Everybody seems so happy today, it's a sunshine day... Vols. 1, 2 & 3

I knew yesterday would be fun when my alarm clock rang at 5 a.m. I'd spent the previous night housesitting for my manager, thinking I'd enjoy a peaceful night's sleep as to be rested for Sunday, which promised only two things:
1) a shift at the sports club from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m.
2) a shift at the restaurant from 1 p.m. to close (midnight).
Fun. Fun, it was. My day consisted of collagen-laden cunts, smoothies, assassins, 80-year-old gay admirers, Lucy Liu, walking in on a quickie in the bathroom, getting really drunk at work, going home with a customer, and getting caught in the middle of an Asian knife fight at 3 in the morning on Sunset Boulevard and having to sing for my life. Kids, you'd better get comfortable.

Let's harken back to Saturday evening. I left the restaurant at 4 p.m. with the intention of being in bed by 9 p.m. to catch a full eight hours of sleep before TLD (the long day). By 8:30 p.m. I was already tired, showered and ready for a great night's sleep. That was until my manager's cat read my mind. This cat, whose name eludes me, is the embodiment of all evil. At 9:30 I fell fast asleep. And then... RAAAAAR.

Not fully coherent, I was sure I'd fallen off the bed, snapped my neck, died, and ended up in Hell only to be greeted by one of Satan's wildebeasts. Sometimes when I'm suddenly scared I giggle. Other times I'm so mad I could kill. When that damn cat woke me up, I was clearly in a state of the latter. So I shouted. My face became red. My bleaching tray fell out of my mouth. Once I calmed down, I put the cat outside on the balcony and fell asleep.

However, the cat's noises persisted and I spent the better part of the night trying to muffle the sound. Only at 3 a.m. did I fall asleep. Two hours, I awoke for TLD in what can only be considered the worst mood of my life. I shouted. I stomped about. I gave the cat only half of its food. Ha!

Fast forward to work (at the sports club), and none of my co-workers has shown up to open the gym. This means I am responsible for checking in guests, running downstairs to provide keys for gym lockers, answering the phones and making smoothies if the guests so desire (On a Sunday morning, guests don't usually order that many smoothies. However, when I open up the gym, they down them like buttery nipples). In essence, I performed the jobs of 5 people on two hours of sleep. Imagine my elation.

Once my co-workers casually strolled into the sports club, my looks of hatred didn't go unnoticed. I was promised a long break, the privilege of leaving 20 minutes early, and the firstborn of the bitch responsible for making me make smoothies (although I'm sure the kitchen staff soon noticed a startling lack of ingredients...because three of the smoothies were for me).

However, my shift at the sports club wasn't complete without one last bee in my bonnet: a bitch named Cherrie with the biggest collage-injected lips since Lisa Rinna came to Melrose Place. Cherrie made the fatal mistake of committing an unforgivable sin in my personal bible: she did not acknowledge me when I said, "Good morning." Instead, she snapped, "Why the fuck is the Tai Chi class starting earlier today?" Now mind you, I typically bite my tongue in instances such as these. But given the preferential treatment I'd received at work (combined with my increasing lack of lucidity), I felt God was telling me to take some liberties with my defensive side.

"Now, do I look like a Tai Chi teacher to you?" I inquired with as big of a shit-eating grin as I could muster. Needless to say, the bee in my bonnet stung Cherrie (or at least her fucking lips), and she went from bitch to mega-bitch in a matter of seconds. I was sure one of us would die imminently.

Instead of flying off her broom handle, she took flight straight for the manager's office. Without entering she bellowed, "I need to see you now." The two joined me in the lobby for another round of But that's not what I meant. "Oh, Mr. Bruckner, I assure you that my comment wasn't intended to be rude at all. I simply meant to insinuate that I wish I were a Tai Chi teacher." I won, and the bitch was sent to the locker room for some fresh towels and ice to heal the swelling of her lips.

Eventually I arrived at job #2 with no time to spare. The entire restaurant was completely full due to the ridiculously cheap brunch menu. Brunch, for those of you who've never worked in a restaurant, is an evil ploy to rob servers of their money and encourage all the stereotypical bad tippers to not tip at all. Lucky for me, my 12+ hour shift would also encompass dinner, which at a restaurant in West Hollywood is equally unprofitable.

First up for me was a group of suspiciously sable-clad Japanese men. I was sure they were members all of O-Ren Ishii's akuza klan of assassins. One of them wore, I kid you not, a Green Hornet style black ribbon around his eyes during the entire course of the meal. When I asked what they'd like to order, the leader pointed his weapon of death (his finger) at the buffet line without so much as a grunt. When I asked what they'd like to drink, my query garnered no response. I brought four waters, but was immediately dismissed. These assassins were clearly on a no liquid, no conversation diet. Their tip was commiserate with their word usage.

