Yikes, it's been awhile.

It has. Mostly because since my move to Philadelphia in mid June, I've spent most of my days lounging about in blissful ignorance of every other activity I SHOULD be doing, (sorry GRE flash cards). An update or two, I tend bar at a (serious) dive bar near my apartment. There are stripper poles on the third floor. More on this later. I drink french press coffee in the morning and drink bottles of red wine at night. I read. I write. I listen to music and then I drink more wine. This is punctuated with the occasional (read: nearly every day) stroll to the restaurant where my roommate works in order to scam on the bartender that I crush on. Tough life, I realize. With all of this wine drinking and hours of relaxation and people watching in Rittenhouse Park, you can understand why I just haven't had the time to blog about my interesting experiences. And there have been many.

Bartending always means I meet interesting people. The last bar I worked at was a gay dance club in Pittsburgh (yes, there are gay people in Pittsburgh, a question that has been offered on more than one occasion), and now I work at, as I said, a total dive, where I unfortunately get hit on by less than attractive members of the opposite sex. Clearly, this was never a problem at my last place of employment. And for anyone who has worked in a service industry, you know, this is not complimentary "hitting on." It's more like, really fucking annoying hitting on. Just a tip, if you have children and an ex wife... chances are, most females in their early 20s are not interested. We deal with enough baggage from irresponsible, unavailable men of our own age, thank you very much.

One man in particular, a 60ish, long-haired, Vietnam war vet who enjoys playing pool and never paying his bar tab, also enjoys giving me gifts. The first time I tried to refute the gift, saying thank you, but I just couldn't accept the gold angel earrings thrust into my hand with a swift shake and a warning to "not ever wear them here!", failed. He stared straight into my eyes and said, in a surprisingly stern voice, "When given a gift, you accept it." That was it. What else could I say? So, I took them. And threw them away the second I got home.

The next gift came the following week. It was a small silver bracelet with hearts and moons decorating the band. I'm sure it was stolen from Claire's. It went in the trash.

The third gift came as I was leaving my shift for the day, hurriedly racing out the door to try to make it home in time to start drinking heavily, when a plastic bag was thrown heartily into my stomach. I knew the culprit immediately. As I turned to look at him, he said nothing. Instead, he winked and turned away. Opening the bag in the privacy of my own apartment just in case my new friend decided to wrap up a hooker's arm, I found a black purse, probably from a hooker, with a small, dirty plastic toy hidden in the bottom.

...

I threw it away. There was really nothing else I could do. Perhaps if my apartment had more room I would start a collection.

I'll let you know when I receive a 7even-themed head in a box.