Friday, September 26, 2014

THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN (Berlin Edition #1)

            Okay. I know. Has it been two weeks since I’ve posted? Maybe longer? Have you forgotten about me—your favorite bartender in the world?
            Well, technically, I not your bartender anymore. Yes, I’ve quit my jobs and am currently unemployed. I can’t remember another time I’ve been so blatantly unemployed. We, as human beings, need to have things to do in the world. Some people leave their husbands, some people take up religion, some people change their hairstyle. I decided to change a thing or two as well.
            Like catapult my entire existence across the Atlantic Ocean into a strange, foreign land where I have no friends, no phone, no TV, no cable, no Internet (except at this very odd Arab café), and no money to work on The Great American Novel.  
            Who would do such an act?
            Only a madman, folks. Your favorite non-bartender has left the good ole U. S. of A. in favor of the long standing artistic town of Berlin, Germany.
            Now those who remember their history (and who does, really, anymore?) will recall that this fine European city has seen some small changes over the years. Yeah. Like Frederick The Great kind of changes. Like The Weimar Republic. Like the Nazi’s. Then the Stazi’s. Then America, Russia, and the British blew the shit out of the city, reducing it to rubble.
            Berlin, if she was a woman, would have been the battered housewife of Europe. The girl has been through some trouble. But like the end of a Lifetime Cable mini-series, she’s left her terrible husband (talk about a patriarchy) and moved on. It’s like how “Stella Got Her Groove Back”, but with governments. She rolls with artists exclusivly, rarely closes, stays out all night, drinks very cheaply—Berlin is a reinvented lady ready for whatever comes next. And she’s not into guys with weird moustaches (anymore).
            Speaking about the ladies, there are a couple things we all can learn from the reinvented, creative, laissez-faire attitude of this fine city of juxtaposition. Last week, like a bar sleuth, I asked women what their major gripes were with modern man, his problems, his contradictions, his general flakey demeanor (see the last blog). And the women were happy to oblige. Apparently the modern American male was an effete loser lacking in any kind of interest or potency. There were some pretty rough charges laid down by the frauliens. Another woman, when asked what is ‘the trouble with men’, casually answered:
            “There’s too many and not enough to time to have all of them.”
            Now that’s pretty Berliner to me.
            So the last two weeks, like some detective of inebriation, I set out in the barroms to ask the fellas what, exactly in their opinion, was the trouble with modern women. The answers were all across the board. But mainly there were three categories that kept rearing their ugly head.
            Guys, take it away.


            Now the fellas had many names for this type of lady, but for simplicity sake, I’ll stick with this definition that I coined a few years back: The Caboose Jumper.
            The Caboose Jumper is a lady who has never been single for more than 3 weeks. And when I mean single, I’m talking about being ALONE. Completely. I’m talking isolated. I’m talking sitting there with no phone, no computer, no friends, staring into the darkness of the night, seeing the abyss, and living to tell the tale of that solitude, coming out the other side truly independent.
Usually, the Caboose Jumper has a boyfriend for a said amount of time. But, as she slowly realizes that the relationship going nowhere (and admit it ladies, you know when that switch flips), she’s already staked out the next guy she’ll be with. It’s usually a friend that’s been waiting around in the wings, or someone she only Facebook’d (is that term now?) a couple months prior instead of giving out her number. And on a train careening to the cliff of mediocrity, the lady runs to the caboose and jumps to another train going in the exactly opposite direction on different tracks.
This is more common than you think. Here’s a little experiment. Buy a little lined notebook and a pen. Go out for yourself and ask your lady friends exactly how many of them have been alone (again, ‘walking the tightrope over the abyss’ alone) and for exactly what duration of time. The answers will surprise you. I did this same experiment with my customers. The results were staggering. Women do not like to be alone. Some have even slept with utter losers so they can have someone to hold them as they pass out.
Let me say this for the record.
True independence comes from being alone and being comfortable with it. No man can ever help with that. Men are only good for four things anyway.
I’ll let you guess what those things are.


