I Shaved

Well, my balls and butthole, sure. But I meant my face. I'm clean shaven again. No mas salt and pepper goatee. I think I grew it at least a year ago so it's been "my look" for quite some time. It was surprising all day to look in the mirror and see a different face looking back. My upper lip is thinner than I remember. And my buzzcut head totally doesn't work for me anymore. I'm growing my hair back. I'll let it grow for a while to see how much grey I've got in there. I'll decide if it needs some color in a couple of months. This is actually more significant than it sounds. It's partly an outgrowth of the new job. (New beginnings. etc.) But it feels like I'm either developing another new personality (this would be my eleventh, give or take), or perhaps an old persona is taking control. Further proof, all the skin on my palms has been peeling off. No cause for alarm, it's happened dozens of times throughout my adult life. I molt. Either way, a new/old me is braking out. I must need something my soul is providing me, even though I'm not sure what it is yet. In the meantime, I've got a clean smooth butthole to keep me occupied.

"Hello, my name is Tom, and I'm a shopaholic."

"Hi, Tom!"

Seriously, I left the house this afternoon to drop off a prescription and pick up some lunch. My feet, in some sort of a trance, walked me to 23rd St, where I found myself entering Housing Works. I've mentioned before what a kick ass thrift shop it is, and the fact that the proceeds go to people with AIDS keeps me as a regular customer. Besides, since they take donations from other fags that feel as I do, where else are you going to find an Armani sport jacket for 50 dollars? Anyway, of all the luck they were having a fall clearance and all men's clothing was half off. Darn! Well OK, I'll have a little look. I left with a (not Armani) sport jacket (dark grey with blue pinstripes) and two fall sweaters that I could not have seen myself buying previously. The new personality must need clothes. Total cost to me: 21 dollars.

After lunch and a trip to the gym, I headed down to the local Martha Shack on Astor Place. I was looking to replace the decorative pillows on my bed. They've ripped and are unstuffing at an alarming pace. And we know how painful unstuffing too fast can be. Surprisingly, Miss Martha's current selection of decorative pillows is woefully inadequate. A prison project if I ever saw one. Use that cheap lesbian labor, Martha girl! So I settled for replacing the sneaker socks The Hellcat stole from me. Along the way home I decided to stop in at the new Filene's Basement on Union Square. It's far and away bigger than the Filene's I've been shopping at. On the way up, exhibiting enormous self-control, I purposely didn't even glance at the DFW. I don't need shoes. Unfortunately, the Filene's selection of sheets and towels is pretty good, but their decorative pillow selection is even worse than Miss Martha's. No luck there. So would it hurt to check out the menswear? No it would not. Again, some sort of a narcoleptic trance ensued. After starting out in men's shirts, I blacked out. Only to awaken again in men's clearance shoes. Shoes! How could this be? And what's this box in my hand? Why, it's shoes! But wait. It's a color (concord, yes concord) I don't have. And they're shiny! The gays like shiny. And they were marked down twice to $39.99. And now they've made it to clearance and are 40% off of that. I must have them. I am powerless against the clearance shoes. I finished with a belt. And not just any belt. A reversible Kenneth Cole belt. Reversible as in black on one side brown on the other. That's fucking brilliant. Seriously, I am so impressed I may buy several to give to friends. A black and brown belt are essential to anyone's wardrobe. To find both in one belt for $16.99? Kudos to the Kenneth Cole design team.

It's been about a week since I started the testosterone replacement therapy. On the surface, I can't say I feel appreciably different. However I did notice two things. One little, one most definitely not. The little thing, I'm finding myself to be seriously more energetic at the gym. I don't get tired. A half hour on the Stairmonster leaves me feeling barely winded. I do fifteen reps of an exercise when I usually can only do ten. And I only stop because I feel like, well, I should. I wrap up my workout not because I'm worked out, but because I have other things to do. The big thing happened this morning. I woke up around 10:30 and could have dozed longer but I didn't want to waste the day off. As I swung my legs out of the bed and stepped into my slippers, I noticed it. Morning wood. Hello old friend. I confess, I didn't really miss you until my doctor asked me about you. Only then did I realize you were gone. But there you were tenting out my pajama bottoms so strong and proud. On a side note, I've been (annoyingly?) aware of my cock all day. Coming home from the grocery I felt like I had a mild case of blue balls, even though I know I cleaned the pipes last night before bed.

