Food Bar.

So when I was 21 I was told I had to get a job. Some job from my parents. They spoiled the shit out of me and are part of the reason I will be single until I die. Finding someone who is the high bred of the two most amazing and opposite people is certainly a task of improbability at best.

But I digress.

This morning sitting in front of my God damn fake sunshine machine as ordered by my crazy doctor and recovering from last nights migraine that felt like a knife in the back of my neck that ripped all the way through the top of my head and turned and pulled it self out between my eyes....I started thinking of simpler times. Before I lost my mind, needed pills to get stay off my roof, could sleep without Michael jackson's former doctor (thank God he became free-I've been on the waiting list for years) and had virtually no responsibility.

21.

Ahhhhhh. Yes. 21. ( now referred to as "fucking 21") being 33.

So there was this chelsea shithole. Not really a shithole but a haunt that was really a ball called FOOD BAR. The food was inedible but the crowd was known for being pretty gorgeous and ridiculous. It was when chelsea was still a haven of muscle boys and beautiful men. And was almost studio 54 about who was there and not. It was not nice. But it was as it was.

So I had never done anything work wise that was not music or theater so getting a job was going to be difficult. Of course first haunt I hit was FOOD BAR. Why not go for the gold. Or gold plated at best.

I went in and there happen to be a "host" job that paid nothing but would appease my parents need for me to do something.

So day one of my new job I got my list of responsibilities were basically told to me very bluntly. Be pretty. Be hot. Be nice. and control the waiting list and seat people in sections equally divided amongst the waiters.

Sounded simple enough. And I was too nervous and had too much anxiety to wait tables (first sign of things to come) So this was perfect.

So I started to work and soon realized it was pretty ideal except for his lack of pay.

The job description really should have been. Look hot. Drink as much as you want all night. Flirt and appease costumers if there is a long wait....and remember who the hell is who when you have a list of people waiting.

Now my memory when it comes to music and lyrics is amazing.

My memory when it comes to things I really don't care about...is not.

So I had to come up with this system. And my handwriting is worse than any five doctors you know. But very very attractive. Like unreadable art....My Mother and Grandmother used to have to get together to decode my letters from college....and kind of figured out the hieroglyphic form my writing took...and yes....I was in college when people actually wrote letters and mailed them...with a stamp and such....but in this case very important to the next part of my job.

So the place got slammed alot because of it's reputation for pretty and muscley. And so I would actually have to DO something those times. And that was write down all the names of who was waiting. But since my memory was shit I had to start adding descriptions like. James: hot guy in white jeans. Bob: looks like Jaba the hut Tony: Unf*ck*ble in suit and so forth. Somehow I never got caught. I wish I had kept the exact lists because they were pretty wonderfully horrible. Only something a 21 yr old with no knowledge of how he one day would be described by some other 21 yr old as meanly and nasty as he once did. I don't want to know mine. Zack: Loud, pink pants like golfer grandpa, can't move his forehead, bad hair. And I am sure that was being kind. "no ass" might be in there too.

So back to the fun parts where I didn't have to give superlatives and could just flirt and drink. I have always been a rather big person and at this time was obsessed as most of chelsea was with being the muscle-y thing possible. However this at the time was also combined by almost everyone with wearing the smallest tshirts known to man to display the fact. I just recently realized I am actually not a size small. I am a large or extra large. Unless I wanted it to look like body paint. Which I think was the goal in chelsea in 97. Lord.

One of the fun...and ridiculous...and calling cards for the place was the random snowing wednesday or Monday or whatever off day the owner would come in with a horrible theme. Like Pajama night. But he would buy only pajamas that were meant for children and thus belly shirts and tights on us. But we were more than happy as we were young and hot. Now it would be grounds to cry and/or quit. But I would at least try and give it a look to make SURE I couldn't. LOL

There was also the Latex/ rubber Valentines day outfits. Everyone had to wear red or black latex of some sort that was like muscle moulan rouge...latex and rubber should never be shorts...I learned. I don't think there are photos. God I pray there aren't. It is like lady gaga but without the irony.

This is also where I met the worst liar meets antichrist. My ex on and off....and on and off. for four years. Lived together twice. It must have been the glamour of the non job and the intoxication there in that really reeled them in. I truly need to see if carrie fisher is right about electroshock therapy. It would be nice to really rid that period from my brain permanently.

Anyway. That is really the least interesting thing about my life to date. Hardly worth mentioning other than it happened at FOOD BAR.

I never came up with a clever nickname for Food Bar. Fool Bar. Fine Scar. Swine Car. Too Far. I gotta think up something. There is a gym in NY that is full of fags but is beautiful called David Barton. Yet everyone calls it Dolly Parton. That is just plain funny and good. Makes me smile everytime.

FOOD BAR days were a ball of frivolity and flirting and drinking and laughing. I was carefree and happy. Flirting with the owner. And the other owners beautiful boyfriend....sneaking to the kitchen to make out. And the sexy waiter I still think about to this day. ahhhhh Youth.

Now FOOD BAR is gone. And is a f*cking Chipotle. Of all sad things.

But I am glad I got the best of it. And it's one thing the new generation can't ruin. It will stay a time capsule of my youth and New York's last moments of chelsea's vanity ridden self conscious wonderful sexy awful fun fun fun years.

RIP Food Bar. And can I have a burrito bowl with double chicken and no chips or bread (see. a little chelsea lingers. Lives in the DNA)