Thursday, December 29, 2005

...and One To Go. ~ Finale

# 3 - Trixie in Never-Never Land
My mother always told me that if I was going to make fun of other people, I should be prepared to also make fun of myself. In the last two NYE posts, I've been, well, less than kind in regards to the stupidity of others, so it's time for a little self-deprecation.
The year was 1997, and I was working for one of the oldest and largest nightclubs in Chicago. It had multiple floors, and I was scheduled to work in the upstairs club that particular evening. Each level had a different NYE fantasy theme, and every employee was required to dress accordingly. Ours, if you haven't already guessed, was "Never-Never Land." Gay, I know, but the money was too good to pass up. I was in line to make at least a grand that night. For that kind of money, I'd have dressed like a moose if they'd asked me.
Being twenty-four at the time, I of course wanted my costume to be sexy. Even then, as a bartender, I knew the value of showing a little extra skin. So who would I be? Wendy Darling? No way, no frilly Laura Ashley night gown. Tiger Lily? I'll never make it through the night with a long brown wig getting in the way. One of the mermaids? I'm not fond of flippers. Tinker Bell? YES!!! Sexy Tinker Bell! Perfect!
So, I went about putting together my attire for the evening. It came out looking kind of like the picture I posted above, but to that, I added four inch platform heels. I was definitely a nasty AND sexy Tinker Bell to be sure.
When I arrived at work that night, the boys I worked with were very pleased to see me, and not for the reason you'd think. The greedy bastards knew they were going to make ALL their money off of me. Joe was dressed as Michael, Wendy's youngest brother, and Andrew was Michael's teddy bear...complete with fuzzy bear slippers. Cute and creative, but nothing that would rake in the kind of cash my outfit would.
The night was going really well, but about four hours in to the shift, my feet were starting to ache. Maybe wearing the brand new four inch stripper heels wasn't the best idea I'd ever had. But screw it! I looked hot, & I was making bank. And then it happened...
I took one step to the right, & CRASH! In one split second, I had slipped and landed flat on my ass in to a pool of beer that had spilled off from the taps. I was covered from head to toe in the filthy muck from the floor of the bar. I had also broken the heel off of one of my shoes, and snapped one of my wings in half. So much for Sexy Tinker Bell.
Seeing as how those were my only shoes, and I couldn't tend bar barefoot, Andrew was kind enough to offer me his fuzzy bear slippers. He, apparently, was smart enough to bring alternate footwear. So there I was, Covered in shit, with an amputated wing, tending bar in soaking wet bear (not BARE) feet, and it wasn't even Midnight. Humiliating.
At the end of the night, I went to the managers' office to cash out, and Scott, the GM, just looked at me and nearly fell off his chair laughing.
"X," he said, "you look like Trixie, Tinker Bell's crack-whore half-sister."
And that my friends, is how I got my name.
On that note, I'd like to wish all of you a very safe and Happy New Year. But a word of advice...
I'd think twice about the stripper heels if I were you.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