Next on my list of crazy encounters was Joe, our new "hostess." Although Joe bears no resemblance to Lucy Liu, this didn't discourage him from dressing up as Lucy for work. Other than his drag queen friends, I don't think anyone else caught the homage. I made the fatal...fatal...mistake of petting the wig, and Joe/Lucy (Juicy) nearly went Charlie's Angels on me. "Wha de fug?!" s/he bellowed. You haven't lived until you've seen a drag queen serve as a hostess. What's even more bizarre is that I'm the only person who seemed to find this funny.

Juicy was not as funny, however, as what was going on in the bathroom during the height of the brunch craze on TLD. Apparently two of Juicy's lady friends (whom I had mistaken for men) snuck off in the middle of brunch and no one could find them. Oh, I found them. I found them on the bathroom floor in positions even a seasoned contortionist would find challenging. I laughed. Undaunted, they continued with the lesbian olympics.

Soon after the dyke dalliances ended, the brunch crowd slowly trickled out (so to speak). At this time, our regulars came to drink on the patio. One of our regulars is Joe. Joe likes pina coladas, young men from the Midwest, and viagra. And so to make things interesting, I did not refuse any of the drinks that Joe so kindly purchased for me. After all, management strongly encourages fraternization and carousing with the customers. While still trying to let Joe down gently about my intense nausea caused by being near him, I swigged a trio of particularly strong margaritas. By 6 p.m., I was feeling fine.

By 11 p.m., however, I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep. I know I has hallucinating because I could have sworn that some crazy old hag came in right before we were about to close and ordered a double burger well done. Guess who got to wait on her. Yep. It turns out this very lonely and odorous woman had just left her husband. And what better way to celebrate than spend Sunday night alone at a seedy restaurant in West Hollywood, which boasts a predominantly gay population? Mustering as much sympathy as I could, I proceeded to endure stories of her daughter, farming, and the glorious Christmases of yore. I must remember to wipe off "I give a shit, talk to me" from my forehead before I go to work.

By 12 a.m. this woman was shit drunk and we weren't about to let her drive. I, of course, was all but opening her car door for her, but management wouldn't stand for it. Did we call a cab for her? Noooooo. She lives in Silverlake. Chase lives near Los Feliz, which boarders Silverlake. Why doesn't Chase drive her home?? Nevermind that I'm housesitting in the Hollywood Hills and that I'm not wild about driving home crazy smelly ladies. Nevermind that she could possibly be an axe-wielding psycho (despite her short stature and drunken stupor, I remained on full alert). Throw in an extra $20, though, and I just forget about my objections.

Thank God for this woman's driver's license, because she sure as shit didn't remember where she lived. And how lovely that she lived on Sunset Boulevard. Not the hip part of Sunset Boulevard, but the better-have-your-mace part of Sunset Boulevard. After spending an additional 10 minutes trying to find a parking space, I realized I was in the lowest part of the boulevard of dreams. I prayed my car would be there and in working condition when I returned. Damn me for not buying the club.

I escorted my lady to her apartment unscathed. Her aparment, in a word, smelled. It didn't smell like cats or cigarette smoke. It smelled like she regularly relieved her bowels in every corner of the dwelling. So I didn't even wait to tuck the bitch into bed. She was safe and sound. I, on the other, had a different reception waiting for me.

Separating me from my car were two points of interest:
1) an increasingly hostile confrontation between a large number of Asians...and when I say "large group of Asians," I don't mean the chess club
2) an all-night karaoke bar, which was closer to me, but not closer to my car.

Despite the usual safe haven that a karaoke bar would provide for yours truly, this particular karaoke bar was no safer than, say, a karaoke bar in East St. Louis. However, the crowd inside seemed much friendlier than the karate kids. Unfortunately, this karaoke bar was having a rather intense yet equally stupid American Idol rip-off. In a word, everyone had to compete. All I wanted to do was call the cops, notify them of my need for an escort 10 feet to my car, and go to sleep. But no. I paid $5 to enter the stupid competition.

After a rousing rendition of Baby I Need Your Loving (which didn't knock anyone else out of the running, to put it mildly), I opened the bar door. The confrontation had escalated into a knife fight. These people weren't fucking around, and a polite "Pardon me, I just need to get to my car" wasn't going to clear the crowd. So I did what any normal testosterone-filled man would do. I called 911.

Of course, within five minutes, the fight had ended and both parties returned to their respective Hell holes. Without waiting for the cops to show up to a non-existent threat, I returned to my manager's house.

I crawled into bed without so much as taking out my contacts. I fell fast asleep and did not wake up until...RAAAAAR