How To Be The Best Drunk In The World Pt. 2

             I try to imagine a world without alcohol.

            There’s a few plusses. No more drunk drivers. No more bar fights. No more retarded arguments with your girlfriend at Subway Bar.

            But then again, no one is fucking. Because seriously, who the hell has sex sober?

            And if anyone remembers the good ole prohibition days, all that came out of not drinking were shitty musicals and the rise of gangsterism. Plus no one ever really stopped drinking, the speak-easies springing up under every drug store and local barber shop were packed full of foul mouthed, sassy broads and dapper suited raconteurs, martini’s heavy in hand.

            If alcohol didn’t exist, Hemingway wouldn’t have been able to write and Fitzgerald might have written more. Bukowski would have been your friendly, super-positive neighborhood postman.

            But booze exists. And thank the living deities it does. Life is hard, and usually relentless. I always say: I don’t have a drinking problem, I have a drinking solution.

            The key to handling the great tiger of intoxication is how well you can remain operational. Are your jokes still funny after 14 shots of Jameson, or did you just puke on the bathroom floor and are currently inching your way to the door to avoid being discovered as the perpetrator?

            Can you mix tequila, absinthe, and champagne in one evening and still have a functional penis, or did you just pass out, pants half-way down around your legs on the floor, leaving the woman irritated and completely unsatisfied? (do I say this is from experience…ah, maybe, sort of, sorry doll…summer 2009 was a tough one).

            It’s a rough and tumble life when you consume copious amounts of Grand Pa’s Hittin’ Juice like it’s a fucking career, and it’s not a job for everybody. 

            Let me start by saying some basic facts about drinking:

            a) 75% of people do not get better the more they drink. Nope. Most people resemble a handicap falling down a spiral staircase.

            b) You are more likely to fight people. Anybody; your boyfriend, your wife, your friends, the bartender even (yes, there’s a whole union of people who actually want to fight the bartender. I have been on the receiving end of some serious bartender animosity).                        

            c) Most women are perfectly reasonable until they get hammered and suddenly become raging, sex crazed lunatics, ready to shed the mythical shroud of public decency and show the bar her breasts upon command.

            Conversely, booze allows men who have no balls to grow a pair of spare, phantom balls to actually go up and chat these women up, and this is how half the population of the world was conceived. In truth, most people would never hook up, especially for the first time, unless after serious consumption of Kamikaze Shots.   

            So how do you become the Greatest Drunk In The World? Take a little note from Rad Customer Number One Ian who rolled into my bar and peacefully, calmly, and with much class crushed a half a case of Miller High Life on a Wednesday afternoon. That’s right. Dude just sat there, totally respectfully to himself, and handled the half-case like the Professor for Getting Hammered Like A Goddamn Professional 101.
            His personality didn’t change that much, he was polite, he tipped well, who could ask for anything more?

            As a bartender, we want you to drink as much as possible and give us the least amount of trouble.

            What are some of the greater transgressions preventing you from being The Greatest Drunk In The World?

            Sit tight, crack a cold one, and leave me a fiver for this free advice:      

            1.

            Blatant Cocaine Abuse

            Everybody knows my beef with the Devil’s Dandruff.

            Not only does it make people think they’re more charming and intellectual, but it makes my dick shrivel up smaller than a McDonald’s French Fry.

            Sucks.

            Bad. I never have Whiskey Dick. I get Coke Dick.

            Some of these fellas get so gakked out of their mind their eyes are crossed, their face glistens with a sheen of sweat, and they spit when they order drinks.

            You are fooling no one with your rampant drug addiction. Now, I’m not hating. It’s okay to do drugs, let me say it here and now, The Bartender Knows fully supports anyone who wants to get fucked up in any way they see fit. As stated before, life is a bitch and then you die, so you gotta do what you need to do to get by. My major problems come when you are super blatant about it.

            You’re little coke hand off is totally obvious.

            Doing blow openly in a booth is really obnoxious.

            Plus, if anyone out there has ever done REAL COCAINE, this baby powder/amphetamine/drain cleaner mix these haughty gangster drug dealers pass off as ‘good shit’ here in New York is garbage. But the white kids will buy it.

            Good job, cream puffs.     

            And the worst thing is that most people blown out of their minds on the stuff can keep drinking forever. So that’s good for the register at the end of the night, but horrid for those that must wait on the stuttering, drooling, barely functioning talk that spews out of their blood-red faces. If you can’t say your drink order, you will not get an order. Feel me?

