WHY DATING SUCKS IN NYC? (Part 4)

                Yep.

                We're back at it, folks.

                Part four.

                I’ve got a treasure trove of material regarding what a soul crushing experience trying to establish a trusting, fulfilling, and honest experience with a person in this fine town. I’m sure it’s rough in Tucson, or Tupelo, or wherever, but out here on these mean streets, dating can turn into a full time murderous act.

                And when I say murder, I’m talking about the murder of our little, fragile, hungry hearts and its dear friend dressed all in white: hope.  

                Now, if you’re reading this and you’ve already found that person that both embodies your physical, emotional, and intellectual needs, this blog is not for you. Y’all need to you go off and spoon to Netflix on demand together in the darkness of night.

                No.

                This blog goes out to the lonely, the hungry, the passion filled, roaming the streets, forever searching, maybe not for that eternal someone, but for SOMEONE WHO WILL JUST FOR A SHORT TIME PLAY THINGS CLEAN.

    I've listened to thousands of stories behind the bar about the torments of dating in New York City. I’ve heard all about how this one person fucked up or is playing hot and cold with you, or how you just found out they were fucking three people behind your back (without condoms).

    The list of minor psychic atrocities goes on and on.

    I know so many beautiful, smart, successful women who can't keep a relationship for more than 3 months. I know men who would give their lives to an ideal of honor and respect, and get shit on by the average girl strutting down Bedford Ave.  

                My roommate and I were discussing this last night over two tall boy Coors.

                He said it perfectly: “Well, there’s only two options round these parts. Either you play everything straight and get shit on or you join the viper pit and get used to the taste of poison.”  

                Maybe it’s because I’ve just returned from one of the most romantic cities in the world to the one of the most cutthroat, and like a new cell phone, I’m not quite used to the settings just yet.  

                Everybody seemed to be making out in Paris. Like All The Time.

    But already since I’ve returned, I’ve heard tales of breakups and deceptions, experienced heartbreak and serious let downs, and watched at least two people cry in the process (and I’ve only been back like 5 days).

                I’m sure there are tears in Paris as well, but they are no doubt romantic ones falling into the Seine and full of tannins.  

                So, yet again, I will jump into the abyss of why it is so damn hard to find something that isn’t full of some form of deceit, emotional cowardice, and excessive amounts of promiscuity.

                Here’s three little ‘stabs’ at, yet again, why dating sucks in the Big Apple:

                 BODY GREED

                Seriously. When sexologists and gender rights activists in the 60’s and 70’s talked about sexual liberation, I don’t think they meant for people to start using each other like fuck machines with no emotional connection whatsoever.

It’s like someone gave you the keys to a bright red Porsche and you crash it at 95 miles an hour into the nearest tree.

As a French girl lectured me over there in the land of frommage: “Matthew, sex is natural. We don’t use it frivolously. We use it extravagantly! There must be talk. Always talk. It’s like making soup. The more things you put in it, the better it tastes” (This is an actual conversation with a French girl no older than 21).

                Now compare and contrast that lovely little quote with one from another young lady of about the same age, but this one buys into the bullshit of Williamsburg nihilism and sexual flagrancy: “Well, I was feeling sad and scared of a relationship so I just had to go and sleep with this other bartender that I don’t even like. I mean, he doesn't even read books!”

                Where’s the poetry in there, folks? Wanna know why you can’t hear it?

     Because there is none.  

                Now it seems that people use the supposed ‘sexual revolution’ as an excuse to violently degrade themselves on a day to day basis.

   Hey, what can I say? It’s perfectly alright to fuck people, but don’t you want to add a little poetry in there? Must it be like a business? I mean, how low of self esteem do you have to merely let anyone touch you? Here’s a little metaphor for you:

              Imagine all human beings are like radio stations, and when you have sex with them you are tuning into that particular station. Now, that music never really goes away. So it’s pretty quiet if you only tuned into a modest amount of radio stations over the years. But when your numbers start resembling the National Debt, you can imagine how loud and piercing all of the mismatched tunes can be.

            We’re hung up on this sex for sex sake out here in the States. Damn Puritans.

