Reader’s Digest recently posted this list of tips given by the ultimate restaurant insiders - waiters. Now though these are all pretty much common sense, as a waiter I definitely can see why these need to be read by all!! 

1. Avoid eating out on holidays and Saturday nights. The sheer
volume of customers guarantees that most kitchens will be pushed beyond
their ability to produce a high-quality dish.

2. There are almost never any sick days in the restaurant business.
A busboy with a kid to support isn’t going to stay home and miss out on
$100 because he’s got strep throat. And these are the people handling
your food.

3. When customers’ dissatisfaction devolves into personal attacks,
adulterating food or drink is a convenient way for servers to exact
covert vengeance. Waiters can and do spit in people’s food.

4. Never say “I’m friends with the owner.” Restaurant owners don’t
have friends. This marks you as a clueless poseur the moment you walk
in the door.

5. Treat others as you want to be treated. (Yes, people need to be reminded of this.)

6. Don’t snap your fingers to get our attention. Remember, we have shears that cut through bone in the kitchen.

7. Don’t order meals that aren’t on the menu. You’re forcing the
chef to cook something he doesn’t make on a regular basis. If he makes
the same entrée 10,000 times a month, the odds are good that the dish
will be a home run every time.

8. Splitting entrées is okay, but don’t ask for water, lemon, and
sugar so you can make your own lemonade. What’s next, grapes so you can
press your own wine?

9. If you find a waiter you like, always ask to be seated in his or
her section. Tell all your friends so they’ll start asking for that
server as well. You’ve just made that waiter look indispensable to the
owner. The server will be grateful and take good care of you.

10. If you can’t afford to leave a tip, you can’t afford to eat in
the restaurant. Servers could be giving 20 to 40 percent to the
busboys, bartenders, maître d’, or hostess.

11. Always examine the check. Sometimes large parties are unaware
that a gratuity has been added to the bill, so they tip on top of it.
Waiters “facilitate” this error. It’s dishonest, it’s wrong-and I did
it all the time.

12. If you want to hang out, that’s fine. But increase the tip to
make up for money the server would have made if he or she had had
another seating at that table.

13. Never, ever come in 15 minutes before closing time. The cooks
are tired and will cook your dinner right away. So while you’re
chitchatting over salads, your entrées will be languishing under the
heat lamp while the dishwasher is spraying industrial-strength,
carcinogenic cleaning solvents in their immediate vicinity.

  

         To cheer us up after a failed trip home for my cousin’s wedding, Swils presented my boyfriend and I with VIP passes to the one and only Electric Daisy Carnival, or North America’s largest dance party. I probably should call it a rave, but I just can’t bring myself. Raves were the underground warehouse and riverfront parties I gleefully attended as a high school kid in Detroit. At their peak, 5,000 teenagers would dance until drenched with sweat, forced to hug dozens of new friends goodbye against the backdrop of dawn. Electric Daisy Carnival refused to remind me of the raves of my youth. Arguably 80,000 dancers filled the LA Coliseum (yes, where the Olympics were held) and the acres of concrete surrounding it. This, I learned from the newest generation of ravers, was a not a rave, but a “massive”. 

   Before I moved to Los Angeles at 17 years old I wanted to make sure I emptied every bit of rave fever from my soul. The rave scene in LA was notoriously exaggerated by the party kids of Chicago and Detroit. Teenage rave immigrants who relocated to the Midwest with successful fathers told stories of the vastness of the So-Cal scene, and how our tiny parties back home just didn’t compare. For every two candy bracelets our wrists supported the LA ravers had six. For every pill we required to enter the consciousness of the party, the LA ravers took two. They were hardcore. By 17, I didn’t need hardcore, I needed to soften up. I danced at every little party I could until my legs couldn’t be moved by house music any longer, until I couldn’t possibly accept or give another back rub to a sweaty stranger again. And then I moved to LA and left my phat pants at home.

  I wasn’t kidding anybody. Two weeks into a new apartment in West Hollywood and I made frequent trips to Melrose to collect two back pockets full of party fliers. The transplant ravers still back in the Midwest were not lying -the So-Cal scene was a monster. “Six raves a weekend is a slow weekend, bro,” said the dread-locked clerk behind the counter. He noticed the drool accentuating my gaping mouth. “We got tickets if you need ‘em.” Without thought I handed him a twenty.

