Testosterone and Lesbians

At the Cradle some guy was trying to stuff handbills in shirts I had been folding. I told him to take them out. Of course not; why would he? When people don’t know they are being assholes it is courteous to let them know. Sort of like if someone has something in their teeth or a spot on their dress. People don’t know they are asshole so it is up to us to be their mirrors. I did my good-citizen style duty and let this person know that he, to the best of my knowledge, was an asshole. Now he wants to get in a fight or something. This befuddled me. I’m doing you a favor, guy. Don’t shoot the messenger. He just won’t let it go and I’m getting a little concerned ’cause this guy is taking up so much time being in my face, doors are right around the corner, and I still have shirts to fold! Turns out this guy was the headliner and then pulled the tantrum move of not wanting to perform that night. This was kind of a dick move, so at that point I was up in the air about my original diagnosis.

But you know, I don’t hold it against that guy. It’s interactions like that from which I derive my main enjoyment of work at that establishment. People are interesting and I get a nice, regular dose of people there. On the positive end of the spectrum, the night before was a mainly lesbian crowd. And you know what? I really get along well with lesbians. There are, of course, exceptions, but if I hear you’re a lesbian that’s immediate points on my score-card.

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