III. Doorman, Why Must Thou be a Douchebag?

I have to slam myself.  Well, not myself, but my people.  By my people I mean Doormen. I speak not of the ones that help senior citizens with their bags at posh hotels and residencies and respectfully take a quarter as tip for their efforts, but those that stand at the gates of nightclubs and supperclubs clenching the velvet rope, deciding who should enter, who should wait, and who should go home.  The frontmen.  Not the gruntmen.  I speak not of all doormen of course, just the embarrassingly douchy ones, for one can never speak in absolutes.  Just like not all green onions are bad.  Not all pit bulls are bad.  Not all landlords are bad.  Not all teenage mall rats from ‘certain areas of the world (PC)’ wearing fake (or stolen) Canada Goose Jackets, acid washed jeans and crooked and over-sized caps, robbing the elderly, chastising the meek, and degrading the beautiful women of downtown Montréal whilst they hang out in front of their gang bunker club aka McDonalds on the corner of Mackay and St-Catherine Street are bad.  Well, maybe THEY are.  McDonalds.  Really??  I mean seriously, what do they text each other on their parent’s cell phones?  “Yo man yo.  Kahhba, on se rejoin a McDo bertouche man.  Macpoulet. Sidd bih yo, amene ton Maabol del hla. Macache.”  Sorry mom, not sure what I wrote but swearing in a foreign language does not count as real swearing.  I could make a lot of money selling magazines to these animals if I were to call it: The Art of Lying, Loitering and Looting: The Insider’s guide to sneaking into Canada.  In hindsight, they would just steal the magazine anyway, or they probably can’t read.  Ok.  Got that off my chest.  Bad example.  I go on…not all bacteria are bad.  Not all telemarketers are bad.  In fact, not all bad are bad.  Ok, I think you get my drift.  I feel that I need to address the topic of ‘Doormen’ and their comportment or lack there of. This topic surfaces way too often, and doormen are, in fact, responsible for the majority of flares I receive every weekend.  I can write volumes on what an awful doorman is, and more so on the proper etiquette of what a great doorman should be.  I think its time someone said something, and who better than an ex-doorman such as myself.

Allow me to paint you a delightful picture.  The weekend is quickly approaching. Girls call each other and begin planning their outs.  Boys get a whiff of this, and follow suit. The stage for the hunt is on.  You call for guest list or you make your reservations for dinner or bottle service or both (which confuses the hell out of supperclubs apparently.) The smart ones book directly with someone who has influence at the club.  A fixer.  The showing up unannounced is left to the brave, the stupid and the cool. The weekend arrives.  The females spend hours putting on their face, hiding their bad, boosting their package, and splashing their blessed bodies with scents that can make any straight man gnaw his own hand off to the nub. The boys, well, they comb their hair, pad their wad with fives, pick out the cleanest non-pit stained Ed Hardy T (or insert an example of something ugly here,) and put on their best scarf.  Note: I will never wear a scarf to a nightclub.  Nope, not this cowboy.  Ok, all systems are a go.  "I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night that tonight’s gonna be a good night that tonight’s gonna be a good good night...” is playing over and over in the background.  I want to shoot myself.  Glad I don’t have to listen to that tune anymore.  You get to the club.  There are people crowding the front.  Your heart starts to beat harder, faster.  Some clubs have one able doorman working, the decision maker; this one has seventeen parts of one and creatures large enough to bay at the moon.   No one seems to be taking control.  No leader here.  Who to talk to?  How to approach?  Your excitement is now turning into panic turning into stress.  This is not what you signed up for.   You finally make it to the front pretending to talk on your cell phone.  Their eyes avoid yours.   You aren’t important.  They are.  If you are lucky, you catch their attention.  They appear to listen but for a moment.  “I have a reservation, you say.”  He looks bewildered like when a foreign student asks an employee at Le Bureau du Immigration et Communautés Culturelles Pour Apprendre le français a question in English.  There is a hush in the crowd.  The stockbrokers start to lower their hands.  People stare, drooling for a reaction.  If you are lucky, he tells you it won’t be long.  There it is.  So you wait, like an ass.  If you are a guy, you are embarrassed, if you are girl, you are humiliated and feel less than sexy, like that old stoic llama that can’t quite keep her lipstick between her lips.  Five minutes, ten minutes.  Others walk in before you.  Cash, breasts or fear is the usual trifecta of reasons.  Now, lets be honest.  You are probably just buying drinks or a bottle or “meeting friends” and “not staying long.” If you think the high rollers get special treatment, you are dead wrong long dong.  They especially get punished in this bizarro world of douchy doormen.   They must beg as well.  Humiliating for any sheik. You try nice, you try angry, and you might even try threatening. “I could have your job!”  No you can't, so don't say it.  “Give me your name!” Do you work for the language police?   You don’t, so don’t ask. "I can buy this place?” Really??  You really want to buy the one place that is about to go bankrupt or change names yet again?  All so you can fire one employee who will probably call in sick because he makes more on unemployment?  You drop a name, continue your pretend phone call, stand, stare, flick your wrist to and fro, call out bro, frère and maybe even his real name, but you can't do a thing.   You are powerless.  Face it savvy nightlife partygoer, you’ve said it, and you've heard it all the time. The doorman is a dick.   A douchebag.  A small man with lots of power: metaphorically of course.  Robert Kennedy said that the problem of power is how to achieve its responsible use rather than its irresponsible and indulgent use — of how to get men of power to live for the public rather than off the public.  He would have made an excellent doorman, except for the whole hunting down the mafia ordeal.  Wait, what am I saying.  The mafia does not exist.