  I was unmoved at the rave that weekend. I was out of place, lonely and not interested in buying enhancements from complete strangers. The music was different than we were raised on in Chicago and Detroit. It wasn’t house, but odd, psychedelic trance with sci-fi sound effects and unnerving blips and bleeps. I left early with a depressingly dry shirt and an incessant ringing in what used to be my ears. I didn’t go back to the party store on Melrose, finally ridding my system of the rave.

It has been nearly ten years. The most I have raved in the past decade has been in my mind, recalling the decadent moments of my youth in the hopes of finishing a memoir. When Swils first proposed the idea of taking J and I to the Electric Daisy Carnival, it emerged as a possibility only because of its utility as reference for my manuscript. My memory of my early rave days are fleeting and the thousands of blissful moments have a tendency to blend together. And my fondest memories of raving are the feelings of being utterly free from life’s problems, a feeling I truly can’t fathom as an adult.

   So the dominoes fell into place, I lost work and entered a low point in life (read the last woeful post) and was unable to leave town for my beloved cousin’s wedding ceremony.

   “Okay, we want to come to the party with you,” I unexcitedly informed Swils.

---

  “Do kids still dress as ravers?” I asked J as we were getting ready.

   “I don’t know. What are you going to wear?”

   “Uhm, shorts I guess. I just want to be comfortable. But I bet I’m going to stick out like an old man. Oh my God, we are going to be the old guys at the rave that we used to be weirded out by when we were younger!”

   I toyed with the idea of wearing candy bracelets and glow toys and all the cultural reference points of my youth, but then became nauseous with the image of someone my age dressed in such a way. I shook the image clean from my mind. Comfortable shoes and shorts it was, just call me ‘Grandpa’.

   Like locusts, the rare butterflies that only emerge when approaching a rave began to hatch in my stomach. I danced in Swils’s passenger seat, mentioning how excited I was at least a dozen times. By the time we exited onto Vermont, a few blocks from the LA Coliseum, our energy became explosive. Traffic froze for blocks as countless cars full of bouncing party goers poured into the area. Each car, covered in stickers, emitted different styles of dance music resulting in a cacophony of beats heard by those walking the sidewalks. We decided to exit the street side pre-party early and walk the rest of the way.

   Immediately after leaving the parking structure I knew this was like no rave I had been to before, LA, Chicago, Detroit or New York City. We were still blocks away from the entrance yet hundreds upon hundreds of party kids lined the streets, the sheer numbers of attendees forcing us to walk slowly and in single file down Vermont. The vibe already existed on these sidewalks. Ravers spoke loudly about which DJs they were dying to see, who from San Francisco or San Diego or Phoenix or Las Vegas they were planning to meet up with and how much fun they thought they were going to have.

   “I’m just going to look for the lesbian chill area and hang out there all night,” said a girl in short-shorts and candy bracelets up to her elbows.

   As if hearing her mission statement, a nearby police officer told us all to “have fun” and winked.

   Back in my day (------ a cliché only used by older ravers, and now me) the police officers did not offer well wishes, nor did they wink at us. Usually if an officer was that close we would have already had handcuffs clinking against our candy bracelets. This was like no rave I had been to before.

   The lines outside of EDC (I’m shortening the title as we both should be familiar with the party’s name by now) were thwarting and a sure-fired buzz kill for anyone who happened to have enhanced their evening a little early. Luckily, Swils’s gift of VIP tickets let us swoop right in under the radar. Later, ravers would say the only problem with EDC was the 2-hour wait to get in. The party’s promoters, Insomniac and Giant, promise to have that issue fixed for next year.

   After the bottleneck of the entrance, inside the bottle was a vastly different ecosystem. Carnival rides rose up from the crowd of ravers, competing with their colorful outfits with lush, flashing lights. Different stages of music were randomly placed outside the monstrous coliseum in no particular order, making stumbling upon a good set of music feel like a personal discovery. The vibrant ravers, incandescent lighting systems and DNA-changing dance music created an inescapable orgy for the senses. Our ears and feet begged us to find a stage and take a moment to dance. The Om area invited us to do just that.

