And That's Why They Call Me Sojourner TRUTH.

Sunday night's Christmas party was, indeed, a shit show.

We all met--hostel staff and bar staff--at the bar, where we had free beer and wine for about an hour. We then got into a rented bus, which took us to a nearby Lebanese restaurant. Our managers had arranged for all the wine and beer to be dropped off beforehand, so bottles were ready and waiting when we arrived. The drinking continued as everyone opened their secret santa presents.

It seems that the theme of dirtiness is really among the bar staff, as the "reception crew" (as we call those who work above ground in the hostel) tended towards more appropriate gifts. I, for instance, got a little box of cards that listed the 50 places to see before you die. Sweet. Appropriate for a traveler like myself.

One of the managers, on the other hand, got a whistle shaped like a vagina that he wore around his neck all night.
Joe, in reception, received porno magazines. The subject: women over 60.
Mai, who also works in reception, got a glow-in-the-dark water bottle shaped like a penis, which she promptly filled with red wine.
Lena, one of my coworkers got the best gift of all--a vibrator.

So, as you can see, my cock ring fit right in. My recipient loved it, and was quite excited. So excited, that later in the night he told me broke it by trying to fit it on his wrist.
What a waste of a good cock ring.

Here are some pics from the dinner, just to corroborate my story.

These are my managers.

One girl was given a box of pads as her gift (I kid you not). Staff members immediately took great fun in opening them, soaking them with red wine, and affixing them to their body.
Clearly this was a heavy-flow day.




The glow-in-the-dark penis water bottle I mentioned earlier.
Note: the person holding this is not the actual recipient of the gift. Penises all around!


Um, I could show you more, but I think this is all you need. Imagine how the other patrons in the restaurant must have felt?

The Day the Music Died

So, as you know, the bar where I work is a haven for the foreign crowd. As a result, most of the music played is the sort of common-denominator pop music that is sure to please everyone from Bombay to Berlin. While the DJs do a good job of keeping the dance floor full, I've learned that the songs are pretty much the same each night. So, in the vein of The Lonesome Lumberjack, I offer a list.

Songs That Make Me Want to Shoot Myself in the Pinkie Toe Just to Take The Pain Away
aka Tunes I Hear At Work Every Night, from the '80s, '90s, and Today:

"All The Small Things," by Blink 182
"Hotstepper," by Ini Kamoze.
(tell me you remember this song. You know, the hotstepper. The lyrical gangsta. Excuse me, mister officer / Still love you like that....)
"Informer," by White reggae singer SNOW. If you don't know this one, I'm gonna jog your memory.





"Ice, Ice Baby," by Rob Van Winkle, aka Vanilla Ice.
Okay, while this song can occasionally bring about ironic fun, hearing it every single night for two weeks straights makes me as angry as Mr. Van Winkle (Did you see his Behind the Music? Dude is cray cray!)
"Pokerface," by Lady Gaga. Never heard of this chick before I got here, but she's all the rage. And I want to stab her eyes with a spork.
"Groove Is In The Heart," by Dee-lite.
Yes, Dee-lite.
"That's Not My Name," by the Ting Tings.
Okay, I get it, whatever, it's not your name. What is your fucking name, chick? Oh, how about Bane of My Existence. Wait, too long?

I can only get my energy up when they play JT--for some reason he never gets old.

A White Christmas

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 14 December 2008.

I am becoming a total creature of the night, guys. The days of short shifts three times a week are over, as I'm on the roster 6 days a week now. Today is sort of a day off, but tonight is the staff Christmas party--oops, I should say Holiday party to be politically correct (but let's be real, there are no non-Christians on the staff. We silence those voices). Our boss handed out names of other staff members for Secret Santa, and I got a guy named Patrick, who works in housekeeping.

