Gotta Say It Was a Good Day

If you were paying attention last week, you'll recall that I got stood up by my potential Friday evening love interest and was forced to fly wingman to my buddy Buddy as he attempted to deflower one or more females from his postgraduate institution. Whether or not I joined in on that quest isn't the point; actually, there is no point, other than to segue into this scene: I'm sitting at my desk on a Friday morning, not working (but appearing to work- I click my mouse violently on occasion to signal frustration with my imaginary task), minding my own business as I scan ESPN.com, when my Friday night date cancels on me again via email. This is a different girl, and a new old story (not feeling well), but the same rotten feeling.

Typical male logic presents two options:

A) Get extraordinarily drunk, identify one or more loose women while out on the prowl, and try to schedule an appointment at the free clinic for later next week; or
B) Instead try to schedule a last minute meet with someone else of at least semi-legitimate interest, in this case the subject of my rejection the week prior.

Already quite adept at option A, I settled on sending a missive to Miss Fabulous, a fashion designer, world traveler, and absolutely smoking hottie. In fact, should she make out with me at some point, it would qualify as the hottest mouth I've ever inserted my tongue into. (I haven't mentioned this to her, of course.) She responded that she couldn't go out with me directly, as she works one or two nights a week at a club in Chelsea; however, if I were so inclined, I could stop by the club and she could take a break and hang out with me for awhile.

Of course I could do that. This smelled like major brownie points for me. But I'd need some wingpeople to help me out- that much is certain.

I met Andy at Pete's Tavern around midnight to have a beer or three; Tiger and the GF Muggsy would join soon after. I chose Pete's not because of the history (opened 1864) or the ambiance (it's just a pub) or the beer (pretty standard selection with a bent toward the Irish) or the sociability (it can sometimes get way too crowded), but because it was reasonable walking distance to the ultimate destination, which I'll save as a surprise. Nevertheless, the history is cool, the ambiance is friendly, the Guinness is a solid pour, and the place was pleasantly buzzing without being difficult to navigate as I met my three friends. Of course, they wanted the lowdown on how I stumbled into this phone number, and I was more than happy to oblige. I explained that I met Miss Fabulous at a friend's party, and (inexpicably) instead of asking for her number, I instructed her to find me via Facebook. The following Wednesday, she did, explaining that she delayed only because she "didn't want to appear too anxious." "She digs you!" shouted Andy, with a shade more incredulity than I thought was necessary. Nevertheless, I could not fault his logic; despite the prior week's no-show, it appeared that yes, she dug me.

After perhaps one too many beers we began the walk over to Duvet. Yes, that Duvet. I'd never been there but was aware of the reputation, and Miss Fabulous was sure to warn me beforehand: "...it happens to be the most popular nightclub in the city, if you are Mexican and on welfare." I thought that this was just a joke initially, but as I approached the door I stopped laughing: the line outside appeared to be low-ranking gang members and single-mother hookers. (Yikes.) We were waved right in, of course, in retrospect much too quickly; I would later remark to Miss Fabulous that normally when I approach a place with a line and am accompanied by more dude than chick, I have a little trouble. Not so here: just a pat-down for weapons by a woman with a mustache and a twenty to the door. I could tell I was gonna love this place.



The hook for Duvet would appear to be the beds; instead of tables or booths throughout the 20,000 square foot two-level space, they have custom beds with foam "mattresses" set throughout for bottle service and the like. Another cool feature is the one-way-mirrored unisex bathroom, which would be more functional and architecturally interesting if the light effects were coordinated with the mirroring; as it is, it's just creepy as you watch someone walk up to your stall and try and open the door as you hope to (the Christian) God that you locked that door well as you're taking a crap. (Not that I took a crap there. I'm just sayin'.) Back on the main floor, there's an expansive dance floor whose populace appears likely to erupt in spontaneous gunfire or orgy, or both; and oversized, rectangular bar is fashioned out of some underlit cracked-ice lucite that looks extraordinarily cheap. Of course, the drinks are overpriced and watered-down.

I could tell my crew was uncomfortable. Duvet is not our scene. The onus was on me: buy the beers and find the girl. So I bought the beers. She found us, walking as if on a cloud of air. Tiger and Andy's eyes lit up as she approached.

"Is that her?!" Again, a bit too much incredulity, there, Tiger.

Yes, guys. Down.