Coming up - I think I'm going to book a massage for tomorrow evening. It will definitely be an erotic massage. How erotic it gets I will have to tell you later. Tomorrow's post title: Finger Fucked at the Gym

A Rare Double Blog Day,

but you know I can't resist posting a remarkable Craigslist ad:

Looking to Play St8 Married need to be Discrete - 29

included with this picture:




Yeah, real discrete buddy. Christ, you "st8" people are fucking freaks. And if you look that shitty in a bra and panties at 29, well....

How Was Your Holiday Weekend?

It was more by chance than design, but I didn't get an opportunity to post a pithy missive until now. Well, that's partly true. I did manage a half-drunken post last night that the Blogger gods saw fit to unleash a "server error" upon. Just as well, as I distinctly recall confessing some secrets I thought better of after a night's sleep. Although I try to tell you everything, my lovelies, there are times when I need to reveal plans after the fact. I have my reasons.

As usual, my holiday weekend wasn't. I chose to think of Thanksgiving as just another Thursday. Considering it's a uniquely American holiday, and a family one at that, it seems painfully pathetic to me when you scramble to celebrate with absolutely anyone. As some feel that's preferable to being alone. I'm OK alone. Besides, there is the point that while the story behind Thanksgiving is just that, a story, the reality is that in an indirect way, we are celebrating what turned out to be an invasion by the white Europeans that resulted in the wholesale slaughter of an indigenous people. Pass the yams.

I am in the midst of a three day weekend now, though. My boss claims it's a reward for being a "gold star manager" and "a big help the last couple of weeks". I think it was total happenstance and she's blowin' smoke up my skirt, but I like it. I hit the gym today despite sleeping till 1:30 pm. Quite honestly, I use any excuse I can think of for staying in my room or getting out of the house these days. Particularly on the weekends when everyone is home. It's my house, but I don't feel welcomed, and I don't feel cared for. So on the rare occasion when I'm home for the day, I try to get out and keep busy.

Today I spent some time tending to my vast financial empire. Lucky thing, too. I pulled up my brokerage account. It's the one I play with, buying and selling stocks. My retirement account is separate and I tend to leave it mostly alone. If I speculate that a stock has taken a serious beating, this is the account I use to start accumulating shares. I can buy a block wholesale or accumulate for a year or longer. Generally, I tend to keep buying shares as long as the average price I pay is less than the current share price. Sometimes I stop at one hundred or one thousand shares. Then I start shopping for something new. In any case, an investment I made several years ago finally paid off. The stock price popped and I made a quick thousand. Now here's the tricky part, or at least the hardest part. It's time to sell. You see, as happy as I am that the stock popped, there's no way it's going to stay at it's current inflated price. It's time to take some money off the table. If I was the smartest investor I would sell some of the investment off, take the profit and re-invest in another stock. I'd love to, but my cash crunch got a renewed life when the Amex bill for last month came due in full. Hi, have we met? I'm broke.
So I'm cashing out half the investment and using the money to pay off the last of my outstanding bills (not counting my lovely and cherished credit cards). Considering I've spent the last six months chasing my financial tail, it will be a relief to head into the holidays and the New Year on a more secure monetary footing.

Coming up: My blog has been de-sexualized as of late. But it's merely reflective of my life. I've had my reasons. From adjusting to a new job, to my apartment being repeatedly in a shambles. I've adjusted. And on the surface at least, the apartment has returned to, if not normal, presentable. I intend to make sure it stays that way. And I intend to bring back one of the favorite things my little corner of the blogsphere is known for: dirty gay sex. Watch for it.