I’m from the 90’s. Okay, actually I’m from my mother (God Bless that lady). You can blame her for unleashing me upon an unsuspecting world. The point is is that in the 90’s we were taught (and when I say we, I mean the fellas that dated the 3rd wave feminists chicks--you know, the girls who rode skateboards, wrote zines, participated in protests, listened to Bikini Kill, etc…) that the ultimate crime in all of the world was NOT going down on women.
At least, that’s what I was taught. I remember sitting there on the couch with my first ‘real’ girlfriend, her pensively staring at me.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
She crossed her arms. “Can we talk?”
Even at 16 year old I knew there was trouble brewing. I was trained for this by my 3 sisters, 1 tough mother, and 6 aunts. I was ready.
“Sure,” I said.
She paused, and then finally exhaled.
“You need to go down on me,” she said.
I knew this was coming. With my very limited experience, I knew it was in this area I was lacking. We had had sex. We had participated in many oral moments in her VW bus. But I had never gone down on a woman before, and frankly, was scared to death. I confessed.
“I’m scared of your pussy.”
Instead of being offended, my girlfriend (we’ll call her “K”) immediately leapt up on top of the couch, lifted up her dress, and spread her legs. She still had underwear on, but there I was, face to face with her crotch.
“So do you want to learn?” K said, smiling.
“Sure,” I said.
She slipped off her underwear. I slowly brought my face closer to her vagina. There it was. The mysterious place lurking under every skirt I had ever fantasized about since the 2nd grade. It was like seeing Paris for the first time.
And so began my instruction. She, like a very skilled and patient teacher parted and pushed, showing me the places I should focus on and other places that were less gratifying. It was amazing. Our relationship took a turn after that day.
We were happy.
But ladies—I have heard some terrible reports out there from the guys. Apparently, in the single world, NO girl goes down anymore. Especially in random hook ups. No girl is sucking dick. What is the fucking deal with this? Even when you go down on the lady (3, 4, 8 times in a session), they do not return the favor whatsoever.
This could be an American Girl problem. Most of the woman I have been with of the European variety have very little hang ups about sex (I end up being the chaste one!). But these American girls are just not participating in foreplay.
Let me say this for the record. It’s called foreplay for a reason. It’s there to increase excitement, add intrigue, and build up the sexual powers necessary for an amazing fuck. Plain and simple. These 2 min hand jobs and some heavy petting, frankly, will not do. Especially as us fellas get older. I mean, for Christ’s Sake, we have been watching porn since we were 12 years old, and the sight of merely a naked woman is not enough (well, certain women). It's going to take a little more.
So ladies, next time your hooking up with a fella, put a little cock in your mouth. It will make the sex better. It’s really not that bad. Gay men have been doing it since Socrates.
Just ask your GBFF. He’ll let you know what’s up (and give you some useful advice).


            We all know that anyone under 30 is probably a retard.
            We've all been there. We know that when you are young you think you know everything, that everyone older than you is some kind of sell out, and most adults have given up on their dreams and can’t wait to die, fat and alone, binge watching episodic television on an old dirty couch.
            But my research points to some remarkably disturbing trends in young women these days. They’re cocky, crude, and totally classless. I’ve watched some of these young ladies at the bar.
To be honest, as a bartender for some time in college cities, I feel that I have excavated the 23 year old category of woman for the last 15 years of my life. But things have taken a dramatic turn in the last 5 years. I don’t know if it’s the advent of Girls on HBO, or Miley Cyrus, or the Internet; something has gone haywire in the mind of the under 30-year-old mentality.
            Here’s my scientific opinion. The girls, fresh out of college, are trying to embark on some quest for individuality and independence from their annoying mothers and overbearing fathers. Most have been broken hearted by some loser in high school and they are not going to take it anymore. Now that love is out of the question (and they just moved to New York), casual sex is up for grabs. All of this is great. But the way they talk about it, the way they participate in it (the no head phenomenon, see above), and the way they treat human interaction is with the same amount of class as a frat-boy wasted on Old English 40’s. Seriously. These chicks act like the douche bags I avoided all through college (and to this day). It’s frightening, man. I see it every night at the bars. It’s like taking all the aspects of feminism (which is good) and mixing it with the supposed “I don’t give a fuck” vibe of adolescent dude. Including poor hygiene. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.
            A girl needs a lot in this world, and two of those things should be a trusted gynecologist and a fucking bath. Just sayin'.

            So this is what the fellas have told me about modern women. I don’t know. Maybe both the genders can get their act together long enough to make something work out all right.
            But until then...

            Bis später!




Wednesday, September 3, 2014


            Here we go—yet another time we get to skewer the sexes for their drawbacks just when the dull drums of summer slowly slip through our fingers.
Everybody feels it in the air, the restlessness, the windless, humid nights, the strange glances from the other shadowed people drinking in the darkness of the bar.
            There’s odd vibes out there in the bar rooms. The men are tired, sweaty in cut off jeans, huddled over the PBR’s. The women, also sweaty, in sticky black sundresses, eyes darting around for that end of summer romance, hoping to find that swell guy to cuddle with in that dark cold that is a New York Winter.
            Of course, I’m watching the whole thing from behind the bar. That’s the privy the Gods have benefitted me, the ability to see how us humans act, like hiding behind a rice paper screen of life and baring witness to the truth of the world. I have had the ability to gather all manner of information regarding the state of the sexes, and now it’s time for the chicken to come home to roost.
            So. To the point.
            We come to our annual judgment of the sexes:
            The Trouble With Men.
            Now we will most certainly deal with ladies issues next week. But this week, oh, yes, time to duck and cover fellas.
            (Note: This is a compilation of concerns, complaints, criticisms, and casually sweet advice from the ladies at the bars just for you guys out there. I’m the Walter Winchell of Lady News for you fellas this week.)

            “Do what you say, and say what you are going to do.”

