(Your handshake at the door means a lot…)
So, that gypsy I cut off in traffic or that voodoo Rastaman I asked to be quiet in the library must have cursed me. Big time. Because I'm back working the door at a bar. There was a time when being a bouncer was a semi-decent job. And I really hoped to never have to do it again. But, I didn't expect to be hexed (and the entire economy to go to hell).
However, there are ways to make my life and your time in the bar that much easier. Here are some things to know:
As the brilliant documentary Bounce: Behind The Velvet Rope discusses, the handshake a dude gets from a bouncer shows everybody how important he is in a bar.
A Bullshit Handshake: You're just another walking dollar sign.
Fist pound: If I see you getting your teeth knocked in I'll help you (I'd do that anyway though—you're not special).
High Five: You're annoying and you should know it. Don't clap my hand.
A Confusing Handshake: I'm a white guy. I don't like my handshakes to be ornate with all the snapping, twists and turns. I'm not in your club, your gang or whatever. And I don't care to be. Just high five me like the rest of the dipshits.
Now, the most desired of all, is the Bouncer Hug Back Pound—or BHBP for short. That's where we grab hands like we're arm wrestling, pull each other in like we're hugging then we punch each other in the spine. Or slap each other on the back. That means we legitimately like you, your business, and maybe your girlfriend. We want people to know we think you're cool.
But beware. The doorman decides who gets the Bouncer Hug Back Pound. Not you. So don't try and jump the gun and try hugging us. Because that instantly shows us you're a needy, attention-seeking dipshit who cries every day he doesn't get Facebook friend requests. That's the worst of all. That definitely drops you to bullshit handshake status.
BHBP-wanting dork. You're the guy who offers to bring wine coolers to a keg party. You're the guy who sits in the back middle seat during road trips. You're the guy who passes out business cards to Chili's waiters and tells them, "If you need any help financially planning, I'm your guy. Dawg." You're also the guy who if we see a gang of dudes stomping you, we'll let their boots get a little dirty first. Or maybe we'll call the cops and let their 45-minute-long-taking asses help you.
The point is, if you're cool, rich (slip us anything above a five-dollar bill), or have a hot sister, let the BHBP come to you like a flower opening its, um, flower.
So who gives a shit if the bouncer thinks you're cool? Honestly, it doesn't make sense to me either. I don't give a shit if rent-a-cops think I'm cool, and we're basically rent-a-cops with less dorky uniforms and mustaches.
Nah, I know why you want the bouncer to think you're cool. You want to feel validated and accepted, just like everybody else in the world. And there's nothing wrong with that. But come on, getting the bouncer's approval on your life is like getting your neighbor's cat's approval on your fashion choices.
Oh, and don't ask me why the more man-to-man contact, the more we "respect" you. I don't make the rules. I just follow them like a blind little monkey boy.
I'm KC for Bouncer Wisdom. I'll see you next week for another round—on me.