Hipsters Don't Tip

Have I mentioned how much I hate hipsters? Real Job™ is in a hipster neighborhood and sometimes I just want to bitch slap this overgrown children who come in and demand their money back for a plant they bought that died, because they "went away to a musical festival for 2 weeks and no one said explicitly that a plant needs to be watered more than once every 2 weeks when we are having a horrific drought and 100+ degree weeks." I mean, how do you get up in the morning and fix your own breakfast and not set yourself on fire?

But, you know, customer service with a smile and all that. So I let it go.

But the go go bar I work at has become a hipster haunt. Do you know how much that sucks? It sucks because hipsters don't tip. And I know that any tip based worker will say that X group of people don't tip, but hipsters really take the cake. Why? Because they should know better. Because 99% of hipsters that come into the bar work in the service industry and they KNOW how much is sucks to work your ass off and not get a tip. Or maybe they don't, because working hard isn't cool or ironic enough, which is why you usually get shitty service when you go to restaurants or cafes that are staffed by hipsters. But  I still tip, regardless.

But I am sick of working 4 hours, in heels, shaking my ass for groups of bar goers who do nothing but watch, make comments, or in the case of the girls mock me who do nothing but drink the cheapest shittiest beer and then walk out without so much as a dollar in my jar. I mean, the fact is, if you are watching the show, you should pay me for it. I understand that some people aren't really interested in the gogo show, and thats fine with me. But if you are going to let you drunk girlfriend shout obscene comments at me, you are obviously paying attention.

I guess what I am saying is, while I used to be the dancer with the lowest tip night ($4 in 4 hours) one of the other girls told me this past weekend that she actually brought home $2 from a 4 hour shift. And that sucks. At least at an actual strip club the customers can't just sit and watch for 4 solid hours without tipping. Large scary men will ask them to leave. As they should.

Confessions of a Booth Girl

You know something? I've been through quite a bit of nonsense working as a convention booth girl. There was the porn convention, where good christian girls would walk up, lay their hands on you, and speak in tongues in order to save me from the sins of fornication on film. Which, you know, was nice, except that  I don't have sex on film for money and I was working for a liquid clothing brand. And then there was the part where Ron Jeremy drunkenly stumbled up to me and signed my boob. No seriously.

Yeah, you're right. That IS the girliest "signature" ever. And, no, I didn't ask for it. He just sorta branded me with a sharpie as I walked past. To be fair, it was a porn convention. I wasn't expecting normal.

But I have worked other conventions that have turned out to be just as strange. At the Baltimore ComicCon I posed with many men for many pictures. Not surprising when you are dressed as a sexy female space cat. But when guys start telling you that they are sending your photo to their ex-wife and "can you just say something into the phone to prove you are a real girl" you have to wonder.

Now I am currently working at the Philadelphia Flower Show. Flowers. Garden stuff. A nice, wholesome section of the population. That are crazy. Every single one of them.

Do you know what pissed plant people off? When you hold up a plant and ask "how long does this last?" How long does it LAST? It is a LIVING THING. ALIVE. It lasts as long as you do! Oh wait, no, it won't, because you are going to take it home and kill it. That is... it's like asking the pet store owner how long the kitten you are buying is going to last. And how do you kindly say "it will last until you kill it."

But ok, that is just my pet peeve. At least this time I get to wear pants.

I can laugh at it now.

Today, boys and girls, we are going to go on a trip down memory lane. Last year, I worked as a booth girl at the New York porn convention.

Here is what you are thinking: A) how did I even stumble INTO that job? B) There is a PORN CONVENTION? C) I didn't realize you did porn!

Well, to work backwards, I don't do porn. At least, not the hardcore penetration on film stuff. Just naked photos which is porn to some, I suppose, but not really. Yeah, there is a convention in NY and Miami and Vegas every year where porn stars converge with a sex toy trade showroom and the (mostly male) public pays insane amounts of money to go inside and see all the decadence. Thanks to a random Craig's List ad,  I worked as a booth girl for a company that was selling their body paint wares, which means I hung around the convention in body paint all weekend. For the most part, it was fun.

Some parts, however, were not.

But let's not get too melancholy, yet. There was a lot to laugh at. After all, it was a porn convention and how can that not be funny in its own right? Like any convention, there was one specific hotel that 95% of the entertainment stayed at. That means that there was one hotel that was 95% porn stars, exotic dancers, sex toy designers, etc. Ok, sounds like fun right? And because the hotel was so booked, we had all the after hour events there, including  the "industry" night dance party (in the hotel lobby, no less). It was filled with hot girls and boys dancing, including yours truly dancing in her body paint.

However, maybe you're seeing where the joke is in this story. It's the other 5% of the guests who were staying in the hotel for the weekend. Because the other 5% were a wedding party. And here is how it went down: the sex industry party is going in full swing in the lobby and a bride walks through the door, in her gown, with her new husband and all her wedding party. At that moment a little person in assless chaps and a leather harness walks past and gives her a heartfelt "congratulations." The groomsmen get shit eating grins on their faces and start hi-fiving one another. The bride promptly breaks into tears and runs away to the elevator.

Look at that chiseled plastic Ken-ass. The scene looked pretty identical to this picture... except you know, he was wearing something similar in leather and was smaller than the bride. Seriously.

Part II to come later this week.