...and One To Go. ~ Part Two

# 2 ~ The NYE I Could Have Become Mrs. Jeremy Piven, Until that Coked-Out Bitch Ruined it for Me
It was the year before the Eel incident, but at the very same club. We had just opened a few months before, and place was struggling to make a name for itself. The company that owned it hired a party promoter to sell out NYE for us, and let me tell you, this guy was GOOD. By nine o'clock, the club was jumping, and celebrities poured in as quickly as I was serving up the champagne.
All the hot Chicago guys were there: Schwimmer, Piven, Cusack & Chelios. At the time, these men were at the top of their game...well, maybe not so much Jeremy Piven, but hey, that's what he had Cusack for, right? We had set them up in the VIP area, and lucky me, I got to be their bartender. They were all having a great time, and they tipped me VERY, VERY well.
As some point, Jeremy Piven walked up to the bar and thanked me for taking such good care of them. I handed him a Miller Lite & said, "Of course! By the way, I'm a huge fan. I even loved you in that God-awful PCU." I thought I may have offended him for a second, but he quickly proved he wasn't one of those asshole, holier-than-thou celebrity types. He walked around the side of the bar, got down on his knees, and with a Miller Lite in between his hands, he said, "Honey, if you loved me in PCU, you'll love me unconditionally. Will you marry me?" Of course, I said yes. He was hot for me. Really, he was. I SWEAR!
But of course, as it goes in any great movie moment, we were interrupted. My manager came up and said, "Trix, I need you to go in the ladies' room and check on a customer. A couple of girls complained that some bitch is all fucked up in there." GREAT. Just when things were getting good. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The women's room was small. There was just enough room for two stalls, two sinks, a full length mirror, and Sadie, the 350 pound attendant with all of her shit. Walking in there was like walking in to girly hell. Everything we do that we would by no means want a man to see takes place in that room. Hiding the panty lines, repositioning our breasts in our bras, picking the spinach out of our teeth...every disgusting thing we'll never admit to doing gets accomplished in there.
When I opened the door, Sadie was yelling at the top of her lungs through one of the stall doors.
"Gurlee, you bettah wake yo sorry-ass up & get on out heah! Theys otha gurlees out heah gots to pee. You heah me, Gurlee?"
"What's going on, Sadie?" I asked.
"Dis gurlees bin in heah fo turty minutes now. She not answerin! You gots the key?"
"Yeah Sadie, I've got it. Just relax. I'll take care of it."
I unlocked the stall door, and I swear to God, I've never seen anything like it before, and I hope I'll never see anything like it again. On the floor, propped against the toilet was a passed-out blonde. She had one hand floating in her own vomit in the toilet bowl, and the other was perfectly straight against the wall of the stall. Her panties were down around her ankles and her skirt was bunched up over her waist. Funny, but I distinctly remember thinking at that moment, "Hmm...not a real blonde."
On top of the tank was a mound of cocaine, the size of which I'd never seen. Next to it was her American Express card. It seemed to me that she never got the chance to dig in to it. No lines cut. Well, that's fortunate. She must have just been really wasted on booze. I smacked her in the face a few times, telling her to wake up and asking her name. Nothing. Passed out cold. She was breathing, though. I grabbed her purse & pulled out her wallet, looking for an ID.
"Anyone in here know this girl?" No response. "Ok, Sadie. I need you to stay here & keep an eye on her. I'm going to go get the manager & have him call an ambulance."
"Miss Trixie, you best hurry. She don't look so good."
I went to the DJ booth and told TB to announce her name and ask her friends to meet me in the restroom. Then I told the manager to call an ambulance. I saw Jeremy on my way back. Who was that bitch talking to him? Shit! Gotta get back to the drunk girl.
When I got back, her stupid bimbo friends were there, screaming, crying & making a big show of the situation.
"Do you know what she had to drink?"
"Some champagne. And a couple of Cosmos. We did some shots, too." Oh, Jesus. No wonder she's in this condition. She couldn't have weighed more than one hundred pounds, and probably hadn't eaten in days to fit in to that dress.
"Did she take any drugs that you know of?"
"We did a couple of bumps before we left the house." CRAP.
Sadie handed me a couple of wet towels, and I began cleaning her up. I pulled her hand out of the toilet and wiped the vomit off (SO GROSS), and I pulled her panties back up and pulled down her skirt. Looking back on it now, that might not have been the right thing to do. A healthy dose of embarrassment might have done this idiot some good.
The paramedics arrived, and I told them what I knew. I gave them her ID and they took her out of there on a gurney. By that time, she was conscious & mumbling, so I was pretty certain she was going to be okay. Sick as hell for a few days, but okay nonetheless. I also spoke to the police. With the amount of drugs that girl had in her possession, it's no wonder the paramedics called the cops.
When it was all over, I stepped out in the alley to have a cigarette & relax. Oh, Crap! Jeremy!!! I almost forgot. I ran back inside, and when I'd reached the VIP, he was nowhere to be seen. I asked the door guy if he'd seen him, and he informed me they'd left while I was dealing with the bimbo.
No goodbye. No nothing. My Droz, my sweet Doug Hughley, my darling future Ari Gold had left me, and I knew I'd never see him again.
So, Rachel Goldberg, if you're reading this you coked-out bitch, thank you very much for ruining my life. I'll never forgive you.
TOMORROW'S POST: Trixie in Never-Never Land

We Interrupt This Broadcast to Bring You This Special Report...

If there's one thing I've learned in my thirty-three years of life, it's WHEN TO SAY WHEN.

WHEN, damn it.


Tuesday, December 27, 2005

...and One To Go. ~ Part One

I've been working in a bar in one capacity or another for the better part of fifteen years. That's a very, VERY long time to stay in the business, especially for someone who never intended to make it a life-long career. But for the past twelve years, I've held the Holy Grail of all bar/nightclub/restaurant positions...the bartender (or, bartendress, thank you very much.)

Needless to say, I've seen a lot of crazy shit in my day. You name it, I've probably borne witness to it. But without fail, the most bizarre situations ALWAYS happen on New Year's Eve, or, as we in the business refer to it, "Amateur Night."

So, I thought I'd briefly describe for you a few of my tales from behind the bar on New Year's Eve. Some are funny, and some are depressing. Some are even downright disgusting. But never, ever are they bullshit. Every word I'm about to type is 100% true. I'll post one or two a day, depending on the length of the story...

# 1 ~ The Eel Stands Alone
One year, I was working at a very new, very hip lounge close to Rush Street. ALL the beautiful people were there. It was a who's who of the Jewish United Federation...the be-all and end-all of Chicago's nightclub society. Every jackass party promoter had a piece of the action, and, as typical of their "crowds," their behavior was, well, poor to say the least.

Funniest Drink Requests of the Evening:

Courvoisier & Coke - Not that it's particularly funny, other than the fact that the man (a former Chicago Bear) had particularly bad taste, but it was the WAY he pronounced it: COO-VOO-ZEER. I ended up telling him HOW to pronounce it, as well as showing him HOW to drink cognac. $200.00 tip. Not bad.