She escorted us back to a bed, and Andy remarked that he was amazed that a place like this would use so much blacklight given the likelihood of protein stains on the sheets. I shook my head and laughed, as Miss Fabulous laughed, and then I looked more closely at the beds to confirm or disconfirm Andy's "joke." The surreality of my situation was starting to sink in: on a pseudo-date with a girl well out of my established league accompanied by my jackass buddies with only Muggsy as a mediator to keep them in line while I caroused around a night club that has a death toll. I wasn't sure how to feel about this. Also oddly, she's not a waitress, really; she "works" bottle service, meaning she brings out bottles and mixers and is paid to hang out with crowds and look hot. She does this rather well, I'd say- Again, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I do like how it looks, though.

Since she had no real work to do, she was able to entertain me for over an hour, telling me about the times she got attacked by women in the club and how she's only doing this for a few more months; I made a few dumb remarks and made her laugh a few times. We separated from the group fairly quickly and made our way to our own bed to chat until she had to close down. Of course, little tangible headway would be made on this night, as Miss Fabulous did of course have to work a little. So a bit after 3am I said my goodbye and navigated the protoplasm to the exit, largely unscathed. As for Andy and Tiger, they were ejected for smoking cigarettes inside fifteen minutes of sitting down. Muggsy notified us of the "bad news"; Miss Fabulous tried to go off to rescue them (because she's got the juice) but Muggsy stopped her.

Yeah, they did that on purpose. It's good to have buddies you can count on.

Until next time...

Pete's Tavern

129 E 18th St
New York, NY 10003-2401
Phone: (212) 473-7676

DUVET

45 W 21st St
New York, NY 10010
Phone: (212) 989-2121

Continued...

Bunnies & Beer

Last weekend a buddy (Let's call him Buddy) of mine was in from Philly due to the Easter holiday. I'm not much of an Easter guy; I like chocolate and candy as much as the next guy, but Easter seems to still carry far too much religious significance and not enough bunny. Hopefully, sometime in the future, Easter will go the way of Giftmas and become so commercialized that the religion is all but stamped out, leaving an (egg)shell of holiday without any of that pesky meaning. Unfortunately, the Easter Bunny currently doesn't carry the same mythology with it as Santa Claus. I think this is a shame. The Germans invented the character based upon the notorious fertility of rabbits symbolizing spring and rebirth; I would have expected some marketing guru to have capitalized on this by now and turned Easter into the national Viagra day. It seems totally within the realm of possibility that we can soften Christian dogma into a celebration of male potency. This is an end to be devoutly wished.

So Buddy's family lives in Connecticut but was holding the weekend festivities in New York. He had obligations starting at 11am Sunday, most of which just required his presence. Of course, achieving physical presence becomes more complicated after an evening out with yours truly. In fact, that sounds like an invitation for trouble. Did he heed sanity, responsibility, and the will of (the Christian) God that Easter Wild Oat Sowing Sunday be held sacred?

Of course not.

We began at Corner Bistro. Everybody knows this place, and hopefully you get the chance to go someday if you've not already been. The quick rundown: The interior of the place has the rustic, lived-in feel that one only finds in a place that's been open since before your parents were born. There are no real surprises here other than that a place like this can still exist in post-postmodern New York. It's got a standard setup of a bar out front with additional seating for diners in the back, and you'll note that the big crowd around the bar isn't just a crowd- it's the line to eat. Conveniently located next to the bar, you can slug 12oz glasses of the dark or the pale at $2.50 a pop while you wait to be seated. Buddy and I went through about four each while contemplating the length of the line and the lack of solid food in our stomachs. The menu itself is equally straightforward, totaling 9 items, three of which are variations of burger. One time as a group of 4, I simply motioned with my hand that yes, we'd like one of everything. Order a salad and you might get kicked out.

Buddy and I left the Bistro sated and semi-drunk already- the beer goes down like water over there. We made our way over to Art Bar, where we were to meet a couple of his friends from school and I had hoped a pretty dish might meet me out as well. Well, we arrived and... wouldn't you know it, the chicks are late. Further, my interest hadn't called me back and I was beginning to doubt my instincts about her. With nothing (and no one) to do, Buddy and I sat down at the end of the bar nearest the jukebox and went to work.

