Musings and Ramblings...
...neither of which I do. So, taking inventory yet again, I realize...
1. That if this whole book thing had never happened, I'd be doing something else with my life. I'd likely still be keeping some kind of journal, but it sure as hell wouldn't be about bouncing. I'd be long gone, with this stupid-ass club in my rearview mirror, because I've gotten all that I possibly could out of this job, and then some.
2. That bouncing really is a pointless pursuit. Holy Mother-of-God what an empty existence these assholes lead! Not the employees, mind you, but the customers. How could anyone -- anyone -- want to do this night after night, week after week, year after year? It really is the worst. A monumental waste of time and money on something that's totally detrimental to your health.
This strikes me so suddenly because I've realized that it simply continues on. And on. And on. And my book will come out, and I'll never set foot in a club again as a hired goon -- let's hope -- and yet the same sorry motherfuckers will make the same sorry-assed pilgrimage to the meatpacking, or where-the-fuck-ever, wearing the same stupid looking silk shirt, and making fucking nuisances out of themselves on the street at four in the morning. And this will all go on without me until the end of time.
You know, what happens is, we stand around and say things like, "I don't see people like this anywhere but here." And what I want is for it to go back to being like that, only I'm not here, so I won't see them.
3. That people need to stop asking if I have a MySpace profile. I do not. I will not. Sure, I messed around with it a little when I heard about the concept, but it quickly wore thin wHeN i ReAlYZd I HaD 2 tYpE OuT sUm CrOcK oF BuLlShItZ DaT lOoK'd lIkE dIz. 98.7% of the pages on MySpace are FILLED with this nonsense, if you hadn't noticed. And while I could likely use this to my advantage -- by getting myself laid, of course -- I simply can't attach the stigma to my good and anonymous name by submitting myself to MySpace assimilation.
4. That not drinking is a better thing than drinking, at least for now. Next week, who knows?
5. That I want -- nay, need -- to get the fuck out of New York as quickly as possible. Because I used to be a guy who needed a couple of extra bucks, and now I'm Margaret Fucking Mead, dropped in the middle of this miasmic little blotch of stink here in the middle of New York, and I don't quite get anyone anymore. The misunderstandings, the lack of comprehension -- that goes for the rest of the bouncing staff, too. With me just not getting it, that is.
See, I know where everyone's coming from around here, because it's a bitch surviving in New York. The way it is, what they've cultivated is a place where you just need to stack money on top of money. Doesn't matter how you make it. If you raped old ladies and got away with it, and made more scratch than a doctor -- or a drug dealer -- you'd get what's known around here as respect. It'd come easy.
Me? I'm not on that page anymore, if I ever even was in the first place.
The best bouncers I know, and I'm not talking technique here, are the ones who couldn't give a flying fuck about what happens in the club. You get too involved -- you mouth off a little too much, crack a little too wise -- and you're hip deep in bullshit, with no way out except to lose your job. Which is why I've regressed to the way things were when I first started out.
A fight? I run to it. Grab somebody. Haul 'em to the door. Return to spot. Repeat. The basics. Back to the assembly line, because when the customers start to recognize you -- and management finally learns your name -- the acknowledgement you may once have wanted quickly becomes the noose from which your paycheck will hang.
The entire thing is tedium. Pure, unadulterated tedium. And the clock, my friends, has begun to tick.