Fast Forward New York: Rock 'n Roll + Falafel + Hookers= Regret

Around 7pm on Saturday, I still hadn't decided upon a course of action. I'd had a big night before, attending a St. Paddy's Day Party at a friend's wearing the most obnoxious green shirt in the visible spectrum, proceeding out to XR Bar until closing, and then reaffirming my alcoholism with another 7am return home after afterpartylife on the Bowery. I could have been excused for taking it easy on Saturday after a Friday like that.

We don't make excuses here at FFNYC, though. We make trouble.

With that indomitable spirit, I called up my editor and asked her what she was up to. (I've kinda got a thing for her; at least, I've considered the possibility of having a thing for her. Seems like the right thing to do. While we don't really have a workplace, I firmly believe that "collaboration" requires infighting, drama, and of course casual sex.) She mentioned Wicked Willy's. In the space formerly known as the Red Lion, and in a building I used to live in for more than a year, Willy's is a pirate-themed bar that features beer pong, a not-so-subtle recipe calling out every aging frat-guy wannabe in NYU territory and challenging him to a vomitorium contest based upon distance and coverage. On the other hand, I'm not normally one to turn down a girl that seems intent on getting absolutely obliterated, and not coincidentally I'm good at nearly every drinking game known to man. She casually listed a group of people possibly attending, the contents of which I ignored, and we made plans to meet up later.

Nearly simultaneously with the completion of that call, my arch-nemesis JD messaged me that he'd be going out in the East Village with my buddy Andy and that I ought to join. I normally don't like hanging out with JD; I know him to be the sum of all evil, a prime example of the guy you'd want your daughter to divorce. Alternately, Andy's a good friend of mine but altogether amoral, and as such I find him blameless when he tells me a story such as the following:

"I'm hanging out smoking outside The Hog Pit and I see this guy tooling down the street in his wheelchair. And man, he's going fast. And I'm hammered. So I yell at him as he speeds by, 'If you can move that fast, you're not really handicapped!' thinking he'll just continue on his way. But no; he rolls back up the street and I get a better look at him. He's only got one fucking leg. So I apologize, I say 'Sir, that was completely out of line, I'm sorry,' and I'm hoping and praying that he decides I'm not worth it, but seriously, if you had only one leg, would you walk- I mean roll- away? So the guy picks up a freaking traffic divider and throws it at me... and I'm standing at the entry and he starts screaming, going completely ballistic. The bouncers call the cops, the cops show up, and I don't want this guy to get into trouble, because I was wrong. But he just won't calm down. I explain the situation to some officer trying to restore order, and all he can say is 'Jesus, man. You're an asshole.' Eventually they got the guy to leave me alone. I might not be allowed back at that bar for awhile."

I met them at Lit Lounge, a quality rock'n roll bar on 2nd Ave at about 10pm. Specializing in punk, the upstairs area has a DJ and a more traditional bar setup (although you can enter the Fuse Gallery through the back of the bar during its operating hours) while the basement is where the live action happens, nearly every single day, usually at least three bands per night each doing a 30 minute set. The space is small, much longer than it is wide, with low ceilings, very limited seating, and a bar in the very back like a typical underground concert venue. There's a lot of entertainment to be had here for $6, though, even if the bands suck.

Happily, I was 1 for 2 on this night. I missed the opening band, but caught The Haint, a pleasantly energetic blend of big reverbed drone-country guitar with a nice distorted punk glaze, a dirty slide that produced a memorable sound if not an individual memorable song. Also, the lead yeller/guitarist seemed to be coked out of his mind, which made for good between-song diversion. I went up and briefly chatted up the drummer after their set and was pleased to walk away with a complimentary copy of their 4-track EP. The Hunt, on the other hand, was a less interesting experience, and reminded me of a world in which the Cure and The Killers decided to take everything that's lousy about their bands and mash together. Not that The Hunt was awful- I'd just never buy their album. I'm also not a huge fan of their look, a post-punk mishmash of electrogoth trolls that should take a cue from Paul Stanley and get old already.

After hijacking an Italian bird off the street carrying a bag of Coronas and being asked to put out our cigarettes no fewer than four times while inside, we headed off toward the West Village and Wicked Willy's, as my editor and her (ex?) boyfriend were waiting for us.

Yeah, she brought a dude. And only a dude. Shit.