We like this place because we can hear ourselves think inside; it seems to be one of the dwindling few NYC dives that is geared towards people actually beings social instead of spending the night screaming in each others' ears and fondling strangers in crowds. The front space has an extra-long bar area with banquette booths along the wall for larger parties; the back is filled with couches that may or may not have been pulled off the curb. (I have witnessed some fondling occurring in the back space, but that's another matter.) Buddy and I spent our time cutting through beers and commanding the jukebox, which resulted in an overabundance of Pat Benatar's "We Belong." I decline to make excuses for that. I don't care who you are- that song rules. We overheard waitresses singing along whenever it came on, and as such I'd become convinced that despite my callous and detached persona, I'm deeply, secretly, instinctively sensitive to the needs of women. Yes, I was pretty drunk at this point, and my girl still hadn't called.

Finally, Buddy's girls showed up and wanted to go to an apartment party in the neighborhood. Buddy and I were cocked, bordering on redonkulous. We agreed to go. Things get fuzzy here, and I may or may not have embarrassed myself completely- it's all pretty unclear. I do recall breaking out my swing-dancing routine, which tends to only work if I'm sober. (Why a pretty girl might be turned off by a sloshed, horny guy falling over himself while trying to spin her, dip her, and manhandle her... I have no idea.) Eventually we wore out our welcome and went home to my apartment, as I'd offered my futon to Buddy since his sister left him in the cold. I left him in the common room with the understanding that he'd have to head off to his brunch at 10:30am or so. It was then 4:30am.

I opened my eyes at roughly noon and realized he was probably screwed. I walked out into the common room and, not surprisingly, Buddy was passed out hard on the futon drooling out the side of his open mouth. I checked my phone and noticed my girl had sent me a text, sent early the night before, indicating that she wouldn't be able to join me.

No shit.

I managed to get Buddy on his way as his sister berated him on the phone and realized that I had plans too- I was going to a Columbia Gourmet Club event in Brooklyn at and establishment known as Beer Table. (I don't go to Columbia, of course, but it's good to have connections.) While the thought of mass quantities of beer at this juncture was not terribly appealing (my hangover was manageable but still very much lingering) I decided it would be rude to not attend, especially since my friend Ray had gone out of his way to get me in the door. So I gathered up my shattered psyche, hosed myself down in the shower, and made my way over to the crazies on the F train.

It's going to be difficult to communicate how awesome this experience was. Here's the billing: "We will sample seven classic and novel pizza styles prepared with the freshest ingredients on site and served directly from the oven while learning the secrets of preparing authentic Italian and new world pizza from scratch. Each pizza will be served with a perfectly paired international specialty beer." Sound appealing? Pizza was directed by Mark Bello of Pizza A Casa, and beer chosen by Justin and Tricia Philips of Beer Table, a regular establishment that you can actually visit. Set in a shallow storefront with a dark wood-paneled interior, Beer Table continuously changes its menu providing the finest imported and domestic beers that you just can't get anywhere else. Beers range from the reasonably priced to the exhorbitant (we sampled an $83 bottle of Drie Fonteinen Schaerbeekse Kriek, which is so expensive apparently due to some double-secret cherry ingredients.) The setup is literally three tables with eight stools each. They generally just serve cheese plates and light appetizers to go with the beers, but Justin explained that they have plans to add more items as the business matures, as it had only been open for 51 days as of this event. Whatever happens in the future, I can recommend Beer Table highly now.

You know what else I can recommend? The blonde sitting across from me during the tasting. Unfortunately for you, she's mine for the time being. I'm obliged to muzzle myself, but it certainly seems possible she might get a pseudonym in a future installment. We made eyes at each other across the table for much of the event, and she laughed at most of my jokes, which was something of a shock and an extraordinarily good sign. She then invited me to a post-party at her friend's place, another very good sign. She then asked if I'd be attending the Columbia Gourmet Club's citywide pizza tour. I looked at Ray. He nodded.

Fuck yeah! Can I have your number, baby? I've lost mine!

Later I texted Buddy, asking him how he felt and if he survived brunch. He responded that it wasn't so awful and that he actually felt pretty good. "How do you feel?" he asked me.

I feel pretty good.

Until next time...

Corner Bistro

331 W 4th St
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 242-9502
Fax: (212) 242-9502

Art Bar

52 8th Ave
New York, NY 10014-5104
Phone: (212) 727-0244

Beer Table

427 B 7th Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11215
Phone: (718) 965-1196

Continued...