First of all, a doorman is a spoke in a larger wheel.  Just like a filter alone does not a fun pool make.  If he is truly bad, he won’t last forever, unless the owner is absent or absent-minded.  Often, clubs put a grunt in front instead of a doorman.  Bad move.  He may be big, but often his mind is small.  To be fair, lets say he doesn’t have the training.  Let’s say his Rolodex resides outside nightlife or is limited to his hometown in Thunder Bay or St-Michel.  Great doormen are far and few.  Owners should always scrutinize this position, and shell out the money necessary to fill it.  As an added bonus, if he is a great doorman, he will be a leader as well, and he will manage the team and set an excellent example.  He might even be largely responsible for bringing the who’s who of this world.  To the owners, never allow a security company to choose a doorman.  Just like a competent CEO would never allow an outside firm to determine his direction, a soccer-fan his team, a cat his lick spot, and a ripper her line of favorite baby powder.  Such a decision can make or break the rep of the well thought out brand of any successful club, which is to provide a safe and enjoyable environment, a unique twist, with of course, profit and longevity at the forefront of any decision.  So douchy doorman, forget the tips, the chicks and your small penis.  The club may be your canvas, the colors the clients, but you are merely the paintbrush, for the artist is surely the one who puts up his illegal dollars to make any venue possible.  Do his bidding honestly, humanely, and with character, and you will be respected without having to flex for a very very long time.

A great doorman will be able to assess the situation, great or small, from a physical and mental perspective. This becomes even more so important when working successful venues with extremely small square footage, and with a very high-end (high discretionary spending) fickle crowd.  There was such a spot.  Everyone deserved to be inside this place.  The line would funnel, like a Japanese subway.  How do deal.  Easy.  Pop quiz hotshot.  Pick a subject.  Any subject.  “Geography!” one would yell.  “What’s the capital of Bulgaria?” I ask, pleased.  The skinny shy one in the back would jump up “Sofia! Sofia! It’s Sofia!”  Like Moses, I parted this sea, and in came the nerdling feeling like a superstar.  Not fair?  Too bad.  It worked, and no one ever complained, for how could they?  Hey, I’m dumb; please don’t tell.  Used this for years, it pleased the crowd, passed the time, and it always guaranteed a 3-to-1 female ratio.  It gave people something to talk about.  Yes, this place was the place to be, to pre-drink, post drink, and one of the last to run a tab.

