We’ve entered a new stratosphere of blog luxury (or “blogulence,” if you will). I’m reporting on the universe’s most pressing concerns from my new leather semi-recliner, which came with a matching ottoman and a supernal twenty degree TV-viewing angle. I’m just a crack pipe and a Canon PowerShot away from being kicked off Facebook forever.
The first item I will address from the black throne (metaphor?) comes courtesy of Sexy Bensy, who queried in response to a previous blog about whether or not the word “bastard” applies to girls. The answer is yes, both linguistically and conceptually. On the linguistic front, a bastard refers to anybody, boy or girl, born to unmarried parents. Furthermore, in our increasingly vulgar patois, virtually anyone or anything can be a bastard, including women, inanimate objects, disagreeable philosophical positions, and traffic. Conceptually, bastard is seen to be even more universal, as the notion of something illegitimate or born of sin far outreaches gender-specific confines. Still, calling a girl a bastard, or having her call herself one, is weird. Maybe that’s because we’re socialized to believe it’s uncouth, or perhaps there really is some linguistic validity to limiting bastard to the males among us. I don’t know. All I know is that Paul McCartney is a bastard for strumming his ukulele in an iTunes commercial. And so is Bill Simmons, for taking a vacation last week and leaving his obsessive ESPN.com minions with nothing to read for days.
And then there's this--I’m thinking of taking up bartending, for the following reasons:
1) The training takes a week and is relatively inexpensive (about 700 bucks, I believe)
2) Quick, easy, untaxed money
3) I could work nights and make my own hours
4) I love booze
5) I find it cathartic to listen to people lament their problems
6) I could finally get a car
Reason number 6 is the most intriguing. I’ve been without a car for about a year and a half, the last year of which I’ve been in Queens, where virtually everybody has a car. Access to vehicular transportation is viewed as necessity rather than luxury. Still, with the benevolent aid of buses, subways, and my own legs, not having a car has been completely painless. Recently, however, my universe has come out of alignment. I find myself pining for a car, especially these days, when a motor vehicle’s cool, air-conditioned environs would provide sweet respite from the heat and humidity, not to mention my physiological drive to outfit a car with a totally bitching stereo system. The downside, though, is cost—between the purchase/lease price, gas (damn you, Fallujah. Damn you), tolls, insurance (damn you, being less than 25. Damn you), oil, tickets (damn you, alternate side. Damn you), and possible accidents (damn you, capricious fortune. Damn you), we’re looking at a big money suck. Although, if you think about the money I’d save on metrocards and things to occupy myself on the train—books, magazines, young babies—I’d be saving a bit. Well, not really. But I could tell myself that.
Don’t delude yourself into thinking that reason number 6 is predominant, though; I seriously love booze. I’m passionate about it. It matters to me what people drink, how much they drink, how often they drink, and how much they enjoy what they drink. Isn’t that what a bartender is supposed to be? Someone who can suggest a good drink, monitor those who have had too much, patronize the regulars with the occasional free quaff, and take authentic pleasure in seeing a room full of people spilling cocktails on themselves and dancing robotically to Bon Jovi tunes? Throw in the occasional credit card swipe and a conversational disposition, and you’ve got yourself a 1A bartender. I can’t wait to start stealing bottles.
Stay Supple, New Chair