HEY BITCH in the 831

I am SO tired of living in the 831 without a reliable source of written entertainment. Monterey, Carmel, PG, Seaside, Salinas and Big Sur are filled with all sorts of fucked up people doing fucked up shit and I want to hear about it!

Take this past Monday for instance. Here I am around ten o'clock at night sitting at Jack London's in Carmel drinking something called a "Purple Hooter." I'm throwing a few back and just starting to get into a good conversation with my friend when a thirty-something balding dude in horn-rimmed wannabehipster glasses walks in and sits down with two other equally unattractive dudes and a couple of fake blonde ladies who both look a good 5-7 years older.

So there I am, minding my own business, when horn-rimmer decides it is the perfect time to regale the entire bar, including the hopelessly trapped bartender (sorry, Jose!) with tales of spending $900, $1,200 and EVEN $5,000 at a bar on shots alone. $5,000. In Monterey. Limos and exotic alcohol. Clubs. All kinds of people wanting to hang out with him at these clubs. (Ostensibly because he was providing them with free alcohol, but for the moment we'll pretend it's becase he's a baller.)


I think I might have even heard the words "VIP treatment" and "The Hippodrome" used in the same sentence.  VIP treatment at the Hippodrome? What the fuck is that? Do they roll a red carpet out the front door as you leave so you can avoid the inevitable vomit patches on your way out? Maybe toss your girlfriend some hand sanitizer when she's grinding for a passel of sweaty dudes inside the cage?

VIP treatment at the Hippodrome? I thought it was a social crime to even be seen there.

Before I knew what was happening, 5 minutes of my life had been wasted on listening to this dude's lame stories, all misguided attempts at looking like a "high roller" in front of his musty cougars. Suddenly, I had found my new mission for the night: get this dude to shut up. Not only would this allow me to enjoy my night, I might even be able to keep this aging hipster from salting his own game with tales of the glory days. Not even musty cougars want to  hear about the glory days. Especially not the glory days in Monterey. At the Hippodrome. 

But how was I going to accomplish this? I needed some serious advice.

Thankfully, the friend I was with is a smart dude. There is really only one way to get a bragger to stop bragging if you don't actually know or care about the person. And that is to be cooler than them. Way cooler.

So, my friend and I started bragging. Loudly. Horn-rimmer spend $5,000? We spent $10,000. VIP treatment at the Hippo? We were super repeat VIPs at the Tap Room. Horn-rimmer had 15 friends he was buying shots for? We had 20 friends and were doing tasting menus at Marinus. Horn-rimmer started to get quieter and quieter. By the time my friend and I were sniffing up mountains of blow with high priced Carmel escorts and 50 of our closest friends, horn-rimmer was silent. Sullen almost.

The kicker? Leaving the bar and telling him on the way out that the Cherry Lifesaver shots he ordered for his posse (who by then were visibly embarrassed to even be seen with him) were the wrong shade of cherry.

Now, does this sort of behavior make me a better person? Probably not. Did it make a whole lot of Jack London's bar patrons have a better night? Yes. Did Jose the bartender's late shift suddenly look a whole lot better? For sure. Did I save horn-rimmer from continuing to dig himself into his own socially inept hole? Most definitely.

I consider our efforts a success. Unfortunately, had I not had a quick thinking friend with me, I probably would have left the bar feeling violated and lame for not speaking up. And where would I have been able to turn, anonymously, to get advice on what to do in this sort of a situation?

I am sure as hell Dear Abby wouldn't print this type of garbage. Which is where HEY BITCH comes in. This is not your grandma's advice column.Or maybe it is, if your grandma is a savvy lady who wants to hear someone give her straight up, no-nonsense advice. The real shit. The shit you don't want to hear, but need to hear. Yes, you do look fat in that. No, the Hippodrome is not cool, but we do live on the Monterey Peninsula and sometimes it is okay to settle.

I'll be here to provide that advice. I'll consult with a team of experts in the field of life on the Peninsula (20 something hospitality people who work at such prestigious endroits as The Lodge at Pebble, Bernardus Lodge, Carmel Valley Ranch, the Crown and Anchor, Post Ranch, Deetjens etc.) and other reliable sources to give you the advice we, as the non-wed and nowhere close to dead in the 831 need.

And yes, I am talking to you. The you that was at Planet Gemini on a Monday night. Or posting on Monterey Craigslist missed connections "just for fun".

So write me, drop me a line, whatever. Sex, Drugs and Rock and roll are all valid subjects. I'll be posting  your letters whenever the mood strikes me. Write me and tell me whats up with you. Or your friends. Or your annoying mother who lives down the street and doesn't get the hint that she can't "just stop by" because you decided to move back to PG after college.

Or just send some hate mail to: heybtchadvice@gmail.com


Yes, hey BTCH. The people at Gmail are haters.

Sincerely Yours,

Some Bitch in the 831