My original plan was to buy him a bottle of wine and call it a damn day. However, we were all talking earlier this week and I mentioned I had to buy a guy's gift, but he wasn't a bartender. Of course, not knowing who Patrick is, I have no regards for his anonymity, and just told them it was him. Even though he's not on the bar staff everyone knows him, and immediately laughter filled the room.

"Oh, that'll be easy," said one my pierce-tongue young things. "Just get him something filthy. He'll love it."
"What?" I said, partially confused. This is not how we do things Up Over, and I certainly thought the Brits (who I affectionately call 'the colonizers') would have a dash more class than that on this holiday season.

Then again, I should have known that the people who brought us the "quick fuck"--and, as I discovered two nights ago while getting a snack, enjoy KETCHUP ON PIZZA (clearly these palates are not refined)--would have crazy ideas of Santa's goodness.

Just then, Tracy, the only bartender over the age of 21, came over and asked what "we were on about."
"She's gotta buy a present for Patrick," PTYT said.
Tracy burst out laughing. "Yes, something really filthy. The grosser the better."

Okay, now, I haven't met this Patrick person, but I'm already uncomfortable. How would you feel if, when someone mentioned your name in the context of gift-giving, the first words out of everyone's mouth was "oh, get him something dirty!!" Is he a registered sex offender, or a just a run-of-the-mill deviant who is very open about his leanings?

Which then leads me to: what defines "really filthy"? We're talking animal porn, or just alot of full-frontal with lesbians? Yesterday two of the PTYTs went to a sex store called the Pleasure Chest and bought their gifts. (Apparently, down under, 'tis the season to be horny.)

Cat got her secret santa, one of the guys who works in the kitchen, a Kiss The Chef hat and some shorts that have lip around the crotch area--perfect for a penis to fit through.

Howie, one of the glassies, got his person some anal beads.

I feel very out of my element. It's not that I'm a prude, I just think a sex toy is the kind of gift that should keep on giving, and one you should purchase for yourself. And, seeing as I've never met this person and have a $10 limit, there's really not much I can go on besides what can only be described as "an intense heterosexuality."

So, um, I'm thinking a cock ring, and then two condoms from my own stash (lord knows I'm not using them anyway).

I'm bringing my camera tonight. This "holiday party" is sure to be a shit show.

Workaday World

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 11 December 2008.

Last night I had dreams of pouring jager bombs and saw cold, barely sanitary steel when I closed my eyes.

So, turns out the illness I've been fighting is a sinus infection, and I had the good fortune of being able to go to the doctor and get medicated yesterday before going to work. I'm now officially on an antibiotics regimen, but this didn't make the 6-hour shift go by any faster, or stop my nose from running as I leaned in to decipher people's drink orders.

It also didn't help the wave of nausea that passed through me when hearing the following requests:
Vodka with water
Shot of jaeger with tabasco sauce

So, as I mentioned before, my coworkers are very friendly....however, they are also out of control, which puts a limit on the time I can spend with them. For instance, when one of the managers said, "Yeah, that sweater says 'rape victim'" I didn't quite know how to respond. In fact, he's really into making jokes about rape--especially raping the female staff--and I didn't think this was something we could joke about. The other girls at work seem to find it funny, so maybe I should just ride this new wave of "shock comedy" and see what comes of it. Does this means AIDS is officially comedic fodder? What about the Holocaust? Can I go there?

As I said in my previous post, this past Sunday I attempted to bond with them by going to the house party they were throwing. Almost all of my coworkers live together, 4 to a room in a 2-bedroom apartment about 3 blocks away from the bar. I can't imagine what the wait for the bathroom is like, or how anyone gets their freak on, but they seem to be fine with it. To paint a picture of who I roll with in the workplace, here are some...well, pictures:


This is D. He is very nice. Sometimes I think he is high when he is not. As the party progressed, the box of wine he's holding became a fashionable headpiece. As for what's written across his torso--"I'm a WALES, LIKE!!"
I don't know what that means.



This is C. She is 18, has a pierced tongue, and I love when she calls a customer "Right Cunty"--not to their face, of course.