Cracketeria, excuse me, Cafeteria was the hottest spot on Boulevard St-Laurent in Montréal before The Plateau lost its famous street to misfits and ugly wanna-be thugs who walked atop it’s pavement like a yummy raunchy scene from the Walking Dead.  The erection of bars whose names may be defined as to depart, a flower, jealousy and spherical pockets of air led to open invitations for the villainous to flex their hip hop, wife-beating gun-totin’ minimum 5-year-sentencing egos.   Thank you Stephen Harper.  The bar banter that could be heard changed seemingly overnight from “shots!” to “shots fired!”  I was the doorman there for three very long years. Cafeteria has a debaucherous (not a word, but should be) history.  It was a sexual landscape, a little sin den that could, where the old went to pray on the young, and the young went to play doctor, pin the ace on her face and cracker cranker gangster; where the damned went to drink, chase the dragon, power trip, upchuck hughie, drown in fecal rimmed toilets, and dress-up as whore for Halloween.  Except everyday was Halloween at Cafeteria.   Only in Caf’s bathroom could you fit twelve elves in a 4x4x6 bathroom with one Santa Clause.  Except this Santa doesn’t care if you were naughty or nice.  You’d get it.  But it usually wasn’t what you wished for.  Or was it.  Yes, that bathroom alone could novels write.  How great would it be if there were cameras?  Rated J for Jail.  I for Immoral.  S for Sin. And certainly M for Mature.  It was everywhere.  The floor, the ceiling, her sleeve, that’s for sure!  Relax Caf Rats, you can go back to being lawyers, doctors, telemarketing scammers, childless, married and what ever else your Westmount/The Point upbringing afforded you.  No, the only cameras were in the tills, and Caf got nailed.   Sorry Stuart.  No shortage of ol’ Caf stories here, but this is a story about doormen vs doorman, and their decorum that should exists therein.

Like Mo Green said, ‘I made my bones when you were going out with cheerleaders.’  Old school.  And I’m not talking about money G-d forbid.  It was a warm evening at Cafeteria.  I had just been hired.  The windows were open late, Miguel blasting his funk; an invite for la ville to fine and earn an extra few bucks to pay for cone or two.  The smell of sex and meat was in the air.  Three boyz from da’ hood (or port-au-prince) parked themselves directly in front.  Standing of course, for this was the day before they ran things.   Baggy white Ts with baggier jeans cut at the knees.  Dreads, not Sideshow; more like Snoop.  One removed his shirt.  They started to rap hard core.  They actually managed to turn Real N*gga Roll Call by Lil Jon/Ice Cube into a children’s fairy tale.  The white clientele turned white with fear, forks in the air, mouths agape: crumbs running for their lives.  Shock had set in.  Like someone passing gas in a nunnery.  The legendary (and arguably one of the best nightlife manager) Montréal Rockstar and maestro Joe F. stuck his head out the door, right left right, inhaling the situation, and with that famous twinkle in his eye that can rival The Cullinan 1, he grinned, nudged me, and said, “bro, your door, deal with it.”  Welcome to hell.  My hell.  Good thing I used the bathroom before I went to work.  I stayed on my stoop, the entrance, and not only for legal reasons.  “Excuse me,” I said.  Or apparently I thought I said as no sound left my lips.  I chocked.  Maybe even winced.  I too was white (with fear.)  Ahem.  “Excuse me Guys!” I yelped.  Asasen 1 sucked in some of my space, grinning; showing only a gold cap for a canine (or lateral incisor to keep the story true.)  Asasen 2 lifted his yellowed T stamped Blood, brandishing a nine.  Fml.  The leader, the third Asasen, walked up to me.  Audience a’ watchin’.   Now listen to me doormen of the world.  Use your mind.  Don’t play the tough guy.  It seldom or never works. You always lose in the end: your reputation, your job, or by a bullet. You were able to think before you were able to walk.  Speaking to the leader of this tribe, I said, “Sorry to bother you guys, but tell me, where did you get the lyrics?”  “Nou ekri yo!” they barked. “It’s really good!  Did you guys record it?  I’d love a copy!”  I retorted, regaining my confidence. The charging animal looked at his gang ‘manm’, yellow dropped his shirt, no gold in sight.  There would be no blood today.  I would live to see another day.  “Yo respec man.  You got a copy when we record.”  They never did.  Of course, no one can hear the conversation.  They are waiting for this new doorman to expire so they can meet the next and I would have be a hero to myself.  “Listen,” I continued, “my boss is a dick.  He doesn’t appreciate real music.  He’s giving me a hard time.  Do me a favor, yo (for effect), and continue over there?” Pointing anywhere and everywhere but here.  “Pas de pwroblèm frè!”  They gracefully moved on.  New problem.  New solution.  Not a client, but a good way to deal with a problem at the door, properly, safely.  Never ever generalize.  The next client could be your ticket outta here, for good or for bad.  He could be the last face you see, and lets face it, wouldn’t you prefer to feel the arms of a loved one rather than cold hard lonely pavement?

