Wednesday, May 30, 2007


Check this out.

Sadly, I noticed a few guys wearing capri's around here about 2 weeks ago, so this phenomenon is not one exclusive to NYC.

Thursday, May 24, 2007


Going over some of my old entries, I know on here I sound like a dick who is slightly unhinged and likes picking on people. That's only halfway true.

The truth is, my anger and bad attitude are only directed towards those whom I see fit to direct it to.

What I mean by that is the customers who come in the bar and are up to the "standards", I'm more than happy to say hello to, do favors for and go out of my way for. I see absolutely no problem with those people who come downtown, patronize my bar, drink themselves retarded, and leave at the end of the night. Props to them if they leave with someone else. I completely support their decision to have a great time downtown, and when they come in my bar and spend their money, I'm making money too.

Part of my job description, as much as I don't feel it natural for me, is to be friendly to the customers. To an extent, that is. I'll direct you to the employee you're looking for, tell you if they're working tonight, exchange in a little friendly bantor, give you a light for your cigarette, and if I know you & like you enough, maybe even hook you up with a drink.

However, the customers who are on the receiving end of my bad attitude are the ones who aren't allowed inside in the first place for one reason or another, those who have been ejected, or those who give me a bad attitude in the first place. Those are the people who aren't welcome inside & don't fall under the catagory of "customer-in-good-standing" and therefore, aren't entitled to the benefits & perks included with that title, including me being friendly to them with a smile on my face. I feel no obligation to be nice to these people, and I'll avoid them as much as I can. If it comes down to it and they won't leave me alone, that's when I'll tell them what I think. Usually those thoughts aren't pleasant, but at that point I have no problem letting them know exactly what I think, in no uncertain terms.

But as far as I see it, it's only their own fault. I didn't make the dress code. I didn't force those people to come downtown out of the dress code. I didn't force them to get so drunk they couldn't stand up, and therefore, aren't allowed inside. I didn't make them puke on the sidewalk before they walked up to me. I didn't instigate the fight they just got in which got them thrown out. I didn't make them steal the liquor bottle from behind the bar. I wasn't a part of them deciding to rip up the bathroom.

My only guilt lies in the fact that I took this job and continue to work it, which includes keeping you out. That's it.

Yet somehow, it's my fault when they can't get back in or I'm throwing them out. Imagine how I feel standing there, on the receiving end of their insults they hurl at me while standing safely on the sidewalk, only because of their own inabilities to conform to social norms and common sense, and then perhaps you can understand why I do what I do sometimes.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Fun with a "Gangsta"

"Sorry dude, you're out of dress code. You can't come in," I said to the wannabee thug last night. "Your clothes are too baggy."

Like most people told that they can't come in, it took a second or two for the little Eminem wannabe to digest the information, then the realization that he was just told he's not good enough to get in took hold.

"Yo....yo dawg, are you serious?" he said, looking at me wide-eyed like I had just told him his mother died.

"About as serious as he is drunk," I responded, motioning to a drunk guy passed out on the sidewalk, halfway laying in the gutter.

"That's fucked up!"

And so the wannabe thug stood there not two feet from me, eyeing everyone coming in and out of the bar, pointing and making comments about each one and what they were wearing, for the next 5 minutes or so. His friends would periodically join him and egg him on, encouraging his anger for getting rejected. As I knew it would, this eventually pissed me off. And as I knew he would, he eventually came up to me to voice his grievances .


I ignored him.

"Yo, dude! Yo...."

Thug wannabee walked up to me and pointed at a guy walking out. "Yo, that guys clothes are baggy, too. Why can't I come in?

Finally I turned to face him, squaring off with him.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked him. "Are you fucking stupid?"

"Yo, I was just sayin' that dawg walkin' out had baggy clothes too."

"Oh...I'm sorry. I thought we went over this. Your clothes are too fucking baggy. Was I not clear about that? Has something fucking changed in the last 2 fucking minutes? I'm sure I didn't fucking stutter when I told you that. Did I fucking stutter? Do I look like a fucking retard?"

"Nah, dawg, I was just sayin..."

"I know what you were saying. You were fucking saying that apparently you know how to do my job better than I do. Is that what you're fucking saying to me?"

"Nah, dude..."