Perfectly fine with guns. Lots of guns. But sexuality is treated as a commodity like anything else.

So when everybody is running around being body greedy and using each other like fuck machines and robots, it's not surprising they keep waking up asking themselves:

“Why in the world am I so unhappy?”

Take a wild guess, kid.            

I’m with the French on this one. They make the best kind of soup because they know just what to put in it.    

                FUCK FIRST, BUY LATER

               

                Now that we established that here in New York sex is very much like a poorly formed handshake, we must ask ourselves…why are we in such a rush to fuck a person we don't know?

                I started a little sexual social experiment in the last years. I've decided to wait to have to sex with people and get to know them. And do you know what happens to me nine times out of ten?  

                The girls actually get pissed off. Either they insult you, or they retaliate by sleeping with some one you know. They'll call you boring, or they say they feel unwanted. I'll never understand it. It makes me want to go right back to my whorish days. If a woman asked me to wait to have sex with her so we get to know each other, I would think that's fantastic. What a relief! You mean you actually want to get to know someone? What a concept!

                But there is a danger in letting someone get to know you. There is a vulnerability that comes along with that. And that vulnerability is looked at as weakness. And New Yorkers can't have that.

                And I don't blame them. This city is tough. Survival is necessary at all costs. Everybody knows sex gets way better the more you know someone. That way you can learn all about each other's special proclivities, and the two of you can skip down the yellow brick road of sexual perversity together. It's like the good meal metaphor. Without that vulnerability, it's like eating food that has already expired on the shelf.

                And it's this whole 'fuck first, buy later' phenomenon that kills most of that learning process. Random sex can be fun, no doubt, but it's a fluke when you don't feel slightly demoralized. Remember that 'walk of shame' down Driggs Avenue?

                Yeah.

                Remember biting your fingers nails in the waiting room of the Chelsea free clinic?

                Yeah.          

                It's best to get to know someone so you can find out just what a depraved, lying, depressed individual they actually are so you can stop wasting your time, and your body, on spoiled food.

                HEDGING THEIR BETS

                I know people here in New York, both men and women, who literally keep around a cache of partners. They may like someone, and they get to be put on the front burner, but it's the 'Dark Dog' they call up after you just kissed them at the door goodnight.

                They keep around these lovers like a Swiss Army knife, pending on the particular needs of the day, and which tool will suffice. It's wild how much people here treat their love life like a card game, keeping human beings around like a decent hand in poker.

                And this can back fire badly when you actually meet someone you like.

                Here's a scenario (and it works for both genders):

                You're single, you're out there, you're hooking up. There's one person who good for some things, another good at others. Then, out of the blue, comes this human being that's like a glass of water in a hot desert. Before you know it, this Fresh Glass Of Water puts everyone else to shame. But because of particular emotional cowardice and a horrid fear of being alone, you keep these others around.

                Well, when this Fresh Glass Of Water dares to ask the most evil of all questions: "Hey, are you sleeping with anyone else?" That's when everything comes crashing down.  Because when this Fresh Glass Of Water suddenly realizes this cache exists, I don't care who you are or how much you respect honesty, the romantic myth is crushed.

                Bukowski had this to say about this very moment: "Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality."

                And it's a damn shame when it happens.

                And it's happens everyday here in New York City.         

                So I don't know what to tell you when you come in and sit at my bar. I'll keep buying you drinks when you're sad. I'll tell you my terrible jokes just to make a little smile cross your lips.

                But as far as why dating suck here? I guess we'll just have to wait for part five.  

                Till next time. Stick with the thing that never lies or deceives you.

                Drinking.

                Au Revior!     

THIS IS GENERALLY USED IN DATING HERE IN NYC!

HUMAN BEINGS ARE, UNFORTUNATELY, NOT THESE!

THE AVERAGE NEW YORKERS OPTIONS!

What Not To Do In Paris

                I crack a Blonderbrau at 11 in the morning.

                Yes, Chet Baker is on the CD player, his narcotic horn soothing my ragged soul from last night’s horrid affairs:  fighting with Swedes, fighting with friends, fighting against the Seine as the river rushes fast against the old worn cobblestone rocks.

