This mogwai saved my sanity

There's a technique taught to Navy S.E.A.L.S. to resist torture. It involves holding a stone or something small in your hand while being tortured and trying to focus solely on the texture of what's in your hand instead of the big Russian guy attaching jumper cables to your nipples. For me, the torture was the crowd at the Larkin gig, and the stone was this little Gizmo toy that my friends Gene and Heather gave me when they arrived at the bar.

This goes back to a story I told them of my childhood. I went through a phase when I was nine when I was obsessed with the movie Gremlins. Almost anything I drew for almost a year was Gizmo. I can't explain why, I just like drawing this little guy. This image was so ingrained in my memory that when I was taking a sculpture class in high school, I was carving into a block of sandstone, just trying to get some neat shadows and shapes...and a friend took one look at the finished scupture, turned it upside down and it was a fucking mogwai! I had sculpted Gizmo upside down without even realizing it.

This apparently sent Gene on a mission to find this little toy in his house and give it to me last night. Thanks, Gene. That frickin rocks.

Working the door last night wouldn't have been so bad had I not done it Friday night as well. I now understand why the owners have two people alternating working the door. Friday night was unusually busy, due to the fact that the bar across the street lost power. Their loss was our gain, and we were busy. It wasn't so bad for working the door, other than one guy trying to leave with his beer. I told him to get back inside, and he continued to talk to his friends while inching back towards the door. I told him a second time to get back inside, and he tried to finish his conversation, which was when I yelled at him, "NOOOOOOOWWW!". After he got back out after chuggin his beer inside, I calmly explained to him that if he got busted by the cops with that, the bar gets fined, I get fined and I lose my job.

Saturday night, the bar filled up rather quickly. I had to keep a vague running total in my head of how many people were in the bar, because I knew we'd be getting close to capacity. When Larkin plays, the audience is part of the show, so the main room gets packed, and the patio and back room are empty. I Had to tell people as they came in to try to get to the bar, get their drinks and head out to the patio or to the back. Very few people took that advice.

We were close to the breaking point when a Bachelor party with twenty guys came up to the door. I told them that we were close to capacity, and that 20 people would be pushing it. This caused all the guys to try to start sweet-talking me to let them in. I told the I would check to see if we could let them in, but they wouldn't let me step back inside to check. They kept trying to talk to me and try to get in for less than three bucks a head. My current favorites are the folks who offer to buy me a beer in lieu of paying a three dollar cover, to which I tell them that the bar already gives me a tab and besides, the only beer I drink cost FOUR bucks. However, when one of the guys in this party started playing around and trying to rub my nipple, I didn't need to tell them all to fuck off...my face said it all. After that, I was so pissed, I used Gizmo like a stressball for at least five minutes.

When I first started working the door, I would cut a deal every now and then regardless of what time it is. Now, I will only give people a break towards the end of the night when the band is wrapping things up. Otherwise, when someone isn't willing to pay three bucks to get in isn't gonna tip the fucking bartenders at all, so it's no big loss for me if they decide not to go in. It only makes more room inside for people who actually want to be there.

Which brings me to my main frustration with last night. Larkin is one of the few bands that understand that when you play at Arnie's, the audience is part of the show. The main room of the bar gets so packed when they play that it's hard to move anywhere. And the more feverish fans HAVE to be front and center, or in the case of last night, crowding the front door.

I always have a barstool by the front door so I can do my job. There wasn't even enough room by the door for me to sit there. At one point, I had to give six people their cover charge back because they couldn't get more than three feet inside the door. Gizmo stressball, Gizmo stressball.

Most of the people crowded in this small space were my friends, and they apparently have never seen me this pissed. I yelled at them twice, and I got two types of reactions: A) oh, you're so cute when you're angry, and B) I know he's not talking to me; I'm not in the way. The point is, no one moved...at all. This cost the band money, this cost the bar money, and it royally pissed me off. Gizmo stressball, Gizmo stressball, Gizmo stressball.

Next time, I'm laying down the law BEFORE it gets out of control.

This little side gig of working the door is helping me deal with one of my biggest personality flaws: being a pushover. I've learned not to let people talk me into things that I'm not 100% sure of, or fuck with me for the sake of fucking with me. Now if I can get people who know me as a friend to fucking listen to me as a doorman...as weird as that sounds.