In The News ...

A woman has filed a $20 million dollar negligence lawsuit against the Bed-Stuy Family Health Center here in Brooklyn after being misdiagnosed as HIV+. While her lawyer provided no information as to the treatment she did receive, he did claim she gave blood samples "regularly". She apparently received her original misdiagnosis in 1995 which she likened, if you can believe court documents, to "a death sentence".

Further, her response from the point of diagnosis included, again according to court documents, becoming "depressed, reclusive" and contemplating suicide. "She wasted seven years of her life." In that, I most certainly agree. She took the opportunity to meet, face down and excel against one of life's greatest challenges. To be provided with concrete evidence that the time to make your life count for something has finally dawned. And she fucking rolled over and gave up. She didn't hear the clock ticking in the background, she skipped from the middle of the book to the end without a goddamned fight.

And then, in the ultimate proof that this woman was born without a soul, and this country has no sense of shame or priority, when she is, in effect, given back the illusion that her life (apparently) will now go on forever, is she full of joy and hope and (finally!) a sense that her future hasn't been written and her limited options have no more (theoretical) limits? Fuck no! The weak bitch slaps down a suit looking for a $20 million dollar payday. Because it's not enough to be told you're gonna live, not when it provides the opportunity to never accomplish, achieve, fight against or conquer another challenge, all on the governments dime. People suck. They truly do.

Also-

They've backed down from the original plan, but after howls of protest from various gay groups, federal prosecutors have tabled their plans to post conviction posters of gay men sentenced for dealing crystal meth. These activists accuse authorities of "needlessly vilifying gay men" and further, try to give a pass to gay meth dealers by claiming they are "nonviolent addicts that sell to support their habits". Yeah you dumb fucks, and they sell to other gay men, other current or future addicts. They are actively participating in the dismantling of our "community", as sure as someone HIV+ knowingly cumming up a neg man's butt, or not bothering to disclose his status. Fuck the meth users and fuck the dealers. While I think the over all idea of the posters is just plain dumb, I have no desire to protect those that are obviously and pointedly not doing anything to protect themselves. Or worse, actually carelessly doing harm to others.

Crystal meth will cause you to lose your job.

It will cause you to lose your money and your home.

Crystal meth use will seriously damage your health, even to the point of rotting your teeth right out of your skull.

Crystal meth use will cause what can turn out to be irreversible brain damage over time.

Unfortunately, we have become a society that seems to think life can be lived without consequence, and without blame. The gay crystal addict should be "informed" but not made to feel bad. That's bullshit. You're hooked on a drug that has rendered you in effect useless, and if you're dealing you're just taking more gay people down with you. I'll give you my compassion when you admit what you are and start doing what you need to get well. Until then, you're just a weak pathetic addict. I could care less if a poster makes you feel bad.

Oh Girl, I'm Tore Up.

Went to work on Saturday at 4 pm. Worked two shows and then covered the late night for a manager that got called out of town for a sick relative. I've made no secret of my desire to have nothing to do with the late night weekends. They bring in a separate security team and dj's and basically turn the showroom into a hip-hop club. They physically search people on the way in, including making them empty their pockets and searching the women's purses, even their cigarettes. That's a sure sign of a crowd I would prefer not to cater to. Besides, it's called late night for a reason. Last call is 4 am or later. After completing paperwork, cashing out registers, etc. it can turn into a very late late night. I caught a cab home at 6:45 am. Today I was due back at 2 pm. I was working on fumes in the tank.

We hosted a charity benefit in the afternoon. Then we followed that with the second show. It was Stephanie Mills in concert. Stephanie Mills. It was 30 years ago she played Dorothy in The Wiz on Broadway. Yes, she did her only real pop hit "Never Knew Love Like This Before" but best of all, I finally got to hear Stephanie Mills sing "Home" (from The Wiz). Speaking of tore up, she didn't do the number. That song got did. She closed with it. I got chills. I'm already pretty jaded enough that I rarely notice the performances in the showroom. I noticed this one.