Blue Martini - Some random drunk girl ordered a blue match her dress. She sent it back twice because the shade was wrong. I kid you not. I finally said, "You're gonna slam it down in five seconds, you drunk bitch. Who gives a shit what color it is?" No tip on that one. Damn.

At 6 A.M., I was finally able to extricate myself from the bar. I walked around and marveled at the total destruction of the place. Cigarette burns in the chairs & drapery. Tables broken. Shattered glassware everywhere. And then I saw the fish tank. The gorgeous, 50 gallon home to over twenty varieties of saltwater beauties, and all of them were floating at the top. DEAD. Some ghastly bastard had emptied an entire bottle of champagne in to evidenced by the bottle floating amongst the fish carcasses.

The only living being that survived was the big, ugly brown eel, and judging by looking at that hideous creature, I got the idea that it was A-OK with him. Oddly enough, I understood it, because all I kept silently saying to myself was, "Thank GOD they're all gone."

TOMORROW'S POST: The NYE I Could Have Become Mrs. Jeremy Piven, Until that Coked-Out Bitch Ruined it for Me.

Monday, December 26, 2005

One Down...

Contrary to what my previous post may have indicated I would do, I quite enjoyed my holiday. On Christmas Eve, I had a amazing dinner made especially for me. From the ingredients in the dishes to the selections of wine, everything was simply lovely. I don't think I've ever had someone be so thoughtful or take such good care of me. We topped the night off by watching Real Genius & Trainspotting, curled up in front of the fireplace and the MOTHER of all TV's. I'm still smiling at the very thought of it.

Christmas Day was rather unremarkable, and I must say I'm quite thrilled with that fact. Just a quiet dinner at home with my family, followed by a nap in front of the TV & finally, a little gift exchange. My nephew loved his Roboraptor, but I'm not certain my niece felt the same about her American Girl doll. She was more interested in what I gave her brother. If she doesn't turn out to be a rugby-playing, Harley Davidson-riding lesbian, I think I'll die of shock.

I'm pretty tired this evening, and there's very little creativity swirling around in my brain at the moment. So, please, check back tomorrow. The plan is to share with you the many, many New Year's Eve bartending tales I have to tell. So, until then, good night. I hope Santa brought you everything you wanted!

Friday, December 23, 2005

My Very First Guest Post!

Merry F'ing Christmas everybody.

After hours of nearly being killed by frantic holiday drivers on the streets of Chicago, I returned home feeling more like Ebenezer Scrooge than Tiny Tim. Apparently, there are plenty of you out there that feel the same way. Personally, I can't wait until it's all over with, so everyone can return to being normal Everyday Assholes instead of the Extra Bonus Holiday Assholes they turn in to at this ridiculous time of year.

So, in the spirit of the Extra Bonus Holiday Asshole, I'd like to share something pretty damn funny with you that my anonymous guest-poster recently sent me. Apparently, some moron sent him a "Happy Holidays, This is What I've Been Doing All Year" letter (puke), and what you're about to read is his response to it. Oh, and just in case you're wondering, I have a pretty big crush on this guy. And NO, I'm not gonna tell you who he is...

How god damn vain is this crap where people send you "the holiday letter" stating what they have been up to for the last year? Like I need to waste my time reliving your god damn year hiking, swimming, skiing, your sister breaking her leg, Uncle John's moment of choking on some string cheese, etc... Here's my point...IF I WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT EVER FACET OF YOUR FUCKING LIFE I WOULD HAVE KEPT IN TOUCH WITH YOU! BY ME NOT COMMUNICATING INDICATES THAT I JUST DON'T GIVE A SHIT! DON'T EXPECT ME TO WASTE MY PRECIOUS TIME WITH YOUR DRIBBLE. YES THE WORLD DOES REVOLVE SOLELY AROUND YOU, YOU ARE AND ALWAYS WILL BE THE CENTER OF MINE AND EVERYONE'S ATTENTION, 24/7 - 365 A YEAR! CAN'T YOU TELL BY MY CONSTANT CONTACT WITH YOU OVER THE PAST YEAR OR ARE YOU JUST SO WRAPPED UP IN YOUR SPECIAL LIFE THAT YOU DIDN'T REALIZE I WASN'T AROUND?

Damn I hate that shit, just thought you might want to know. Maybe that will spark something for you to write about or at least argue with me about.

And there you have it folks! One more absurd holiday tradition we're forced to endure. And people have to wonder why the suicide rate is higher during this season than any other time of the year...

So, here's to wishing you and your loved ones a miserable fucking Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwaanza or whatever. Why should we be the only ones to suffer?

God SAVE us, every one! (That is what you said, Tiny Tim, is it not?)

Thursday, December 22, 2005


I had a bad day today. Not horrible, mind you, but awful enough that when I arrived home, I had a raging, near-blinding headache. You see, sometimes my mouth (or my fingers, for that matter) move faster than my brain. I often get myself in trouble because of that fact, and today was no exception.

