found at Ellwoods Coffee this afternoon, Monday at 4:30 PM. Apparently the effects of a week-long binge had left him incapable of remembering where his Mom's house was, forcing him to stay in a known-prostitute's home for much of the week. At presstime Mr. Lauterback had this to say: "Fuck off, I'm hungover and I'll do a quality blog post tomorrow for you fuckers."