Aside from that, I made some gay money this week. My paycheck included an extra shift. I was pressed into bartending service for a couple of hours on Friday. I managed to pick up an extra $40 for my troubles. I got paid in cash for the extra late night shift as well. More than enough to pay the bills, and possibly splurge on a masseur/escort. Emphasis on masseur but hey, a hardworkin' girl has to have her fun doncha' think?

Your Attention Please...

I do not have tuberculosis. I repeat, no TB, I. That is all. Thank you for your attention.

Meanwhile...
If you live in Manhattan and you have steam heat in your apt. run, do not walk to get a room humidifier. It's made a huge difference in how I sleep and also how I feel in the morning. To wake up hydrated, well until you experience it you just don't know.

So last night I got home from work, stripped down to my briefs, popped out my contacs and got the coffee ready to brew in the morning. Then I set about making myself a nightcap. Imagine my surprise when all three ice cube trays contained only water. Cursing loudly I got dressed again, threw on a jacket and walked down five flights of stairs to the Korean's where I bought $1.75 bag of ice cubes. Slamming the door near The Ex's bedroom on the way out and on the way back in. The Hellcat was still up, and professed innocence, suggesting The Ex may have dumped all the ice cubes because they tasted funny. I left The Ex a "you suck" note to which he professed his innocence as well. Typical. Regardless of the circumstances the fact remains I live with two people who flat out refuse to consider me or my feelings when they go about their lives. Yesterday before leaving for the gym and then a 10+ hour work shift, I emptied the recycling garbage can and noticed a putrid odor coming from whatever had congealed at the bottom of the can (dog food + people food + god knows what). So I removed the inner liner and put it in the shower. I filled it with Pine Sol and hot water and let it soak. Then I scrubbed it with a toilet brush. I scrub the floors. I bleach the porcelain kitchen sink. I spend my own money to replace and then change the soap encrusted shower curtain. And neither one of them lifts a fucking finger beyond the most basic household maintenance. And sometimes not even that. There was a dead cockroach inside the microwave that sat for two and a half days. It's finally gone, but whatever spilled on the glass plate inside is still there. I guess I'll clean that too. In light of all this, is it too much to ask that I can have a tray of ice cubes at three in the morning? Apparently so.

I'm Calling The Geek Squad.

If you haven't heard of them it's a roving computer repair/IT team that has branches in various cities throughout the country. They will advise you by phone, or, if you're lucky enough to live in a city where they operate, you can call and have a Geek delivered right to your home. New York being the ultimate delivery town, calling for a Geek delivery only seems natural. (When I first moved into my castle high atop Second Avenue, we used to call for a delivery of food, video and liquor to see if we could time it so they all arrived together. The best we ever achieved was two out of three.)

So I'm having some computer issues. As you know, my PC up and died in The Great (Ongoing) Room Re-do. I thought it was a faulty power source which I replaced to no avail. I was thinking that it might be as simple as a failure in the on/off switch. I do plan to check it out when I get in the mood to tinker. In the meantime I couldn't wait any longer and went ahead and found a new (refurbished) computer with a pretty good processor and a big fat hard drive (thank you, Gold Card). It came with XP Home installed and I kept my monitor so it barely feels like I've changed anything.

But I have no sound. According to the information book the motherboard supports 2,4 or 6 channel audio output. I've only got the two channel output enabled. Two channels, two speakers. It should be working. It isn't. And aside from plugging it in, I know nothing as far as sound and speakers on a computer.