                I’m an asshole.

                I learned that about myself recently. I suppose I always suspected it, but like the faint scent of shit in your home, you hunt, nose forward, to where the smell is coming from. You realize, with distain, that it’s coming from your own shoes.

                I smelled some shit recently, and realized it was all me.

                Sorry folks for the disgusting imagery.

                Of course, I come to Paris and start talking in scatological metaphors.

                No wonder the French make the most disgusting films in cinema history (for the brave, try Catherine Breillet’s The Anatomy of Hell). They have a very odd attraction to the perverse, and, being French myself, I can relate. In regards to my sexual penchants, one woman was quoted saying that I had a “very jaded sexual palette”.

                It’s sort of like looking through a dirty windshield driving 75 miles an hour in the rain.      

                I’ve learned there’s a lot to do here in Paris.

                I’ve also learned there’s a lot of things you probably should not do in Paris.  You can go to the Eiffel Tower, Paris’s wrought iron dick, erected in the most boring (and conveniently, most rich) part of Paris.  You can go there and you too might get pick pocketed by Taiwanese street thugs.

                You can check out The Champs-Elysees. This is a long boring street where wealthy people stroll, arm in arm, back to their decrepitly old inherited aristocratic apartments and lay in fine linen, dreaming about all the Algerian backs they’ve broken just to keep their sheets white and clean.

                You can go get lost in the Louvre and find yourself remarkably yawning. The world’s history of art spanning thousands of years and after an hour you’re already looking around for the fucking bar.

                In typical D’Abate fashion, I came to Paris through the ‘back door’, if you will. And, like a dirty mistress, Paris has fucked me in ways my wife never would.

                Paris is a flexible woman.                                 

                Paris gives it up on the first date.

                Paris dresses up in the bunny outfit without question. 

                Unfortunately, I have also done nothing in the right or ‘’functional’ way. And, resembling a mildly retarded young child lost with his arms flailing, I have, with swift authority, got myself into all kinds of shit. There will be short stories. But first, allow me to share a modest list of things you should not to do in Paris:

                1.

                HANG OFF BRIDGES

                As I stated in the last blog, there are no gates on these crazy old bridges. I have found myself almost every night hanging off the outer lips of these ancient structures, staring down into the black churning waters of the Seine, completely drunk. Now, doing this drunk is certainly a dangerous endeavour. But it feels really good.

                My Well Published Friend Reuben Turck, who has just arrived to join in the festivities here in Paris, has let his legs hang off the edge on several of these black, cold nights.

                Maybe I’m just friends with a lot of suicide cases and depressives. Maybe I like The Cure way too much. But I must say there is nothing like spitting in Death’s face and being inches away, drunk, discussing life, on the edge of these bridges. I’m such a writer cliché. Thick as butter and cheese.

                Notable Bridge Hanging Moment:

                After Reuben and I had a lovely home cooked meal and drank 14 bottles of wine, we decided to hang off one of these bridges and shoot the shit. We were just coming back from Pigalle and trying to wash the sin off of our clothes when we leap over, pop out the flask of shitty Scotch Whiskey, and start pounding it down like it had the antidote. We talk and talk. I’m surprised Reuben has not wanted to kill me yet. My personality is a little grating for some, especially in large doses.        

                Another woman once told me: “Matthew, you’re like molasses. Really sweet to taste, but too much of you just makes me sick.”

                Thanks, bitch. That’s how they roll in New York . Really kind women, but I digress.

                Reuben starts to get tired and wants to go home. I am thoroughly against this move of defeat.

                That’s when I see the fire.

                “Reuben, check that shit out,” I say, pointing down to the Quai, where there is a little fire burning and some dark figures huddled around the orange flames. “We have to go to them! Come on!”

                Reuben Turck, a well planned man, takes a small moment, contemplating following me all the way down to the rapey, old stone paths by the Seine at four in the morning as opposed to getting a good night’s rest.

                “Come on! Let us go to the fire!” I scream.

                Reuben Turck shrugs: “Fuck it. Let’s go. I’m in Paris and we’re chasing fire. Why the fuck not?”

