Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Plumm Crazy

This happened at The Plumm sometime last week. I want to make it clear, before I begin, that I've never been to The Plumm, nor do I know anyone who works there. I especially don't know the bouncer in the photos, but I wouldn't mind meeting him or buying him a drink. Or hiring him, for fuck's sake. In any case, I have no horse in this race as far as The Plumm is concerned. I've heard of The Plumm, and I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in the West Village, but I couldn't tell you exactly where, nor, quite frankly, could I give two shits. It's just another place, among many, that I'll never go.

The way I'm hearing the story is this: Two female "celebrities" walked into the club, trailed by one "personal assistant." The personal assistant was several steps behind the celebrities upon entry, and the bouncers at the door didn't think he was a member of their party. In an effort to catch up with them, the personal assistant tapped the shoulder of the bouncer standing in his way and said, "Excuse me." Said bouncer then proceeded to set upon said personal assistant, rigorously applying a rudimentary restraining maneuver known in the business as the "I'm Pissed at This Little Pussy Shake/Jostle."

And, you know, having been a bouncer in New York for all these many years, I'm one-hundred percent certain that this is exactly the way it happened. Obviously, a guy who gets a door job at an upscale club in the West Village has to be some half-cocked dickhead who's just dying to lose his job by taking potshots at random people in line. That's how it works at nightclubs. Didn't you know that? You go into bouncing, you work your way up to a door spot, and that's where the fun begins. Like this cat at The Plumm, I've been waiting for the night where, without provocation of any sort, I can "wild out" on some unsuspecting really polite guy.

Because, as I've said so many times in the past, we're all "beefy thugs," and you're all perfect little angels. Why bars and clubs even hire us is a mystery -- you're all just so well-behaved all the time.

I've seen my share of celebrities at my door. Many of these anuses bring their "personal assistants," just like Nelly Furtado did. The way it usually works is, the drug-addled celebrity wanders around in a stupor while the wildly gesticulating "personal assistant" acts as though some ephemeral cure for cancer is waiting somewhere in the VIP room -- poised to dissolve within moments unless a half dozen bouncers immediately clear the way for this jerkoff and his/her posse of no-account loudmouths.

As always, however, the bouncers are the problem. Bouncers are bad. Celebrities are good. Some celebrities entertain us. They make us laugh, or we enjoy their music, or we marvel at their prowess on the athletic field. Others qualify as celebrities as a result of getting porked by people who entertain us, but bouncers are still required to treat them like "real" celebrities even though they're essentially incapable of anything other than functioning as somebody's sperm receptacle.

Maybe it's because I've gotten older, but there's really nobody among the current crop of New York's clubgoing celebrities who impresses me even a little. Not one, not when compared to how it must've been back in the day. Sonny Bono comes into the club while you're bouncing? "Oh, shit!" you'd have said -- while the man was alive, of course -- "It's Sonny Fucking Bono! Yo, Sonnaay!"

Nick Lachey's limo pulls up? "Dude," you'll say, either before or after his flacks and/or your own club management-types start acting like the fucking President just arrived, "fuck this fucking guy."

The facts here, as I know them, are this:

1. Any bouncer working the door at a high-end club in the West Village is being paid a relative crapload of money to do so. Why the fuck do you think I'm still doing it? Nobody in that position would lay his hands on somebody like this, at the front door, for no reason. Like the rest of us, he's got bills to pay and mouths to feed, and despite what the lot of you would just love to believe, the mythical "bouncer power trip" simply doesn't factor in when your job's at stake -- which it always is when people are watching. There had to be a reason. Trust me.

2. Bouncers get door spots at places like The Plumm because they're experienced, and because the club's owners trust them not to fuck around with the cash flow, or with anything that could potentially get the club in trouble with the law. I'm not claiming every door bouncer at every high profile nightclub in New York is completely trustworthy -- or sane, for that matter -- but the vast majority won't come unhinged without serious provocation, myself included.

3. People who work for celebrities are assholes. At any sign of adversity, they'll start dropping names, making threats and telling you you're about to be fired, and it eventually becomes difficult to digest if you have to put up with such shit all night. You'll inevitably be tempted to grab some cocksucker by the hair and smack him around, but you don't -- see #1 -- because keeping your job is more important than reacting viscerally to one of the several hundred people who talk shit to you on any given night.

Here's what I think happened:

The two celebrities walked in, and the personal assistant lagged behind for some reason. Probably, someone on the line outside was yelling something at the celebrities, and he stopped -- likely in the doorway, obstructing traffic, because that's what assholes do -- to listen to what was being said. By the time he turned to follow, the two celebrities had gone far enough into the club that bouncers had resumed blocking customers from entry. The personal assistant, at this point, stared blankly at the bouncer and pointed at the two celebrities. I'm presuming he did this because, in my experience, assholes don't ever speak in full, coherent sentences.

"What do you want?" asked the bouncer, legitimately having no idea what the guy wanted.

"I'm Nelly Furtado's personal assistant. I gotta go in there."

"Yeah? Then how come you're not with her? How come she left you back here? Why are they walking in without you and not even looking back? How come nobody told me you're on her list? Why is nobody telling me to let you in?"

This, I'm certain, is where it turned physical. Instead of engaging in a rational discussion with one of the doormen or a member of management, I'll bet the house that this long-haired little shitbag tried to push his way past the bouncer. I can guarantee it, because I've seen it so many times before. Hell, I've been the recipient of it, for chrissakes. He tried to push his way past, or "mooshed" the guy in his face, or made a little end-run, and the bouncer reacted appropriately and threw him around.

Why'd this happen? Because these fucking people are delusional enough to think they can do such things with impunity. Because they're arrogant enough to believe their "star" status -- or, in the case of entourages, the runoff -- extends to some sort of physical carte blanche, where people of "importance" can simply do whatever the fuck they want without any ramifications whatsoever. This includes slapping, shoving, punching and, of course, the throwing of drinks.

I'm siding with the bouncer here. I feel him.