I also want to install my old hard drive on my new computer. Aside from the added storage (I will probably never, ever need) I want to be able to access that drive for some of the programs I've lost copies of, particularly Photoshop. Aside from that, while I did back up my pictures at some point last year (yay me), the newest pictures were never saved. And while I always have access to the blogs listed on this site, I was actually actively or periodically following many many others. Some I could just find and bookmark again. Some, like a newly discovered gay blogger who's also a Buffalo native, I can't recall what his site was called or where I found it. Now intellectually I understand how you go about installing a hard drive. But the one time I tried it a couple of years ago I ended up fragging the whole system. I absolutely cannot afford to do that again. I am comfortable adding a firewire port, I've installed extra memory, I added a faxmodem to a cheap computer that I gave my sister as a gift. So on the surface, I should have the skill to install the drive myself. Quite frankly I'd rather pay someone to come by one afternoon and do it right the first time, make what I'm sure is a simple and obvious correction to my sound settings, and be on his/her way.

I replaced all my bathroom towels today. I had half a dozen or so that matched the colors in the bathroom. Once The Hellcat moved in, they started disappearing one by one. He has a tendency to react to (frequent) spills by grabbing the closest towel, regardless of what it's for or who it belongs to. Paper towels never seem to be an option. I've seen him use one of my bath towels to clean up a spilled liter of Pepsi. I watched, appalled, as he took one of my bathroom face towels and used it to dry his dog. Then he put it back in the bathroom on the towel rack where it hung for days. I have no idea if anybody used it to wipe their face or dry their hands. It would probably still be there if I hadn't cracked and threw it in my laundry. I'm sure he believed that his intent was to use one of the towels, or let a trick clean up with a towel, pledging in his head that he would launder and return it. The problem is he doesn't always remember his pledges and justifications that he makes to himself when he's high. So over the last few months all my bathroom towels disappeared. I plan on explaining this to The Hellcat the next time I'm sure he's sober. I will make sure he understand that the new towels don't belong to the house. They're mine. I bought them, and I'm the only one that can use them. Taking one with the intent to launder it is not an option, regardless of whether or not he's high, as he has proven that won't happen. I'm interested in whether or not he can follow a clearly stated boundary. I suspect not but maybe he'll surprise me.

I finally made it back to the gym today. Probably only the second time since starting my new job. And the first time I really wanted to since getting sick. I did a half hour of cardio and a half hour of abs. I should have time to get there again tomorrow. I'll be starting back in on the weight training. Not coincidentally, tomorrow I start the testosterone replacement therapy. It's basically steroids. The implications are obvious. My desire to document...well, everything has me wanting to get some "before" pictures. If there's time in the next couple of days I'll get it done.

Congratulations, You Only Died A Bit More.

Went to the Doctor's today. It was a regularly scheduled visit. A follow-up to my latest labs. It was a very good news/bad news experience. Some of the good news: cholesterol, liver function, blood sugar all normal. Some not so good news. My T-Cell count dropped dramatically, by almost exactly 100. (Even my T-Cells fall away in nice round numbers and in an orderly fashion.) I'm currently at 349. Still all right but approaching the 300 point where my doctor and most of the current medical industry recommends you start taking medication. It's no cause for panic, we've scheduled a re-test for the first week in January. Hopefully, I'll stabilize again or possibly get the number back up. If I test again and show another drop, however, my doctor wants to open up discussions about my first meds.

I talked with my doctor about my recent illness and described all the symptoms I experienced including my cow pox at the end. Fortunately my pox co-operated and though greatly faded, I could at least show the residual effect. Except for the visual evidence and a slight congestion in the morning I have no other symptoms of my illness left. She swabbed my throat and did an on the spot test for strep. I didn't have it. After that, she speculated that it was just a virus that resulted in a rash of some sort. Since it seemed to be resolving itself she told me not to worry about it, but by all means if it reappears anytime soon I should come in immediately.

I talked with her about feeling like absolute crap the week or two before I got really sick. I asked if it were possible that my T-Cell drop was just a further symptom of the viral infection. It should also be noted that I didn't experience an increase in my viral load, which is something you would expect with a large change in T-Cells. She at least threw me that bone and said that it was certainly possible.

