The Doorman's Diary 4.26.13

Clear, warm Spring eve and there's no telling how busy the club might be. A man wearing a plain baseball cap is seated at the bar near the door. I remark about the pleasant weather to make him feel at ease. He uses my vague remark to pivot into a series of questions while interweaving autobiography, intending to impress. He's a retired architect from a successful firm that has his name on the door. He plays jazz sax--both tenor and soprano, and he lives in a nice condo with some name like Vantage Peak or Exclusive Heights. He asks pedigree info about the club, the music, and the quartet playing tonight. I catch myself on the verge of defending and bragging. I don't and slip into my doorman-don't-know role, to allow him to feel smug and superior. The facelift blonde with her over-plucked brows enters with a different man than previous visits. She oddly vacillates between prancing cutely like a 16-year-old and acting aggressive like the prison yard alpha. She's scary weird. In between a Coltrane and Monk songs, she springs up from her table and storms assertively toward me, then veers sharply to go to the bar. I couldn't tell if she was going to cuff me or kiss me--either behavior would be in character. I look out the window and above the neon tattooing the darkness I see a full moon, which may explain a lot. There's a woman sitting at a table of six who clearly has been touched with lunar madness. She hasn't stopped blathering since they were seated and guffaws loudly every 20 to 40 seconds. I fantasize that they come, muzzle her, and strap her into a straight jacket. Size Medium will work.

The Doorman's Diary 10.27.12

A comfortable crowd is filling the place tonight. No rancor, rabble rousing, or rats. The door is easy. Folks pay and join in. Then I had a group of two couples present themselves at the door, and ask what kind of music we have. “Live jazz,” I say to their blank faces. The band is deep into trading solos about mid way in their version of Thelonious Monk’s Blue Monk and it’s clear they don’t get it. They decide the $5 cover is too steep and quickly turn to flit away, fearing I guess that I’ll try to pick their pockets or snatch their purses. If they had shown any remote interest in jazz or live music or the club, I would have invited them in, complimentary. But they have a suburban attitude, expecting to be entertained by reefer-smoking musicians and black turtleneck wearing patrons with black berets as they observe from their safely-ensconced monorail car. “BOO!” I shout and cackle loudly as they scurry off to their silver Toyota Camry.

The Doorman's Diary 6.22.12

Friday nights draw out cheapskates. More than once, people charged through the door and were flabbergasted to learn that there's a $5 cover charge. I tell them that this is a club and we have live music performed by professional musicians. They either have realization and pay or look at me blank faced and eyes blinking as though I asked them to write 500 words about the impact of molecular science on deep-space wormhole research. One cream-color linen sport-coat guy said he just dropped off his date at her condo because she has health issues and can't stay out late. They had passed our club and the unhealthy date had pointed and said: "Jazz club," which peaked his interest. He had stopped in to have a nightcap--a single drink. I waved him in. He said he wasn't from here so it would likely be just the one drink. I inquired as to where he"s from, expecting an exotic locale. He mentions a neighborhood probably seven or eight miles away. He stuck around for several drinks, made numerous trips outside to smoke, and talked incessantly about bringing a large group here and could we add tables here and there since they will want to mingle and walk around. As the night wore on, he wore thin.