I have tried and tried, LJ.

But, fuck organic peanut butter.

Fuck it in its oily, mucky, sugarless ear.

I’m working at a new bar. Five days a week - 11AM to 6PM. For those of you who have never visited a bar that functions solely as a bar between the hours of 11AM the traditional 5PM cocktail hour, allow me to give you a glimpse of the world I am living in.

One distinctive quality about my new life is the odor. Bars that function solely as bars tend to smell. A lot. It’s a particular “bar smell” that can only be replicated by years of congealing layers of semi-evaporated beer slime and the foul funk of alcoholism and clinical depression. Eventually I will become immune to the odor, but since I’ve only been working here two weeks, I’m still quite sensitive to it. Yummy.

A fun fact about the new bar is that it doesn’t function soley as a bar all day. At night they serve food! As an employee who has seen the kitchen, my suggestion would be not to eat it.

Now, as you know, bartenders rely on tips for their living. I get a nominal shift pay and then I depend on the generosity of my customers to make money. Being a daytime bartender during the work week, the customers I depend on are problem drinkers. Sure, from time to time there’s the tourist who’s on vacation or the local who’s got the day off, but in general, my clientele are — and I say this without judgment — drunks.

There are the guys who work for the plant around the corner. One drops by on his lunch break two or three times a week. He has three beers (Bud draft) (I charge him for two), tips me $5 and goes back to work. The other shows up around 12:30. Everyday. Every. Day. He comes in by 1PM and leaves sometime after my shift is over. Every. Day. He brings in his laptop sometimes. Mostly he does his work over the phone. Apparently he’s been “working” from the bar for about five years. He’s currently under investigation by his company for drinking on the job.

His drink of choice is Bud draft with a shot of Jameson. Times six. At least. And no matter where he is in the process, he takes his business calls. He runs to the sound system, turns the TV volume down and heads to the back bar. “Mr. M! How can I help you?” He fancies himself a big shot. Especially on the rare occasion we get some girls in. “Lemme get these girls a drink, Susan!” He lies and says that he’s the owner. He hands out pitchers of beer and shots of tequila and then at the end of the night I get the talk.

Him: Susan. Commere. What’s wit dis bill? You gotta start chargin’ me less.

Me: Then you gotta start ordering less. Your bill’s only $45. You should be paying $75

Him: No. You can’t pay no attention to the retail pricin’. I need you to cut it in half.

Then he tips me $10. Five hours, 12+ drinks, a 40% discount and he tips me $10. How DARE he ask for more of a discount. It makes me want to call his boss.”Oh yeah, he’s here. He’s alllllways here. Come get his cheap, drunk ass.”

Then last Wednesday there was C. C came in talking of how he had been with some Iraq War Vets earlier that day.

A Vietnam vet himself, C (pint-sized Bloody Mary) spends a lot of time at the VA Hospital. He walks with a cane, he has scars from bullet wounds and he has no teeth. None. Not one. Well, he had some … in his pocket. After vodka number two he told me how he had to wait four months to get his new dentures which is why he was sitting there with no teeth. After vodka four he showed me his upper plate. He didn’t like wearing it because it hurt. I told him he looked fine without it. Then around vodka six …

You know. I had a psychotic break.

Sweet.

In addition to the whole denture thing, C spent quite a bit of time telling me stories about being in Vietnam. Early on his stories were sad, vague accounts of how hard war is and how so much of the struggle happens once you come back home. Circa vodka number three, details became more graphic and horrific and I heard things I never wanted to know about what war is like up close. Horrendous, macabre details I wish I could un-hear and accounts I will never repeat. These stories were what led C to tell me about his psychotic break.

I don’t know. I was a fucking kid. You understand? But I couldn’t stop seeing the faces. I could see every one of them. And I had to make them go away. You understand? It was just so fucking horrible. The children. The women. All of them … but you had to … you didn’t know … you couldn’t fucking trust anyone. You understand? And so I had to burn it off. You see? Here. Look.