I did something I felt was right --even nice -- without thought as to how it would affect the feelings of someone else. I'm not taking all the blame for the situation, as it was more miscommunication than anything, but still, my behavior was less than exemplary. Fortunately, everything has since been rectified, but my mood was still in dire need of improvement until just a short while ago.

I often find that when I'm upset about something, it helps me to read books by authors who's sensibilities are markedly different than my own. In other words, I'm generally a very happy person, so when I'm sad, I tend to read authors known for being brooding, angry or depressed. Nothing facilitates a better state of mind than reading someone else's misery. Realizing things can always be worse most definitely tends to brighten one's mood.

So, I pulled on my PJ's, curled up under a blanket and began to read Betting on the Muse by Charles Bukowski. If you've ever read any of his works, you know that delving in to his mind brings you in to a world where addiction, insanity and genius often collide. Tonite, I could think of no better author to wrestle me from the grip of my own unhappiness.

But something interesting happened while I was reading. Amongst his usual passages of despair, I came across a poem that left me, well, gobsmacked. I had expected to feel better after reading this book, if only because his life was measurably worse than my silly little state of affairs. But what I found instead, was this:

the laughing heart
your life is your life.
don't let it be clubbed into dank
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you
know them, take them.
you can't beat death but
you can beat death
in life,
and the more often you
learn to do it,
the more light there will
your life is your life.
know it while you have
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
Thank you, Mr. B., for giving me the lightness I so desperately needed all day.
Betting on The Muse, Poems and Stories by Charles Bukowski
Black Sparrow Press 1997



Isn't it amazing how two people can look at one little word and feel so utterly and completely different about it? You see, after that 2:39A.M. "trust issues" text message, I got a bit annoyed, and I started tossing the word around in my head a bit. So, here's what I came up with...

1. If I ask you to call me when you get home, it's because I care about your physical well-being. You drive like a maniac - texting, calling, screwing around with your ipod & eating a bagel all at the same time. AND you live out where Jesus dropped his sandals. So, I worry. You have always let me know when you got home safely in the past. So is it not safe to assume that when I didn't hear from you, I'd get a bit freaked out?

Addendum to #1:

For your information, I am like this with EVERYONE I care about. Go ahead and ask Mona. She'll tell you. Its a personality quirk that I've had for my entire life, and should in no way indicate a lack of trust in anyone. Most people find it sweet that I'm that concerned about them.

2. Call me naive, but everyone I meet gets 100 percent of my trust until they prove they don't deserve it. And when I say "prove," I mean you pretty much have to smack me over the head with it.

3. I carried on a relationship with a man who lived over 800 miles away from me. We only saw one another a few days out of the month. His word was ALL I had to go on. So, please, don't tell me I have "trust issues." You have NO IDEA the capacity I have for trusting in someone.

Sometimes I think trust should be a four-letter word because of all the problems it creates. But I can assure you of one was not an issue last night.

It's up to you to decide what you want to do with that to try to bring that number back up to 9,080,000?

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

An Open Apology to Big Girls Everywhere...or, "How I know I'm Going to Hell"

I was a terrible human being last night. No doubt about it. I hang my head in shame at the very thought of my behavior. I owe big women everywhere a huge apology. I know I'm going to eat shit for this, and in a way I already have. So please, don't rip me too hard in the comments.

First, a little back story...

I'm a good person, or at least I try to be. I'm nice to my mother. I hold doors open for people. I allow cars to merge in front of me, even if they don't deserve it. I'm kind to children and animals. I don't park in the handicap spots, although I'm often tempted to. I attempt to be polite to everyone, even if they're behaving like a douchebag. I try. I really, really do. However, for as far back as I can remember, I've always had this, well, intolerance for fat people.

I hate it when I'm sitting next to a big person on a bus, train or airplane. Why should I be forced to have my leg squashed under their gigantic thighs until I can no longer feel my feet? For Chrissakes, the CTA is beginning to renovate it's fleet of busses to WIDEN the seats from 17 to 18 inches, hence eliminating some much needed seating. I'm sorry, but if you can't squeeze your ass on to a 17 inch seat, then it may be time to think about getting to the gym, right? Hey! It's my money that's paying for it! Don't I get a say? How come they get to be more comfortable? If they paid a double fare because they're the size of two people, I might me less apt to bitch, but c'mon! Let's be serious here, people!

I can't look at a big person who's shoving French fries down their throat without thinking, "My GOD lady! Just say no!" Watching them chew simply grosses me out. It's like seeing a cow chomping on it's oats. Have you ever witnessed that up close? It's disgusting! It's as if they have no concern for their physical well-being. Why don't they just hook themselves up to an IV full of cholesterol while they're at it?

Now, I understand that there are some people who have medical problems that cause them to be obese, but really, there's no way you can ever convince me that every big person has a thyroid problem. Even I'm not THAT gullible. I know, I know. You think I'm an insensitive bitch, right? All I can say in response to that is this...You try living in the fifth fattest city in the country. Before you know it, you might find yourself thinking exactly like me.

