Believe it or not the ol’writing career isn’t exactly bringing in the big money. Sure it’s earned me the undying adulation of literally tens of readers, but the bank account is not exactly swollen, more like chaffed. That’s why every so often I make it my job to get wealthy and famous people as drunk as possible. Most of the time I’m wearing a tuxedo while slinging booze, but the outfit possibilities are endless; I once wore a pancho and sombrero for an absurdly racist “Mexican” party, needless to say the only people there who were born in Mexico were working in the kitchen. Why do I do it? Why do I bartend for people I despise one dignity-shredding Cosmopolitan at a time? Because they pay well, and sometimes you meet famous people. That’s right, I’m the guy who once gave John Travolta a Diet Pepsi, Jeb Bush a third helping of apple cobbler, and a ridiculously suave Tony Bennett a scotch and water.
Fair warning, we’re about to get really L.A. By which I mean Botoxed faces so tight you could bounce a quarter off them L.A., not the birthplace of Easy E. L.A. If you happened to be attending the Chanel Fashion show this past Friday and you were thirsty, you would have elbowed a couple Olsen twins out of the way (not particularly hard) and placed your drink order with a man of Slovak descent and a slight Boston accent. Here’s the LA Times review of the event, curiously enough they don’t mention me. Another reason they need to hire me, I certainly wouldn’t have made such a shocking reporting omission.
http://www.latimes.com/features/lifestyle/la-et-chanel21may21,0,7415015.story?coll=la-home-middleright
More than anything these events break down along very distinct social lines. For any of you who haven’t had the pleasure of pouring drinks for people who refuse to admit you exist, and I do have some brethren out there, here’s how it goes down.
The Elite: These are the people who actually generate buzz. That night Lindsay Lohan’s arrival promoted a flashing of photos on the same brightness scale as an atomic explosion. Unfortunately Ms. Lohan did not approach my bar, something about “rehab,” but the legitimately famous Eva Mended and Jessica Alba did. Like most of the elite they survive on water and fairy dust, and accordingly they only wanted champagne. They say the camera adds ten pounds, and it’s true, they’re all ten pounds under human. I’m convinced the vast majority of men who drooled over Jessica Alba in Maxim would recoil in fear when they saw that in real life you could wrap a hair scrunchie around her thigh. The elite know they’re elite, and they don’t have to prove it. For the most part they’re actually relatively nice, even if they never tip. It seems to be widely understood that just being in their presence is tip enough…well fuck you Victoria Beckham, at least give a man a five spot. More like Cheap Spice,,,oh damn!
The Gray Middle: These are the people who are wealthy but never get recognized, and it secretly drives them crazy. They’re major entertainment lawyers, but US Weekly just doesn’t care about lawyers. They’re actually the worst customers, determined to prove how important they are by belittling everyone else. These are the people who order a Mojito, then act amazed you don’t have fresh mint on hand. It’s a fucking catering event, I literally built this bar a couple hours ago, sorry I don’t have an herb garden available for you. You’re only hope is that two of them get together and get into a “impress their trophy wife” battle by dropping large tips. A dangerous subset is the rich 20-something child. They’ve coasted by for years on nothing but spoiling fumes, they’ve got nothing better to do than get hammered and throw up in your ice bucket. And they’re always wearing some mismatched fashion accessory, the fad of the moment is basketball player headbands while wearing a dress. That’s not ironic, that’s retarded.
Girl in gown and headband: “I want a Long Island, do you mind if I smoke right here, thanks.
Me: “You go to hell and you stay there.”
The Peasant Class: They’re just amazed to be there. A friend of a friend got them on the guest list and they’re going to make the most of it. The people aimlessly hanging around the last hour of the party, that’s them. Anyone with real money has better places to be than a catered party at midnight on Friday. You make the majority of your funds from them. They tip well in an effort to seem like they belong, without realizing that the real money never tips. God bless their naivete. I’ve got nothing against them, they just want to be in the same building as Demi Moore and tell your friends about it. Fine, but stop ordering drinks you had on a cruise ship and assumed all bars make. I don’t have a five-gallon sombrero filled with blue margaritas. You’re just going to have to live with that fact.
Sorry NoChancers, I can’t get you into any red carpet parties, but if you can get there on your own I can steer you right when you approach the bar. Have your drink in mind when you get there, make sure it consists of one alcohol and one mixer (no passion fruit doesn’t qualify), and put down a couple dollars. Is that really so hard? Apparently it is for celebrities, and you’re better than them aren’t you? Of course you are, except they have enough money to buy your spleen if they feel like it. Welcome to L.A.