   Ten minutes into enhancing EDC and Swils and J decided to ride the ‘Free Fall’ ride. This did not sound like fun for my sensitive stomach that already had enough on its plate.

   “Go ahead. I’ll be waiting for you dancing here. Mark Farina is just too good right now,” I said.

   The bass of Farina’s house music had my mind and time loosen their long-kept friendship. In the hopes of further tripping me out, the USC marching band -with each member donning sunglasses- marched by the stage, blending their masterful drum beats with that of the DJ’s. A tail of rolling ravers followed them like groupies, enthusiastically clapping at every time signature change.

  At the end of the long line of groupies marched Swils and J, practically skipping up and down with glee.

   “That was fucking unbelievable,” they said in unison.

   “We could see all of LA, including the whole damn party from the top of the Free Fall,” gushed Swils.

   “Let’s go into the main area, you’ve got to see it,” said J.

   Before we could leave the Om stage for the massive dance floor, two cute boys approached to introduce themselves.

   “I’m Kent, this is Josh,” one said.

    Instantly I remembered how social barriers didn’t exist at raves. The memories were flooding back and surrounding me in one big, warm hug.

   “And over here is Steph and Ian. They used to be figure skating champs. Want a sucker?”

(The new crew at EDC 2008)

   “Awe, it’s soooo nice to meet you guys. We’re headed to the main dance floor to see Moby. Please come with us!” I had morphed into an entirely new, nicer person, the kind of person that Hollywood seems to disintegrate upon arrival.

   With our own bonafide gay rave crew in tow, we all held hands and swam down the river of candy ravers towards the floor of the coliseum. On our journey, my lovable friend from work (and fellow Missourian), Koelen, joined us. The more, the merrier.

   We arrived at Candy Raver River Port (try saying that 3 times fast), spilled neatly onto the bleachers high above the main stage’s dance floor. Once the breadth of the coliseum was within our visual grasp, any word left to describe it simply wouldn’t do.

   “Holy shit. I’ve never seen anything like it.“

   “Fuck. Wow. Amazing.”

   “Jesus Christ. This is fuckin’ surreal.”

   ”I’ve never seen so many people in one place. How many could it possibly be?"

   These statements and similar others were made by us and the thousands of ravers dancing on the bleachers near. Below, on a grassy field trampled by USC football players and Olympians danced tens of thousands of glowing ravers.

   The sight in itself was enough to induce a high.

The main dance floor of Electric Daisy Carnival.

    Some of our new crew took seats while Swils and I couldn’t help but dance to Moby’s brilliant choices of music. Kent and Josh and Koelen and J exchanged hug after hug, smiles now permanent fixtures on their faces. Soon, fireworks shot up from behind the main stage forcing an eruption of cheers from the dancers on the field and the revelers resting in the bleachers. I took an immediate seat next to J, my hand finding its way to his thigh. A caress of my fingers said everything words could not. “This is the best night of my life,” they said.

   The peak of fireworks on beat with Moby’s music was easily met by later sets from Armand Van Helden, Andy Caldwell and Paul Van Dyk (which we were allowed backstage for). Each moment of EDC was unforgettable and just as ecstatic as the one preceding it. Countless shiny ravers introduced themselves to us and begged us to keep having fun; a buffet of good beats surrounded us and begged us to dance; the tangible vibe and PLUR bit into our souls and begged me to remember what had captivated my youth and encouraged me to write a book about it ten years later.

   We reluctantly left EDC, never really wanting it to end. The 80,000 ravers we had shared the best night of our lives with poured onto the streets of Los Angeles, instilling a vibrant sense of community I rarely feel in the big city. Even a week later and my gay rave crew frequently will reminisce about the wonders of EDC, hoping to keep the spirit alive. Thank you Electric Daisy Carnival for helping me remember.

    So my cell phone was turned off yesterday. Luckily Jay and I kick it ‘old school’ and have a land line. I am not completely cut off from the world, but freedom from the shackles of a cell phone isn’t all joy. 

Money is tight. It’s hard to admit and in fact quite embarrassing. But it’s the truth. Money is so tight that I have been giving friends our home number and notifying them to ‘replace’ my cell number with it, knowing that I will not be able to reclaim my mobile anytime soon.