                We head down to the Quai and come upon the small, fire warmed party. It’s three 16 year old boys celebrating one of their birthdays (one’s turning 17). They have a little radio playing The Doors. The one whose birthday is the Alpha Male, cool clothes, flicking his Zippo, tagging with his black pen on the old stone.  

                The Quiet One has got a serial killer vibe going on.

                “That’s the future writer,” Turck tells me later.

                And then there’s the kid who looks like Bob Dylan. Both Reuben and I look at each other, knowing this kid is probably destined for greatness.

                We all shoot the shit and I keep asking: “Where’s the women?”

                Reuben looks at me, dead pan: “These guys are kids. Why the fuck would they have women around? I didn’t have women at their age.”

                I look at him and mutter under my drunk breath.

                “I did,” I whisper.  I suddenly then realize how debauched my existence has been. 

                Fuck yes.

                The kids break out the weed, birthday boy pulling it out from the cuff of his pants. Reuben and I gladly smoke the teenagers drugs. Then we give them whiskey.

                If you ever come to Paris and you are looking for drugs, just walk the Seine late at night.

                      

                2.

                FALL IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S WIFE

                Meeting characters out of novels is dangerous.

                Most folks in life are quite commonly normal.

                Then there’s the Other Ones.

                I would like to take a moment to offer a literary selection for those who may not have read this particular classic of literature. It’s by Hemmingway and it’s titled “The Sun Also Rises”. In this novel there is a young, attractive, unbelievable charming woman, who both commands the room and the hearts of any man she crosses by the name of Lady Brett Ashley. She is set to marry a man that is at the same time sweet and clueless to his future destruction. Jacob, the protagonist who pines for this women and because of a terrible groin centred wound cannot ‘love’ her, are both thrown into a maelstrom of alcohol, bars, and purposeful lies,  spanning countries and the unfortunate limits of their hearts.

                Do not meet women out of novels. They sometimes walk out of them and make reality truly fiction.          

                3.

                SPEAK AMERICAN.

                About the third week here I gave up being concerned about my shitty French. My ego could not bare the fact that I couldn’t speak to people, and when I did, my dialogue lasted as long a teenage kid’s sexual talents.

                I respect the French culture and language. It’s roughly 2,000 years old. I’m with them. Any American who talks shit on these people is either an idiot or simply an arrogant fuck. These French people are trying to preserve a beautiful and absolute gem of a culture against the capitalist claws of modern commercialization. Yes, they have the Pantheon. We have mini-malls. They hold the allure of hundreds of artists over time. We have Girls Gone Wild.

                These people are a prideful folk. How would we feel if people kept stopping us on the street just to ask us if we spoke Cantonese, right? We’d be like “No motherfucker, learn English.”

                Same rules apply.

                 

                 French women are fucking beautiful. They are pulling me slowly into the chaotic abyss. And the abyss is like chocolate. Sweet, dark, and in the end, probably bad for you. 

THIS GUY DIED HERE BECAUSE HE WAS SMART. THEY SAY IT WAS MYSTERIOUS. I THINK 'OBVIOUS'.

THIS GUY INVENTED A WOMAN. THEN I MET HER IN PARIS.

WE ARE NOT THESE PEOPLE. THIS IS WHY THE FRENCH HATE US.

Why Paris Hates Me (or, How The French Are Not Like Us)

Paris is full of ghosts.

I think I picked some up when I was over at Pere LaChaise staring at Oscar Wilde’s grave. I think they snuck into my pockets and now they follow me around this gorgeous town, purposely thwarting me at every turn.

First day in Paris, my computer crashes, erasing all of my writing, films I’ve made, music I’ve collected, and pictures of my life.

Yes. EVERYTHING. I stare out the window. I know the Seine River is a short hop away from my borrowed flat.

I will go to the beautiful bridge, the Pont Neuf, and throw myself into the black churning waters below.

I resist the urge of early suicide, and opt, like a proper bartender would, to start drinking as soon as possible.  I go to the bar.  I seek the comfort, the camaraderie, the essential bond between us serving class.

                The bartenders are not like us.

