It’s not the baggy eyes, pounding head, or hangover thirst that usually gets me in trouble. It’s that damn stamp. I’ll be having a conversation the day after a rock show and the person I’m talking with will interrupt, in a knowing-nearly-accusing tone, “Where were you last night?” At first, I’m confused, like, Shit, who told you I was drinking Robitussin in the bathroom at PA’s? But then I realize the snitch is my right hand.
Having someone notice a blurry hand stamp on your fist isn’t embarrassing because you look like someone who was grabbing your body parts to “My Humps” last night (which you weren’t, even though it might have looked that way in the photos posted on that random blog). It’s embarrassing because you look like you don’t wash. You can yank off orange bracelets at night’s end, but hand stamps seep into your pores. Some days, no amount of devoted scrubbing will get those ink prints off your mitts. A few times, I’ve woken up with blue streaks on my cheek after falling asleep with my hand pressed against my face. I even went on a date with a paw print smeared on my lower neck — thanks TT’s! The dude must’ve thought I was paying a white-girl tribute to Eve.
Some clubs don’t bother with them. Bigger venues like Avalon or the Middle East tend to fasten wristbands on to the arms of paying customers. Smaller places like the Cantab Lounge or the Common Ground mark admission by handing you a torn ticket. Other bars employ a more personal approach — at the Enormous Room the bill-collecting bouncer explained firmly, pointing at his eyes, “I have a good memory.”
When they are applied, hand stamps are like show fliers or ticket stubs or even cigarette butts — they’re symbols of admission, rock, booze, money, dancing, roller coasters, even sex.
Stamping your hand is how bars, clubs, and even amusement parks distinguish the haves — customers who have paid, have reached a certain age, and/or have donned the proper attire — from those who have not. You could call the stamp a metaphor for class, a seal of approval, or a badge of courage. Or you could just call it a dirty mark on your skin. Stars seem to be popular, perhaps because, as one manager of an Allston bar told us, they’re available in an eight-pack at Staples. Our personal fave here is the Hello Kitty stamp — it’s from a local dyke night.
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Email the author:
Camille Dodero: cdodero@phx.com
