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.