He stretches the neck of his dirty sweatshirt down to reveal a scarred shoulder.

See that? I had a tattoo marking all of them. I had the count. You understand? Of all of them. My kills. And I kept hearing them. And seeing them. You understand?  I thought if I got rid of it, I could make it stop. So I burned it off with an iron.

He pushes his empty glass towards me.

I’ll take another.

Retirement home for well-loved stuffies.

Location: 14th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues

My friend K just sent me a link to this video:

Best comedy video ever. Right?

Wrong. It’s real.

www.shakeweight.com

Do you guys know what trichotillomania is? It’s been in the media lately so maybe you’ve heard of it. For example, Tom, Kathy Griffin’s assistant has it. There was also an intense and totally grody episode of “Obsessed,” about a woman who had it.

From www.abcnews.com.

According to Google Health, “Trichotillomania is hair loss caused by compulsive pulling or twisting of the hair until it breaks off.” Symptoms are:

• An uneven appearance to the hair
• Bare patches or all around (diffuse) loss of hair
• Bowel blockage (obstruction) if people eat the hair they pull out
• Constant tugging, pulling, or twisting of hair
• Denying the hair pulling
• Hair regrowth that feels like stubble in the bare spots
• Increasing sense of tension before the hair pulling
• Other self-injury behaviors
• Sense of relief, pleasure, or gratification after the hair pulling

So, why all the talk about trichotillomania? Because we’ve had an outbreak of it at our house.

Chulo’s always been a nervous dog. Ever since we rescued his pitiful ass from the streets of Queens, he’s displayed neurotic behaviors. He’s got a thing about pacing and whining with favorite toys in his mouth. He’s scared of wind and plastic bags. But he was an abused dog who was homeless in New York City for who knows how long so we’ve just accepted that he has some quirks and try to work with him. However, this trichotillomania thing has taken it too far.

Last night I didn’t sleep for more than two hours because of this:

Around three o’clock this morning I awoke to a, “Slurrrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrp, smack!,” loop coming from the dog bed. Using my iPhone as a flashlight I found Chulo lying on his side, toes and nose in a big wet spot. His front paws were in prayer position and you could see his tongue darting out between them as he laid there licking and pulling contentedly at the hair on his front right foot.

See his left foot? That’s what his right one looked like before we went to bed. The butt issue he has has been around for a while. Usually around mid-Summer Chulo will begin to attack his back haunch and before long we end up with a Bichon with a bald spot on his ass. What sucks about it, besides the obvious discomfort to Chulo and the worrying Erica and I do in our attempts to prevent it, is that it’s embarrassing. When we walk him around the neighborhood people ask what’s wrong with him. We end up in conversations about hot spots and cones and dermatological creams and it’s time consuming and we look like we’re bad parents and it sucks. However, he tends to chew his butt when we’re not around. This foot thing has become a nighttime ritual. It started as simply licking, sans hair pulling. A few pokes and one or two, “Stop it!”’s would usually calm him down. But last night, my little man was on a mission.

Sleepless hours went by, “Slurrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrrrp, smack!” Every once in a while I tried the poking/”Stop it!” method, but the little bastard would growl ferociously causing Erica (who has a real job and has to be up at a normal morning hour) to wake up and growl incoherently herself. After being growled at him to the bathroom sink and tried to wash off any offending matter he may have been trying to get at. I checked for fleas, splinters, crumbs … anything that might be causing him to be so dedicated in his pursuit of foot licking. We went back to bed and he was finally quiet.

For about three minutes.

“Slurrrrrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrrrrrp, smack!” I wrestled him back out of his bed. He growled, Erica growled and I think I may have whimpered in frustration and exhaustion. But I got him and I fought his ass until I had him pinned in a full-Nelson with his slimy little paws trapped in my hand. He growled, Erica growled. He struggled and groaned for a little bit, then finally, at last, mercifully … there was silence.

Then … there was Erica’s alarm.

