Sock it to me (7/9/04)

Here's another selection from the early days. Notice how I actually give the "regulars" a little respect. I wouldn't do that now, although this is probably because the club has pretty much gone in the shitter since July of '04, and the "regulars" are all people whose open mouths I'd like to epoxy to the tailpipe of my car.

When you work in the same club long enough, you begin to notice the regulars. Every club has them. I tend to separate the regulars into two distinct groups. The first group are the 'normal' regulars. These are people who don't appear, on the surface, to have physical, mental, or emotional problems. They're people you'll see at work, at the gym, or at the supermarket. They might even be related to you.

The 'normal' regulars aren't bad people, in my book. They simply enjoy coming to the club, and make it a customary part of their weekend. They're generally well dressed and considerate, and will make a point of saying hello to club employees with whom they've developed a rapport. Clubbing is not my scene, but I've been a regular at enough bars over the years to understand where these people are coming from. They're likely productive, gainfully employed citizens during the week, and clubbing is how they choose to spend their time on weekends.

The second type is the one I'd like to examine today. I call them the 'misfit' regulars. These are people with obvious problems -- strange appearance, lack of social skills, and in some cases, physical challenges. They usually come to the club alone, leaning against the wall for hours, set apart from the shiny, happy crowd of revelers.

I was inspired to write this because we catered to the full roster of misfits last night at the club. Stevie was there. Stevie is a vertically challenged black guy with a glass eye. His style is 100% ghetto, and I can't understand a word he says. We all like Stevie, because he's hysterical. He'll set up camp next to a bouncer, not long enough to become irritating, thankfully, and blurt out unintelligible 'street talk' every time a woman with a sizable posterior passes by. He was standing on stage with me for a short time last night, and upon seeing a girl with particularly large breasts, Stevie presented me with the following suggestion:

"Yo, (unintelligible)(unintelligible)...I could hang my keys on that shit."

There's another vertically challenged customer whom we refer to as "The Fist." The Fist, unfortunately, has serious personal hygiene issues. He also deems it necessary to shake hands with every single bouncer throughout the course of the evening. We'd prefer to avoid touching him, so someone came up with the ideal solution of offering him a fist bump in lieu of a handshake. It makes him feel like we're allowing him to belong, a fist bump signifying a familiar acceptance, while preventing any palm to palm contact. I was standing next to Jamie when we 'fisted' him last night, and when he walked away, Jamie remarked, "Damn...That dude always smells like low tide."

These two fellows pale in comparison to the ultimate, all-time numero uno misfit I have ever encountered in a club. We call him "The Guy With a Sock in His Pants," or "Sock Guy," for short. Sock Guy is an emaciated, burned-out gentleman in his late thirties. He's evidently stuck in the 80's, consistently dressing in a tight pink Le Tigre shirt, pinstriped jeans, white Capezios, and a mullet with a bleached disco tail in back. His most distinguishing characteristic, however, is an obvious bulge in his pants, which he creates by stuffing a sock in his crotch. And yes, it's a comfirmed sock. We've asked.

Sock Guy doesn't do much during the night. He'll walk into the club, order a drink, and then stake out his spot for the evening. He stays in the same place, usually leaning against a post, for hours, nursing his drink and standing with his hips thrust forward, inviting people to gander at his bulge. Sock guy comes to the club every Thursday, and I've never seen any women talk to him. Ever. I often wonder why not. I'd think it would be an interesting conversation, merely for the sociological value of it.

At the very end of the night, shortly after last call, a customer pointed out an irregularity on the dance floor. A guy was sitting on the bouncer platform in the center of the floor beating off. He had his hand outside his pants, but it was completely obvious what he was doing. I walked over and gave him the 'cut throat' gesture, telling him to knock it off. He looked back at me, palms up, mouthing, "What'd I do?"

Full fucking moon last night. Had to be.