Death's Door presents the Bar Years
Back “in the day” when I bounced at night and worked at the music store I had a few adventures and shit. This highlights just a few of em.Tuesday, November 02, 2004
MONSTER TRUCK DRIVIN', GRAVE DIGGIN', EAR-EATIN', REDNECKS
Last week the giant Monster Trucks were in town doing their thing. I can’t dis or commend the Monster Truck thing. I guess it’s like wrestling, either you dig it or you don’t, but it got me thinking about a bad experience I had once with a Monster Truck crew. You’ve probably heard me say this before, but when I bounced at the Lone Star we played host to all kinds of fucked up people. We’ve had everybody from pro wrestlers all the way up to the pretty rock and rollers. And they all wanted to try their kung fu on us. But the richer and more famous they were, the more we enjoyed doing the beatdown. I used to wear the greatest button; it explained our philosophy very clearly.
One night a bunch of cabs pulled up and dispensed the sorriest bunch of muthafuckers I’d seen in a month of Sundays. (now that’s an old school term for yo ass) This crew made Jerry Springer rednecks look high class. They were the drivers and road crew for the Grave Digger Monster Truck. The Grave Digger was here in town as part of a bigass Monster Truck show. Those cats were hankering for a drink and sure enough the name Lone Star sounded like home to em. Talk about your culture shock. These boys’s were expecting fine line dancing and Waylon Jennings on the Jukebox. What they got was Pantara and our fine local version of the mosh pit. Sure enough as the night got older, shit started hitting the fan in a hard way. The Grave Digger crew decided they didn’t want to play nice with the long hairs and the long hairs just didn’t want to play. We had ourselves an honest to goodness bar brawl.
You know when you dig the gig too much? When you gleefully go after the redneck that’s so fucking big he’s throwing a shadow in a dark bar. “Think about it” At the time I had no idea what happened, but later I was told we hooked into each other so hard, we actually flipped each other over the waist high railing surrounding the steps into the club. Now here’s the funny part out of all this. The cops are all over the place and the Gravedigger’s crews are being loaded into paddy wagons for the ride downtown. (know where the word paddy wagon comes from? Way the fuck back in the day, most of your cops in the big cities were of Irish descent, and paddy was a derogatory term coined for the Irish, thus whenever shit broke loose and the cops got called and they rolled out the police wagons to drag folks to the jailhouse. They were called paddy wagons)
Me and the other bouncers are shooting the shit with the cops when this kid comes walking out the door with blood all over his shirt and pants. One of the cops spots the kid and hollers; what the fuck happened to you? Well, remember the big guy that I hooked into too? I guess as he was punching people out in the bar and heading in my direction, he stopped just long enough to bite this kid’s fucking ear off. We asked the kid why was he just now telling someone all this, and he said after his ear got bit off he hid in the bathroom till he thought it was safe to come out. Hmmm, I supposed at the time it made a lot of sense to the kid to get hid. We never did find his ear; we finally figured the big guy must’a swallowed it.
Peace
“An Equal Opportunity Discriminator. We Hate Everybody Equally”.In short, if you encouraged the beatdown. A beatdown was what you got. Trust me, our kung fu was always stronger, plus like the kids say; we had mad whack skills. Word.
One night a bunch of cabs pulled up and dispensed the sorriest bunch of muthafuckers I’d seen in a month of Sundays. (now that’s an old school term for yo ass) This crew made Jerry Springer rednecks look high class. They were the drivers and road crew for the Grave Digger Monster Truck. The Grave Digger was here in town as part of a bigass Monster Truck show. Those cats were hankering for a drink and sure enough the name Lone Star sounded like home to em. Talk about your culture shock. These boys’s were expecting fine line dancing and Waylon Jennings on the Jukebox. What they got was Pantara and our fine local version of the mosh pit. Sure enough as the night got older, shit started hitting the fan in a hard way. The Grave Digger crew decided they didn’t want to play nice with the long hairs and the long hairs just didn’t want to play. We had ourselves an honest to goodness bar brawl.
You know when you dig the gig too much? When you gleefully go after the redneck that’s so fucking big he’s throwing a shadow in a dark bar. “Think about it” At the time I had no idea what happened, but later I was told we hooked into each other so hard, we actually flipped each other over the waist high railing surrounding the steps into the club. Now here’s the funny part out of all this. The cops are all over the place and the Gravedigger’s crews are being loaded into paddy wagons for the ride downtown. (know where the word paddy wagon comes from? Way the fuck back in the day, most of your cops in the big cities were of Irish descent, and paddy was a derogatory term coined for the Irish, thus whenever shit broke loose and the cops got called and they rolled out the police wagons to drag folks to the jailhouse. They were called paddy wagons)
Me and the other bouncers are shooting the shit with the cops when this kid comes walking out the door with blood all over his shirt and pants. One of the cops spots the kid and hollers; what the fuck happened to you? Well, remember the big guy that I hooked into too? I guess as he was punching people out in the bar and heading in my direction, he stopped just long enough to bite this kid’s fucking ear off. We asked the kid why was he just now telling someone all this, and he said after his ear got bit off he hid in the bathroom till he thought it was safe to come out. Hmmm, I supposed at the time it made a lot of sense to the kid to get hid. We never did find his ear; we finally figured the big guy must’a swallowed it.
Peace
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Name: Greg Beck
Home: first bar stool to the left, make mine a Beam & coke please!, United States
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time till my fuckin birthday and my sac drops another inch!