So, if you don't already think I'm terrible, keep on reading. Here's where the "horrible person" part comes in...

Last night was my company holiday party. I work with an amazing group of talented and creative people, so needless to say, we had a great deal of fun. We all love our drink, too, so to say that we were all bombed is an absolute understatement. After dinner, we moved up the street to a little bar to continue the debauchery. At a table across from us were two VERY big girls, shovelling their deep-fried bar food in their pieholes, and something in me (maybe the Patron?) just snapped.

We have two male interns working at our office. Both are young film students, and both quite cute in that scruffy, artistic way. I dared them to go and hit on the big girls, but neither of them wanted any part of it. So what did I do? I factored a little money in to the equation. I offered them fifty bucks each to go and make nice with the ladies. Apparently, when you're a poor college student, money always outrules pride. Those two were at the girls' table in two seconds flat.

But then something unexpected happened. The boys actually STAYED at the table...for the rest of the night. Curious to know what was going on, I went over and introduced myself. That's when I decided I was a complete asshole. Not only were the girls very sweet, but the boys genuinely seemed to dig them. God, I suck. And now, because I was such a moron, I was out one hundred dollars.

How could I have been so cruel? Who was I to decide to make a joke out of them? I made horrible assumptions about two women that had never done anything to me. So, I did what any jerkoff would do in that situation. I slipped a fifty in to each of the boy's pockets, and got the hell out of there before I died of embarrassment.

Obviously, I owe someone an apology. I figured the best way to do that is to make one broad, sweeping act of contrition here for the whole world to witness. I am sorry. Very, truly, unbelievably sorry for being such an obnoxious twat. While I still have my opinions on the overweight of the world, I will, from this point forward, promise to keep them to myself.

Postscript: When I got to work this morning, I asked one of the boys how the rest of his evening went. Here's a direct quote: "She ate my face off until sun-up."

Hmm, maybe my initial reaction was correct after all...

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Miss Saturday Night

If you have read this blog for any period of time, then you know I'm a part-time bartender. And when I say part-time, I mean Saturday nights only. I have a career that I love, and I don't really need the extra income, but honestly, the money ain't bad, and I like the social outlet that working there provides.

The bar I work at is your average neighborhood shithole. A dive, if you will. The tile on the floor hasn't been replaced since it was installed in the early Fifties, and the urinals in the Men's room frequently decide against flushing. I still swear that Jimmy Hoffa is buried in the basement, which, of course, can only be accessed by a trap door in the floor behind the bar.

Just two blocks away from Wrigley Field, it is by far the least Wrigley-like bar in a six square block radius. It's the kind of place where you're more likely to find Black Flag on the jukebox than Dexie's Midnight Runners. In fact, I'm quite certain that if Come on Eileen were to actually play in the bar, the regulars might form a revolt and tear the place down.

The regulars. Ah yes, my dear and faithful alcoholic compatriots. They run the gamut in terms of dress, occupation, lifestyle & wealth. On any given Saturday night, I serve construction workers, Starbuck's baristas, stock brokers, web designers, unemployed actors, musicians and school teachers. While diametrically different, they are all tied together by one common thread. They love to drink - hard. Cosmpolitans and Amaretto Stone Sours are definitely NOT in their vocabulary. Give 'em an Old Style, a shot of Jameson and a cigarette & they're happy as clams. And keep 'em coming!

While I really do enjoy working at this bar, there are a few things that, from time to time, drive me absolutely batty. I can put up with people complaining about the dire state of the bathrooms. It don't blink an eye when someone says, for the three-hundredth time that evening, that the balls are stuck in the pool table, and I'm barely phased when a customer tells me that someone has puked by the Golden Tee - again. But some things...some things really piss me off, and I'm going to list them off for you.

1. Regulars that believe they own the bar.

For some reason or another, there are a handful of regular customers that believe they have some say in how the place should be run. Randy, for example, has been coming in since, oh, 1990, and never fails to offer up his special brand of Heineken-induced bullshit. "You haven't given me a free beer yet," or "Trix, gimme the remote! I wanna see if Desperate Housewives is a re-run." Now, if Randy were a quiet, unassuming guy, I might be more apt to take his crap. But he's not. He's THAT guy. You know him. He's always right, and he always knows a better way to do things. Randy is the worst kind of customer...the one who's so obnoxious he actually chases new guests away. If he asks me to change the channel from the Bears game to Law & Order one more time, I'm going to shove his bottle of Heineken down his throat.

2. Sorority Girls/Fraternity Boys

While I am quite certain there are a few exceptions to the rule, for the most part, college kids, and in particular, those involved in the Greek system suck major ass. Mind you, we don't get many of them in my place, but when there's a Cubs home game, EVERY bar is busy in the neighborhood. If they don't want to wait for an hour to get in to The Cubby Bear (vomit) or John Barleycorn (double vomit), they'll inevitably find their way in to my domain. But the rules of etiquette in those two hell holes are markedly different than my bar. For the record, it is NOT acceptable to:

a) pay the bartender for your beer with your laundry quarters.
b) piss in the trash can (even if the urinals don't flush).
c) spill your beer and then ask for a free refill.
d) dance on the pool table.
e) puke on top of the bar.
f) chug beer from a pitcher.
g) ask if you can drink directly from the tap.

