Boozarelli's

A bunch of us went drinking the other night. Hollywood Death Cab folks. At Boozerelli's, the Italian shit hole on H-wood Boulevard. After a day of telling 'bout the excesses of star's that brought them down to earth, we are ready to test our own mortal coils. It's a birthday for one of the Barkers.

The Barkers and the Drivers at Hollywood Death Cab make the most money. The Drivers are union drivers, teamsters. The Barker's actually get a percentage of every person they pull in off Hollywood Boulevard to take the tour. If they have a good day, they can walk, easy, with $100 bux. In cash, as our tour takes only $$$. Because of this, they stand close to the Instant Tellar Machines on H-wood Boulevard, imploring people to take the tour. Sometimes the banks complain, but the smart Barkers actually give the guards gifts at the various banks. They are paid minimum wage for their shift, which lists them officially as a tourguide, so that all the $$ is essentially not being reported to Uncle Sam. Thus, when a Barker has a birthday, all the regular tourguides know they'll be drinking free.

This barker was a kewl dude, one of the funniest we have. Never figured out why he doesn't make it in stand-up, which he still does at Guffaws, on h-woood Blvd. He's about 300 plus pounds, but cuddly funny, not bitter funny. He told me he's got an internet girl in Ecuador he's thinking of visiting. I tell him as the night goes on, that he could just whip out his Visa Gold, his U.S. visa, and fly to Ecuador the next morning. He decides he's doing it. Flying to meet his internet, third-world Ecuadorian gal pal in the A.M.

Another Barker is a hot girl. She dresses-up like Angalie Jolie in Laura Croft, and lures in tourists that way. Tonight at Boozerelli's she gets a little loaded and does a striptease to her panties. It's back in the corner, the place has a trillion VIP spaces, all designed for the old-skool hollywood daze, and we formed a ring around her for safety. She's really beautiful (for a straight girl), and I'm looking to my left at our guide Jad, wishing he would take his clothes off. He's making me crazy lately, but he's arrow-straight and I'm in a serious relationship. Lots of my pals in gay-land say they are in relationships, even say they are wed, but have all sorts of outs, rules and clauses to allow them to slut it up. My straight friend calls it "the international gay marriage rules." For me and my gay lover, however, we find that shit eventually chips away at your resolve in all things. So, I quit looking at Jad, and pretend to be excited about the strip-tease I'm watching.

I find drinking with work cronies dangerous, but of all the hokey management schemes to foster good work environments, this one really does work. Once you've heard a few drunken confessions, you get a much better idea of who your co-worker is. For me, it's the tendancy to go too far, and reveal too much about myself. A few folks know for sure I'm out, and I'm not really closeted, but I don't make the first words of any new person I meet as "Hello, I'm GAY!" So, it's that fine line I sashey.

I look back, and now the barely-clothed barker is wrestling with one of the drivers. She claims she was raised by brothers, and can wrestle. He's a big dude, and picks her up in the air and twirls her. The bartenders, despite cutting us tons of slack over the years, shoot us dagger-eyes. Finally, he pins her to the ground, in her panties and bra, and our corner of the room explodes in cheers! Or boos. There was a lot of betting taking place before this wrestling match. Hollywood Death Cabs has a huge betting culture, we are constantly betting on all sorts of shit, and our pool for which star is going to die next is way more accurate then any in the U.S.

I spend the night talking to one of our bosses who I like. Not "like-like," just think he's a cool dude. We talk about all the ills of Hollywood Death Cabs and how we'd solve him. I ramble and rage against all manor of peeps, I hope he's what he seems. If he gossips me out, I could be in some shit.

Finally, I'm getting so out of hand, I'm pinching random dudes butts at the bar. The bartender who shot us dagger-eyes earlier, comes up behind me with a firm hand on the shoulder. "I think Denny's is still open," he sez.

I'm too ashamed to answer, and I walk right out the door, up the street to Denny's. Another 2AM steak&eggs in my belly, and home to my gay lover.