I am often asked what the secret is to becoming a great doorman.  That’s easy  Be the nicest person you could be.  It’s easier to be nice than to be an ass.  Of course there are dozens of other crucial qualities, but lets limit the list to the most important.  After all, it takes 62 muscles to frown and only 26 to smile, and even less when the smile is genuine.  Perhaps much of what I write about falls on deaf ears.  Natural selection is not always the absolute rule in this world; there will always be disconnected douchebag owners begetting douchebag doormen.  They might hold onto their jobs for a while.  So how do you get revenge?  Two marvelously simple ways:  Don’t spend a dime in their establishments and tell everyone you know about your negative experience.  Stop trying to get in.  Leave.  They don’t want your money? (And believe me, they do,) spend it elsewhere. You work too hard for it.  Let them earn it.  You go to clubs because they are supposed to offer you a great time.  Sex.  Party.  Booze.  Memories.  Great memories.  Anything short of that put your hand down during roll call kid.  You are absent today.  I recently read a very insightful book written by Social Media Guru (and old acquaintance of mine) Mitch Joel called Six Pixels of Separation.  He writes, “Customer service just went beyond the one-to-one interactions we have in our daily business and is now being played out online where the interaction is live, hot, and in the public view –forever. “  Forever.  Telling a doorman that you have more money than he doesn’t last forever.  In fact, those words climb out of your month and fall flat on the floor and get crushed like a cockroach.  Like a still born in an anti-utopian society.  My point?  Write about it.  Facebook it.  Tweet it.  Blog about it!  They will take notice, and if they don’t, someone will, and they will spend their money elsewhere.

Yes my friends stick to the great nightspots that treat you well, and banish the bad ones from your hippocampus.  Revenge is a dish best served cold.  Outlive these motha’ f*cka’s and their douchy doormen.  Let them drown in their own ignorance.  They all do.  Or if they don’t, it’s because there will always be douchebag clients with masochistic memories like gold fish who will do anything to get in; which I will gladly write about in my next blog.

>>>Hey Nightlife Go’er! If you have any comments or suggestions, I would love to hear from you.  I have so much to say and sometimes it feels like I’m stuffing an elephant down a straw or going to the bathroom post-op.  Trying to stick to one topic is as hard for me as it is for a skank to order her own drink.  If there is something you want to read about, tell me, for I’m ready to tell it all.

–Rob Roy-Laliberte ExDoorman

Disclaimer: I hear Cafeteria is doing great things now-a-days.  New ownership, new promoters, new doorman.  Its hot (hip hop) Mondays I hear, although I haven’t been in years.  Just a lil’ sad to return to your spot where no one knows your name.  Except they do.