A few weeks ago, Spike Lee held a celebration in Prospect Park for what would have been Michael Jackson’s 51st birthday. It was a star-studded event: Tracy Morgan, Ed Lover, Spike, DJ Spinna, Reverend Al, and Brooklyn Borough President, Marty Markowitz all participated. I also spotted Common wandering around in the backstage area though he didn’t perform.

The party started at noon … just like the rain. At first it was basically me, Erica, Spike, Spinna and the security guards. Only two of us were protected from the elements and it wasn’t the ladies. But the music was bumping, the vibe was right and we weren’t worried about getting wet — we just wanted to dance. And dance we did. The crowd kept growing larger, the weather finally shaped up and just as DJ Spinna started, “You give me butterflies,” a group of monarchs gathered over our heads as if they were choreographed. It was amazing.

At some point during the, “Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa,” sing-a-long, there was a commotion to the left of us. Someone was down and although the people around her were screaming and pointing, their panic was indistinguishable from the general excitement at singing along to, “Wanna be startin’ something.” I saw what was going on and leapt into action!

I made a dash for the front of the crowd and after frantically waving and screaming (unheard) at security guards, I got the attention of a woman standing on stage. In a moment of genius, I made eye contact and while mouthing the words, I signed to her holding up fingers … Nine, One, One! An expression of understanding appeared on her face with a side of her own panic. (Finally.) She turned to Spike Lee. And then, Spike Lee turned to me.

“What is it?” He mouthed from the stage while holding his hands up in a, “What the hell?” manner and looking generally irritated as if I were just fucking around. I pointed at the crowd who were doing their own pointing toward the collapsed lady, and pantomimed passing out. In case you ever need to do this, it is done by hanging your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and tilting your head to the side in a swift motion while crossing your eyes.

And Spike Lee got it. And he sent help. Within seconds EMTs and cops were shoving their way toward the unfortunate victim of heat exhaustion and the crisis was averted.

Yay me!

I may not be the most regular with posting on the blog, but I don’t believe I’ve ever missed an entire month.

The thing is, stuff that makes sense while in a slump of depression with a side of Zoloft withdrawal, no longer makes sense once the serotonin has leveled off and therapy has started to kick in. I had written those last two posts while in that slump and frankly, I was scared of what I said. I remembered the gist of what I wrote, but not verbatim and I worried that I had gone too far or embarrassed myself. I realize that all I had to do was re-read what I had written, but I wouldn’t. My therapist calls this behavior, Anticipation Anxiety.

In the South, social mores are strict and taken very seriously. Airing your dirty laundry is one of the worst offenses. Younguns are taught what not to say more fervently than what to say. Every interaction has a defined protocol and you learn at a young age not to fuck with it. You’re expected to maintain a facade of happiness and to be well-behaved in public; there are jokes about how it doesn’t matter what’s going on inside the house, as long as the yard is mowed.  ”Unacceptable” behavior is done in shadows and is never admitted to.

I broke every one of those rules with this blog. I have been honest and open and put my dirt out for the world to see (all six of you) and I don’t care … most of the time. Then I have moments where I worry that I should have filtered. I re-read those posts today and I’m okay with them. In fact, they’re a lot more innocuous than they were in my memory. I tend to build things up in my head and this time it was exacerbated by the fact that I was told by a reader, “Maybe you should get a diary.”

Sidenote: I hadn’t thought of this before, but I don’t receive comments like regular bloggers. Other bloggers get comments typed into the text boxes at the end of their posts. Readers respond to the author. The author responds back. Readers send messages to each other. Know what I get? Phone calls. Face-to-face conversations. Private emails. Wonder what that’s about?

And that’s something else that’s kept me away from writing here. Wondering if I should be doing it in a diary. Wondering what the point of this is. Should I stay away from the more personal stuff and just tell the funny anecdotes? And I realized, this blog … MY blog … is not a humor column. This blog is me talking about what’s going on with me, and I’m telling all of it: good, bad, funny, whatever. As I’ve mentioned before, you are only as sick as your secrets, and I am on the road to recovery.