Candy cane earmuffs!

0kay, first things first, you guys are terribly sweet to comment so extensively on the last post, which was essentially about rock of love and the inevitable decline in quality and popularity of everyone’s favorite peanut butter colored daily entertainment. Thanks. Secondly, it’s even colder here today than yesterday. I drove my baby to daycare (and the INSIDE of my windows were covered in ice! The scraper is made for the contours of the outside of the window, so let’s just say it was harder than fucking a soapy pig that’s high on adderal while you’re too drunk to stand to clear away enough space for me to see) and when I got to the daycare parking lot, I put the car key, that was IN the warm car, in my mouth so I could get the carseat out of the back (I’m totally one of those scumbag dudes with a carseat now…I see people notice that, and I watch their eyes register ‘shoulda kept it in your pants, scumbag dude.’ I get that at the daycare a lot. People are a little hesitant to open the door for me, especially if it’s hot and you can see my arms or if I have a beard. All the girls that work there know me, it’s the other parents, who are all old for some reason, too old to be having a toddler…Shoulda whipped it out of your pants a little earlier grandpa. Now you’ll be too old to enjoy any time with your ugly, fat baby once she finally grows up and wants to play floor hockey and run around…You’ll be too busy fighting off dementia and hiding your shitstained underpants from the family. Heh.) and the fucking key stuck to my tongue, Christmas story style. That’s how cold it is. The temperature gauge in my car, which doesn’t measure windchill said it was negative nine degrees. For those of you who use Celsius or Kelvin that’s pretty fucking cold. Balls climbing back into your body cold. Although, if you use Kelvin, you’re almost undoubtedly smarter than me, and you probably have a pretty good handle on converting temps, at least I’d imagine. I actually went to school with a dude named Kelvin…no, wrong. His name was, I’m pretty sure, Kelwin. I think he’s a city planner now. He used to wear a seashell in his dreadlocks. Pretty nice look.
Okay, so back to the saga of my crappy jobs…I was, for a while, the door guy at a bar. This was a shitty bar that brought in a nice smattering of total assholes in expensive jeans and stripey button ups, skinheads, punks, bums, sluts of all shapes and sizes and more than a few drug dealers. Here’s a little piece of advice that I got from my good buddy Nader regarding working the door at a bar: Always act like you’re vaguely pissed off. Don’t really look at people too much when you ask for their ID’s and don’t ASK at all, for that matter. Kind of look out the door, hold out your hand and say “ID please” in a kind of annoyed way. This is key to having people cooperate with you. When I first started checking ID’s, I was polite, because let’s face it, I wasn’t raised by assholes. I like to be nice, and it was amazing how people just instantly interpret the door guy as a bit of a confrontation and try to seize the upper hand. It’s hard to explain, but at the door, being polite created a lot of problems. Lots of dudes without ID’s would try to push their way in. People would try to laugh it off and walk by, people kind of shit talking…It sucked/still sucks for polite door guys. AND, this was everyone, by the way, not just the dicks from the suburbs or the punks or the sluts…EVERYONE. Once I started acting like a bit of an asshole, BOOM. No more problems at the door.
It was a good job in that I got paid cash and free drinks and I got to sit there at the bar that I would have been at anyway, but it sucked because, in that little room, that little society of drinking, you’re the cop. That’s not a good feeling, ever. I remember one night a giant, giant dude with tattoos on his face and head came in and started getting a little aggressive, and I told the owner, “if that guy starts anything, I want you to know, I quit.” And I meant it. I’m not about to get paralyzed for fifty bucks and a couple of highlifes. BUT, that was a special circumstance, in that the guy was straight out of Mordor. Usually, I broke up any fights, and threw anyone out who was being an asshole, and I never really had a problem.
ALTHOUGH, one time, I was in the bar after I stopped being the doorman and I was hanging with my friend Mike (who does sound for Seether and Chevelle…you think your office plays shitty music…HA) and these dudes started messing with him. I went up to my replacement doorman (a big fat guy who looks EXACTLY like what Garfield would look like if he was a human) and said, “hey, there’s some dudes causing trouble over there” and he said “You know what, the night’s almost over and I’m not gonna do anything about it. I’m tired.” This was a sack punch, to say the least. Well, sure enough, the dudes got in mike’s face to the point where the door guy had NO choice but to go over there, so he, being pissed that he was being forced to, you know, do his job, just kicked everyone out, including mike, and locked the door. Well, on the street, the dudes beat the crap out of mike and one guy punched him repeatedly with a key sticking through his knuckles. Mike turned out to be okay, but it was shitty, for sure.
Final result? This big fat guy kind of hates ME for some reason. I guess he can’t handle how great I was at the door. And I left it all behind kids, for this. Being a bartender, which is where I’m going right now. xoxo