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

231 Thompson St
New York, NY 10012-1369
Phone: (212) 777-2240

XR Bar

128 W Houston St
New York, NY 10012-2502
Phone: (212) 674-4080

Vol de Nuit

148 W 4th St
New York, NY 10012
Phone: (212) 982-3388

Continued...

I think I'm going to puke, Part II

When we last left our fearless hero, he was ostensibly on his way home after a night of bar-hopping around New York hot - and cold-spots; the time was 2:30 a.m. on the technical Sunday morning, but our hero is not a churchgoer; does he go gentle into that good night? Or does he rage, rage against the dying of the light?

Well, the sun already went down. All that's left is to rage for the morrow...

Yeah, I told the cabbie to take me to 151. I promised you a review of this place in my last safari, and so now you get a brief glimpse. 151 (aptly named due to its location at 151 Rivington) is an unmarked basement that it seems is just underground enough that no one has to wait and seedy enough to always feels hip. There's a consistently pleasant 1:1ish ratio of horny dudes and easy chicks and the drinks, albeit not dirt cheap, aren't of the $8 watered vodka soda like that you might find at other too-sweet Lower East haunts (that means you, Hotel Rivington.) Why would one go here? Well, I've already stated that the chicks are easy- lots of Euro-types, and as I've recently been told, the Euro girls don't have all the Judeo-Christian baggage that even some of the hardcore NYC hippies carry like a chastity anvil (no matter how hard you hit on it, it doesn't bang!); no, they are free, free like ripe hormoaning birds. Also, there's a pretty consistent punk-metal soundtrack, so even if the girls aren't picking up on the vibe, you can still rock out like there is no tomorrow. Which, it turned out, there wasn't, because tomorrow was very much today.

Lana is a Brazilian bird. (I don't think her name was Lana, but it's my best guess.) I met her at 151, where we had a longish conversation, roughly 50% of which I understood. She's got a killer accent. Also, 151's speakers are too tinny, or the recordings come from decomposing tape from Stiv Bators' basement, or I'm losing my hearing, who knows... Somewhere along the line, she asked me something like "Do you party?" Of course I do! Oh wait...

So I'm in Brooklyn at Lana's apartment. I guess the JMZ goes there, I dunno. I'm on the wrong side of the tracks and I know it, and Lana's typing on her Macbook in her tight, tight white pants and telling me how she's a singer and how this apartment is only temporary and so why don't I break out my shit.

(Huh?)

(Oh crap.)

So there's a CD case and a wire mesh basketlike thing that I hadn't noticed before on the table, and I know what these things are for, but I'm clearly not equipped for this ski trip... Because I'm an idiot. And I tell her as much, and she knows this already implicitly, and so she offers to call Marquis, who is apparently her friendly neighborhood coke dealer.

Which is fine. Apparently.

Marquis comes in after a few minutes of me anxiously downing my Corona 40 oz. (who knew?) He's a pretty chill dude, turns out. He asks us what we need. I have no idea, and Lana isn't helping. Finally, he suggests something that costs $40, and I immediately jump in "Sold!" except I didn't say that because it wouldn't have been cool. This is one sequence of my life that I am desperately, freakishly yearning to be cool, because Lana is uberhot and I wanna boink Lana. So, I politely identified the $40 option as the one we wanted and handed over the cash.

Well, after awhile of hanging out in the apartment waiting for my drug score (he who's never snorted anything in his life, not even vodka off an overturned shotglass) it becomes apparent that Marquis has run into a roadblock somewhere. After too long, he returns and refunds me my money, casually explaining that it just isn't going to happen tonight. Lana looks bummed; my penis shouts that that is unacceptable. So I text my buddy Ari (it's pushing 7am now, but Ari doesn't sleep, he's more likely to be awake than a gerbil on meth, right, right?) Ari doesn't respond. Marquis has a little, he's willing to share. New guy first. You're not a cop, are you? Hell no...

I'm standing on the JMZ platform. Yes folks: I think I'm going to puke!

(Ari would text me later in the day: "It's wonderful to see you getting into the drugs for sex trade..." Imagine a way to feel filthier. I can't.)

After an excruciating ride back to the real city and the DMZ that is my current neighborhood, I collapse on my bed. Seemingly instantly, my roommate opens my door. "Time to wake up! We've got a birthday party to attend!" Oh yeah. Eagen's birthday. It's noon. 1:30 at Paradou. Yeah.