                They could give a shit. As we all know on the receiving end of shitty tippers from Europe, they do not work for tips like we do. Which means they don’t have to be nice to you. Especially if you don’t speak their language, which I do not. In fact, my French is so bad, I get looks of offense merely by speaking.  As a man used to getting by because of the ‘talk’, I am rendered completely useless, a creepy foreign loser, trying to write at the bar, meekly staring at people, unable to communicate. I run into some Americans (which you wouldn’t think would be the thing you want, but after the urge of suicide washes through your blood, it’s nice to shoot to shit with some tourists in English) and we proceed to get fucking hammered. Luckily, they are rich and pay for everything.  

Ah, the essential kindness of the Average American (until we have to bomb your country).       

I wake up the next morning in my borrowed flat, and attempt to use the borrowed computer.

The Internet doesn’t work. Fuck. Barrier Two.

I look at the time on my cell, which also doesn’t work.

Barrier Three.  

I am running out of the initial Euros I took out at the airport. I head over to the ATM machine and try to take out money. The ATM, rudely in French, spits out my card. It explains there is a ‘le probleme’. I go to the next bank. Another ‘le probleme’. Okay, now I’m really losing my shit.

Barrier Four.

No money, no phone, no friends out here, no text, no Facebook, no Internet, no writings, all welling up in my throat, TOTAL DISCONNECTION. I storm around the streets, tears welling in my eyes, about to lose my shit and beat down the first French man that snides in my general direction.

I get back to the borrowed flat and find some Dewers. A bottle. This is also borrowed, and I appropriately kill half the thing. The thoughts come, reflecting how utterly connected we are in America. The phone, the texting, the computer, it all keeps us, like a bosomy Mother, wrapped in her digital arms.

The alcohol soothes me now. I pick up the borrowed landline and call my bank, which I believe I threatened the life of a phone operator (sorry, whoever you are) and demand access to my money. Of course, they explain, in typical monotone friendliness, “Sir, you must alert us to your leaving the country.”

“I’m going to alert you to murder if you don’t give me my fucking money.”  

“Well, Sir, let me transfer you to our credit fraud department and they will help you.”

I imagining the foreign minutes cost I’m charging to this borrowed phone. I imagine my Generous Friend who allows me this flat will want to stab me when he looks at the phone bill.

“Credit Fraud Department, how may we be of service?” Like a fucking plastic voice, Barbie’s on the other end of the phone, twirling the wire cord, thinking about Ken’s smooth, lack of penis, groin.

“Murder,” I tell her.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

They make me answer all of these questions. I know they are just trying to help. That’s how they roll in America. Save you from yourself. In France, you walk near the edge of a bridge, you could fall off, jump, what have you, that’s your ass. The European Way. If you’re an idiot, they will let you be that. In America, on that same bridge, we will build giant gates to protect the idiot from falling off. If you don’t believe me, look at the Williamsburg Bridge next time you’re on it. In Paris, they’ll let you jump.

The French are not like us.

I finally get my money and burst back out onto the streets. I stumble into Le Chameleon. A dive bar. Or at least, as much as Paris has to offer of one. Out here, you couldn’t get a shot and a beer special if your life depended on it. They just look very confused when you drink heavily.

One French bartender, Nora, looks at me with slight disgust when I throw back a glass full of wine down my throat.

“Why do you do this?” she asks, all French and beautiful.

“It’s been a rough day.”

The concept of the drunkard is odd here. Maybe they had 2,000 years to get used to the idea. They don’t really have guns like we do. They don’t leer at women in a bar like the men do in America. It’s FAR different from the reputation of French Men being particularly lecherous. Maybe the lecherous ones are the guys who travel more, the ones we end up meeting in America when they are tourists. Most of the French guys I’ve met here have been total gentlemen. They are a ‘civilized’ bunch. And the women are the same. They have charm. They discuss politics. They are goofy. What a refreshing change from the stoic, man hungry, money obsessed, heavy booted, rigid typical New York Woman! These girls out here expect you to talk, not just ‘be cool’. And much to my displeasure, I cannot speak well here.  

Williamsburg and Paris couldn’t be more different places (which I will save for future blogs).

