Let me start by saying that as a responsible citizen, I do not condone drinking and riding, despite the awesomeness it imparts on doing wheelies.
Back in the late 1800s, around the time Prometheus brought us motorcycles, a relationship was forged between bikers and bartenders. This relationship has withstood the test of time because of its simplicity: The bartender stores the helmets behind the bar while the bikers drink, leave a tip and give the bar a few more authenticity points. Mutualism is complete. The music keeps playing. The big wheel keeps on turning.
But with increasing frequency these days, bikers are being told by the ever-friendly doormen that no helmets are allowed inside. The reason? Helmets are no longer just safety equipment; they are now weapons.
Most riders I know are filled with curiosity when they hear this. What's the logic? Is it a head-butting thing? Are there drunken, helmet-wielding riders out there who don't know karate but do know ka-razy and are practicing helmet-fu on the unprotected heads of their fellow patrons? Is this part of a post-9/11 "I'll die for my freedom but I'll gladly give it up piecemeal to feel safer, my friends" policy movement? How much is enough regulation to feel generally safe in a social recreational establishment for consenting adults?
Already some bars require ID-checking, frisking, emptying one's pockets and walking through metal detectors. As for potentially dangerous objects, what about keys? Belt buckles? Boots? Glass? My finger in thy spiteful eye?
There's the story of a buddy who recently had to check his helmet at the door of a trendy Hollywood bowling alley. I guess helmets are more dangerous than bowling balls in the arena of blunt-force trauma. Maybe these establishments and everything in them should be coated with NERF. When scotch is served in a plastic cup, you know it's time to take to the streets.
For those less revolutionary, you can do what I did last Friday night. After a stolid doorman denied any possibility of taking helmets inside the bar, we aborted mission and went to a proper dive in a much funkier part of the city where the doorman was polite, the rules were less frivolous and equilibrium was restored. Well, almost restored: The bartender was unaware of our ancient pact and would not store our helmets behind the bar.