            And don’t forget to wipe that shit off your nose when you come out of the bathroom.             

            2.

            Barter For Drinks

            Not charming. At all. If you don’t have enough money to drink at a bar, do what your favorite bartender here does when he’s broke, cocky, and wanting to drink more:

             Challenge a random person to a 40 dollar bet on the pool table.

            There’s always takers. Nothing spells having to win when you bet money you don’t have. If you do lose, however, make sure you quietly say “I have to go to the bathroom” and run the fuck out the door. I’m not kidding. I’m five for five for betting without a dime and winning every time. I’m sure there will come a time when I most arrogantly challenge someone to a pool game and lose. But that’s why I’m taking boxing classes now too.      

            I can’t believe I even have to bring this topic up. But I’ve talked to countless other bartenders and I’m not the only clawing at the bar mats when a customer attempts (always drunkenly, under some guise of charm) to barter for free drinks, more drinks, and stronger drinks.

            This never works. You don’t ask for more free food at a restaurant, do you? You don’t barter for cheaper Ipods at the Apple store, do you? Why do y’all insist this is somehow justified at a bar?

            There are some options for the bartering of drinks, and generally this involves some kind of showmanship performance right then at the bar, some interesting feat. Or something else, and I’ll let you mull on that one for a minute.

            Yes, it involves favors.

            I’ll save those stories for another blog.  

            3.

            Don’t Try To Get to Know Me

            You know you really don’t care. Be honest. The most common question of any bar person is: “So, Matthew, where are you from?”

            I have been recently, much to my amusement (I would advice other to try this), listening to that question calmly, then suddenly, my eyes widening I belt out in a tough, super-defensive way:

            “Don’t WORRY about where I’m from!!!”

            The sheer look of terror across the eyes of the patron is priceless. Now you’re the guy who has loads of dark secrets, avoiding where he’s from, as if there were some trail of bodies and perhaps a warrant pending in that state.

            This “trying to get to know you” is particular annoying to lady bartenders. If you’re a guy and you start a line of questioning to a lady bartender, her throat is already full of so much bile she can barely stand it. She knows exactly where your punk ass is coming from.
            No. You Will Not Sleep With Your Lady Bartender. I covered this topic thoroughly in previous blogs (‘Sleeping With Bartenders’, google that shit).    

           

            We all should aspire to be Rad Customer Number One Ian, crushing cases and keeping to himself. The way it should be. More to follow.

            Until then, let me wish you all a fine welcome to Fall. Cruel Summer 2012 is over. Thank God.

            This one was a doosey.

SERIOUSLY, DO YOU HAVE TO DO THIS RIGHT ON MY BAR?

THIS EVENT WOULD NOT PLACE 85% OF THE TIME WITHOUT THAT BEER AND A SHOT SPECIAL. 

YEAH. LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT THIS.           

How To Be The Best Drunk In The World Pt.1

            Now I’m not saying you are a drunk.

            Yes, you may chug a Coors Light tall boy when you wake up or sip on a glass of Prosecco while you write your blog. Maybe it’s totally fine if you brown bag Absolute Vodka and walk with your super hot girlfriend down 1^st Avenue pretending to be hobos. There’s no judgment if you carry wine in a clear flask, taking copious pulls off the nip like it had the fucking antidote.

            These things happen when you’re out there in the drinking world. Most of the regular folk take their drinks cautiously.

            You take them gratuitously.

            I’m not saying you have a problem. You know if you have a problem. If you forget to go to work because you’re drunk, you’re a loser. If your relationship ends because of your drinking, you have failed. Contact your nearest AA group and get your addicted ass a sponsor.

            But if you’re anything like the people I roll with, you’re a professional drunk, one with pride, dignity, class, and an age old metabolism that puts any kind of whiskey hangover to shame.

            If you can’t handle the swings, get the hell out of the playground.

            Here’s the thing. You can learn to be this kind of drunk. The one that only becomes more charming as more booze slides down your throat.

            As a bartender, I have access to every kind of drunk. I have seen them in all walks of life.

            There’s the lonely drunk. This guy tells everyone his problems right after he introduces himself. Poor bastard. It’s like springing a guilt trap. You don’t want to leave him alone, and he’s certainly not getting the hint of how annoying he is to others. He’s the type who goes home, masturbates with his tears, and hangs himself with Fox News blaring loud in the background.