Did I mention that I think I'm going to puke?

The magical thing about this brunch birthday celebration was that for $45 I could drink all the champagne cocktails I wanted. Wait, is that magical? I could have done with eleventy Bloody Marys, but ended up with more Belinis, Mimosas, and Kir Royals than I ever want to see again. Girls love it, though. Apparently, according to Citysearch, it doesn't have to cost the fearless reader as much as it cost the fearless writer. That's OK- Eagen's a fine young lady and I'm happy, freakin' thrilled to celebrate her birthday with her. No, really- I'm not even being sarcastic. Paradou seems like a good place- print out the coupon on Citysearch, order the Wake 'n Bake (which was borderline life-saving), drink your Mums & OJ, and have a good time. I did. By the time we went to The Hog Pit, I didn't even really feel hungover that badly.

As for the Pit, I was amazed to see that they have a menu. Everytime I've ever gone there, I've been accompanied by what Road House's Dalton character might describe as "Power Drinkers." Make no mistake- that is the clientele, but I'm told the food is surprisingly edible. Even better than that, actually. Not that I've had it. Nope: PBRs all round, foosball, pool, good times. And there's a history to this bar, but you can research that for yourself. I'm here to tell you that if you've got a group of mostly drunk twentysomethings and they're looking to get weird, The Hog Pit in the Meatpacking District is a fine choice.

Not that I was into any more weird. I made it home by 9 p.m. Of course, I didn't go to bed- I stayed up until 2 a.m. 28 of 30 hours awake, questionable decision-making, gallons (seriously) of beer, and the regrettable recreational drug use... Come Monday morning, I wasn't just thinking about puking. I was finally able to commit.

Until next time...

151
151 Rivington St.
New York, NY 10002
Phone: (212) 228-4139

Paradou
8 Little West 12th St
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 463-8345

The Hog Pit
22 9th Ave
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 604-0092


Continued...

I think I'm going to puke, Part I

I feel terrible.

I didn't go out on Friday, but I still didn't do anything during the day Saturday either. I slept until 1pm, peeled myself out of bed, slapped together a PB & J sandwich, chugged a glass of OJ, saw my roommate depart to defile his body with his awful ex-girlfriend, and dove back into bed. I expected to be back up in an hour; I opened my eyes at 8:15pm. 4 missed messages. Where are you? Come to dinner.

Well rested, I was. Time to cause trouble.

So I met my buddy Dylan at Vertigo, he and his new wife Sarah, just married in a shotgun wedding I attended at City Hall about a month ago. No word on if she's pregnant, and I surely hope she isn't- she sure seemed to be tossing the drinks down with impunity. Frankly, I have no idea why they told me on a Saturday that they were getting married on Wednesday. I have even less idea why they went ahead and did it. All I have are the photos to prove it actually happened, which is more than many of my comrades can comprehend. I guess they're drunk on love. And tonight, drunk on booze.

Speaking of disorientation, Vertigo (dig that segue!) is a decent enough, if unspectacular, bar. The ownership might have done well to go with a Hitchcock theme of some kind, maybe with a creepy Jimmy Stewart statue that would say creepy Jimmy Stewart things like "Heeeey thar young fella!" in a creepy Jimmy Stewart voice like you might find in a crappy state fair shooting gallery. Sadly, it's just a bar. The things that make it work are the things that make just about every semi-decent bar work: good drink selection, decent food, modern-but-not-intimidating decor, flatscreen TVs on the wall behind the bar. Oh yeah, the waitresses are H-O-T. Dylan likes to go there because it's roughly 50 feet from the entrance to his apartment; I like to go because they serve Kona Lager, an excellent Hawaiian beer that never fails to make me wax nostalgic about the week I spent last year on the Big Island. Anyway, Vertigo is one of the very few watering holes in the city to find this beer on tap, and as such it's never a chore to stop in for a pint or 15. In the summertime, their front wall folds up, giving the place a nice outdoor atelier feel to it. I'd recommend grabbing a table near the sidewalk, ordering up a Kona and a Vertigo Burger with blue cheese (medium rare of course, never ever give anyone an excuse to overcook your burger), and chilling out until the trouble starts.

Of course, the trouble would start soon. Dylan and Sarah were not in this for the long haul, as they rarely are- Dylan and his hedge-fund eyebags constantly belie the fact he could collapse in a narcoleptic heap at any moment, and as such I can't even give him too much crap for going home to plug his leaking tampon-hole. Pressing on, a few text messages later and I'm off to Level V to meet my buddy Tony and his girlfriend. Alone. You know what's coming next.

