Bouncers, Drunks, and Cover Charge - Oh, My!

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).   

Subway FreshBuzz: "It's Hell"

After a long three years of taking the subway from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn for school, and now constantly traveling from the Upper East Side to the West Village to visit Adam (ps – awesome subway planning NYC, way to make it absolutely impossible to go from East to West. I mean, because don’t most people only ever need to go North to South?), I have been exposed to all that the wonderful MTA system has to offer. Below, I consider the most nonsensical and attempt to simultaneously analyze and mock.

1) Intrastate Tourists (IST) – I don’t hate on actual tourists who are speaking French or Japanese and genuinely trying to make sense of the subway stops. Intrastate Tourists refers to people from Staten Island, Westchester, and Long Island City (and the like – I don’t discriminate) who really should be able to interpret a subway map but who either 1) cannot for the life of them do so, or 2) think they are really capable but actually have no clue.

You can identify the first kind as follows: the male IST stands hunched over the laminated wall map, mouth agape, his giant gold-ringed finger tracing the R train’s path and becoming increasingly stymied. His girlfriend comes over, pokes her hairsprayed bangs in the way, and uses her sparkled Lee Press On to show her man where he misunderstood. They argue, come to a decision after some yelling, and, ultimately, get off at the wrong stop.

You can identify the second kind of IST thusly: The IST is often leading a group of his fellow tourists on an excursion to the city, most likely for a hockey game, Def Leppard concert, or night of belligerence at the Blarney Stone. The IST is very confident, assuring his pals that he has done this many times when he “worked in the city”. His leather jacket and gelled hair gleaming with confidence, he stands in the middle of the car, refusing to look at the map. He is loud and often carrying a Colt 45 in a paper bag. At his direction he and his ISTs, ultimately, get off at the wrong stop.

2) Smelly Subway Platforms –I’m aware that the subway isn’t ever going to be immaculate. But seriously what are these bizarre smells on the platform? Sometimes they are so shocking that I actually want to bottle them and have them analyzed. It’s gotten so bad, actually, that gawker.com has created a “Subway Smells” chart, so that you can be aware of which odors will be offending your nose at each particular station.

My top 3 offending stations:

59th and Lex – I apparently am the only one who is sensitive to this station, but honestly, it smells like dead people and feet. It’s absolutely horrendous and it’s what I imagine hell smells like.

Canal Street – This stop smells like a dead fish wearing cheap cologne on a date to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Enough said.

West 42nd Street – its as if the subway platform has harnessed the smell of pigeon feces, urine, and homeless people that plagues the Port Authority Bus Terminal and concentrated it down to a powerful, nose-hair killing gas that could defeat even Superman.

3) Fat Person Taking Up the Subway Bench – Oh, I’m sorry… did I attempt to sit in the seat reserved for your FUPA? No, no, don’t bother getting up for the geriatric woman and her granddaughter, you just make sure that your ass that has its own zip code is nice and comfy. I mean, honestly, what is with this? How do people who are 150+ pounds overweight get this weird sense of entitlement? Most of these people are already “entitling” themselves to not following any dietary restrictions, not ever going to the gym, and wearing stretch pants to all occasions – yes, I can see how that’s so exhausting that they do deserve the entire subway bench. I know the subway is free and no one pays per seat, but next time I see this, I think I might have to sit myself down on someone’s potbelly… and hope to come out alive. (Note: Yes, yes, I also took health in high school, I know that not everyone is obese because they eat and don’t work out. And to all you genuinely thyroid challenged folks out there, I really am sorry, feel free to keep sitting on the subway. However, I watch the Biggest Loser [religiously… and cry] and all I know is that most of these cats are just eating like Armageddon is coming and Bruce Willis doesn’t have room for them on the ship.)

4) Voice Immodulation Disorder Affected Conductors – Why are you yelling at me, conductor? I heard you the first time when you told me that at South Ferry only the first 5 doors open – I think the people on the subway behind us heard you, in fact. Are you mad at me, conductor? I know I said I would take only your train every day, but sometimes I’m running late and you know, I take what I can get. What’s that? You don’t want me to stand in the door? Can you make sure you speak a little bit closer to your microphone? I don’t think you’ve yet reached the volume at which all your words turn to static – yea that’s, it, where you sound like angry aliens attempting to contact Earth. Thank you, conductor, for adding yet another dimension of pleasure to my ride.

5) Dick In A Box – this is the genius subway personnel who sits at the subway entrance in a clear, bulletproof chamber, as if this person who I only ever see filing her nails or napping is at all times in imminent danger of being assassinated. No, you can no longer buy a Metrocard from the Dick In A Box, nor can he or she give you change, a map, or anything else useful. The Dick In A Box’s sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to confuse the hell out of tourists and bolster the MTA’s numbers so they can get a higher budget for those classy MTA caps (btw, what’s with those hats? It’s as if they want us to be like “Oh heyyy, it’s a cop! No, wait, it’s an MTA employee, but because he’s wearing that hat, he must be worthy of respect! Yay MTA, please raise the fare to $3 a ride! Whee!”).

Part Duex: Airport Assholes

Due in part to the positive feedback I received on “Airport Amateurs”, in part because there is so much nonsense that happens in an airport, and the fact that I'll be taking a transatlantic flight this Friday (March 13 if you aren't sure which Friday I'm talking about), I have decided to post a sequel to the other half of Airport Amateurs:  The Airport Assholes.

The airport assholes are namely everyone in an airport that wears an ID badge around their neck: TSA agents, airline personnel, and airport employees.  These people are probably the most miserable people in existence.  And rightly so - they work at an airport!