II. An Ode to Clients. The Prequel. In the beginning...there was blood.

I finally got cut.  Pretty badly.  There was blood everywhere.  I went down.  Despite the many attempts and close encounters with blades big and small, it was a surgical knife that finally got me.  Not during work mind you, but on the sterility of an operating table.  I did see bright lights before I left this world (or consciousness) but they were those of an operating room, and the masked men that waved at me were not little green men, but extremely skilled surgeons.  A piece of me was removed that day.  A piece that twisted and turned inside of me, an adversary that tormented me, every day, and every night, forcing me to work in pain.  As I lay imprisoned in my bed, watching episode 6, season 3 of The Mentalist, my phone buzzed…another invite to some lame spot that champions avoid and losers go to be cool.  Ya, sure, ill hobble over there, pain and all, ready to knock back cocktails of dilaudid and peach schnapps.  Great idea.  Listen buddy, don’t call me, I’ll call you.  How the hell do you spell schnapps anyway??  Anyway, it was then that I realized that I never finished my second blog on my experiences in the dark, devious and sinfully pleasurable nights of the nightlife.  Here she is.  Read her, beat her, treat her as you see fit...

Weeks before…I was walking out the door to buy dish soap when I received a text message from one of my favorite past clients, asking me if she fell into the group of douchebag-ettes that I claimed exist in the nightlife industry.  People actually read my blog, and I was doomed to harsh criticisms, you go girls, threats and creepy “oh you’ll sees”.   I received a lot of messages. Some filled with love, some hate, okay, lots of hate, a few solicitations, job offers and the good kind, and where my next spot would be; and yes, if I could reserve them a table or two.  Christ on a sidecar.  As I walked out the door with my cell phone in hand, the age of my crusty dishes perforating my nose and the odor of my cat’s package filling up the box (very sobering) especially after late night cereal sharing, it dawned on me.  It is really hard to pour a decade of experience into one page of blog storytelling.  It was my first blog after all, so I must be forgiven for those I’ve offended.   After all, I have already forgiven myself.   I need to make one thing clear: almost everything I did in this business was for the clients and for the simple pleasure of working.  The latter because I could, and the first because, after all, it was thanks to the client that I earned my twilight living all those years.

We must remember that it was thanks to the clients that security and doormen could feed their families AND buy their girlfriend's fake Gucci 1973 Edition handbag.  It was thanks to them that bartenders could drive little hot sports cars and claim that they are working to put themselves through school.  At 29?  Really?  How striper-esque.  It was thanks to them that the Oopa Loompas aka Busboys, usually the hardest workers and lowest paid, could buy their way into cool with fists full of dirty money stuffed into their pockets to purchase the next great deodorant.  It was thanks to them that dish pits even exist (note: the urban dictionary defines the dish pit as a ‘noun, a place in which you clean dishes, pots and pans.  You slave and sweat over the steam of the dishwater.  Contains the bottom of the nightlife food chain.)  It is thanks to the client that managers can abuse and bang their staff.  It is thanks to the client that bathroom attendants can buy the latest ergonomic handled bowel pick-me-upper that can hold even the heaviest of barfs and back-ends.  It is especially thankful to the clients that owners could rein over their kingdom.  After all, in the valley of nightlife, the halfhearted half brained owner is king.  Ouch.  If you’re upset about my thoughtless comments, I’m speaking about you.  If you are snapping your fingers going ‘oh noooo he di’nt, I’m probably not referencing you.  Remember folks; I am only writing about the dirty, sticky, and the bad because it’s more interesting.  TMZ beats CPAC any day.  Back to the client.  We were all clients at some point.  Difference is, I have never forgotten, and I always remembered to thank my clients.  More often than not, they thanked me too.  So much so that when I fell into my home, stoically ripped, staggering into my bathroom, I would wash my hands, stained the sink black washing the hundreds of wassups.  I would loofa my face hard to scrub off the deviant female scent of yore, the ghosts of Mediterranean lips of man, and the blood (literally) and sweat that was born on my brow, partied on my nose, and died on my nape and chest.  I could bottle it.  “Wow” by Rob Roy.  I was on the other side of that velvet rope once, where clients now stand.  It wasn’t so much my charm or handsome good looks (barf in mouth) that got me into this business.  It was like most things in life; right place/right time, balls, the drive to work because I could, my smarts, my wit, my attitude and a great haircut.  All of it is true, especially that last part.  Note: those that don't care about history; skip the rest of this blog. In fact, click the X and kick yourself in the head. History and remembering where you came from is everything.