            Then there’s the obviously wasted chick who need to fuck someone. It doesn’t matter who. Ladies, trust me, she’s out there. I see one of these girls weekly at the bars. It doesn’t matter who the dude is, she wants to play the ‘ride the cock-horsey’ game with any willing participant. The saddest thing about this lady is when the men are afraid of her and she’s left blankly staring at her phone alone, and starts bitching to the bartender about her broken heart.

            Then I have to take her home.

            How about the Creeper? We all know the Creeper. The dude who hovers around girls, just slightly behind them and to the left. He stares with eyes of want and a strange smile reminiscent of someone who just took a satisfying shit. I ALWAYS defend women against the Creeper. The Creeper is the reason women can’t have a fucking drink by themselves at a bar. I HATE the Creeper. Women have a god-solid right to drink alone and it’s this retard that ruins the party for everybody.

            There are so many fouls in the baseball game of drinking. The key is avoiding these little defects and drink with a class that is undeniably attractive. Remember the other night when you were drinking alone and saw that group just having an exceptional time together?

            Yes, they are drunk.

            Yes, they a loud (but not annoyingly so).

            You wish you could be with them, laughing and joking about Mitt Romney or talking about how bad-ass the last season of Breaking Bad was.       

            There’s a certain style to drinking well. It’s just unfortunate that there’s so many ways to do it badly.

            Allow me the moment to break down some of the more unpardonable offenses made by these traitors of intoxication.

              

            1.

            Don’t Know What You Want

            Seriously.

            Is this your first time in a bar?

            Did you just turn 21?

            You would not believe how many people walk into a bar slowly, a look of bewilderment across their face, weirdly staring back and forth, creeping their way cautiously to the wooden bar.

            I come up to greet:

            “Hi there! What can I get for you?”

            They don’t answer. They don’t even look me in the eye. They just look completely confused, as if they simply were magically transported into a bar beyond their control.

            “Hello?” I ask, concerned about their sanity. “Any questions?”

            “Ahhhh….” They say, still not making eye contact.

            “Would you care for some warm milk or a Shirley Temple?” I offer.

            Let me tell you something, people. If you are a grown ass person, you know what you drink. A professional race car driver knows what tires are the best for their speed. Especially if you’re a guy.

            Come on, man. You know exactly what you want, or should, as a man.

            With women I cut a little more slack. The fairer sex have always been a little more interested in experimentation than the fellas when it comes to drinking, and I respect that.

            But if you a dude over the age of 25 and you give me that fucking lost look when I ask you what you want, expect to be degraded by me in front of your girlfriend right then and there.   

             

            2.

            Jukebox Politics

           

            Hey man. I know that a jukebox in a bar is the ultimate form of drunk democracy.

            I get it.

            I respect it.

            Even if I know that my Ipod playlists are some of the most complimented and fun collections for any bar evening, I will still not get completely offended if your dollar tune choice cuts out a great Pixies song. But if you think playing that fucking Rhianna song that spews out of every bodega in 5 minute intervals is cool, I’ve got a couple words for you.

            Get some goddamn taste.      

            “More Than Feeling” is probably the most played bar song, just above “Don’t Stop Believin’”, the other dreaded song for any bartender working with a jukebox.

            Don’t do it.

            Resist the urge to be just like everyone else.

            Play a rare Wu-Tang cut, or get some awesome retro Skid Row on there.

            Whitesnake works (thanks Tess) for some serious cheesy rock: “Here I Go Again On My Own” is apparently my new theme song.

            These are fun songs.

            But if you think putting on 14 Meatloaf songs in a row on my jukebox is cool, you will not only lose your songs when I skip them, but I will publicly demean you in front of everyone, Judas-ing the fuck out you.

            Also, there the uber-sad song someone (typical depressed) plays, completely ruining the mood for the Saturday night crowd. Hey, I like Elliot Smith too, but not on a busy fucking night. Okay, “Independence Day” works ‘cause it’s got that great drum track, and maybe, just maybe you can get away with “Stupidity Tries”, but if you throw on “Angeles” I going to stab your bi-polar ass.     

            3.

            The Smelly Food Person.

            Yo. Eat a fucking Subway sandwich at my bar.

            Totally fine.

            As long as you ask first.

            But if bring some rank, smelly ass food that fills the whole bar with a wretched scent, you are the faux paus of the evening. And I can assure you, nothing dries the ladies up more than the smell of stale hot dogs. Eat something clean and scentless. Use your head.

            Just the other day someone brought in some shit to my bar that left the whole place smelling of wet fart. And I, as the bartender, must sit there, trapped, embarrassed that yes, my bar smell like a dogs ass on a Friday night.

            I’ll be the one needing suicide watch when that happens.

            And furthermore, why are you eating in a bar? Take it home or stay at a table. What? Restaurants don’t serve liquor anymore? I don’t get it. Drink a beer for dinner. Liquid diet that shit.  

            Like body odor, own your scent. Stopping making everyone else have to deal with your issues. Get drunk with class.

            To be continued….and sorry for the long absence. This summer was a cruel one for sure.   Keep reading, and tell your friends.

            Trust me, beaten, bruised, and tattered:

            The bartender still knows every motherfucking thing. 

SERIOUSLY, WIPE THAT SILLY LOOK OFF YOUR FACE. IT'S CALLED A BAR. I WOULD TRY THE ALCOHOL OPTION.

LOVE ISN'T THE BATTLEFIELD. IT'S THIS THING. 

 

           

           

  

YOUR KIM-CHI DECISION IS MAKING ME SICK. 

WHEN ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! (Featuring Guest Blogger, D., The Bartender's Bartender)

             It had to happen. Getting around to talking about TOO much drinking. I try to avoid condemning any kind of excess. In a godless world as we live, hedonism seems the finest choice, the pursuit of pleasure at all costs. Secretly, we all are hedonists, opting for the pleasurable moments and avoiding the other ones, in pure Epicurean fashion.

            I like to think I’m an exceptional drunk.

            Some might disagree.

            The only time I’ve been cut off from the bars was when I clothes-lined this guy off his bar stool at The Abbey Bar. And I worked at the bar. I wasn’t on shift. I was merely a civilian that day.

            The man in question was a known shit talker and I suppose I was done with it.

            He muttered something. I pegged the back of his stool with my foot and slammed an arm across his chest, sending him reeling backward and onto the Abbey Bar’s dirty floor. I leapt up and got above him, and that’s when my boss came around to stop me.   

            “Matthew, what the hell are you doing?”  

            “Fuck this guy, man, I’m tired of his shit.”

            My boss pulled me aside. Behind him the man in question goaded me on. My boss took me outside.

            “What’s your problem?”

            “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

            “The hell you are. You can’t attack customers.”

            “I need a drink.”

            He stood, hands on his waist, shaking his head: “You going to have to have one somewhere else.”

            I shrugged and moved on. I couldn’t really argue with him. If I was working, I would’ve kicked my own punk ass out.              

            This week however, we are graced yet again from a woman who no doubt has seen me in all kinds of drunk compromising situations: “D”, the Bartender’s Bartender.

            We had found ourselves discussing when ‘enough is enough’ with some of these drunken styles. You might have found yourself in some of these moments. And then been told to leave.

            Ladies and gentlemen, “D”, the Bartender’s Bartender:           

           
            You’re in a bar.

            You’re super charming.

            Everyone loves you.

            It’s the best night of your life.

            Or so you think. Because you’re wasted. And everyone around you is wasted. Except one person—the bartender.

            Even if I, your lovely bartender, have done a few (or eleven) shots of Jameson, I am still sober. Nothing keeps you sober like steering a ship full of drunks through a storm of alcohol. Your captain must remain alert and look for signs on the horizon that a storm may be brewing.   We bartenders have some tricks to see just how drunk you are, even as you pretend to be the picture of sobriety for the five minutes it takes to complete our bartender/drinker transaction. You want that booze and we hold the key. One wrong move and bam, cut off!

            But why?

            How’ d she know?

            Ever been cut off and didn’t know how the bartender could’ve possibly known the true extent of your bender?

            Here’s how:

            1.

            You Can’t Speak

           
            If you come up to the bar, I will say to you, "hey, how’s it going?" This is a cordial greeting, sure, but this is also a test. The correct response can vary, but it must include actual words.

            If you simply nod, I get suspicious. Then I pose a follow up question. "What can I get ya?"

            If you slur, I will assess the clarity of what you said and how wasted I think you may be. If you simply point at a can of beer, you are done.

            If you cannot verbalize what you want to drink, you simply cannot drink anymore. And you are cut off.

            Because if I serve you one more...

            2.
            You’re Sleeping On The Bar

            Ok.

            This should go without saying.

            If you are sleeping in a bar; slumped over on the stool, head on the bar, or actually standing and nodding off (yes, this one really happened just last week) then you have no business being inside the bar.

            The bar is not an ideal place for a nap.

            The only time a person sleeps in the bar is when they are passing out. The last thing I want is to be shaking awake some drunk dude and then helping them in a cab, find their phone, wallet, keys, etc.

            Ideally I’ve cut you off before we get to this point, but sometimes you come in from another bar where the bartender kicked you out, and now you’re my problem.

            Or sometimes I was the one getting you drunk, but you fall into the next category.

            3.

            The Sneak Attack Drunk

            Ah, this is the best kind of drunk.

            I’m pouring you drinks all night.

            You’re cool and funny, you tip well and can totally hold your liquor.

            You’re a bartender’s favorite customer, until that fateful game-changing drink which I pour and when I turn around and you are falling off your barstool or worse, puking.

            Out of nowhere, you are super wasted.

            Fuck!

            The problem with this type of drunk is they are usually your best regular and it’s nearly impossible to know which drink will be the kicker.

            It’s Russian Roulette.

            And then we are dealing with a slurring, sleeping fall-down mess.

            So next time you are in the bar and secretly know just how wasted you actually are, be prepared.

            Say your order simply and clearly, or get a friend to order for you.

            Stay and awake and in closing, please enjoy this quote from Load- one of the best punk rock bands to ever come out of Miami, Fl of all places.
            "Fell off the barstool again. She was my only companion. She’s there laughing at me. Laughing at me as I fall."

            Incidentally, the last time I fell off a barstool was at the Subway Bar. When I texted my friend the next day out of embarrassment, she simply replied "welcome to the family".

 PLEASE ENUNCIATE!

WAKE UP! 

SUPERHERO CUSTOMER. FOR NOW.

 

BOBBY LOAD. AT LOAD'S FAREWELL SHOW BOBBY PASSED OUT ONSTAGE HALFWAY THROUGH AND THEY WAITED UNTIL HE WOKE UP TO FINISH THE SET.

THE LOST PARIS JOURNAL!

            Note: As some of you know, when I was living in Paris earlier this year, I expected to write all of the time and report back my adventures wandering the streets of Paris. Unfortunately, the day after I arrived in Paris, my computer crashed, erasing all of my writing, the films I’ve directed, all of my music and every pictures I have ever taken. Quite a sad moment. However, as of this weekend, I finally repaired my computer. This was the first of many blogs I was writing to report back state side.

            I present to you, The Lost Paris Journal.

The Bartender Knows: Paris Edition

A Drunk American In Paris Pt. 1

            That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I am in one of the most beautiful cities in all of the world.

            Paris.

            I have no idea how to talk to anyone. It has taken me three days to properly order a café sitting on the famous Parisian patios that are strewn across this fair city. Now when you take away a bartender’s talk, the bread and butter of our fair profession, you become a retarded mute, gesturing like a monkey at pastries in the window and pointing at items on the menu.

            I am frightened, which is funny for a man like me who generally can’t keep his mouth shut up.

            I am totally fearless State side. But out here, I slink around the French avenues like an underfed cat born off Grand Street, jumpy when approached, whispering purrs of god awful French to people. I know two words: Merci and S’il vous plait. Oh, and pardon, that is what you say when you bump into people wasted.  

            I went crazy the other night round 4am totally sober and decided to run out into the streets. It’s freezing cold and the rain was coming down like God spitting ice cubes on the streets. I take one wrong turn and I’m lost. My American compass is cracked right down the middle. The streets are dead empty, curved, not like the New York City grid system. An hour later I’m freaking out by some castle somewhere. It’s early morning and there’s police out arresting some poor criminal. There’s me, wandering up in a dark hood, asking “Ou se trouve le Seine?”  (Where is the river Seine?) and them looking at me like I was planning on diving into the dark churning waters. They directed me the right way, not that I understood anything they said. With luck, I found a landmark statue of Diderot I recognized off the Saint-Germain-des-Pres that led me back to my flat.

            I walk the streets alone during the day, muttering poorly pronounced French to myself, incurring strange looks from the locals. I sit, looking at cafes, wishing I could joke with the waitresses, charm them, make friends. Instead, I found a lovely little market where I bought enough Jamon and baguettes to fatten me up for week.

            And the cheese, it’s all about the cheese. I think if a man could OD on Morbier, it would happen right here in my borrowed flat off the Rue de Palissy.

            (In French)

            “Cause of death, Monsieur?” the police officer asks the doctor.

            “Fat bastard ate Morbier to death. Poor American. Looks like a bearded Pillsbury Dough Boy and smells of a vagrants armpit.”

            “Ah, pity.”

            “Oui, oui.”

            And let me say this folks. The French are fucking awesome. Super polite. They just hate Americans when they roll in speaking English right off. They want you to fuck up their language. There’s a point of pride in seeing you fail. But you tried. It makes them feel good. Like a rite of passage, blood in and blood out, gang shit.

            Except the only thing getting butchered is the way you speak French.        

           

            Here are some fun facts about drinking in Paris:

           

            1.

            YOU WILL NOT BE BUYING WHISKEY!

            Unless you are rich, my friends, you will not be buying whiskey at the local pubs and cafes. One small ounce shot will run you about 10 Euro, that’s $11.25 in dollars, and it will be their shitty version of well whiskey, some strange monstrosity called Major Henri. I had to try it. It tasted like turpentine, same color and hue and everything. This is no doubt why Americans go crazy out here. Henry Miller was probably so drunk off this paint thinner he decided to write the book to end all books (Tropic of Cancer) and thought he could get away with it. Whiskey makes even the meekest of men arrogant as all hell, and this gasoline that poses for whiskey is making me believe I can write the next Great American Novel in less than four weeks (already started it bitches, though can’t read a fucking lick of my penmanship, damn you Absinthe!).

            2.

            WINE IS THE CHEAP WHORE OF PARIS!

           

            Oh my god. I am not a wine drinker. In fact, back in Brooklyn when I did go on wine binges all I got was shit from my degenerate friends about what I pussy I was. Well, you are what you eat, and there’s plenty of gash to drink around here. I found a place where you can buy a bottle of very decent red for 1.20 Euro, that’s like 2 bucks back in the States. Genius. I bought like 10 for the flat, been here three days already, and gone through four bottles. Morning, noon, night, wine, wine, wine, wine!

            I found a place called Le Chameleon where glasses of Cote du Rhone are 3 Euro, not bad for traveling about prices. The bartender is pretty cool. I don’t think bartenders here in Paris have the same prestige as we do in the States. They seem relatively busy and not that concerned about you. After all, unlike America, the actually get a wage and do not rely on tips for survival. I explained to the bartendress at Le Chameleon that I too, was a bartender, reading out of my translation book. She nodded and pointed to my empty glass: “Encore?” I nod.

            I suppose flashing my wine key around here would be superfluous. They would probably shrug, show me theirs, and be off. So fuck you Jake Tomsky, you were right. I would not get special privileges because I share the working class profession. All I get is the bored nod and an “Au revoir, Monsieur,” when I leave the place, red stained lips and all. I can’t blame them. How long has Paris been around?

            I am not the first poor writer wandering these streets, nor will I be the last.  

            3.

            OLD DRUNK PARISIAN MEN HANGING OUT OF WINDOWS ARE AMAZING!

           

            My friends arrived Christmas Eve from Brooklyn; one of the Whiskey Twins, we’ll call her Catherine here for privacy sake, and my mustached mustard jar thieving buddy Michael, Catherine’s amore, met me last night for some celebratory drinks. We found ourselves at this place called Aux Trois Mailletz, a classic French Bistro, all with a very busty Algerian bartender, frantic waiters running back and forth, a skeletal female pianist rattling off French versions of Christmas music, and a singer, sans microphone, roaming the bistro singing at the top of her lungs.

            I kept saying to myself: “This is totally like a French bistro from the movies”. That’s American for you. You see so much on TV that when you see the real thing, you are not surprised. Talk about Simulacrum. A copy of a copy of a copy.