"Maybe you should stand up here and fucking do what I do for the rest of the night. Because apparently you know how to do this better than I do. Is that what you're fucking saying to me right now? You can do my job better than me? You think you know more about my job than I do? Seems to me like you're calling me a fucking idiot. Are you calling me a fucking idiot?"


"Ok, then. So why don't you take your wannabee gangster ass, get the fuck out of my doorway, and shut your fucking trap. Is there anything un-fucking-clear about that, you fucking piece of white trailer trash?"


"I didn't think so."

Saturday, May 19, 2007


There's a guy who is part of the management team at the place I work at who I really respect. He hasn't been around the "downtown scene" as long as I have (almost though) but he started as a door guy. Let's call him Bill. Bill started working in the bar business at a very young age, and is a door guy through and through. He sort of fell into management by accident. He drinks way too much, doesn't agree with everything management does, loudly proclaims that, often times publicly sides with the door guys on issues, and is the first motherfucker to jump into a fight.

Bill has a quality which I deem to be the most important quality of a door guy. It's called having balls. We get paid to enforce rules that the management decides. Try telling a 6"5 250lb thug that he can't come in. It's much easier to just let him in and hope he doesn't cause a scene. But we can't do that.

Collectively, as a floor/door staff, we have recently made known our desires to management to hire some bigger guys. We have some pretty big guys among us, but another big dude never hurt anything...especially us.

Management, of course, took what we had to say & tossed it directly out of the window, and hired the first 160 lb. guy that jumped through all their hoops, passed the classic "background test", said everything right and got the offer regardless of the employees thoughts. We all, of course, weren't suprised. Or impressed.

I can't blame management for doing what they do - they have a tough job and they do it well - but I have to wonder when the last time they had a half dozen UGA football players surrounding them threatening to play basketball with their head unless they were let in. In times like those, it's nice to have an extra big dude there. At least from my perspective as the recipient for most threats such as those.

I'll admit being big is only a small part of doing what we do. You can get by not being a monster. The best guys working downtown use their mouths, not their fists. But the time will come - and it always comes - when you have to use some muscle, choke the hell out of some guy, haul him out to the door, and toss him on the sidewalk. And a big guy who won't freeze up, or use too much (or too little for that matter) force to get the job done, sure helps. The intimidation factor is always a little nice, too. Pickin's are slim for big guys anyhow in this college town, though, since most kids interested in working at a bar are from the 18-23 year old range.

Bill isn't particularly big by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he's fucking small. But I trust him completely. That's important. He won't freeze up when it comes time to get a little physical. He came from a background that not a lot of the guys working today came from. From one where we were threated with weapons, promised to be waited for outside for us to get off for the night, etc. etc. on a nightly basis, and throwing around ghetto-fabulous wannabee rap stars was almost an hourly occurance.

Bill recently picked up a few door shifts instead of bartending, to "re-live the good old days" - in his words. So there we stood up there at the door for the night, got way too drunk, fucked with people who weren't getting in, hit on chicks, made fun of classically annoying drunk asses, and generally had a great time. We didn't get the chance to really tagteam anyone (and we were looking, for sure) but I sure felt like I was working with a dude who was on top of his shit. And I guess that's really what I expect from my co-workers while working downtown.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007


There's a running theme with those of us who have worked downtown for any real length of time:

We hate our jobs.

It's true. We despise what we do. We bitch about the job all the time. We're jaded motherfuckers. We work 3-5 nights a week, deal with drunken customers for the majority of the time we're on the clock, grit our teeth when we hear a line that we've heard a million times in the past, close our eyes and take a deep breath when a customer gives us an excuse that 12 other people have given us so far for that particular night, and thank the good Lord above when 2:45am rolls around and everyone is out of the bar for the night.

Then we shut the place down, grab a few drinks, and sit around and talk about all the stupid shit that happened that night. Talk about the stupid customers and the stupid things they said and did, the guy who refused the pay his tab or stiffed the bartenders, the guy who had the fake ID and argued with us, the guy who got tossed onto the sidewalk, whatever.

But as much as we all say we hate it, that we're fed up with drunks, there's also a running theme that nobody really talks about as much but everyone thinks.

We really love our jobs.