So I'm waiting outside with maybe 10 other not-quite-cools, as I expected I would be, because this place is apparently fairly popular and I wasn't towing half a dozen chicks with me. Tony had told me they were downstairs enjoying bottle service, and as such I figured I'd be able to get in eventually because he was spending some coin inside. Sadly, it's underground, so he wasn't getting my text messages imploring him to come get me, and the just-past-her-prime blonde running the door was being a... well, it rhymes with punt. After 15 minutes or so of pleading my case and getting nowhere, Tony comes out with his GF to have a smoke, sees me, and begins negotiations with the blonde, which leads to this priceless exchange:

Tony: "Listen, are you going to let us go in and drink or not?"
Blonde: "Ummm..." Looks at me. "No." What the....

No seriously, what the fuck!?!?

Tony informed me the place was totally empty and the line was there to make it appear popular. My recommendation: Don't ever go to Level V. Let someone else make it appear popular. Off to Brass Monkey...

What is there to say about this place? It's in the ass-end of the Meatpacking district, that's one thing. It was cooooold on Saturday night, and walking there from Level Vagina with two Cali kids was like trying to give a cat a bath:

We made it eventually, though, and it became clear to me that Tony and the GF were hammered. In a good way, though. Good hammered prompts them to do things like invite me to Vail for future weekends, which I'm not sure they recall now, but I'll be damned if I'm not showing up. Good hammered also foretells that our visit will be short, which was fine with me because the Monkey was crowded as all hell. Generally speaking, past visits to Brass Monkey have left me with positive impressions; the massive space (ridiculously scaled by Manhattan standards) for the most part prevents the place from getting overloud or overcrowded, which I tend to like. However, this night seemed an exception, as it was packed from front to back. So, after a few drinks and some drunkspeak, the three of us stumbled outside for a cab. I dropped them off at their apartment and continued on home.

Or did I? I think this is a two parter- all these words and I don't even feel sick (yet!) Tune in tomorrow or the next day for the exciting conclusion to "I think I'm going to puke."

Vertigo

354 3rd Ave
New York, NY 10010
Phone: (212) 696-1011

Level V

675 Hudson St
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 699-2410

Brass Monkey

55 Little West 12th Street
New York, NY 10014-1304
Phone: (212) 675-6686

Continued...

Deceased Environmental Grandma

Note: This was posted to my friend "Sean Miller's" MySpace page. He's given me permission to reprint it here.

My grandma (Nana) died over the weekend. Don't be sad, she was 91, and was lucid, mobile, and well taken care of until her massive heart attack. We should all be so lucky…

As is customary, I reflected over her life during the last few days. For those of my friends interested in sustainable living, I thought I could hold her up as sort of a tribute, an example of environmental consciousness, and a role model for the "real" environmental movement today.

Let's get some things straight first. Nana was a conservative Catholic who went to church daily until her death, voted for GWB twice, and taught us how to say the Rosary. She was not a role model for the typical liberal intelligentsia. But she raised a family adherent to the principles of sustainability, moderation, and delayed gratification long before it was popular, or even defined.

Nana lived through the Great Depression, growing up one of 8 children to a dirt-poor immigrant Slovak tenant farmer family in Appalachia. Before it was even popular, she was saving produce containers, rubber bands, and any household item with any sort of utility. There was a succession of clothing in my family. New clothes would become hand me downs. Hand me downs, after they no longer could be mended, would become hand-hemmed dishtowels. Dishtowels would turn into kitchen and household rags. The final stage would be shop rags for my Grandpa's well drilling business. I am sure my mother and my uncle could tour the garage today and identify their 5th grade era clothing.

Nana kept a garden. And an assortment of pigs and chickens. All on a one acre lot. Hers was a model of sustainability. Mom and uncle Mike would literally "hoe a row" every day over the summer. Nana grew all the vegetables that the family would eat through the summer: in the fall they would can plenty to last through the winter. Organic residue would be fed to the pigs: the chickens ranged over the yard, though I suppose their feed was probably supplemented also through the neighbor's corn. When a pig was slaughtered, everything was used. Blood sausage was made, and it was exactly what it sounds like. Needless for me to elucidate further, the cycle of food residue-compost-protein was maintained in an organic cycle emulated even today by the best of the Soy FACE farms.