This is someone's ass. That is a tattoo on their ass. It says "I'M DRUNK."

I could go on, but I have to go blow my nose.

Go Shawty, It WAS Your Birthday....

So, the beginning of my 25th year has been interesting. An attempt to celebrate with dancing, drinking, and merriment was a total bust, as the bars were lame, there were too many popped collars, and the DJs refused to play Rihanna. Sunday, the actual day of my birth, was nice, as I was roused from sleep with many text messages sending good tidings, and an offer for lunch. Seeing as it was damn near dinner time when I woke up, I thought it behoovy of me to get out and enjoy the day.

It ended up being a hodge-podge, with a one-on-one lunch with a friend, then a semi-date with a dude I met at 2am the night before in a kebab shop, then a stop at a house party thrown by my drunken underage British coworkers. When I came home and checked my email, my inbox was bombarded with news of facebook wall posts and e-cards, which made me happy. I keep thinking America has forgotten all about me, but thanks to the interweb, I'm still alive and kicking. The e-cards also help me keep in touch with my roots. For instance:


From the Elite Gay Visionary, of course.



This one was actually sent to me by more than one person. I love that Pearl Harbor Day is still present in people's minds. In a way, it makes sense: considering some of my shenanigans in life, it's quite fitting that I was born on the anniversary of a day that will live in infamy!



I guess 25 does mean I'm getting up in years, and I certainly do know how to ensnare a man (for a night, anyway). I hear 25 is the age where your ass starts to spread--how will that effect my cougar wiles?


I'm currently nursing a cold, trying my darndest to stop it from turning into strep throat or a sinus infection--lord knows what this "traveler's insurance" of mine actually covers. Back at the bar tomorrow night to enable addictions and attempt to decipher accents and crazy drink orders. You know, like a SNAKEBITE: half beer, half cider, topped with grenadine.

Gag me.

No Holds BARred

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 12/2/2008.

It's about 2pm Tuesday afternoon--or 1400 hours for those on military time. I woke up about an hour ago, still fatigued from my first full shift as a bartendress.

Yes, the blacktress is earning her keep! Last week I applied for work at a bar near the city center that's popular with the foreign/backpacker crowd. It was a weird process, as the boss was very flaky and much of my hiring was due to me calling him and him making a last-minute decision. For example:

After an interview last Tuesday, he said he'd call me the next day to set up a trial shift. This means he wanted me to come in and work. He wanted to see me--this is fact. So, Wednesday comes and I get no phone call.
Thursday comes and goes, no phone call.
Finally, sick of the waiting game, I call him up on Friday at 2pm to see what the deal is.
Manager: "Hey, how are you going? Actually, someone canceled their trial, so can you come in at 6pm tonight?"

Cut to me, four hours later, standing behind the bar like I know what's up.

At the end of that shift, he says he'll slot me in for Monday, and let me know the exact time.
Yesterday, at 1pm, I'm calling him and getting NO ANSWER, as I wonder when my shift is. He then TEXTS me an hour later, telling me to come in at 10pm.

I thought working on a Monday would be a nice way to ease me in to the process, for where I come from, Mondays aren't usually poppin'.
Clearly (and as the night would go on to prove), I was an idiot. I keep forgetting that being on the other side of the world, things are opposite of what they'd be in the land Up Over. The thing is, backpackers are on vacation, so every night's a party night. They are in it to win it and will not stop until they can't feel their face and are making out with a dude from Croatia.

The place was packed and in full swing, and I pretty much got behind the bar and hit he ground running. I was instantly overwhelmed and confused, unable to understand many of the foreign accents and needing things repeated over and over. Luckily, I was told to shadow Laura, a really nice English girl who was super fast and knew the way backwards and forwards. Having been awake since 4am and in a state of stress and panic all day, I wasn't as sharp as I should have been, and also have a lot to learn.

This is what happens when you lie on your resume.