Where else do we get paid to hang out, get cheap drinks, hit on chicks, break up a few fights, wash a few glasses, take out some trash, have late night access to a full bar, and get paid well to do all that?

I can't think of a single job in the world besides a bar job that involves all of those things.

So, as much as I can figure out this far into it, it's a balancing act. I hate my job in so many ways, but I love it in more ways than I hate it. So I keep at it. I get ready every night and before I walk out the door to head downtown I think about all the times I've gotten ready for another long night at the bar, look in the mirror and say to myself with a sigh...Here we go again.

But, the time will come when my hate outweighs my love for working in a bar, and when that time comes I'll quit. And my time is coming soon, I fear.

But then again, I've been saying that for years.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

A much better crowd was around downtown last night than was the night before. No death threats or threats to return back with their "boys" to give me my well-deserved beat down. I always consider that a plus for the night.

Friday was horrible. Admittedly, I fucked up and got slack. That happens sometimes at the door. That doesn't mean it's okay, by management or by me. Management gives you a set of rules, you follow them for months at a time and then eventually aren't as vigilant about who you let in. Then a night comes where you let one slide. Then two. Then a few more over the course of a 6 hours shift, then you're horrified to see what comes walking out at the end of the night and you know you fucked up.

I was pissed. I was pissed that I didn't do my job the way I know it's supposed to have been done. I was pissed other people would think that I'm incompetent. I was pissed at no one else helping me out on the inside. I was pissed that, despite my efforts (and there was some effort), and numerous threats from those not allowed inside, the crowd still blew.

So last night I was the door nazi. Rejected everyone who made me do a double-take at them. Got harder on IDs. Caught the people passing back. Tough shit, you got caught. Kept the drunks out. Enforced the dress code. Did my fucking job.

And you know what? The bar was fucking packed and management gave me a nice little pat on the back at the end of the night.

A bonus would have been better, though.

Saturday, May 12, 2007


I was called racist last night. I'm called racist a lot. I'm not racist, believe it or not. Sometimes white people call me racist, but they're always with black people. Maybe they're trying to show me how "real" they are to their friends, and how they're down to stick up for their minority friends rights or something. When blacks and whites come up to the door and I reject the black people, the white friend has to jump the gun and call me racist.

Sometimes it's the opposite way around. I reject the white kids and let the black kids inside. It's always a dress code issue. The black friends don't call me racist. Because I'm white, it's always the minority calling me racist. But if I reject the white kids, then what am I?

Well the white kid who was by himself who I rejected last night seemed to think I was racist.

"Sorry dude, you're out of dress code, you can't come in" I said to him.

"What? Are you serious? " he responded.

I sighed. It had been a long night and I didn't want to answer his stupid ass question as to whether I was serious or not. I'm always serious.

"Yea, man. I am. I'm serious. You're out of dress code."

"That's fucked up! Can't you just let me in?" he started to scream at me.

"Well," I said, going into my usual respond, "management makes the dress code and I'm just paid to enforce it. It's not up to me whether I can let it slide or not."

"Whatever. You're racist. You're a motherfucking racist bitch!" He was angry now.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I snapped at him. "Are you an idiot? How on Gods green earth am I a racist? You're white!"

He actually just stood there looking at me for a second, looking a tad bit confused.

"Get out of my line, retard!"

Me and the other guys standing at the door with me had a nice little laugh over that one, albeit mixed with a bit of confusion.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Simple Rules

With so many nights of standing at the door, checking ID's and interacting with inebriated college kids for whom common sense went out the window 5 drinks ago, and especially with graduation on this Saturday meaning every college grad AND his parents will be out drunk this weekend, I present to you a basic outline of acceptable and not acceptable behavior for going out drinking in downtown Athens, Georgia.

1. Have your ID ready when you get to the door. You just waited in that line for 10 minutes. You've got plenty of time to dig it out of your $500 Prada purse. And unless you're using a walker to help assist you into the bar because of the arthritis that you're now suffering from as a 90 year old, I want to see your ID. And no, you're not old enough to be my mother or father, asshat, so shut your trap.

2. Don't stand in the doorway of the front door. All you do is block the flow of traffic in and out of the bar and irritate me, the door guy.

3. You can't smoke in the bar. You can't drink outside of the bar. You can't stand in the doorway. I know determining your course of action after being informed of those rules while you're drunk is like a 10 year old trying to figure out advanced calculus, so think ahead.