My car might be taken away. It’s probably good though seeing as gas is about to hit $5/gallon and I ashamedly drive an SUV through the rough terrain of the Los Angeles freeway system. To be honest, even before I became unable to make the car payments our Jeep sat in the garage most of the time, Jay and I protesting fuel prices by jumping on mass transit. Still, I’m not sure it helps my credit score by having a car repo’d.

My cousin and lifelong friend, David, is getting married this weekend in Kansas City. I am not going. I was invited and even joyfully accepted his invitation to be in the wedding party, but months-long joblessness and a bleak outlook on life have prevented me from going. It’s the first time in ten years I have regretted living further than a day’s drive from home.

But before you think that this whine-fest is a complete turnoff (I mean
there are food riots going on in the world for Christ’s sake), I am actually not depressed
about the situation. Rock bottom means that there ain’t much further
down you can go, unless you have a shovel. I threw away my shovel in the rave years. Rock bottom needs to be a turning
point. I must wipe the dirt and pebbles off of my ass and get up and change things. I
need Oprah. Maybe I don’t need Oprah.

The new waitressing job is less than I expected. Business is iffy and I consider myself lucky if I end a shift with $80 in my pocket. Not to mention that for some reason I am only granted 2 shifts a week. It took me nearly 2 months to find the job at Numbers, and though I am looking for another supplementary job, I am expecting it to be another long and arduous process. Thanks to the economy, competition is rife and, much to my detriment, I am not the biggest seller of me.

As my phone, my car and soon my power, gas, internets and more are lost, the fundamentals of life shine through. No matter how hard it gets, I still have my family, friends, passion for writing and Justin. No amount of forced Ramen noodle dinners can take those away. And that is the silver lining in the struggle. And it makes a sight as rare as a snow leopard come jumping out of the frost -my smile.

Life is good in the state of California.

I am a clumsy mess, though. Ever since Jay and I moved we have had tremendous computer problems. Right now I’m using a loaner laptop from a great friend of mine. No more Macs for the time being -how unfortunate for the faithful trendster in me. This all means that that it took me two weeks to remember how to login to this blog. I know, how unprofessional?!

After some digging, I’m back. And I have a lot of pictures to update you on what you have missed.

First up.... LA Pride 2008. It was two weeks ago, and I’m still recovering.

I have a new bestie from work who spent most of Pride with me. Here we are with dancers from the local LA camp band, Shitting Glitter:

Looks trashy, right? Well it was.

Justin eventually met us for the festivities just in time to take an epic group photo, complete with the sun’s rays. See, God does approve of the gays!

Oh yeah, and I’ve started drinking cocktails again. It only takes one before I’m ready to get naked.

We left LA Pride after watching an impromptu sidewalk performance by a fishnet bodybuilder creature. Thankfully I stopped taking mushrooms years ago, or this would have really made things interesting.

So there you have it. Gay Pride in Los Angeles, 2008, the year equality was obtained.

Now that I have my login URL bookmarked like a good Blogger, I promise to update more frequently.

Love, Jonathan

It’s been too long since I’ve been able to vent, analyze and dissect my private thoughts, city, relationship and overall life. I’m now back, and I’m back for good. And perhaps most important of all, I’ve missed you all, my lil’ devils, very dearly...

So what’s new with me?!?

My boyfriend and I have moved back to West Hollywood, the gay center of the world. Whereas in Silverlake we lived in a quaint and cozy house, now we live in a large condo-like apartment, walking distance to everything gay. The above picture was taken on our balcony (sweet!) of the Hollywood Hills that rest lazily above West Hollywood. If you are in West Hollywood, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me (whether that’s good or bad, you decide).

My work life is very, very different than since I last wrote to you. No longer do I work at a trendy, celebrity-packed restaurant. In March I decided not to waste anymore time working hard to achieve someone else’s life dream. I quit rather abruptly and, yes, I’ll admit, irresponsibly, to pursue my dreams of becoming a professional writer. Since I quite my lucrative, lazy and kush waitressing job, I have somewhat achieved what I had hoped for, although not entirely. I have been transcribing scripts for an amazing how-to website, ExpertVillage.com, and reviewing dvd’s for random movie websites for pay (if that’s what you want to call it). After two months of barely making ends meet with fringe writing jobs, I caved in and began to search for another waitressing job, this time in our new neighborhood of West Hollywood, and boy did I find one. When it officially opens during LA Pride Weekend 2008 (June 6, 7), I will be a server at the infamous Numbers in West Hollywood. Yes, this is the same Numbers that WAS internationally known as a huster pickup spot. However, as the new owners have drilled into my head, the restaurant will no longer cater to those needs -the internets had taken all their business. So, I’m keeping an open mind about not only returning to the service industry, but returning to it in a restaurant that had a reputation for providing a buffet of male escorts. You’ll be hearing lots of this from me as the summer progresses.