I realized that I don't like serving girls, or guys with groups of girls, because they always order complicated things and are quick to give a female bartender an attitude. This is especially frustrating when said female bartender is new and has no idea what the customer is talking about. For instance, when someone says:
"Hey, can I get two QF shots?"

What the fuck is a QF shot?!

I repeated her order with my confusion obvious, and she looked at me like I was a retarded, three-headed hydra. And I'm thinking, "Oh, what bitch, you're so fucking cool you have to abbreviate everything and expect me to read your mind?"

A "QF shot" is a Quick Fuck shot-- a combination of (wait, let me see if I can get this right) Midori, Kahlua, and Baileys. I'd never heard of it, it looks as disgusting as it sounds, and it's all the rage with the English.

Have you ever heard of Vodka Raspberry? It's vodka with raspberry cordial. Never heard of it before yesterday, and it looks pretty narsty. However, it's quite popular. I'm also supposed to know that when someone orders vodka-raspberry, I am to add lemon soda to it--even if they don't say it!

Oh, and what about "white wine with lemonade"? Well, by lemonade, these crazy foreigners mean "lemon soda" -- but do NOT think this means 7-Up or Sprite. No siree, those are sweeter, lime-flavored, and do not count.

Do see what I'm up against?

Guys, I just want to meet people and enable addictions-- am I asking for too much?
I had grand illusions of working in a nice, local pub where I'd get to chat with kindly people--preferably during the early hours, which would enable me to have a social life. Alas, I'm on the 10p-3a shift, getting yelled at by strangers who are lined up four-deep for jager bombs.

On the plus side, the other girls I work with are pretty nice, and helped me out. I tried to look to them for inspiration, especially my dear Laura. I asked her how long she'd worked here, and was pleased to hear her say she'd only been here two months. Maybe it'll take time, I thought. She's so good in two months, maybe I'll get there quickly, as well.
"Have you worked in a bar before?" I asked her, hoping she'd say no.
"My parents own a pub in England, so I've been in pubs my whole life."
Well, there goes my inspiration. Laura's been up in the pub since she was 11, which is of course why she makes serving 10 people at a time look so effortless.

My ego is further crushed when I learn that Laura is only eighteen years old. In fact, all the girls on duty last night were under 21. And they're just slinging and mixing like some fucking Coyote Ugly extras, while I'm standing around wondering what the hell is in a "Norwegian Sock Jug."

I got home at 3:30 am last night, my shoes soaked through with dirty soap-water, and my jeans wet up to my knees. I smelled of beer and insecurity, and couldn't wait to shower. It's now 3:15pm, and I've got less than 7 hours before I have to get out there and do it again.

Um, how badly would you guys judge me if I quit?

Remember, Remember, the 1st of December

I'm really happy that today is December 1st. Primarily because it brings an end to the Australian month of MOvember. The Movember event raises awareness around men's health issues, with a focus on prostate cancer and depression in men. Basically, dudes all over the country grow intense facial hair and people sponsor them to do so, raising money for the organizations.

This is a wonderful thing for men to be doing, and it's cool to be able to look at a guy and see that he's about supporting the cause (separate the wheat from the chaff),* but the drawback is that for the last month 1 out of every 3 Australian men has looked like a pedophile--or Burt Reynolds. Imagine walking down the street or hitting up the club and seeing a bunch of this:

















Okay, well, not as bad as the guy on the right, but I'm trying to paint a picture here. You should see what google showed me when I image-searched 'pedophile'.

I'm also glad because my birthday is in 6 days. Although I'm going to be celerbating it when I'm back in NYC in 2009, turning the big 4-8 (or 25, or 211, depending on which of my alter egos we're going with) will be fun. And it'll be the first time my birthday isn't during freezing weather, which makes dressing sluttily so much less awkward.



* or, you know, tell which guys really likes to keep his upper lip warm. Sometimes it's just a dude rocking a mustache and they don't get why everyone else has been stealing their look.