All of the above are ground rules for a serious ass-kicking, and our regulars will be more than happy to oblige. And one more thing...why the hell do sorority bimbos insist on going to a BALLGAME in stilettos? That just annoys the piss out of me.

3. Bad Tippers

Do I really need to explain this one? Here's the deal. I don't work in a corporate hell hole, where I'm forced to be pleasant to every customer who is kind enough to grace me with their presence. If you leave me fifty cents on the bar, you can be certain that you WILL NOT get served again. Take your chump change & shove it up your ass. You obviously need it more than I do.

4. Husbands of my friends staring at me...while their wives are sitting next to them.

I've posted about this before. Look, beyond the fact that it's creepy, you're wives & girlfriends are my friends and it's just plain disrespectful. If I'm wearing a low-cut shirt, it's not for your personal enjoyment. It's for cash, plain & simple. Don't ask me to bend over to pick up the dollar you dropped. Don't tell me about how you think your marriage is a mistake. The bottom line is, you're married, and therefore, off the market. Not that I'd ever be attracted to the likes of you if you were single, you fat fuck.

and finally...

5. I'm a bartender, not an idiot.

This one just kills me. People always make assumptions that because I'm a bartender, I've got to be an idiot. It's as if I hold a lower value on the social ladder, and so they feel free to talk to me as such. I must be a single-mother, ex-crack addict dropout without an education, right? Wrong. Here's the truth. I'm a highly-educated woman with a full time career, who happens to like my job as a bartender. I'm also the bitch who just spit in your drink & took a ten dollar tip off of you. So while you're slaving away at your 70 hour a week law/PR/trader job just to make ends meet & pay off forty grand in student loans, I'll be on an airplane to Rome, enjoying a Chianti with the cash you just paid me.

So, that's it. I can only hope if you have ever found yourself doing any of the above, that you'll think of me before you consider acting that way again. And please, stop on by if you ever find yourself in Chicago on a Saturday night. Just look for the 50 year old Old Style sign hanging out front.

If you're nice, I may even buy you a beer...

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Primo Bacio

You showed. I wasn't certain you would, but there you were, walking toward me. All I could see was your eyes. I had to search to find my breath. Even now, without you here, I can still see them...bright and knowing.

When you sat down, it was as if I had known you for far longer than mere days. And you stayed. You stayed all night, long past close, exhausted and ill. For me. You waited just for me. I'm still amazed by that.

When you opened the door to your car for me, the anticipation I'd felt all night suddenly thrust my thoughts in to the present. This was real, and it was going to happen at any moment. The feeling was palpable. I wanted it, but I was scared.

We stood there, facing one another, and suddenly, your hands were on my face. They were warm and strong, but held my face without being forceful. They are the hands of a man who knows the meaning of a hard day's work. But there was something else there. You have hands that understand fragility. Standing in the cold and the snow, what I felt was safe and warm.

You pulled me closer, and I could feel the heat of your breath on my face. And when it finally happened, it was exactly as I had thought it would be. Powerful and potent, yet soft and patient. I didn't want to open my eyes, because I was certain the second I did, I'd realize I was dreaming. But I did open them, and you were still there, smiling and looking right through me with those amazing eyes.

I know there can never again be another first kiss. It's a place in time that can only be relived in my memory. But every time you've kissed me since, my mind has been carried back to that amazing night. It's one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me.

Internet, Shminternet!

I heard about this poor soul on the news this morning, and it cracked me the hell up. You can read the full story here.

My only question is this...

Why the hell didn't the horny old goat just tell the prostitute, "Fuck you, lady. We're Amish. We DON'T USE THE INTERNET!"?

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Magic Eight Ball, Part Deux

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! It's time for the astounding and amazing Magic Eight Ball to answer your questions. But first, a few ground rules:

1. I will only turn the 8 Ball over once. No best-out-of three's.
2. I am allowed to interpret the results.
3. If you're not happy with your answer, too bad! I don't want to hear about it.

So, without further ado, here are the much anticipated answers to your queries...

PENNIES asks: Please ask your friend with such grand wisdom if I will live past 62?
And the 8 Ball says: LOOKS LIKE YES
Trix's interpretation: Only if I don't strangle you first.

EXCELSIOR asks: Hey Trix ask the 8 ball if my blog shall have some regular readers by the end of the year.
And the 8 Ball says: VERY LIKELY
Trix's interpretation: In other words, just keep asking everyone to visit. They may not like it, but they'll visit your blog if for no other reason than to tell you to get bent. We're all cruel bastards, in the end.

NEUROTIC MISSY asks: Should I ditch the black PSP and buy a white one?
And the 8 Ball says: LOOKS LIKE YES
Trix's interpretation: See? I told you so.