Other than in those areas, life is good. As I’m sure you know, California will begin allowing LGBT partners to marry on June 16th, and that undoubtedly has a visceral effect on the gay community. Dating, relationships and other mathematic combinations have all taken on a heightened sense of seriousness. And it feels great, equality.

Okay, that’s it for now. Welcome back lil’ devils!!!

So I entered that odd story about my nail-biting problem into a writing competition and I took 4th place!!!! Yeah, I hoped for 1st, 2nd or even 3rd, but 4th place out of the tons and tons and tons of entries sure feels good, especially because Janet Fitch (author of White Oleander) served as the competition’s judge. It’s completely inspiring and worth celebrating, and best of all, it gives me the extra push I need to finish the nearly-completed book. The entry-guidelines called for a 1,000 word limit which meant I had to severely edit the original draft of “Nail Polish For Boys”. I have reposted the 4th place-taking 1k word draft here. Thanks Janet Fitch for motivating me to keep pursuing my dream...

(Bex, Me, Swils on PINK carpet at Diesel party)

So LA is abuzz with Grammy parties all weekend-long, but we aren’t impressed. We had the option of checking out Timbaland’s party at Avalon last night and although I would have loved to have seen One Republic perform, a party with scantily clad Diesel underwear models just sounded a bit juicier. I mean, the decision was practically made for us. Swils, Bex and I arrived at West Hollywood’s gay urban botique, LASC, and were instantly caught like deer in headlights once we caught sight of the buff bartenders and shirtless models walking through the party.

(Provocative fliers will make you miss Timbaland)

We mingled, laughed our way through disoriented shopping, and ogled the boys of West Hollywood. Bex gave me the greatest gift of all: a perfect pair of Aussie Bum undies, which I’m sure Jay will love when he gets back in town from a trip to Missouri.

(bartenders at Diesel/LASC)

Once we had enough of the tanned underwear models, we proceeded directly -but somewhat clumsily- over to Eleven for the afterparty/Jeffrey Sanker’s Fresh. It was elbow to moisturized elbow with LA gays, and we quickly retreated to the upstairs VIP section. As I tried to keep from falling asleep (when Jay’s not around other gays bore me), Bex and Steve got all buddy-buddy with their friend Lance Bass. I think Bex might have even gotten a little more than just buddy-buddy, but it could have been the crowd of circuit queens disorienting me.

All in all it was a wonderful night out in West Hollywood and I really, really can’t wait for Jay to get home so I can show him the new underwear the night brought to me...

I’m depressed over the Superbowl and ready to console Tom Brady...that is if Gisele is cool with it.
In the mean time, here is a hilarious video Jay sent me that I will recommend to Gisele as she attempts to comfort the youngest quarterback in the NFL NOT to win 4 Superbowls

Enjoy!

With a recent article on the website, I may have inflamed the fires
of an ongoing cultural war. Earlier this week, a Jamaican mob attacked
three gay roomates inside their own home. Two of the victims were
severly beaten, the third is reported as missing. It’s a sad, sad
story, but ultimately an unsurprising scenario arising from one of the
most homophobic places on Earth. I wrote the article hoping to send
readers to the Jamaican Forum on Lesbains, All-sexuals and Gays
(JFLAG)’s website in hopes of donating or education, but with the
comments popping up on my site since, I’m starting to feel that only
homophobic Jamaicans have been reading. 

    The first comment was written last night by a man named ‘Louis’:

"Listen Jamaicans are Jamaicans and we will not change our stance against the nasty homosexual lifestyle.




If you dont want to be beaten stay out, it is correct to beat gay men,
this is what we believe so just stay away from our shore. I am quite
sure there’r are many places that have lost their way and will accept
you all.