The year was 1998.  The 49-cent pizza wars were coming to an end, K-mart became Zellers and the baby girls of Air Canada were gearing up for their first strike in history.  Summer’s hot was upon us; I was graduating, fit, excited and single.  The night was upon us and I was showered, smelled great, hair slicked, cowlick tamed, secured my father's black on tan Buick and was ready for a night on the town in a city where my future was unwritten.  Money, Power & Respect blasted from my speakers when I picked up Tony.  Tony was my best friend.  Every decision I would make had to meet his approval, and it always did.  On our way to Epoca in Little Italy (our Friday night tradition where I would bring my own tea and have to pay for it; well worth it though since my usual waitress just had her breasts done.  Remember, this was the 90s!) Tony motioned for me to stop on Crescent Street.  He wanted to say hello to a newly acquired friend of his; a friend that would later turn out to be my second best mate, my roommate and the bastard who pulled me into this dirty business of nightlife.  John worked the door at the hottest spot on Friday nights, home to a crowd that raised their arms to Habibi, Habibi; a crowd that would eventually outnumber the pigeons and squirrels of downtown; usurping it and calling it their own.  Little Beirut was born.  Sessions was hard to get into, it was popular, and is probably reminisced today in the UAE.  Of course it was special on Tuesdays as well, where it was home to the ill reputes, the rippers, the damned, the ugly and the dead.  In fact, I encountered my first murder (execution) that night; 500 people, no witnesses.  Note to popo, sharks and ‘ohhs’: I DIDN'T SEE ANYTHING EITHER.  In fact it was on a Tuesday night at Sessions where I once saw a douchebag stand on the bar, urinate onto the head of client, and later shit himself whilst overdosing on the sidewalk. Weird. A real and rare triple threat.  Good times though.  Maybe not for that guy, but I am sure Sessions Tuesdays is still talked about by all the tough guys inside... Come to think of it, even the manager fled the country.  Something about borrowed/stolen money something something, kick to the head, something, something, something, never mind.  My cat dropped a nuclear waste payload, please standby while I burn some incense and exorcise that demon.

I waited on the curb while Tony said hello.  I wasn't interested in meeting another douchebag doorman.  They're all the same after all, right?  Leaning against the Le Sable all black on black on black on black on tan (wearing black was always so cool and slimming, right ladies?,) I noticed that everyone wanted John's attention.  He was tall, handsome, chiseled, and had great hair. The line-up was 80 people thick, and the cool and hopefuls stood in front, arms up, buying stock, the traders that they were.  John couldn't be bought for less than forty per.  That's how cool he was. He would lean against the wall, his finger on his lips as if trying to solve a crime, observing.  Always observing.  The crime, my friends, was poor fashion, and almost always male.  John was apologetic though; the occasional "hmmm, no, sorry, um, ya, no" could be heard.  Tony approached.  Unlike the modern doorman, John could see beyond the length of his nose.  He had a way to part the sea of beggars.  No eye contact, never respond to your name and never ever hesitate; golden rules for decent doormen.  I will go into this on another day.  They shook hands, spoke, audience hanging on every word trying to be part of the conversation.  Nothing is more self-degrading than wanting to act like the third wheel when you aren’t.  Tony signaled me over.  I looked over my shoulder.  Cracker mistake.  He was talking to me.  Quietly embarrassed, I sighed, waited for Rive-Sud to drive by with his neoned civic for the 9th time, and walked onto the red carpet, passed the fish; sea parted, and looked into John's face and shook his hand.  His first words were unique, and this is what he said: "You're in my Sustainable Development Class at Concordia.  I remember you because when you walked into class fashionably late, suited up, grabbing everyone's attention; hmmm, I noticed you had great hair.  I too have great hair."  Trust me, John was as straight as they come.  No hint of pixie in this guy.  Although he did play a great lisp when he wanted to.  Um, an awkward thanks was all I could retort.  John was unique.  I was intrigued.  He insisted we go up.  Tony pulled out 2 cigars as Habibi Habibi pierced my ears. Sessions was jammed, and we walked through the crowd like a celebrities, John and Tony leading the way.  No Epoca for me tonight. The side-glance of spectacular would have to wait. The prequel to my being Doorman had begun.