            This is something your grandfather should have taught you, fellas. If most of my readers are between 30-45, you know that your grandfather no doubt served in WWII. And he didn’t have a choice. Nope. If his card got pulled, he was sent either to the German or Japanese lines to go and kill people. People that were trying to kill him. People that were putting other people in camps.
            In those days, you word counted for everything. In fact, it's the only thing that counts for any person, despite the gender. But in the WWII universe of polarized black and white options, you had to be a man of your word or were deemed yellow. Your fellow men counted on you for survival, and that sort of brilliant honor was brought back to the home front come 1945. 
            Of course, all the men got fucked up. War, any war, does that to people. No wonder the young, soon to be rebellious folks of the 60’s and 70’s, would watch their parents in terrible disputes and in states of complete breakdown.
Father mindlessly staring at walls, still shell-shocked, drinking bourbon alone in the garage. Mother constantly trying to make the homestead pleasant and nice for the children (real Mad Men kind of shit).
            No wonder by the time the 60’s came everybody rebelled. They saw the dissatisfaction their parents had and tried it their own way—hence the drug-filled 70’s and the baby booming, materialistic 80’s.
            Us modern kids saw that fail as well. That’s why everybody did heroin in the 90’s. Fuck it. There was no American Dream. It was all a lie.
            Gender roles were up for grabs. Sexual roles were up for grabs. Work roles were up for grabs.
            But through out it all, one thing has always remained:
            Your Word.
            And this, guys, is the major criticism I have gathered from talking to the ladies at the bar about what peeves them most about modern man. 
            In a few words, modern man has become a flake—an ineffectual coward.
            Knowing no war (no non-consensual war, that is), men don’t have other men left in peril to precariously placed snipers. Now, the modern man slinks around, gets what money and pussy when he can while he can, and posts about it on Facebook. He has no beliefs and because of this he fights for nothing.
            No one crosses his lines because he has drawn none for himself.
            It’s like the old adage: “He who stands for nothing will fall for anything.”
            And no repeated viewing of “True Detective” will increase your masculine points. It’s just a TV show, folks.
            You are a sack-less knave more concerned about the ending of episodic television shows, video games (which really should not be played past 30), and the precious price points at the end of the day.
            Ladies don’t like that. Just ask them.  

            “Don’t be a pussy.”   
            Notice a pattern here, guys. This was the most common response I heard talking to the girls at the bars. And most of them meant sexually.
            Some of them meant Point 1 above as well, but here, we are talking sexually. Somewhere between 4th wave feminism and the rise of men only raised by women, the fellas have lost their balls along the way. The number one complaint I have heard from woman is that men have become very ineffectual when it comes to sex.
            Or they are still clueless. Guys, you know what a clitoris is and where it is, right? Apparently not. Not from the horror stories I’ve heard as of late. Either the guys are too sensitive to just do what they want or they are watching way too much pornography and can only get it up if the girls comes with fake tits and has a penchant for squeezing them together on their knees.
            Basically, the girls want a man to know what he wants sexually as well as in their life. Dominance is sexy. Not in the creepy Cee-Lo way (this guy is totally fucked! We should slip him an Internet date rape drug and rape his career).
            We are talking a sort of dominance that is acceptable and lovely, and something a lot of these girls tell me they want, and simply are not getting. They are getting the River Cuomo version of sex.
            What they need is some Jim Morrison sex.

            “The ‘Player’ Needs To Just Stop.”

            We all heard about the myth of Don Juan, right?
            He was reported to have been the lover of hundreds of woman. They flocked to him. Not just because of his good looks and indelible charm. It was because he could find something beautiful about every woman that walked upon God’s green Earth.
            How about Zorba The Greek? Ever read that book (or watched the weird film with Anthony Quinn)? Zorba was quoted once as saying:
            “Every time a woman goes to bed alone in the world a little part of me dies.”
            These guys were fantastic and attractive to woman for one reason and one reason only.
            They were honest about what they are.
            They loved women.
            They weren’t the kind of guys to woo you, take you out, date you, and become your man. Then you find out that your ‘man’ has been fucking everything that moves behind your back and now you can’t stop itching between your legs.
            It’s the “I want my cake and eat it too” phenomenon. And guys, that idea is played the fuck out.
            When you meet a girl, tell her that you like other woman too. Just be honest. It’s not weird. It’s honest. Then the lady can make a choice for herself if she wants to get involved with a Philistine like yourself. It will be her decision. It won’t be you sneaking around like a deranged perverted school boy finger banging strangers at bars while your supposed to be at dinner with your girl. If you are a ‘player’, and hopefully one with class, than lead with that.
            The girls may not like it at first. But in the end, you will earn their trust.
            Because you had the balls to be honest—much more than her ‘safe’ husband or boyfriend that eventually and meekly cheats or breaks up with them.  
            And that goes a long way.
            All the way, boys.

            Till next week: “The Trouble With Women.”