Nana's consumerism, or actually, lack thereof, was bred by her childhood economic circumstances that shaped her life. She and my Grandpa could identify edible mushrooms from thirty feet (a task that takes me 20 minutes and a dichotomous key), knew the best berry patches, and between the two of them, could create anything, from pipe, to clothes, crafts, xmas gifts, quilts etc from scratch. Even after my grandpa died, Nana would heat her small house (which she and my Grandpa built) with wood from the surrounding forests. Kindling of course, consisted of the pile newspapers and other burnables she stockpiled. Finally, around age 80, she switched full time to the oil furnace that they used as an emergency back-up, only after we worried about her hauling wood.

For those of you have actually calculated your ecological footprint through various web sites, I am certain that hers would fall under ½ and acre. She raised 2 healthy children and roughly in this much of working area. The rest was ornamental grass and my Grandpa's workshop.

The modern environmental movement has seemed to have been somewhat corrupted by consumerism. The dominant stereotype seems to be a sort of modern Yuppie (I have seen it referred to as Yuppie 2.0), an environmentally pseudo-conscious superconsumer who seems to focus on consumption. Instead of people minimizing purchases, the new pseudo hippie seems to love purchasing the newest, most visible symbol of environmentalism (new aluminum Sigg bottle, or organic trader joe shopping job, recycled glassware made of old pepsi bottles, and organic produce flown in at an incredible fossil fuel cost from south America). Surreptitiously, it seems, that well-intentioned people have been caught up in the glamour of consumerism.

Nana would never have been comfortable as any role model, especially for something such as environmentalism. But such things that were a manner of living for her, like growing her own food in a sustainable system, making clothes from rolls of fabric, and extremely limiting consumer tendencies through limited consumption and maximized reuse.

It leads me to ask, who is the better role model for sustainable living? Certainly my stereotype of the well meaning but hypocritical pseudo hippie who buys the $6 Ecuadorian pineapple at trader Joes and drives 25 mile home in some SUV at 20 miles per gallon comes off worse than my sainted Grandmother. Nana also lived at a time when the mother could and would stay home and run the household. But seriously, couldn't we all grow a couple more pots of tomatoes, or at least limit our consumption a little bit more?

I tried to identify people, outside of my most immediate family, who try to represent the principles Nana exemplified. While their politics really did differ (from extreme liberals to libertarians), the folks who garden/farm sustainably, make or reuse their clothes, can vegetables for the winter, and limit their consumerism tend to be cut from the same basic cloth (no pun intended). The big differences, politically/socially, tended to be whether they were devout or atheist, vegetarian or "carnitarian" (mostly vegetarian, but will eat game and fish that they personally harvest), or believed in individual responsibility vs. legislated welfare. Regardless of ideology, these people are somewhat isolated; fringed candidates from a majority world. It no longer, or maybe not ever, has been cool to live by the necessary provisions of a resource limited society. While this glue has bonded such a community, it remains split from society at large, mostly by those who still believe they can justify consumerism through a sustainable lens.

To wrap up, I look at the character of Nana, and the morals that she instilled in her children (my mother and uncle). Save. Save money by reusing and using land to its sustainable potential. Hone craft skills and personal talent. Educate yourself, but stay close to the soil. Though she believed in a deistic approach to farming, we can all acknowledge the custodial nature we can play to making our own lot or apartment balcony its own sustainable system. In all of our "superior" education though, we make mistakes in our consumer choices. I take quite a measure of joy in knowing that Nana, who was never educated past middle school, has ecologically trumped thousands of college and graduate students in the economy of consumerism.

Continued...

It's like Mexico, but you can drink the water... for $5

¿Puede usted sentir la Hacienda?

According to Wikipedia, Hacienda is a Spanish word for "estate" or "plantation." Now, most kids from the middle west like I associate the word "plantation" with "evil southern slavedrivers." That, of course, is unfair, a result of only hearing the word used in American agro-historical context, namely pre-Civil War southern state economy; additionally, I've never set foot on or seen a plantation, unless we have yet another word for it in Ohio that I'm unaware of. (Farm?) And while plantations still exist, and I'm fairly sure there aren't any slaves on them, I do know (thanks to 4th grade social studies) that plantations are BAD.