4. Flashing a badge at me at the door doesn't mean shit.

5. Don't climb on the bar top, the furniture, or strip your clothes off while you're trying to dance all over that hot sorority girl. Nobody wants to see that shit. Unless you're a hot chick.

6. Regardless of what you might think, I don't want you to hang out with me at the door while I'm trying to do my job. Go away. Seriously.

7. Tip. Tip alot. Tip a fucking ton.

8. When it's slammed, don't order a slightly dirty Grey Goose martini, a Mojito, a Chocolate Martini, and 3 shots of chilled patron with salt and lime and try to close out with a credit card. Keep it quick and simple.

9. When the lights come on, you leave the bar. Simple as that.

10. We close our doors at 2am. I know your friends are in there, but you have to wait. I've been stuck out here since 9pm, so you can wait 15 minutes.

11. Don't complain to me about the music. Does it look like I have the playlist or turntables up here at the door with me?

12. Don't be "that" annoying idiot in the bar.

13. When handing me your ID, don't quote me your date of birth, point out where your D.O.B. is located on your ID, or snatch it back away from me when I try to hand it back. If I take an extra second or two, don't cop an attitude. You try standing at a door and checking a persons D.O.B., expiration date, height, picture and other extra secret things an ID has on it to confirm it's real. Then try doing it about 500 times. Not too fun, huh? Now you have an idea of what I do and how people can be annoying like that.

14. Don't get into a fight inside the bar because I have to break that shit up. Go outside on the sidewalk and beat each other senseless so I can have something to watch and laugh at.

15. Get a taxi home. A DUI isn't worth it.

Follow these basic and simple rules and you should have a wonderful time drinking yourself retarded in the great town of Athens, Georgia.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007


Recently we had a night that ended in a floor staff meeting. These are never fun nights. Usually someone is pissed about something and wants to communicate their thoughts to the rest of the floor staff and/or management in hopes that the offending problem is corrected by those involved. However, these meetings are usually called at around 2:45am and we don't get a chance to sit down until around closer to 4am. This means that we'll have plenty of time to finish up working at the bar and talk shit with the other door guys and get even more angry about the situation at hand for over an hour. Guys will grab beers and drinks during this time, getting drunk, only making the situation even worse.

I'm fortunate enough to work with guys who, for the most part, give a shit about doing a good job. Most of the guys don't get drunk on the job. I'm lucky enough to work for managers who actually care about their employees as opposed to only caring about the "numbers". I'm lucky enough to work for an owner who won't hesitate to get us anything we need if it benefits the bar in some way. In a lot of ways, our crowd is much easier to deal with than crowds at other unnamed bars. It can be a lot worse than frat me, I'm aware of that. So in those regards, the place I work at is great.

I've worked at other places and the bar I currently work at is a fucking cakewalk compared to how other bar employees are treated by owners and how hard they're expected to work. I'm also sort of given unwritten permission to do just about anything I want in the bar as well. This is because I've consistently proven myself to have the most experience and the right work ethic. This is also why I'm (almost) always posted at the door. They know I do a good job.

I'm not trying to pat myself on the back, nor am I trying to show how much I know. I don't know shit compared to other guys. This is a fucking college town with college students as customers. It's a far cry from "real" clubs and bars in the big cities. It's just that this job is so fucking easy it's ridiculous. I get paid to stand in a bar all night, check IDs, check out hot girls, break up the occasional fight and do a little cleanup at the end of each night. How in the hell can you beat that?

So, when we have a little staff meeting at the end of the night and a door guy is pissed because the manager told him to do something with a tone the door guy didn't like, I'm confused. We're paid better than most bars around town. The owners and managers, for the most part, don't ride us like I know other bars do. Our crowd could be much, much worse. Granted, I hate most frat boys and their irresponsible, inebriated ways, but that shit also pays my bills.

I just wish some of the guys would shut the hell up sometimes and do a little work. Most of them do well, but there are a few that do nothing but complain. Do some fucking work and shut your mouth! We are on the clock while we're there, after all.

On an unrelated note...

Paris Hilton is getting exactly what she deserves. Let's give clubs and club employees across the nation a break from her snobby, self-indulging ways for a little while.