Live for nothing, Die for Something"

When I read the crude comment from my phone I was in shock.
’Louis’s’ message only makes the dire situation in Jamaica even more
clear. These are no longer news stories of our LGBT brothers and
sisters being beaten to a pulp or murdered in a far-away island nation.
This hatred and ignorance exists, and is palpable enough to push them
to spread their message of hate elsewhere.

Throughout the night
I tossed and turned in bed, unable to decide if the comment should be
deleted or remain for all to see. I thought of the  gay and lesbian
rights activists murdered in Kingston, the badly beaten gay tourists
naively visiting the island and even last week’s severly assaulted
Jamaican men; It then became ultimately clear that without a doubt I
should leave the hateful comments posted on the website. Perhaps then
the site’s hundreds of LGBT readers will see just how tangible our
community’s problems are in Jamaica.

As I prepared a draft of this essay, yet another comment
appeared on ACD, supporting Louis’s militant words, this one from a
reader named ‘Blake’:

"Louis you are right! No JFLAG can ever stop that and no one can make
Jamaicans accept homosexuality. First off Jamaicans dont care about the
Lesbos they dont want and will not tollerate the men who are gay. The
men get that nastiness from the rich men from abroad who came to Ja and
paid those men there to have sex with them. Idonism is the main cause
of this nasty behavior now you all want to shove it down our throats
and force us to accept this? The bible says " If a man lies with
another man as he would a woman he shall be surely put to DEATH" read
your bible!"

With an unassuming story on human rights in Jamaica I have unwittingly opened a vastly important dialogue, and I’m not quite sure how to respond. I have always fancied myself for having just the right words for any occasion, yet when faced with culturaly-wide fear and loathing words seem to fail me.

Be a part of the discussion and help out the LGBT...

Here is the article and subsequent comments on ACDnews.com.

So far, 2008 has been very kind to Jay and I.

After growing out the cathartic, Britney-inspired shaved head I cultivated through late 2007, I finally had it shaped and coiffed by my favoritist hair-designer Paul @ Fur Hair Gallery. See, I’m back to black normal:

No, I’m not stoned in the above picture, just slightly dazed and fresh off the latest ‘Make Me A Supermodel’ tragedy on Bravo. But see my haircut?!?

Jay is great, too. As we shopped in Echo Park yesterday he came across a couple hot chicks, but I totally wasn’t jealous or anything:

Afterwards we parted ways for different gay Monday nights in Los Angeles. Jay went to peruse the gay hipster downtown scene at Mustache Mondays, while I supported a friend in Jackie Beat’s “Work Bitch” amateur drag night.

Jackie was hilarious as usual, but the majority of the guests were surprisingly...frightening. Although the show opener, Hillary Clinton, was a riot. Hillary performed “My Pussy” while rubbing a vibrator through her multi-blend pant suit and waving an American Flag to enhance her orgasm. Brilliant! Her is Jackie Beat next to Hillary Clinton and a few of the scary performers:

The night with Jackie ended on an upbeat, non-political note when our friend Anthony/Britney won the amateur contest! It was her first time doing drag in LA, but considering the backup dancers and full-re-enactment of Britney’s VMA performance (though Anthony rocked it out waaaay more enthusiastically), she seemed like a seasoned pro.

As January comes to a close, the bar has clearly been set for the rest of 2008. I’m hoping for a year without umbrella attacks or frantic hair shavings, but with Jay and my other great family of friends who continue to inspire, it’ll be a great year!

I had no idea that two of my favorite pairs of tits were in the same music video together! Amy’s character reminds me slightly of Jerry Blank (from the brilliant Strangers With Candy), and makes me cringe with delight. The song is not very classic Dolly in my opinion, but everything Dolly touches is gold. Enjoy!

Jay just introduced me to my newest favorite singer. Of course she is from the United Kingdom. Of course her voice is raspy, vintage and powerful. Of course people will draw similarities between her style and Amy Winehouse, but that’s where the similarities end. Adele is magical and obviously healthy. We may be a little late to jump on the bandwagon, but if you haven’t heard of this powerhouse and LGBT darling yet, give her a whirl. Here are a couple of our favorite songs/videos:

Adele-“Hometown Glory”

Adele-“Chasing Pavements”

For more LGBT music videos that we love, visit the gay music section on ACD!!