So back to SlaveLand... I mean Hacienda. There used to be a mediocre Mexican restaurant at the Erie Commons in Mentor (lemme hear ya in da) OH named Hacienda, I think mainly because the English aesthetics of the word imply "Mexico." It's certainly not Americanese. Thankfully, I'm bringing you an interlude from the weekend not from the North Coast but instead the East Village, where this not-quite-Mexican bar serves drinks to the young hipster (I assume, as the EV is where I hear hipster wildlife congregates) on most occasions and, on this night, to a group of 30 lawyers.

I am not a lawyer. I do know one whose birthday is Tuesday, though, and lovely girl that she is invited me to her weekend preparty. Big dudes at the door check my ID, ask me if I'm here for a private party, me and my two dude friends. I say yes, knowing full well that if it's crowded inside that I'm out of luck. There are reasons why three guys don't try to get into bars all at once, and those reasons made me wish I'd left Dane at home. And Tim. Yes, I wish I'd come by myself. But the big dudes let us in. I was astonished. Then I saw the place was empty, and immediately turned up my nose.

Walking in, there's a lovely free coatcheck that I was happy to use. The bar is long, the decor is red, red, red, with booths to the left and the bar to the right, and a private, semi-curtained room in the back that seems like had we gotten drunker might have turned into the boom boom room with sofas (couches? Diff?) lining the walls and a personal toilet for the back room groupies. That was in its own room, of course, you get the idea.

Oh yeah- we pregamed at Welcome to the Johnsons', a local sub-dive in the Lower East. There's nothing quite like the constant funk in the air at this place, like a semi-potent mix of stale beer and armpit. $2 PBRs, though, and a crowd about as unpretentious as it gets. Yes, it's full of proles. Proles listening to pre-Nevermind Nirvana as an upper. Some guy bought us all beers after I agreed to take his picture with his girlfriend for him. Grand gesture, no, but neither is $6 in beer.

Back to Hacienda- wait, nothing good happened there. I asked for a Negra Modelo and I settled for a Bud. They should be put out of business just for that. It's a frickin bar called Hacienda! How could they not have the greatest Mexican beer in the history of Mexico? Or at least the one I wanted?

That's just my opinion, of course. Dane never wanted to come. Get this- he called Tim, bitched about Tim coming to this party, invited himself along when he couldn't come up with anything better to do, then complained every instant he was there. Eventually Tim relented and allowed Dane to lead him to 151, which will get its own review at some point. Dane is such a douche.

Music was standard Hip Hop, which means minimum 5 years old. We were more in a 30-year-old Journey mood, and he accommodated for roughly two songs ("Don't Stop Believin' " and something else.) Then we were back to the 'hood, and the girls wanted to rock to the '80s some more. So off the the Alphabet Lounge and their DJ attraction.

Now, I'm a fairly reasonable guy, I think. I reason that there are roughly half a million bars in this city that will let me walk in and pay $5+ for a given $0.25 beer without a hassle at the door or a cover charge. The Alphabet Lounge is not one of them. I was happy the girls were allowed to get in free (scratch that, I was furious) but a $10 cover and there isn't even any live music? Just a DJ spinning 80s. Be serious, right? Well, the girls were pleased. One of them nearly mauled me, but I was heady enough and sober enough to fend her off. Anyway, I like the layout of this place, with a lower dance floor with a bar and an upper tier floor for hot chicks and drunk guys. Naturally, our group fit in well in the upper tier. Check it out if you like cover charges.

I only slept until 4pm, so it must have been a pretty tame evening. No severe regrets, except the $60 round of SoCoLime shots at Alphabet City. I can absorb that, though. Until next time... get into trouble!


Welcome to the Johnsons'
123 Rivington St

New York, NY 10002-2312
Phone: (212) 420-9911

Hacienda at 40C

40 Ave C
New York, NY 10009
Phone: (212) 466-0800

Alphabet Lounge

104 Ave C
New York, NY 10009
Phone: (212) 780-0202

Continued...

Meet a Writer For Dinner (and Maybe More!)

Tuskers

I'm a pseudo-architect living a semi-life in an intentionally consequence-limited environment full of people not exactly like me. Sometimes sage, occasionally sinister, and potentially obscene, I have modest goals for this blog, such as the avoidance of weak constructions, comma splices, dangling prepositions, and pedantophilia.

Who am I kidding? I'm a fucking cartoon.

Continued...