I let them do a TB test. The last time I took it I got too busy to have the results checked, and there's some state law in New York that makes you have one at least once a year. I mean, it's not like they ask you to leave the state if you don't get it, but they totally bug you about it so it's easier to just take the test. I have to say though, at least at the Gay/Lesbian Health Center where I'm treated, they don't make you sit and wait to have your TB test read. You walk in and tell them why you're there, and someone comes immediately to check your test. The whole process takes a couple of minutes, minus the time it takes to walk over there.

So I left vaguely unsettled, and I started thinking. I'm wondering why I'm fighting so hard to stay off the medication as long as possible? I mean, it's not the pills per se, I already take pills every day. I take a multi-vitamin and extra C. I take three anti-anxiety pills in the morning and three more at night. I take the occasional Clonazepam. I take an anti-inflammatory when my joints ache. In short, I'm OK with pills. In a way, when I finally do go on medication it will be a good thing. My T-Cell count will climb. My viral load will drop, possibly to an undetectable level. But I still don't want to go on meds. If I examine why, the surface answer is I just don't want to. I don't want to. But the truth lies deeper. I don't want to go on those meds. The HIV meds. May the spirits forgive me I don't want physical, concrete evidence in pill form for me to see that I'm HIV positive and sick enough to need to take daily medication because of it. And as hard as I've worked to accept my illness and incorporate it as just another aspect of my life, what does it say about my own prejudices and fears that I seem to want to remain HIV+ on paper only? That I fear the day I have to acknowledge my illness, to literally have to swallow the evidence into my body with medication that theoretically I could be on for the rest of my life. How embarrassed am I to come to the conclusion that I can handle being (in my own words) "sick, but not sick, sick. You know?"

Lastly, and also in keeping with the good news/bad news, I had another test done to measure my testosterone levels. I got my lowest results ever. It's a wonder I get hard at all. (I still do, I swear.) Short term, it may be another answer to my feelings of fatigue. Long term, left untreated my doctor claims it puts me at risk (about 20 yrs. out) for osteo.... osteopi.... brittle bones. So the fourth of the fistfull of prescriptions I left with today included Androgel. I'm going on testosterone replacement therapy. The possible side effects can include a loss of belly fat (these are results I've been made aware of both from "the internets" and from South Beach Diet research), as well as an increase in muscle mass and body weight. Aside from that, I supposedly can look forward to a several month period of the Tommy Lee syndrome. I'm going to be better, bigger, stronger and harder. Several times a day if the research pans out for me. Let me know if you need a well hung 141 lb. sex machine in the next couple of months.

2 1/2 Days Off

Wahoo! It's been a few weeks since I've had a real "weekend". In the nightclub business, 2+ days off, regardless of when they take place, count as a weekend. Plans so far include a day of beauty, tanning most parts, shaving others. Laundry of course. It's also been a few weeks since I've been at full strength. In the past my days off consisted of puttering around the house and cleaning up after my room mates. I'm going to try to catch The Incredibles. It's the first movie lately in a long while I've actually wanted to see. I love movies. But I don't just like anything. Cool animation, funny horror, action/adventure I'm in. Epic dramas, anything by Merchant/Ivory, I'll watch it on video. Maybe. I've still never seen Titanic.

Work went really well in spite of the fact it was me and Gozar The Keymaster. I had to take point for the main showroom and make a workable floor plan. Then I had to arrange for All Access Passes, Photo Passes for the press, Video Passes for others as well as video release forms. Then I had to set aside seats and tables for the house list as well as providing tables for unexpected VIP's and a last minute VIP section for the headliner's record company and guests. It wasn't that big of a show, probably 250 people total, so it was a great way to get my feet wet in areas where I've only just observed. I lead the pre-shift meeting. Being a former actress, I have an innate sense of whether people have totally tuned me out, or I've got their attention. The Dutchess can still command a room. I'm actually looking forward to a night when we're working a fully seated, really busy show. I want to cut loose and show some people how it's done.