NEUROTIC MISSY also asks: Does Matt only want a shag? (hehe)
Trix's interpretation: What does it matter? If he's cute, go for it!

ARMAEDES asks: If a tree falls in the forest and it lands on a mime, does anyone care?
And the 8 Ball says: YOU CAN COUNT ON IT
Trix's interpretation: I'm assuming the mime cares.

BRONSON PALOMINO asks: Do people not leave comments on my blog because I suck as a writer?
And the 8 ball says: CAN'T SAY NOW
Trix's interpretation: The 8 Ball is as afraid of your wrath as I am. ;)

LOZO asks: Am I destined to die alone?
And the 8 ball says: UNLIKELY
Trix's interpretation: Honey, if you really have an 8 inch johnson, I'll marry you!

VESPER asks: Should I try to date Armaedes?
And the 8 Ball says: INDICATIONS SAY YES
Trix's interpretation: Are you NUTS? His girlfriend will kick your ass!

ANONYMOUS asks: Is Armaedes really as cool as he seems in his blog?
And the 8 Ball says: POSITIVELY
Trix's interpretation: If cool is a loathsome misogynist pig, then yes, he is. (You know I love you, right?)

GREG asks: Will my blog readership increase?
And the 8 Ball says: PROSPECT GOOD
Trix's interpretation: As long as you stop referring to PC repairs as "surgery."

and asks...

Will my life return to normal (a relative state)?
And the 8 Ball says: YOU CAN COUNT ON IT
Trix's interpretation: As soon as your daughter is grown, out of the house, graduated from college & married.

and asks...

Can I expect to see large sums of money in the future?
And the 8 Ball says: CHANCES AREN'T GOOD
Trix's interpretation: I've already mentioned that you have a DAUGHTER. Need I say more?

and asks one more time...

Will I get to fulfill my dream of going hunting for Wild East Texas Boars?
Trix's interpretation: I think the 8 Ball & I are in agreement on this one. We'd rather you first go hunting for a Wild Texas Asshole...say George W.?

And that, my dear friends, is the end of the Magic 8 Ball game. Thanks for playing! And remember, he's always with me. So, if you have a major life decision to make & you're uncertain about what to do, drop us a line. We'd be happy to help. Just, please, promise you won't hate us if we tell you something you don't want to hear.

His advice is sometimes mysterious, but it should never be questioned.

And the Magic Eight Ball Says...

I received a magic Eight Ball from a client today as a sort of "gag" gift. It's been mostly quiet here at the office, so I decided to pass the time by having everyone ask it some questions. Here, below, is a random sample of some of the wise and powerful answers it gave us.

Joseph: Will these hair implants ever grow?
Magic 8 Ball: DON'T BET ON IT

Lisa: Is my boyfriend cheating on me?

Stewie: Is it wrong for a man to love another man?

The Boss: Should I quit and do something more positive with my life?
Magic 8 Ball: ABSOLUTELY

The Boss #2: Is it wrong to dream of hot Asian prostitutes while laying in bed next to my wife?

Me: Will I get a chance to make it 9,080,001?
Magic 8 Ball: SO IT SHALL BE (Rock on!)

After that, I read this post from one of my favorite bloggers, and I got to thinking...I should up the ante and have some fun with this. Why not make this game of mine a little more interactive? And in the process, I may get to know some of you a little bit.

I'm taking a page from the Holy Book of Armaedes, and I'm inviting all of you to ask some questions of the Eight Ball. Ask anything you want, & I'll make sure he answers them by Wednesday morning. So, leave a comment, or e-mail me, and EB & I will get to work on your queries right away!

Besides, I'll have plenty of time on my hands now that The Boss has decided to sell the business and work with lepers in Sri Lanka.

Monday, December 12, 2005

A Long & Interesting Weekend

I must profusely apologize for the lack of a serious post this evening. The weekend has left me exhausted, and the creative juices are simply refusing to flow. I hope to return tomorrow with a more compelling piece of writing, but in the meantime, I'll leave you with this important, although rather vague, bit of information...

To you, my new and amazing friend, I offer my sincerest gratitude for what turned out to be two truly wonderful days.

Thank you for the 9,080,000 reasons to smile.

Friday, December 09, 2005


People don't change unless they want to. Plain and simple. You can beg & plead - everything short of hitting them over the head with a brick, but it never does any good unless they're ready to do it for themselves. Stubborn souls, who can't get over their past, that are unwilling to see that maybe there's better road to their future. You're one of those people.

God forbid someone should criticize you. Your father did it to you right up until they day he died, so why shouldn't everyone else? It's only natural to think that people see you as a fuck-up, right? RIGHT? Of course they will, because you only let them see what you want them to see.

The problem with that way of thinking, though, is that no matter what you do, you will never get out of that shadow of shit unless you consciously decide to move on. You're never going to make that man happy, no matter how hard you try. There's a reason he passed angry, miserable, and ultimately, alone - it's because he chose to. Is that the legacy you always dreamed of? Are those the footsteps in which you want to follow?

