Friday, February 25, 2011

Why Dating Sucks In New York?

Why Dating Sucks in New York? (Part 2)

            As I look across my kitchen table at my bearded, pajama wearing, Tolstoy-lookalike roommate Tony munching away from a bowl of Cheerios, I can’t shake the idea that I will die alone. Tony slowly lowers his head down close to the bowl, crunching on the Cheerios, and a little bit of milk gets caught in his beard. He wipes it away effortlessly, notices me staring at him, cocks his head and says:
            “What the fuck are you looking at?”
            I couldn’t tell him I was thinking about dying alone, there, sitting in my breakfast nook. I mutter “Nothing”, and go back to the restless nature of my thoughts.  
            Remember the days when you met someone at a show and because you REALLY liked the same band, that was literally the moment you fall head over heels in love with that person?
            It happens.
            Remember that?
            I got a girlfriend once because I separated the green Skittles out for her in Biology class in high school. Maybe you played football and got to bang cheerleaders. Maybe you were the school slut. Maybe you’re the one who developed breasts before everyone else.
            But now, as a thirty-something adult, I realize that the entire dating scene is a cruel and self-debasing act of masochism. Sitting there listening to another person LIE to you all night over some shitty food is the definition of Hell (because you know NO ONE is completely honest at the beginning of a relationship). And, if can somehow stomach your food over this persons desperate attempt to relate to everything you say, you just may get back to your bedroom to have drunk, partially sustainable sex with this partner.
            You’re lucky if even use a condom.
            My gay friends tell me straight people are boring. I agree, especially when it comes to sex.
            “What you do last night?” I ask my flagrant gay friend.
            “Oh my God! It was fantastic, a full orgy, people coming everywhere, blow jobs for days, brilliant! What about you?” He asks back.
            I shrug: “Spent 55 bucks on a dinner and didn’t even fuck.”
            “What, no head?”
            “Not in this town, pal.”
            “A kiss?”
            He huffs: “Fucking boring ass vanilla straights man, ya’ll in a sad state.”
            “Tell me about it,” I say.
            Then he smiles: “I’ll suck your dick.”
            “Thanks for the offer, my friend, but I’m not into sack.”
            There’s something to be learned from all of this. Here in New York, straight people are even more doomed. For the women, it’s rough. There are more women than men in New York City, and half the men are gay. For the guys, you better be hot like Ryan Gosling in tight black jeans and a beanie or got some money, because if not, these women would rather spit on you than smile when they pass you by on the street.
            Why does dating suck in NYC?
            Here’s a partial list:

            It might be true. You might not be as cool as you think you are. All that style, haircut, and fashion sense will only allow fucking privileges with someone who also give a fuck about that shallow shit. I imagine two porcelain dolls slamming their bodies against each other, fearing to mess up each other’s hair. I know people who don’t even like sweat, including their own! How the hell can you fuck properly without sweating?!? That’s crazy. If you ain’t sweating during sex, you doing it wrong. And yes, you can do sex wrong. Trust me. I’m running a straight C-  average in bed.   
            Your inflated sense of self importance may just be the thing preventing you from actually meeting a decent human being that will care for you. We know you think your hot shit. But you might just be a touch mediocre.
            Think about.  
            Real talent and genius come rare each century. I mean, there’s only one Lady Gaga, and you ain’t it.  

            TOO  MANY OPTIONS
            When I’m working the bar, I like to ask questions of my drunken regulars. When I pose this question, “Why does dating suck in NYC?”, the number one answer is this:
            Too many options.
            What the fuck does that even mean? How many interesting people do you really think are in this city? Seriously, I’m a bartender. I watch all of you all the time. What do you think we’re doing back there? We’re analyzing every aspect of human fucking behavior. We know who you fuck. We know what’s wrong with your marriage. We know you’re actually a lesbian and you haven’t come to terms with eating pussy.
            Too many options, what the fuck?
             Most people are pretty much the same, no matter how you dress them. The human animal does maybe five things (you can guess those) and all the other accompaniment is really window dressing. Either you got money or don’t. Either you have a big dick, or you don’t. Either you’ve got a pussy so beautiful you want to sleep on it, or you don’t. People are not that unique.
            My mother always said:  “better to deal with the devils you know than the ones you don’t”.
            I’m with you, Moms.
            And as my very angry ex-girlfriend once told me:
            “The grass is greener where you water it, motherfucker.”  
            Stay tuned for the next installment of “Why Dating Sucks in New York? (Part 3)
            (this is actually what my roommate Tony looks like. Yes, I live with Leo Tolstoy.)

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Why Dating Sucks in New York?

Why Dating Sucks in New York? (Part 1)

First off, thank you, Anonymous, for your question. Since bartenders know everything, this succinct and completely helpful response should come as a beaming cone of light down on your whimsical and shriveled heart. 
            Why dating in New York sucks (part 1)?
            You ever really like someone a lot here in New York?
            I mean, not just ‘like’ someone. I’m talking you went out to drinks, which was full of charming banter, a little touching of the hand/and or knees, all colliding into a subtle, but firm kiss. Then you’re hungry. So are they. You go to Rye on South 1st. The ambiance is seductive, more kissing, both of you love the same Pixies record the best. There are no lulls in the dialogue. Some talk of books, some talk of politics, a little about the past, but not enough to make things weird. The food is served; it’s delicious. The endive and pear salad is delightful and refreshing, both of you agree the scallops are to die for, the Classic Old Fashion Cocktails are going right to your heads. After dinner there’s the walk around the neighborhood, a passionate make out session against the wall of the Levee bar. Some ‘make bad decisions’ shots to follow. Now the both of you go back to your house and have porny, yet tender, hardcore sex until both of your come at least twice and you lay back, sharing a rolled Samson cigarette, blissfully staring at the ceiling and not worrying about going to work the next day cause it Presidents Day.
            You know what I mean? No?
            Want to know why?
            Because this scenario does not fucking happen! Ever. Ok. Maybe once. But only after the 756 dates you have been on in your ten year tenure in this soulless godforsaken city.
            New York City, compared to other city’s (and yes, the bartender psychically can communicate to all other bartenders across the nation) is the most difficult city to find dating satisfaction. Since this is an obviously broad discussion I will cover two points this week and the next two points next week (that’s a mouthful).  