Nudity is everywhere. In the ads, on TV. They just don’t give a shit. Nora again explains:

“You Americans are all obsessed with Tits and Guns. We don’t care here. Sex is normal.”

She’s not being a bitch. She pretty correct on that front.

I forget my troubles. The nights get wild. I’m drunk by the Pantheon (they bury famous dead Frenchmen there). I’m drunk, pissing near Hemingway’s Doorway. I’m drunk, back at the Pont Neuf, truly mesmerized by the beauty of the Seine, and the night, and the madness I had been through.

Suddenly, it all becomes clear. All that matters is this paper and pen. All that matters is this bottle of wine I’m drinking that costs like 60 cents. All that matters are these beautiful winding, snake-like streets that will make you lost every time and not even care.

Paris is full of ghosts, and they have guided me around this city for weeks now. They come to my dreams, they speak in my ears and hide in my pockets.

Back in Brooklyn, yeah, I know what’s going on. I’ve got some angles.        

Out here in Paris:

The Bartender Doesn’t Know Shit.          

SO, I NEED A HAIRCUT BAD. WITHOUT THE MUSTACHE, THIS IS ABOUT HOW I BE LOOKING THESE PARISIAN DAYS

THE PONT NEUF, YOU CAN JUMP OFF THIS IF YOU'D LIKE.

THIS IS WHERE THE GHOSTS SLIPPED INTO MY POCKETS.

Fashion Faux Pas

            I’m sitting on the patio of Verb Café on Bedford Ave with Roland.

            His foot is twisting slowly like a cat’s tail under the table as he finishes rolling another cigarette.

            “How about that one?”

            He points to one of the myriad of women that saunter down the boulevard. This one’s got strange yellow and black print tights on and an oversized faded blue jean denim shirt over her small anorexic frame.

            “Hell, no.”

            Roland shakes his head, taking a long hit from his rolled tobacco and squinting from the sun’s rays. 

            “Okay, what about that one?”

            This one: Over-sized round framed amber colored glasses, dressed all in black. Black spandex tights, black tasseled boots, a black shirt draped over her chest, chin poised up to the sky, and walking a small white dog.

            “Jesus, Matthew. Okay, this one, yes, definitely. Look at her.” He straightens up and points across the street to a girl walking out of Catbird.

             This one has got the obligatory Stevie Nicks round brimmed black hat, boutique bought floral print Zooey Deschanel styled vintage dress, black tights with holes in the knees, the bullet casing necklace hanging around her neck, holding an American Apparel bag.    

             “Nope,” I say, pouting.

            “You’re impossible! What do you want them to wear? Steak and potatoes?

            “That sounds great,” I say, feeling a little hungry.

            “You are so totally vanilla straight, Matthew. Why the hell do you live in Williamsburg when you hate the style of the neighborhood?”

            “I’m a rebel out here ‘cause I’m normal. That makes me happy.”

            “I guess. But it’s also why you don’t ever use your penis on an actual woman. So let me get this straight. You hate hipster style, you hate overtly fashionable people, you hate small galleries, you hate tights on women, you hate oversized shirts, you hate tattoos, you hate nerd glasses, you hate shawls of any kind. What do want? A Republican nominee, man?  

            “Don’t forget greasy hair, arbitrary necklaces with anything resembling a bullet, a fig leave, a key lock, or feather, and headbands.”

            “You’re rampant heterosexuality is appalling. Why are we friends?”

            “Cause you love me,” I say, smiling.

            “Ha. You would have been a much better faggot. Next time we go out, I’ll take you to Bensonhurst, get you a real Guinea Chick who will cook you chicken pot pie and wear red dresses and heels when you go out for your boring ass dinner and a movie date.”

            “That sounds great, actually.”

            “Ugh. Traditionalism. It was you people who burned us at the stake back in the day.”

            Now, Roland may be right about my silly simple tastes, and it is true that of all the neighborhoods to live in New York City, I live in the one where I don’t fit in. This could be the fact that I’m a natural antagonist, or its that I have a Doritos Bag of chips on my shoulder and just need to be around what irritates me to prove that life is an endless parade of half-truths and near misses.

