Most times, this blog is about me sitting here, in the discomfort of my own hovel, passing judgment on anything and everything I see in nightclubs. It's all for shit, but I think we've established that by now. Sometimes, I'm so fucking sanctimonious that I make myself sick. I'm sure I make you people sick on occasion, too. Through it all, the one operative rule on this site has been this: when in doubt, criticize the living hell out of everyone. The one provision to this one operative rule has been this: when in further doubt, emphasize your point by repeatedly using various derivatives of the word "fuck."
Still, I'm always right when I'm sitting in this chair. I'm up on the mountaintop, and you stupid motherfuckers are down there on the floor, "in the room," and you're there to make it as hard as humanly possible for me to pick up my envelope at 4:30 in the morning. I hate you for that. I've hated you for that since day one.
I know how you feel, though. I really do know how you feel, because I've been a customer. Relatively speaking, bouncers have it easy. I can walk up to anyone I want, and do anything I want and nothing's going to happen to me. You can't do shit about it -- aside from filing a frivolous lawsuit that'll never see the light of day in court -- and I can end your night whenever I deem it appropriate. When I was an asshole at work -- before I stopped caring -- that's what I would do when people irritated me. I'd simply throw them the fuck out, no questions asked.
Try calling me "son" in the middle of a conversation and see what I'm talking about.
Sometimes, what I fail to realize is that problems start because people irritate each other. Customers, on average, irritate me about once per half-hour. By contrast, they irritate each other approximately once every three minutes. This is why fights happen. In fact, the customers irritate each other so frequently, and so consistently, that I'm surprised we don't see more fights. Contrary to what I'm usually on about, I think most customers exercise remarkable restraint when cast into the nightclub cauldron with such overwhelming numbers of jerkoffs.
A few months ago, I went out. I was invited to accompany a friend to Plunge, the rooftop bar at the Hotel Gansevoort in the Meatpacking District. Not exactly my kind of place, but fuck it, you know? Why not? I went, I paid my $12 per beer -- or whatever ridiculous amount they charged me -- and I hung out outside and looked at buildings. I haven't been anywhere else in Manhattan -- aside from my customary Irish commuter bars -- since. Fuck that.
Before we ever made it inside, however, there was a problem. On the sidewalk was a "line" that wasn't really a line, but was sort of supposed to be. There were five people in this "line," including us. Three of these were in "line" behind the two of us, having arrived a few minutes after we did. Among them was one of those fucking hemorrhoids to whom "standing in line" means "standing next to the person in front of me." As we stood there waiting for the "bouncer" to open the door, this gentleman gradually inched his way forward, eventually -- inexplicably -- standing slightly in front of me. When our turn came to enter the building, he lightly shouldered me aside -- jumped in front of me, really -- and walked in the door before I did.
If I were drunk -- and twenty-three again -- I would have hit him. I would have drilled him in the side of the head, and the bouncers would have had to run outside to pull me off. There would have been a full-scale "situation" at the front door of the Hotel Gansevoort, initiated by this guy and, hopefully, finished by me. The evening would have been ruined for us all. Charges may have been pressed. That's how bad it would've been. I can be a motherfucker when I'm pissed off.
Irrational? Sure, but there are people on dance floors all over Chelsea, right this very minute, who are a lot less rational than I am.
I had had a bad day, which had been preceded by a bad week. I saw red that night. The entire fucking world went red. Tempered by sobriety, I allowed him to pass, then simply walked in front of him when we got inside. I didn't want to get in a fight. I didn't want my "date" getting caught in the middle of a three-on-one punchup. Fueled by alcohol, though, I likely would have done something. At minimum, I would have pushed him. He would have pushed me back. Words would have been exchanged, bouncers summoned and stories about "animalistic douchebags" told the following day.
Sober or not, I was close. Really, really close. Close enough to remember that I'm no better than you people when it comes to this shit. Close enough to have thoughts as primitive as the tackiest of Guidos. Close enough to be reminded of how much more you irritate each other than you'll ever bother me.