In a slightly different layout then before, I will bullet the class of asshole and provide a brief description.

The Gate Agent – This is the person that could have been Hilter’s number two if given the opportunity.   They are easily the biggest gaping assholes at the airport.  They hate work, people and pretty much everything that life has to offer – they are the face and customer service of the airline industry.  Gate agents are there to make sure you have the worst possible travel experience possible.  Running a little late to your flight?  They’ll make sure your seat was given to someone else.  Trying to switch out of your middle seat on the plane?  Go fuck yourself.  Attempting to get on standby?  They’ll make sure you don’t get on stand-by AND they’ll give up your seat on the original flight.  Gate agents beat their children.   

The TSA Agent – TSA agents are nothing more than bouncers with a uniform.  They try and act like BSDs (Big Swinging Dicks) cause they can tell you to do stuff before you walk through a metal detector.   Instead of really looking for terrorists, they are busy combing an old lady with a metal hip using their metal detector wand. 

“Oh, you want to grope me because I was acting with insubordination?  That’s fine, I’ll take my shoes off…I’ll remove metal objects and place them in tray.  But guess what?  When I get through security, I’m leaving the 4 trays I used for YOU to collect.” 

The Ticketing Agent – I have never met such an inept group of monkeys.  The job requirements of this position are to stand in front of a computer, check people in or help those that have ticketing issues.  In reality, most cannot speak a lick of English and act like they have never interacted with a computer before. 

Traveler: “Um...yes, my flight got cancelled.  Can you please get me on the next available flight?”

Ticket Agent: “Hold on, sir, let me see what I can do.” 

They’ll spend the next 15 minutes typing away like they are transcribing courtroom proceedings.  Then they will pull another ticket agent away from someone checking in, to assist them in arbitrarily pointing to the computer screen - all in a concerted effort that concludes with them telling you that the system is not allowing them to issue any tickets, and that you’ll have to go to the gate for a ticket.  What they really mean is they are too retarded to work the application which is the cornerstone of their job, and that you’ll have to try your luck with the gate agent.  If you already forgot, please see above as to what you can expect from the gate agent.  Side note: Why is the system that the gate agents use different than what the ticketing agents use?!

The Golf Cart Drivers – These are the folks that cart cripples and beached whales around the airport.  They are usually clocking 25 in a 1, honking like crazy and willing to clip any motherfucker that gets in their way.  These people have the audacity to  think that WE ARE THE ASSHOLES because we are not walking backwards to see them coming.  Its like a Hollywood movie where there’s a high speed chase in a bustling market.

Restaurant/Hudson News Workers – These people are just assholes for charging $3 for gum, $4 for Aquafina (toilet water) and having a dollar menu at McDonalds that only consists of the apple pie.

Airport Information – These people know their way around the airport no better than you or me.  If you have never asked a question at the airport information booth, do it next time.  I promise, you will walk away shaking your head and grimacing from disbelief at the complete incompetence. 

Baggage loaders – You don’t typically interact verbally with these folks, but you interact with them visually: out of the window at the gate or perhaps from your window seat on the plane.  These guys make it a point to completely fuck up your luggage.  If you check-in you luggage brand new, you better believe you are going to get it on the other end with bent or missing zippers, the “ballistic” nylon on your suitcase slashed, or if you’re really lucky, your shit just straight up disappears.  I have a gash on my rollerboard that could only have been made with a deliberate swipe of a box cutter.

 

Flight Attendants – In all honestly, this is a crap shoot.   Some flight attendants are really cool and give you beer or a mini vodka for free.  Other times, whether male or female, they act like they had bad buttsex the night before and are determined to take it out on you.  Namely, by crushing your elbow, foot or head with the drink cart.  And to really piss you off, they’ll ask you to please move said body part AFTER they’ve given you the free contusion.

The Pilot - The leader of the aircraft, the one person who decides if you’re going to live or die today.  This guy is usually on his high horse because he is king of the vessel.  Below is a slight dramatization of the pilot’s speech from my last flight.  "This is your Captain speaking; we'd like to thank you choosing (insert shitty airline here) to fly to Tampa today.  We should be landing in Tampa at 3:52.p.m, but don't hold me to that because I've been drinking Old Crow Whiskey and snorting lines since 9:00 a.m.  I'm so lifted right now I couldn't even tell you my gender. Our cruising altitude today is going to be around 35,000 feet and winds are moving south to southwest. Not like you proletariat back in coach even care about this shit.  When the fasten seat belt sign is off, feel free to move about the cabin, but while it’s on, keep your asses in the fucking seats.  Now would be a good time to turn off your iPods, laptops and vibrators, for you whores out there.  Even though these electronic devices have no bearing whatsoever on the success of the take off or landing, we want to be sure that you are completely alert should this plane go down.  We at (less than reputable airline name) would feel terrible if you were to die on this aircraft and you missed all the fright filled action because you were sleeping to the sweet sounds of James Taylor.  Also, you should be aware that if something goes awry, you will likely die.   Because lets face the facts, we have nothing but mountain ranges in front of us and the whole Sully Sullenberg thing was a one-off.  Now sit back and enjoy the flight, and thanks again for flying with (Bankrupt airline name)."    

The Co-Pilot - He generally doesn't speak during the flight as his lips are firmly wrapped around the Captain's cock, which makes him not only an asshole, but a cocksucker. 

The Taxi Stand Attendants – Thank you for pointing me to a cab directly in front of my face.   I could not have undertaken the task without you.  

And finally, just a random funny picture: