Am I dick? Be honest.

If I were to tell you that I am writing this drunk, would it offend you? It would? Well good thing I'm writing this stone cold-sober.


(picking up martini) Good morning to those reading this! It is 4:41am and although it is considered morning to some, for me (and for those wishing to make anything before noon unproductive) it is only a hour or so before bedtime. But let us not dwell on time and its many intricacies. I have a question.

But before I ask it, some back story:

Recently I became a bartender at the Fairmont Royal York. As far as careers that require no formal education go, it's a pretty sweet gig and it jives great with my do-nothing artistic lifestyle.

Tonight, January 8th 2009, was our Christmas party. Or holiday party. Or who gives a fuck what your religious denomination is let's just get fucked up and eat hors d'oeuvres party. Call it what you will.

This time around, my work place decided to give us a party two weeks too late. Yes, yes, there was a recession and our profit did drop from a gajillion to a zillion. But still. I've worked at this god-forsaken place for five years and I will tell you, the Christmas party was a hoot. Everyone got dressed up, the Canadian ballroom (which holds over a thousand guests) got shiny and we all ate a brilliant three course meal laden with wine. Afterwards, we danced embarrassingly to top 40 music like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Then, and this was the best part, we all went back to our $60 hotel room and took the party to it's illogical sloppy conclusion. It was perfect.

But not this time. A "reception" on January 8th. So, being a bartender, the opportunity arose to work the event. Having but a mere $5.64 in my checking account (a sadly accurate figure) I decided it may be in my best interest to work it. Besides, who would go to this thing, considering our illustrious past and all we had lost?

EVERYONE. Every last bastard went to the party and, unhindered by a formal dinner, got right fucked by the very drinks I poured. Drinks that I could not drink, for I was working with EVERY SINGLE MANAGER I have in the room, drinking those very drinks I was entitled to have drunk.

It was a miscalculation on my part to say the least. Most bitingly, I was told 10 minutes before my bar closed (incidentally by my director who was having a *chug chug* smashing good time) that we'd keep the bar open another HOUR AND A HALF 'cuz everyone was simply having such a marvelous time that it would be a shame to close shop so early. A shame indeed. I rushed through my clean-up and cash-out hoping to catch one last dance to Fergie Boom Boom Powing, but, as if designed to fail, I was informed upon entering the ballroom that our event was over. The DJ was wrapping up. And not currently working, the bar was definitely closed.


So there I was, sitting in a friends hotel room (thank god someone remembered their history), sitting on a six-pack I had cunningly left in my locker, and hankering for a spankering. I had bared witness to a great party only to see it end before I could partake.


My friend Brad, he being of stout alcoholic blood, boldly wished to carry on despite the fact it was an hour before last call. Amazingly, his girlfriend Leslie agreed. Being not particularly bright nor capable of using reason while dealing with peers, I too agreed.

If you've ever been partying after midnight but before last call in Toronto on Front Street then you know you have two options; drink at Jack Astor's or call a cab. Not craving General Jack lager, we opted for a cab.

Long story short, we ended up at Crocodile Rock. If you've never been to this particular meat market, it's pretty much Hamilton encapsulated in a cougar bar. If you've never been to Hamilton, well consider your ass lucky.

Anyways I'm at Crocodile Rock, and it was even worse then I had remembered it (when I was underage, it was one of my safe zones). If you know me, then you know that I am entirely capable of taking annoying music and dancing to it annoyingly. Damn it, I was a Gino in high school, I could pretty much dance to anything with an electronic sensibility! But not this. It wasn't even Top 40, it was songs in the Top 40 genre that don't make the Top 40. It was awful. As I looked around the inbreeding grounds, I suddenly became flush with a realization that I was better than all this. All those years of uncertainty, dressing in Stitches outfitted clothing, going out with friends, inhabiting the worst clubs on Richmond and grasping to be some mythological 'playa' and I looked around and saw first hand how ridiculous it all was, is, and would forever be.

So I chuckled, and smirked, and thought everyone chumps while gleefully sipping on my $6 bottle of Canadian. While doing this I was wearing a suit, since I had anticipated hanging out with people at the Christmas "reception" when my shift was done. Taking a piss, I looked in the bathroom mirror. Seeing myself in a suit, at Crocodile Rock, smirking at others I realized: I can be such an incredible douche. Here I was, a guy in a suit thinking myself better then the people around me, the very epitome of the type of person I had dedicated my life to thwarting. What had I become?

So this is the question I pose: Have you ever found yourself being the very thing you hate? Because I will tell you, it's no fun.

(putting down martini) It's at this time I wish to go to bed and sit on these musings. And no it's not because the room is spinning. Cuz that's what happens when your drunk. And I'm not.

If you find yourself reading this and care to share your experiences, drop me a line. I promise to abuse your trust, sell your secrets to Stephen King, and get mad as his depiction of your experience is butchered on film.

And if you wanted to hear about all the things I promised to talk about in my ass-camera blog, well it's about time you realized that my word's so cheap it's on the McDonald's extra value menu.

Til next we meet I remain,
Luis Fernandes
That blogging bastard