The kiss was velvety soft, not quite sweet but tangy with alcohol, feminine without being too delicate, sexual without being aggressive. It was great, no question about it. It came from a stranger, I still don't know her name. It came at the request of a coworker and friend. "Don't show Jeff your breasts, he's been at work every night of Mardi Gras all week. He's seen Sixth street packed from curb to curb with drunken idiots wearing gaudy plastic trinkets. He's seen things that would make the crew of the 'Girls Gone Wild' video sit down and cry. He is completely de-sensitized to the female breast. Just give him something to make him happy, and he'll give you all the beads you want." Thanks Sara.

And then the Kiss was over, and I look up from my newfound friend to see her boyfriend standing right behind us. Thanks Sara.

His response? A big grin. "Hey, It's Mardi Gras! I don't care what she does!"

I'm supposed to give up something for Lent today. I'm giving up Mardi Gras and getting some sleep.

It's absolutely amazing the things that grown men can be amused by. Kevin and I spent 30 minutes throwing a purple foam rubber ball back and forth across the kitchen. The ball, by the way, is a cat toy. The cats sat there, watching, as if to say, "Mom! Those big kids took our ball and won't give it back!"

Then the cats wandered off, 'cause lets face it, they're cats and don't really give a crap what we do.

As 4 a.m. rapidly approaches, I am in pain. My legs hurt. My right knee is doing its thing, which is to tense up and not want to bend. My right shoulder, which I broke playing hockey, is doing its thing, which is to uncomfortably make a loud "POP" about every five minutes. I worked what tiny little bit of an ass I have right off tonight.

Recently I have been reading Alison's anecdotes about her waitressing job, and they have amused me. She hasn't been doing it very long, (waitressing that is. Swimming pools, movie stars,) and she seems to get a kick out of the trivialites of human behavior that you witness when you serve things to people for a living. I am amused by her observations because they are completely common and recognizable to me, like old t-shirts that I wear even though they're not cool, or even very clean. I have become, much to my mother's chagrin, a professional. I am in the Bar Biz.

For a long time, I was a writer, studying and struggling to get published and make it one day. I was determined to be an artist, but was never in love with the romance of the starving artist. I need to eat. I also need to play, and pay bills, and have a decent car and nice clothes and I am addicted to music and movies. In other words, I gotta have cashflow, baby. It's all about the benjamins, beeatch. So, I got into bartending.

Guess what? I absolutely LOVE IT. (Mom, quit reading right now.)

I really do. I have a blast at work. Some people go out, party, do the town, have a great time. I HOST their parties, I AM their good time. It's great for feeding my ego, which has an appetite like a sumo wrestler. Everyone wants to know the bartender, everyone want to feel connected, everyone wants a "hook-up". I meet 10 new single women a day. I make new friends nightly. I have a high energy level because everyone wants in on my action. I get to people watch, I've heard every sob story and dirty joke on the planet, and I never seem to get bored with it. It wears me out, physically sometimes (like tonight, when my club sold over $10,000 in beer and liquor only, and did it all in less than 6 hours), but I get home and I am so pumped on adrenlaine I can't sleep right away. I am the manager now too, so I have more new friends, more connections, more responsibility, and more worry than ever, and I just can't get enough.

These kinds of jobs are supposed to be temporary. (Old joke, someone asks what you do for a living and you say "I'm a bartender" and they respond, "So you're an actor, eh?" and you say, "Nope. I'm a writer. Actor's aren't smart enough to do what I do, they wait tables.") I recently heard about a local musician I know who has a bartending gig somewhere, and instantly wondered if he were any good at it. I know he can play and sing. He's great, check him out if you get a chance, but can he do what I do? Really REALLY good bartenders are hard to come by. I am the best you'll ever see, and I'm learning to run the whole show now, taking things in new more exciting directions.

Am I still a writer? Absolutely. You're reading my words right here, aren't you? How's my artistic soul holding up? Like a champ. Being a good bartender makes me a better writer. Being a good writer makes me a better bartender. (Mom, start reading again, and really listen this time) The two do not have to be mutually exclusive, nor do I want them to be.

So, here's the funniest joke I've heard this week. A duck walks into a bar and askes the bartender, You got any grapes?, and he says No. The next day the same duck comes in, and asks the bartender, You got any grapes?, and he says no. The next day, and every day after for a month, the duck walks in and asks the bartender, You got any grapes? and every day he says No. Finally one day the bartender has had enough. The duck comes in that day and says, You got any grapes? and the bartender says, Damn it, I don't have any fucking grapes and if you ask me that one more time I am gonna grab you and nail your little webbed feet to the bar! The next day the duck comes back and asks the bartender, You got any nails? He says, No I dont have any nails, and the ducks says, Cool, You got any grapes?