The Thirsty Bartender

I'm on YOLO's stage now.

But despite his charitable words, I give up. It's only 7:46 p.m., but I've been accosted by a set of dentures and proven incompetent at the simple task of mixing three liquids together. I think I know my place in the world — and it's on the far side of the bar. I drop myself onto a stool and order a stiff one.

It's a tad before dark, and the older crowd starts giving way to a mob of 20-somethings. A gorgeous flock of fancy-heeled females orders Strawberry Kisses, one of YOLO's signature drinks. I overhear that they're on a manhunt. I spot a hot-and-heavy couple making out. Glittery lights come on and outline the palm trees, and glamour seems to burn from the fire pit. Everyone comes to YOLO to be seen.

I'm ready to mingle. I go to sip my vodka tonic but spill it instead.

"You're not supposed to tip your drink when you have a straw," Rob, a fellow patron, schools me. I explain that I was bartending earlier — maybe give a hard-working woman a break?

"You're not very good at what you do," he notes.

I peer at him. "Let me see: How can I describe you?"

"Tall, dark, and handsome," he offers.

Freed from whatever bar etiquette I might've had while on duty, I express my agreement by laughing.

"What? Am I not tall?" Rob asks. "Seriously?" he continues as he looks up and down analyzing himself. "I'm very casual, very unpretentious." On his roughly five-foot-seven frame, he wears jeans and a teal T-shirt with so many showy gold embellishments that it almost ceases to be a T-shirt.

"Oh, you're wearing loafers," I observe.

"I love loafers," he says as he stretches out his leg to admire them. "Do you know what that means?"

"No, what does wearing loaf — "

"I'm casual," he cuts me off. "Loafers with no socks mean I'm a casual guy."

"Are you growing out a mustache?" I ask.

"No," he responds. "Everyone told me to shave it off, so it looks like a little buzzed mustache. Like you have a little mustache, but you really don't want a mustache... like a little silhouette of a mustache. Very L.A. — like Brad Pitt."

Ah, I see. I chuckle. I like Buzzed Mustache — he makes me laugh.

By 10:40 p.m., the main bar is packed. I run into a few old schoolmates. I converse with a coworker from my day job. A cute man with dimples is unpursueable because I'm waiting for food.

Then randomly, a dude hobbles through the bar's beehive, showing lady after lady a pink razor. When he presses it, shaving cream smears onto the bar. "This is going to change how people shave," he declares. "No more shaving cream cans!"

He stops at me. Surprise, surprise, turns out he is a friend of Buzzed Mustache's. After introducing himself as Lou, handing me his business card, and asking my name (Mickie), he bursts into song: "Oh Mickey, you're so fine/You're so fine, you blow my mind, hey Mickey!" Like no one has sung this to me before.

I consider the opening lines of that '80s Toni Basil hit — "Hey Mickey/You've been around all night /And that's a little long" — and realize it's time to split.

Bartending Grade: C+

Nightly jolt: Toni Basil's Mickey

Status: Definitely still single

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