You want a better life for yourself. I know you do. YOU know you do. You want a real life, one of love and fulfillment. But you don't know how to make that happen. It's always just beyond your reach. There's always something getting in your way, and that something is you.

I wish you could see that there are people out there that believe in you. People who don't want anything from you EXCEPT you. Just having you in their life would be enough if you would only let them in. But you push everyone and everything that's good and pure out, because somewhere along the way, one man said you weren't worthy of it.

Who was he to tell you that? On who's authority? Parenting is not a right, it's a privilege, and shame on him for abusing that privilege. Shame on him for abusing you. Shame on him for setting in to motion the sad state of your life today. But you can't use him as your crutch forever. People will only allow you to use that as an excuse for so long.

What I wish you could see is that you, and you alone, are responsible for your own happiness. You don't have to let his words hurt you anymore. What better way to prove him wrong than to make a life for yourself filled with everything he never gave you?

Until you can accept your past, and forgive him, you'll never be able to move forward. But if you only could! How wonderful would that be?

And then maybe, just maybe, you might be able to forgive yourself a little bit, too.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Add it Up

I've recently had the good fortune to meet some amazing people through my dearest friend, Mona. Specifically, two men whom I feel lucky to be able to call friends. With everything that has happened in my life as of late, these two gentlemen (I call them that because it is exactly what they are) have offered me a type insight about myself and my situation that lesser men could never be capable of.

Both unique, yet so similar to one another, there's a basic goodness in each of their souls that's palpable. Their combined life experiences include everything from the birth of children, break-ups of relationships, political power, financial windfalls, international celebrity, and even a bullet in the ass. To say that they've led full lives is an understatement. But more importantly, they've used what they've learned to make themselves in to the solid and good men they are today.

This past weekend, I was at a dinner party with the both of them, and separately they offered me two very valuable pieces of advice. But those pieces, when combined, add up to something so profound that it took me until last night to figure out how I should apply it to the rest of my life.

First, while discussing my recent break-up, Tim said to me, "Just always have options, and options give you leverage." Later, David handed me a letter, and in it, he said, "1 and 1 is 2. Or 11, if you want it to be. But it's certainly not 9." I'm not sure if it was the bottle of wine I'd had with dinner, or the exhaustion I felt for weeks of a life in relative chaos, but I was baffled. To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement. Last night, however, while laying awake in bed, their words suddenly made sense.

I realized Tim had meant that I had choices, and with those choices comes a certain freedom. No one can hurt you if you can consciously decide not to let them. You can make your own path.

As for David, well, I believe he was trying to tell me that there are many different ways of looking at something. But there are also absolute certainties. One and one can never be nine, and that will never change. It's how you deal with those absolutes that makes you the person you are.

When you put it all together, it can only mean one thing. There are some things in this world that you will never be able to change. But there are some things you can, and it's up to you to make the right choices. It's the only way you'll ever really be happy.

Thanks for doing the math for me, boys. You'll never know how much I appreciate it.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

A Very Good Day

While I was out driving earlier, the song "Clint Eastwood" by those fabulous GORILLAZ guys came on the radio. I'd never really paid attention to the words, but today, for some reason, they popped right out at me. Apparently, I'm hyper-sensitive lately. Go Figure.
I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on
Funny, but I never thought of these guys as lyrical poets. Sure, they could lay down a hell of a snappy tune, but who knew they were therapists, too?
You see, I had a good day today. Not that I was particularly happy, mind you, but I just felt, well, better. Better, in my opinion, is good.
Last night I was thinking back on relationships past, and I realized something. We don't ACTUALLY die when things end. You may feel like it for a time, but even that eventually fades. This, of course, got me to thinking. If we know for a fact we'll eventually be alright, why can't we just fast-forward to that point? Wouldn't that be the best-case scenario?
The more I thought about that, though, the more I was certain that we'd be doing ourselves a great disservice by trying to rush ourselves along in the process. Maybe (and this is only my theory, so feel free to discount it if you'd like) we're supposed to feel the hurt. Maybe it's meant to be that way, to serve as a reminder of what can happen if we're not careful with the choices we make. Like when we were kids, and our moms' spanked us when we did something wrong. Experiencing the consequences of our actions is really the only way to learn from our mistakes.
Bet you won't be doing that again!
Armed with that knowledge, I woke up today realizing that I was going to be ok. I knew that I'd learn something from this whole bloody mess, and for the first time in a long time, I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
My future...It's coming on, it's coming on, it's coming on, it's coming on...

Oh, Lord...

I just read this article. Please, won't one of you, my new friends from the UK & elsewhere, marry me? I need to move to another country and gain citizenship, FAST!

My country is going to shit.


While out running an errand, there was a black Mercedes in front of me, with the license plate "MEGABUC." Alright, call me crazy, but if you're driving a Benz, I'm pretty much aware that you have mega bucks. Do you need to rub my nose in it, you Pompous fuck?