Dairy of a Madman

(Cleaning out the saved drafts I’ve started over the past six months; this one has the seed of a good idea hidden beneath a lot of mold and a really funky smell)

Of all the bartenders I’ve ever known, the best were the ones that weren’t necessarily good mixologists but were unafraid to use whatever tools they had at their disposal to distract from that.

It’s a lot easier to shortpour a group of frat boys when they’re busy focusing on your cleavage.

Bartending, in my head, is a man’s world. It’s like football, and NASCAR, and heavy metal guitar. Not to say that women can’t do these things — obviously, there are plenty of women that can, and much better than I and many other guys could ever hope. But no matter how amazing the abilities behind the wheel, the bottle, or the wire and wood, I’m always distracted by the breasts.

(I will admit — it’s a personal thing. But ladies, don’t fool yourselves: the only thing that separates me from your boyfriends is that I’m willing to admit it.)

I have worked with plenty of women who can keep pace with the best of us, who know more recipes than some books contain, and who can handle a fight quicker and more decisively than you’d imagine. This isn’t me questioning the abilities of women behind the bar. In fact, given a moderately competent girl who’s not afraid to flirt a little, show a little skin, let the guys stare when their girlfriends aren’t looking — I’ll work with her just about any day of the week.

It’s not just because the tips go up when the tits come out, so to speak.

It’s really because, more than the ladies, most of the guys that I know behind the bar are more apt to act like three-year-old girls who didn’t get their naps at the drop of a hat. And just like Tom Hanks says, “There’s no crying in baseball.”

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