Anthropologists and other social scientists favor a “thick description” of human behavior, one that renders a fuller picture and which explains not only the behavior itself, but also its larger context.
A thick description of my life, for example, might include a study of regional linguistics and attitudes, a family tree of mental illness, a personal history of addiction and trauma, and even what it feels like to be a sexual assault survivor during the presidency of Donald J. What I suppose I mean by the thick description is that the human condition is a motherfucker.
I entered "construction" for 'occupation' because thats what I do during the day, but I've been a bartender for over ten years, but I get the idea that we're thought of as womanizing, opportunistic, ne'er-do-wells with Peter Pan syndrome and admirable social lives. Some times it felt like I was a babysitter of adults or having to pretend I was interested in their silly conversations and always being polite no matter what the situation would be.
Bartenders are the ultimate givers of both verbal and liquid empathy, but if you haven't been behind the bar yourself, it can be hard to understand that the job is more than being a professional bottle lifter.
So, to clear up some misconceptions about the wide world of bartending, we chatted with a few anonymous industry pros about the aspects of their jobs that are the least understood.
Not everyone loses their virginity on a twin bed in a Midwestern basement.
(Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Here are 10 stories from Nerve readers who lost their V-card with a little more international flair.
Now in my forties and out of the feigning street cred game, I seem by most external measures happy and stable—rooted even.