Bars, clubs and lounges comprise an area of great importance to those of us who “like to party”, ala the Vengaboys. But the entrance process is the one thing that can really put a damper on your fun buzz (other than long bathroom lines and flat hair, right ladies?! Hayyy!). Between the bouncers, the covers, and the douche bags, the whole ordeal of entering a venue can be often ridiculous and frustrating.
The “My Job Is More Important Than Anything You Can Ever Imagine” Bouncer: You know this guy and you know him well – he stands, arms crossed, large tree legs steadily balancing his large frame, eyes narrowed as you approach. There’s no smile, no joy, no sense of irony regarding the work that is being performed. He acts as though my friends and I – all feminine ladies, mostly under 5’7”, certainly in high heels that render us incapable of flight or even motility – are a legitimate threat to the safety and well being of the other party goers. These guys want to be taken so seriously that they treat people as though they’re in custody or completing a line up. I’m confused as to what they are trying to prove. If they’d like people to know that they are a force with which to be reckoned, I’d say it’s pretty much a safe bet that their 6’10”, 290 pound behemoth bodies accomplish that goal sufficiently without the offensive attitude and delusions of grandeur.
The Sexual Discrimination Bouncer – I think this works both ways, but clearly men face discrimination far more frequently than women. Adam and I went to a club a couple of weeks ago and while there was no cover for me, they wanted Adam to pay $20! That seems so wrong considering the men are also the ones who buy the bottles and the beverages for us ladies (that’s in my experience at least…sorry ‘bout that to all you uglies buyin your own drinks.) This is a recession; I think they should probably be happy that people are going to their lame club without penalizing half the population for having male genitalia and earning more for doing the same job.
The “Hot Biatch” bouncer – I'm always rather perplexed when there is a woman working the door because I really don’t fully grasp her function. She stands there, thinking she is hotter than Gisele, holding her list like it’s the entrance to Eden. She is often tall and skinny. I often hate her.
The “Sidewalk Santa Cover Charge” - This is named after clubs and bars that charge a mysterious fee at the door, the proceeds of which go to a “worthwhile” source (the owner). I call it the Sidewalk Santa fee because I am convinced that people dress up as Santas randomly and get drunk to gather funds. That’s actually not a bad idea. I should try that.
The “My Friend Knows the DJ” – I absolutely love when a random guy comes to the city (since this situation is usually exclusive to B&T or foreigners, ie from Cleveland), brings an entourage of 10 dudes with him, decides he wants to go to the hottest club and thinks that he can drop a line like this to get past the door. The guy confidently says “my friend Dan is boys with John K from college” or something equally vague and stupid. This confrontation concludes with the guys being forced to buy 5 bottles, and then claiming that it was their “mad hook up” that got them in.
The “Sauced Rationalizer” – When someone is trying to get into a bar or club and met with unnecessary resistance, the Sauced Rationalizer takes over, thinking that her drunk mumblings are going to get the group in with no problems. The arguments frequently include things like “its my birthday”, “my coat is inside”, and “you’re sexy”. These encounters frequently have poor endings. A memorable situation was when my friend engaged in “Sauced Rationalizing” and subsequently walked defiantly into the club, pushing past the doormen, dragging the red velvet ropes around her ankles. So, I guess this one works. Try it out, if you think you have the class!
The Drunk Punisher – This is what I call the bouncer who at around 1pm has his job switched around on him; instead of guarding the door to determine who gets in, he goes inside and determines who has to go out. Drink stealing, spitting, bitch slapping, and the like all invite such interference from the Drunk Punisher. I imagine the Drunk Punisher having a superhero voice in his head, confirming all the good he is doing by ridding the club of the uncouth masses: “Level V needs a hero with a face. Someone to clean up the vomiting, the pot smoking, the belligerent. I am the hope, I am the DRUNK PUNISHER.” And then he directs a transsexual to the bathroom and has an Apple-tini spilled on his shoes by a 19 year old (now cue heroic music).
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