The funny part of tonight was it was technically Gozar's show. According to the schedule I was supposedly just assisting in the show room and running the restaurant. But he and I both knew that Gozar was incapable of running even a small event like this. You could almost hear the relief in his voice when he realized that I was leading the charge up the hill. He was only too happy to carry the flag. The only area that we totally clashed over was when the restaurant hostess used his inability to make a hard decision to get out of work two hours early. I pulled him aside and explained that he had overstepped his boundaries. The person assigned to run the restaurant should make that call. Because without a hostess, the person assigned to run the restaurant then has to hover by the door making sure new customers are properly greeted and sat. I also made a point of expressing my dissatisfaction with the situation completely privately. Gozar seems to not understand at this point that certain things need to be kept "management only". We need to present a united front even if it's not really true. I'm gay. I'm totally comfortable creating an illusion. Heterosexuals need to be taught discretion.

Tom Was Here

Home from work at 2:30 am. Of course, I went in at 10 am. The day shift was uneventful. I spent a little time bonding with the owner's mom. She handles the bookkeeping for the club. She's actually a pretty nice lady, relatively mellow. She seems (on the surface, at least) to forgive mistakes as long as you can document what happened, in order to resolve the issue and send better information up the chain. The owner et. al, apparently only want clean, bottom line data. So Mom is the filter between us (management) and them. I had a $98 credit card discrepancy on Friday. I tried to figure it out. After about 20 mins. of adding and re-adding credit card deposits at 4:30 in the morning I finally gave up. One thing I've learned is that sometimes you need to look at a problem with a fresh pair of eyes. Either someone else's or your own after a night's sleep. Something that appears unsolvable at 4 am can be instantly resolved the next day at noon. Mom confirmed that I made the right decision. Pack it up, leave a note, and go the fuck home.

The night shift was technically uneventful as well. We did the Sunday night comedy show in the restaurant and an outside contractor booked the show room. This is usually a recipe for disaster as an outside promoter can be totally unprepared for the vagaries of a nightclub booking in New York City. They don't seem to grasp that you need to issue backstage passes for your entire crew. Trying to push your way through a doorway by muttering "He's with me." gets you a stiff-arm to the chest and a demand for a ticket or ID. Insisting the person you're trying to mack through the door is "hooked up" only serves to redouble the staff's resolve to not allow you to get what you want. This group was surprisingly professional. They were organized and very low maintenance

In any case, if I had any difficulties at all it was with the other new manager. He has a serious problem with insecurity and tries to cover it up two ways. He fixates on a single issue for a couple of days and talks about it and fusses over it ad infinitum to the point where the staff just ends up rolling their eyes and not responding at all. Or he just starts yelling and swearing at people, starting arguments and building resentment among the staff to what appears to be a growing critical mass. Now, I'm not absolving the staff of any guilt in this scenario. They will try, given the opportunity, and depending on who we're talking about, to get out without finishing their work. But I do maintain that in my opinion, the manager that tries to get what he wants by yelling, by threats and intimidation, by talking to adults as if they were less than or not adults, is usually covering up for his own insecurities. People that solve a problem by screaming are usually trying to not allow you to find out they're not too bright. His latest fixation seems to be with the key box. To explain: We have a key box in the managers office with duplicate keys to almost everything. Dressing rooms, locker rooms, dry storage, liquor rooms, menu cabinets etc. The staff, during the course of the day, will grab keys they need to open up rooms or bars or storage. They're supposed to return the key to the key box ASAP. That doesn't always happen. But the new manager is obsessed and keeps urging me to take people's ID and use Post-It notes to track who has what key. Feh. I know who returns keys and can be trusted and who can't. I endured my key lecture only to enjoy the image of me stabbing his temple with a pen and driving it deep enough to write my name on the surface of his brain. But maybe that's just me.