            However, despite my own prejudices, there are still some fashion horrors this neighborhood attempts to pass off as acceptable dress, and they deserve to be mentioned here.           

            Please ladies, work hard not to fall into any of these fashion victim categories, and tell your friends too. It is true, Williamsburg is an arty neighborhood, and unfortunately, like all rebellion against conformity, it rebels in the exact same way, becoming conformists in the end. But in the war against ‘normal’ some of these decisions have gone way too far. 

            UGG BOOTS

            Please, please, please, please, please stop this travesty. Okay, first their ugly. That light shit brown color, the well worn in, now a faded yellow, sheep stuffing insides. U-G-L-Y. If you own a pair, donate them to a homeless shelter this winter. Cause that’s what they make you look like, a homeless vagrant. But you know what worries me more? The smell that no doubt gathers off the white socked, all day wearing moment you take them off in my bedroom. Ugh, get a sniff of that! Horror. Ultimate horror!    

                            

            WEIRD SOUTHWEST DESERT STYLE

            Yes. Indian rug print shirts. Turquoise jewelry. Those crappy leather jackets. You look like you work at car dealership outside Tucson, Arizona. It’s not cool. It has never been cool. Don’t fall for it. I just saw two women trying to pull off this look on Bedford Avenue in an hour. Stop it before it takes control. The whole fur wearing Royksopp meets Bat For Lashes feathers everywhere style almost broke this Fall. Let’s face it. You are neither a chick from the Reservation or an Eskimo. You’re a poseur.

            (Special Note: Have you ever notice that fashion models itself after cultures we’ve destroyed. Remember the Afghan-Sheik look a couple years back? Now the Indian. Come on people, do we really dress like the people we kill? This is an anthropological research question I will save for future blogs.)

            THE ALEXANDER WANG LOOK ON FATTIES

            Hey. I’m not a hater. But I was told once that you should accentuate you positive traits and hide your flaws. It’s okay that you’re a plus size. In fact, a lot fellahs like some extra curves on a gal. But you cannot pull off that look unless you are a very specific body type. You know the look I’m talking about?

            It’s the tight black jeans, long white shirt past the ass, the bandana (optional). This look is a sweeping style made for stick figures with great hair and long torsos. If this is not you, stop trying. You don’t look hot wedged into tight, tight jeans. You look like a bowling pin with muffin tops.

            MOM STYLE

            Okay, I’m almost 35. Which means I was alive to see my mother wear this particular style when I was young in the eighties. High-waisted jeans. That faded color denim, like white blue, what is that? Also, those terrible blouses that look like they were bought from the Salvation Army for a dollar. Wearing those goddamn canvas shoes. It’s like these women should be smoking Capri’s bitching about Dan Quayle.

            There are so many more of these frightening fashion decisions at any given time down on Bedford Avenue. And ladies, I don’t mean to single you out entirely. I’m sure your tired of consistently dating faux-west flannel wearing, spotty half-grown bearded, 50’s styled glasses donning musician/painter/filmmaker/graphic designer dude.

            I get it, it’s rough for everyone these days. But I’ve gotta go.

            Roland is taking me to Astoria tonight which he describes as "full of enough T and A to make any straight man cry and me vomit.”

            Till next time.  

THESE BOOTS MUST DIE! THINK OF THE SMELL INSIDE!

MY MOM WORE THIS SHIT BACK WHEN REAGAN WAS PRESIDENT!

           

  

EVERY GIRL IN WILLIAMSBURG WANTS TO BE THIS CHICK!                         

Am I Good In Bed?

            I have a picture of Dostoyevsky by my writing desk. He looks at me, long beard, old rustic homeless man’s coat on, staring out with the weariness of old Russia in his eyes. He sits, judging me, his face looks past me, through me really, telling me I’ll never be a great writer.

            I pitch to him different blog post ideas and I can see him shaking his head, remembering his own written tombs of the human struggle for redemption and of damnation, of poverty and familial blood, of the high tones of fever madness and the low drudgery of the human drama.

            I, on the other hand, write about fucking and drinking. Even so, I try to ignore his judging stares.