            Then we met a strange man named Julian in pink shoes, a sparkling red scarf, in a black sports coat, with long hair and a typical French hooked nose, smiling, kissing Catherine’s hand in a pervy way, excited to meet Americans. He tells us where he will be singing Christmas night (which we no doubt will go, fuck it). He told me he will bring me French beautiful woman as long as I do the same if he goes to New York. I say, sure, sure, and he writes down the cub he’s singing at (Le Chat Noir, not kidding).

            The Whiskey Twin, Michael the Mustached Mustard Jar Thief, and I leave, searching for cheap drinks and the wine has gone right to our heads. Suddenly, we see a church, and a slew of people gathered outside.

            “It’s Midnight Mass for Christmas,” Michael exclaims, “We have to go in!” I resist, feeling quite drunk, but the Catholic in me wins. We go into the 12th Century church and it’s full of a hundred people. The choir is singing as we find a place to lean against the back pillars.

            And it is beautiful. I forget about everything 

            We find some place called the “Student Bar” where shots of Absinthe are like 5 Euro and college girls get molested in the dark recessed mist filled dance floor in the basement. It is empty and we are loudly discussing art in English. This is trouble, this cheap Absinthe, for Mustached Mustard Jar Thief and I love this shit. We have way too many. Soon we are drunk outside Hemingway’s Doorway, laughing arm in arm down the cobblestone Rue de Mouffetard. Suddenly, we hear loud music coming from a couple flights up and there’s this old man with a beret on holding a glass of red wine, leaning out of his plant filled balcony.

            Drunk, The Whiskey Twin Catherine yells up in French about what kind of party is going on (she’s the only one who can speak French, therefore, get us into adventures).         

            We are invited up, half expecting the place to be wild, judging from the volume of the music and the dancing excitement of the old Frenchman on the balcony.

            There’s no one in the flat, except a sleeping fat woman under some thin sheets. Suddenly it feels real awkward. The old man is jovial raising his glass of wine. We smile. He pours us glass after glass,. We just keep dancing along with this old man, he seems pleased by this. The old lady mutters in her sleep as the Frenchman blares Jerry Lee Lewis even louder.

            I wonder what else I might get into here in this strange city… 

             

THE HOLY TRINITY OF SUMMER!

            We are in the thick of it.        

            Summer is here!

            Let us welcome all the things that come along with this lovely season here in New York City and across our great nation in the Summer time. 

            There is a grand haze, like living in a steaming car, driving 90 miles an hour with no air-conditioning. Our lives speed along, windows fogged from our hot breath, into the 97 degree days, the concrete hot beneath us, the air humid, thick with moisture, and there never a time you are not sweating.

            The beer goes down like water, the sun sets brilliantly with hues of purple and pink, it’s hard not to feel the infection of ‘let’s fucking party’. And we are. Everyone is. There is no stopping the carnival of ‘fuck it.’

            Are there bills piling up behind your ears? Is the landlord angry again? Do you owe money everywhere?

            Of course you do.

            Have the credit card debtors been calling again? Has your ‘to-do’ list been replaced by empty beer cans and a half smoked joint on the kitchen table? Have you broken up with your partner so you can chase all the skin in the neighborhood so happily displayed in the heat of summer?

            There is no more sexually frustrating place in the world than New York City in the summer time. This is the moment all of those packed into gyms and yoga classes during the ugly months of Winter wait for.   

            Last summer I went to watch a great band up from New Orleans called Jean-Eric. The lead fellah, shirt off and all, writhes onstage with his equally disrobed band mates, screaming into the microphone: “What the fuck do they put in the water up here? Everyone is sexy as fuck. Get me back to NOLA, we still got ugly down there!”

            When one of my best friends moved here, I took him around and his eyes bulged at all the beautiful women strolling down Bedford Avenue.

            He said, slightly dazed: “Jesus. Welcome to New York City, the town where you want to fuck every women you see.”

            It’s true. I don’t know what Bloomberg puts in the water here. Must be some chemical mix of vanity and ambition.

            Sadly, this summer, when everyone is out getting beat up and dodging gangster shit at the grand opening of the new public McCarren Pool, I have to work my three jobs. That’s right, no grandiose dance parties on rooftops in the Lower East side or running around chasing the fine women of this neighborhood.

            I’m working my two bars, doing production work, and chasing literary dreams, all the while watching the world participate in the Holy Trinity of Summer life. You know what they are. I’ve spent so many summers just watching these people worship at this Trinity, and I hope one day I too will enact this holy union.

