"Yo, we could get in now?" Asking for the twentieth time in the past five minutes.
"Not yet, man," I say. "It's gonna be a while."
"Because it's not up to me, is why. I'll start lettin' people in when they call me on the radio and tell me I can start lettin' 'em in."
"Yo, I look like I can't pay? I got a G in my pocket, dog!" Ah, yes. The ubiquitous "G." Relevant, of course, to absolutely nothing. Thing is, Guidos habitually tend to try and solve their problems by announcing how much money they're carrying in their pockets. Not that they're planning on giving you any, mind you. This is simply what they do. If it made any sense, this blog would have been rendered pointless eons ago.
"Oh, whatever, man," I say. "Just fucking wait. You know the deal."
"Yo, fo' real?"
"Yes," I reply. "For real. There's nothing I can do."
"Yo, she got a pass from las' Saturday. I could use that?"
"No. Dude's gotta pay."
"Dude," I say, gesturing at the transsexual accompanying him, "has to pay. The passes are no good tonight."***
"What the fuck you mean by that?"
"Please. Shut up. You wanna get in or not?"
"Yo," he says. "Lookit dis coat, yo. Dis shit's chinchilla, dog. Dis a chinchilla coat. You know what chinchilla is? Shit cost more than your car, yo."
"Actually, it doesn't. I just bought a new one."
"What'd you buy?"
"I bought a none-of-your-fucking-business mobile," I reply.
"Yo, is there any way we could take care of dis shit? It's fuckin' cold out here, yo!"
"You heard me," I reply.
"Yo, dog, dis ain't real chinchilla."
***New York clubs, including my own, are universally - at least to my knowledge - friendly to the transgendered. As a jaded doorman, everyone approaching me for admittance is treated in the exact same manner -- with complete and utter disdain. Longtime readers of this blog are well aware of the fact that I take pains to avoid making nasty comments with regard to anyone's race, religion or sexual orientation. Any and all proclivities of anyone acting like a horse's ass at the front door, however, are fair game.