Only The Lonely

In an effort that would have made the characters in Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest proud, I used an increasing intellectual strength to generate a loophole in my current state of house arrest, sans partying, sans alcohol, drugs, and the entertainment of the public at large. So here I am back in familiar haunts like a 38 year old at a 20 year reunion, everyone looks slightly recognizable, however the cold harsh reality of time has either worn them rail thin or unslightly like a half deflated blow up doll, hanging, sagging, a victim of gravity's pull. The bar looks to be rather segragated tonight on the opposite side of me are the less desirable women playing video poker, sipping on mixed drinks talking amongst each other scoping out all the cool guys in the middle of the bar who wear the lastest in unisexual clothing, covered in tattoos, and attempting to present themselves with a cool reserved for the likes of David Bowie, Lou Reed, and Dennis Hopper. These posers are pretty fucking annoying cause they like to hog the attention of the female bar staff who in themselves are somewhere between 6's to 8's, really depending on how much I have had to drink and what other women might be in the bar, these girls are around, pretty much have been hired to entertain the mostly male clientele who huants this place with such regularity for just such reasons, not much else for these middle aged grey hairs and corporate suits who seem to fit in nowhere else.

At this bar, there is no real theme, set schedule of appearance, velvet rope or steriod filled doorman to check hipness credentials, all sorts fill the place tonight, seperated by socio cultured difference via paycheck, reality television, and social networking. The barmaids are dressed in semi regulated stripper gear with a dash of naughty school girl, appears to be the heavy trend in Las Vegas now that the sex, err, stripping, mean err, entertainment industry has gone down the tubes from the turn in the economy. Plenty of these women have found their way into the bartending industry, with mysterious backgrounds and stories that make little sense, cautious, bred that way from so many years of leecherous men trying to dupe them into sexual activity and some succeeded. Low cut plaid skirts, knee high knit leggings, corsets and bra for the less attractive types who have to fight for the attention of this crowd of misfits who look to work on their lines of talking to women in order to find out what works and what doesn't with the remote hope they might somehow get a date with one of the bartenders and go from there.

The place is an English bar of sorts, like an inn, there is a large group of British folk whether they now lived in Vegas or were merely visiting could not immediately determined. They just carried on in their usual brash behavior mocking one of the corset and bra barmaids who did not have the relavent sense of refill the continous conga line of empty beer pints lining the bar, so the barmaid's name was Barbie, one of those real sort of bubble head names these Brits had no problem lampooning throughout the night, little did these guys give a shit about these barmaids whom to them must have looked like a stray pack of hookers, a few whistles and cat calls later, a brief battle began with a stolen Iphone which was not noticed for at least a half hour, where
Barbie began hacking into the phone, linking the guy's Facebook page with all sorts of Gay porn, how creative, topped off with a healthy dose of middle fingers and fuck you's, generating all sorts of laughter, I was in tears, cause the only person really taking all this seriously was the knob muscle male bartender who was off talking with one of the locals at the bar who interjected in the most masculine way, "Is everything okay?" as if this steriod filled douche bag could handle this small crew of Brits, let alone your average rouge drunk, he was not good for much, except cockblocking me and other guys at the bar, showing off his lame ass tats to semi attractive girls at the bar, this whole tattoo thing has gone off the chart, the ultimate statement in retardation, Mauri, ritual, or old school WWII style tattoo art is one thing, but the lengths people will go to get laid astounds me.

There is a new barmaid in tonight, I personally have not been on a fieldtrip for a few months to this particular bar, from work, rehab, and lockdown, there has not been much of a reason to come down here, looks like a new set of talent, so to speak, this woman is one of them with the customary arm tattoo that has become the new trademark of that woman in transition from intelligence to the slow burn of transforming into the safe landing of beautification in which concludes with finding a man who will objectify her and pay handsomely for the opportunity to do so and within a bit of conversation over the night this entire concept plays itself out, if only for me striking up a conversation with a guy who was a medical officer of sorts who knew the woman as a former paramedic, hot female paramedics who can't handle that, all for mouth to mouth resusication, funny how the smallest of threads once pulled open up a world of a person whom I do find attractive and interested in, if just for the fact she is hiding her intelligence behind a caked on facade of this week's hot slut, it really was funny, how this woman arrived at this place serving drinks tonight, married to some guy who gave her whatever she wanted, well, why work here then, even if two nights a week.

I thought about this as this woman let's called her Sandra, who is shmoozing it up with some baffon in a double chin and suit, typical middle management knob who tries get over on his off the rack outfit, otherwise they are wearing that Miami Vice sports coat look, come on, god damn fucking fashion contest here, get out the runway, line up, show some ass, grab your ankles and let some dyke fuck you in the ass in order to get some action, does not add up, I will not be party to it, party to these new rules of metrosexualism, bending my will, going against this outright assualt by women to turn the table on guys by making them jump through all the bullshit hoops, from working out, tanning, dieting, and shopping, such a waste of effort, yet looking at the cool club over in the middle of the bar they have no doubt bought into the cause and for it, this generation is lost in attaining any sense of individuality. Nothing but pock marked robots fighting over the same dead flesh, same rotting corspe, same momentary illusion that fades into a viscious circle of debt, dumbness, and paralysis. Trying to flirt with the new barmaid a bit, but I play by my own rules, she expects some asskissing, I know the game, but choose to ignore the standard route, have to fuck with them a bit, send them away, ignore them, why, who knows, it works, it is cruel, pointless, and stupid, still, must be done, lure them into the realm of psychological warfare, short curcuit all those warning signals that go off when approaching a smooth talker, if nothing else I need the practice, get my game back together, not quite that easy when turning 40 in another month, but looking around here, there was not much compettion, I might not be 26 anymore, but since that time have learned a thing or two about people, our society, and most of all myself.

Walk without fear into the fire or was that fire walk with me, either way does not take much to put a hook in, play around, she tries to outflank me by going over and talking to the tattoo douche bags and the suit, fine, play that game, so I strike up a conversation with the medical officer sitting next to me who happen to roll in on his day off, this is where the bridge between anonymity and Sandra come together and within a half an hour I can pretty much size her up as a person who has given up on her passion, dreams, and future, punishing herself with a prison sentence as a barmaid in some off the strip tavern, wheels spinning as she gets older and older, till the dreams are all gone and nothing is left but survival, Sandra can see this off in the horizon and has started to tear a bit when talking about her former career as a medic, the medical officer told me she was a good one and was a shame she had ended up here, the two of them swapped stories of the old days. There was something still there behind that Vegas facade, a real human being peering over the wall this city builds around people without regret, fear, or consent, it is a long way down that wall to the other side, ground nearly out of sight, Sandra hesitated wondering if the impact upon landing was worth the risk of being free from this cycle of physical surface existence. Would she jump, her eyes snapped back into a drone like gaze so familiar with so many people here, I knew she would not.