            YOU’RE ON OK CUPID.
            Okay. Face it. You’re a loser, right? You’re also a cheap bastard who cannot afford pay sites like You can’t meet people the normal way because a) you are a workaholic, b)You’re shy, right? Seriously, you are only allowed to be shy under 25, grow the fuck up, c) You’re sexual deviant, fine, I’ll except that, d) You’re desperate. The last one is important. Have we become such a lonely race here that we have to order human beings online like Fresh Direct? Is it that hard just to talk to people in this town? I’ll give credit to the hardships of talking to people here in Williamsburg. It’s a neighborhood of socially awkward retards. But even then, ironically bring up the last Deerhunter concert at the Music Hall and sure enough, they’ll be black tight pants and American Apparel underwear crumpled on your floor the next day.    
            Internet dating is for creepers, social retards, and workaholics, and if you’re anything like my roommate, Tony, you are all three. Maybe Ok Cupid is the place for you. But now you’re just adding to the awkward mechanisms of the 11211.      
            You were some hot shit beauty/bachelor in your shitty small ass town in America that you pretty much dominated the scene. Big fish, small town. Somehow you got it in your mind to move to NEW! – YORK! – CITY!  All the Woody Allen movies, the fashion scenes, Iggy Pop lives here! It’s a dirty, grimy, hardcore scene that will make or break you, unless, of course, you dominate it!
            This is the pathetic and thoroughly unlikely dream everyone has in moving here from that shitty small ass town in America.
            You will not win.
            New York will kill you.
            But, alas, the little orphan Annie dreamer in you says you can make it here. Down and dirty McCarren Pool parties. Sweaty, coke fueled dance parties at Glasslands.
            Where’s the love? There is no love. No one moves here for love. They move here to feed their gigantic, self-affirming, over-arching, bulbous, ferocious egos.
            You just want love now because that same air balloon of your ego just got popped. That’s why your writing your bartender for advice.

            (Stay tuned for next weeks conclusion to Why Dating Sucks in New York - Part Two?)   

            To see what the bartender REALLY knows, email 1 DIRECT QUESTION to  and find your answer in our next installment.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The Bartender Knows

Bitter Drinks by D’Abate


            I know you don’t live in Williamsburg. I know you discovered the accessibility of the neighborhood, one quick subway jump from Manhattan on the L train, and decided (only on Friday and Saturday nights) to pop on over the ole East River.I know you probably just bought a condo on Kent Ave.
You’ve heard the crack heads are gone. The hookers that twirled under the BQE like fruits flies over a bottle of crusty booze have fled to whatever crusty godforsaken place suits their nefarious business model (Bedstuy).
            I can tell by what you’re wearing.
            Khaki’s for fuck sake!?! You have a collared shirt from Banana Republic on. I'm not hating. I'm just saying you did not find that at Beacon's Closet.
            Uggs! Are you fucking kidding me! Please stop. This is shining example your zip code is not 11211.
I know you don’t live here because you are overweight and walk too slow on the sidewalk.
Look around you.
These kids are rail thin from a long adolescent training in anorexia and a parent supported drug habit of Adderall.
These kids drink colonics and Pedialyte.
You eat fast food regularly and watch 3.7 hours of television a night when you finish your fucking nine-to-five.
            If you come into my bar and ask me to put on the sports game, you do not live in Williamsburg. The only sporty activities of any interest here are kick-ball, some drunken bad mitten games in McCarren Park, and the occasional cocaine fueled rock and roll spaz out at Union Pool (the last World Cup aside).
If you ask me how it feels to live in a gentrified neighborhood, you do not live here. In fact, the only reason why people come here, or want to live here now, is exactly because so many of you heard about the ‘scene’ here.
            You know you secretly want to fit in here.
            We all do too.
            Don’t get me wrong,
            Human beings are designed to resemble each other for safety reasons. All members of a tribe wear the same war paint. You have ball caps, baggy jeans, and goatees (1993 anyone?). We got the Chuck's and pork pie hats. We feel safer looking like each other.
            And so do you. I’ve been to the Upper East Side.
Now you’re here, fresh from dining at Sea, and had the misfortune of stumbling into my bar asking for Hennessey and Cranberry juice (re: vomit).
We will not be friendly to you. We are not even friendly to each other. We are your Disneyland of uber-sheik, a Six Flags for adults.
You are the customer humming 'here we are now, entertain us'.
The other day one of you who does not live here asked me with the gleaming smile of someone with health insurance:
“So [insert affirming head bob], what’s cool to do around here?”
I, wrecked from heavy drinking the night before and three hours of sleep, stare coldly back across the bar.
They say: “I heard this is a happening place...”
Choking back all desire to bludgeon the tourist with a church key, I tell them:
“You want to know the truth? Drink too much, do a bunch of blow, and have lots of unprotected sex.”
Said tourists gleaming smile fades upon discovery of nuanced sense of mockery.
The thing is:
I’m not lying.
That’s the only form of tourism we got.
Now go out there and get HPV.

Welcome to the neighborhood motherfucker. 

            To see what the bartender REALLY knows, email 1 DIRECT QUESTION to  and find your answer in our next installment.