The Douchebags of Nightlife.

There are people who show that they like you, and there are people who show that they don't like you.  My father taught me at an early age that you can't get everyone to like you.  In fact, Oscar Wilde said that if everyone agrees with you, you are saying something wrong.  I quite agree.  It is to those that live in between that I speak of here.  The douchebags.  Note to reader: I will be using this term quite often in this blog.  Why you ask?  Because Nightlife is 97% douchebag and the rest is split between gals flattering themselves, athletes working to raise some scratch because other jobs aren't cool enough for their Facebook image, or what I like to call, 'the exceptions.'  I fall into the later (in case you were wondering.)  Why do I bring this up now? (Stop asking so many questions, and please allow me to finish.)  Here's why.  I left the nightlife scene three months ago.  Honestly, it feels like 3 years ago, and occasionally, 3 minutes ago.  As Wednesday comes around, I still get calls, text messages, Facebook messages, and emails late in the morning or late at night.  No message of concern or inquiring as to my health or my mysterious departure from the scene.  Instead, my phone vibrates...bbm: "Hey bro."  Like I’m going to respond.  Moments later, "How you doin' bro?"  -Great, I respond.  Waiting for the reason, waiting, waiting.... hey man, can you put me on guestlist at Club Gross.  Boring.  I don't respond anymore.  Or sometimes I do, but don't call it in as a social experiment.  I'm allowed.  I've earned it.  Of course I do respond to some, and less and less to others.  Promoters scratch and claw and lie their way to securing numbers and names and clients and reservations.  People always came to me.  My phone is still flooded with calls.  Why?  Because I was always true to my word; when I said it would be done, it would be done.  How many of you have called, reserved, and the douchebag at the door ignored you, or refused you.  I was one of those douchebags, except I wasn't a douchebag.  I was the exception.  I still am the exception; hence the phone calls three months later.

"Bro!  Where are you working now???"  Notice the sense of panic in that message.  Another: "We're celebrating tonight bro, it's R. Just wanted to know if u could hook me up at Club Barf tonight just me n a friend." or "Hey Rob, it's H!  How are you?  Still working at K on Fridays?"  I respond, "I'm well thanks. No, I’m not there anymore."  No response.  lol.  Such care.  lol.  A call will be made on his behalf, but to refuse entry.  Another social experiment.  Enough about douchebags for now.

Working for over a decade in the nightlife scene makes you immune to violence and social oddities when you are working, and makes you hypersensitive and uncomfortable in normal and average milieus.  The irony.  Odd really.  I've seen it all; I’ve smelled it all.  Shootings, stabbings, assaults, thefts, 21 ways to spew, defecations, urinations, blood spatter, normal sex, odd sex, violent sex, sex inside, sex outside, sex in garbage bins, overdoses, sex while overdosing, the rise of gangsters, the fall of gangsters, the death of gangsters, loss of limbs, broken parts, drowning in toilets, celebrities, billionaires, minors, retirees, jumpers, douchebags, people with stories and anything you can pull out of your DVD collection, less the science fiction, although I have seen a vampire once, but this wasn't during All Hallow's eve.  More later...it's Wednesday, and my phone is buzzing...