I convinced JD and Andy to join and play wingmen in case other girls were in the group; unfortunately, they couldn't help much in this case, and the nebulous nature of the relationship between my editor and this guy (let's call him Jimbo, rhymes with limbo)is something that I'm still having difficulty interpreting. I pressed on, though, and on the way down Thompson Street we told the cabbie to stop outside of Sam's Falafel, where my editor, her associate male entity, and a lovely friend of JD's would all meet us. (JD informed me that she likes her coitus violent. I hate him.) Sam's is a small storefront on Thompson with a really big sign and some very Arab (but very friendly) staff. There's usually just one guy working at a time, but the quality of the food has remained consistent over the years. They make a hell of a gyro here, but it's not as cheap as some other local mediterra mystery-meat joints and so some might argue that it can't possibly be the "best." (I would disagree.). Saturday, though, JD's buying (his most redeeming quality- he's not cheap at all!) so Sam's suddenly leapt to the greatest falafel house in the universe. I miss living in this neighborhood.

Willy's had a $5 cover, and you know how I feel about cover charges sans live entertainment. So we decided to hit XR Bar again for a redux of Friday. XR always seems to be just crowded enough. We can always get tables, the service is always really good, and the atmosphere is semi-upscale without feeling too snooty. Drinks aren't cheap, but you're likely to get a round or two free by hanging out for awhile, which was the case on this evening. Anyway, my friends managed to isolate Jimbo from my editor (they put baby in the corner), and I went to work. Of course, the isolation couldn't last, and Jimbo made his way back over to our side of the table via bathroom breaks.

This is where things get fuzzy. Somehow or other conversation shifted to Eliot Spitzer and hookers in general. As you might guess, I have opinions on the subject. Over the next sequence, which in hindsight was interminably long, I would proceed to make the salient points that Spitzer a)was involved in something much less reprehensible than an affair, because he was not engaged emotionally while "cheating" physically and b) was actually being exploited by the hooker (rather than vice versa) since he was paying 5 grand a pop for something most of us get for free (or at least dinner.) Jimbo nodded in agreement; I feel like he sensed that I was dousing myself in gasoline and was more than happy to stand in the gathering crowd and watch my self-immolation. I continued as if possessed. My editor asked me if I would ever see a hooker, to which I responded, "Probably never. But never is a long time."

This is not the way to get laid.

We eventually decided to shift venues to Vol de Nuit (aka the Belgian Beer Bar). I've been coming to this bar for years, and it's one place I like hanging out with JD because we've made sport of hitting on the usually smoking-hot euro bartenders. The BBB has an excellent beer selection (exclusively Belgian, I believe) including the Delirium Tremens 10% alcohol knockout punch; I usually opt for the Leffe Brown. It's set deep in a recessed courtyard with some outdoor seating and big heavy wood tables indoors that at least make you feel like it's a place of old-world substance. The menu consists exclusively of fries and mussels, and you should just order the mussels because they come with fries. Additionally, there's a tiny satellite bar on the opposite side of the courtyard that seems to be open randomly and for no particular reason. The menu's the same there, perhaps even more limited, and yet I find it to be the superior venue. Mini-BBB wasn't open on this evening, however, so into the primary space for one last push.

I will say this for my friends: they did some solid work running interference while I tried to charm my editor into making a huge mistake. In particular, JD's special friend (who may divorce him in 10 years or so, God willing) was a real trooper, essentially settling herself between them so I had clear sailing to work my magic. Unfortunately, the rabbit fell out of my pants, so to speak, and never made it to the hat; no supernatural recoveries would occur this night. My editor and Jimbo left together; my friends attempted to make me feel better by mocking him in his absence. Not surprisingly, that made me feel better. But unfortunately Vol de Nuit has a 2am last call and we'd have to leave before I could start chugging Delirium. I wasn't nearly drunk enough to deal with this train wreck in a mature fashion-yet.

We walked back to 3rd St. and The Fat Black Pussycat, but the gigantic black man at the door informed us that only single women and 1:1 ratio groups were getting in, leaving our 3:1 dude-to-chick rabble on the sidewalk. The Town Tavern is right next door. I don't really recommend anyone ever go to The Town Tavern, but people still do. And so we did on this evening, if only to feed my empty, empty soul with $5 Miller Lites.

Yikes.

Until next time... you know what to do.

Lit
93 Second Ave.
New York, NY 10003
Phone: (212) 777-7987

Sam's Falafel