            Here are the three ‘must do’s’ while we all live in the volcanic passion of Summer 2012 (the last summer on Earth).

            1.

            THE BEACH

            Oh my God. Is there any more legal pornography than the beach? I can’t even walk on the sandy beaches without instantly becoming a leering pervert. No matter how hard I try, with that amount of skin parading around, it’s difficult for any red-blooded straight male to keep a lid on the visual spectacle.

            And beach life is so wonderfully simple! The heat is everywhere, rendering the human to utter laziness, lounging beneath a giant umbrella, an easy summer read in your hands (and a REAL book, people, I hope you get sand in your Kindle).

            Seriously, what else is there? You read, lounge, occasionally go dip your feet in the cool water, what are we Marseille Royals? The beach settles all problems.

            Too many deep thoughts? Look into the ocean and contemplate eternity.

            Suffer from depression? Get that Vitamin D up in that skin, yo!

            The beach is a place of total peace and teaches you the truly important things in life:

            Stop thinking so much and read a book.

            Let’s enjoy the sun before the solar systems mystical alignment destroys the Earth’s gravitational pull on December 21, 2012 and kills us all.

            And lots of nudity is lots of fun.

            2.

            ROOFTOP/PATIO DRINKING

            So you’ve hit the beach, huh? Well, the staple of any Summer is the rooftop/patio drinking lifestyle. Casually sipping an ice cold beer, watching the main thoroughfares full of people who all don’t have the luxury of day drinking on a Tuesday walking to work. 

            And as the sun slowly set behind the majestic citadels of the isle of Manhattan, you can listen to the interesting banter of the group you’ve assembled (sort of the anti-Avengers, no superheroes, just drunken reprobates), as the beautiful waitress keep the beers coming. Order yourself a delicious Margarita (without sour mix, bitches). Get some Gin gimlets up in you. The slews of delicious drinks for the Summer are endless. And for some reason, the drunk feels better on a patio or rooftop.

            One Summer I won’t ever forget was the one I decided I would forsake my love of whiskey and drink only Tequila, Champagne, and Absinthe. Admittedly, I don’t remember much about this Summer except somehow starting a band, shooting my first two films, and sleeping with several women I cannot even remember their faces or names. I definitely Charlie Sheened that Summer, and I blame the season and the thirty-five patio/rooftop bars that line the three block radius from my front door for all the madness. 

            3.

            BBQ

            Meat. Steak. Salmon. For our vegetarian brethren, roasted veggies on the grill. Why in the world does food taste better basted and cooked over a grill in some backyard in Brooklyn? Much like the beach and rooftop/patio drinking, the spirit of the BBQ (truly mastered by those in New Orleans, where some of the best backyard BBQ was invented) is alive and well here in Bucktown.

            Here are some ingredients you need. First, a skilled grill man, There are ways to fuck up grilling. You wouldn’t think of it, but I’ve had some shitty BBQ, overcooked meats, charcoal lighting problems, smoke inhalation injuries. You got to get a grill man of expertise, otherwise all them dogs and burgers will taste slightly like overcooked McDonalds dribble.

            Second, you got to get a skilled bar man. Call me up, I’ll set your party up right. Mint juleps anyone? Keep that ice cold, keep those beers coming.

            Music is key. Find someone with the best iPod. The right music to kick it to that pleases everybody. This is a skill. Your 90’s playlist may not work every time. Plus it’s hard to relax when the grimy vocals from your favorite Alice in Chains album pours from the speakers and force others to adopt a heroin habit of their own.

            Next, get the right people. Talkers. Funny folks. Watch for inviting couple who do not participate in conversation. You know the types. They sit close and whisper to each other the whole damn party. Annoying motherfuckers. It’s like they are trapped in their own little world. You only get half-responses from them when asked direct questions. Leave those two to their own summer love and wait for the inevitable break up in the Fall to talk directly to them.

            So have fun out their kids, and remember to think about me when y’all get to worship these Holy Trinities of Summer. I’ll be the one working my three jobs watching you enjoy this fine season.

            Drink some Absinthe for me!   

AND SERIOUS EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS? JUST SIT HERE FOR A DAY AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!

YES. GOD EXISTS. 

    

TAKE THIS LITTLE FAIRY FOR A SPIN THIS SUMMER. DIRECTIONS: DRINK IT EVERYDAY AND YOU'LL UNDERSTAND VAN GOGH.