            You see, Dostoyevsky never had the Internet. If he did, he might have lightened up a little bit. He would have loved the random searches, but he would have been a little peeved when the number of hits for the word ‘fuck’ comes up a whopping 1,060,000,000 and the number for his homeboy ‘Jesus’ was only a meager 719,000,000. There are a lot of other things we have that ole Dostoyevsky didn’t: Drive-thrus, mini-malls, Netflix, Fox News, hardcore pornography, IPads. Back in those old St. Petersburg days, you spent most of your time eating goulash and dodging cholera. There seemed, at least in his novels, some kind of grand love, or a search for that love, and the sexual natures of men and women consisted of either nail biting passions of lost loves or at least a healthy dowry for marrying off an portly Russian hag.

            These days, especially on the brink of 2012 in New York City, the sexual mores of the everyday citizen is a little different. Our sexual politics resemble the politics in Syria about now, frenzied and little a violent in nature. They want change, and they want now. And, I suppose, so do we. Like the kind of change like you’d rather be lying naked in bed with that special someone then reading this blog at your job dealing with shitty customers, clients or bosses. I get it. Trust me, I’d rather be naked with a particular person (Yes, I do have someone in mind) instead of writing this blog in my boxer shorts right now.

            And being that we’d all rather be fucking someone right now, it begs the question, how good are we at it? I like to average my experience, and I range a straight C+, leaning heavily on extra credit for effort.   

            Which brings us to a question many must have considered in their sexual lives:

            Am I Good In Bed?

            Now, when most people are asked this question (especially women), the answer is generally: YES.

            This can’t possibly be true.

            You have to suck to someone (not literally here folks).

            Now most men, yes, are just happy to be there, and could care less if we are good or not, or if the girl has any special talents at all.  But even us Neanderthals, as we get older, develop some kind of discerning sense about what good sex is and what bad sex is (except for my friend, Wyatt, who will fuck anything from here to Siberia).

            Think back to all of the sexual experiences you have had in your life.

            No doubt there is a range of embarrassing charades of passable love-making to toe curling, illegally pleasurable jaunts of orgasmic thrill.

            I decided recently to conduct a social experiment in several bars (the best place for alcohol induced lewd honesty) asking the common person to write down 3 specific reasons why someone would be deemed ‘good in bed’. And of course, as expected from sarcastic drunk New Yorkers, the answers were honest, revealing, and some down-right hilarious.

              Here’s are some of the specific reasons why people are ‘good in bed’ deduced from my barroom social experiment and they are as varied as the human beings themselves

            Adults only now, kids.

            1.

            “Can last more than ten minutes”. (What’s the average out there? I’ll save that for my next social experiment. There might be a rampant army of two pump chumps out there. Come on fellas. I know you want to bust but ladies first, you know what I’m saying!)

           

            2.

            “Lots of head”. (Tons of people expressed this, so there must be some head drought going on out there. Maybe people are too much in a rush to fuck, or fearful of certain cleaning habits.  Remember people, Head is caring, and sharing is good for everybody. So get out there and go down on someone.)

            3.

            “Submissive as a motherfucker” (direct quote). Followed by an *. The addendum states: “Not like dead fish submissive, but someone who actually can think of nothing better than letting someone dominate their every move.” I like this person, and I’m guessing it’s a dude, but you never know.

            4.

            “Good Penis Size” I loved this answer. I actually asked her right after she showed me her answer: “You like a John Holmes type?” She answered, very demurely. “No, just even if the guy sucks in bed I can make him hold still and get where I gotta go anyways.” Thank you Miss, and let this be a lesson to all of you who say size doesn’t matter.

            5.

            “Mellow-I don’t like too much pressure”. I’m with this guy. Women will never understand this factor, but the sex act can be a very stressful situation for some of us guys, especially if it’s been a while. And when stress comes around banging, there’s that horrible tendency of the wet noodle problem. A considerate women can turn the tables on this one real quick, but an amateur love-maker will only make that embarrassing issue turn into a lifetime of problems for the fellah. See point #2.

            6.

            “Lets me do anal the first time we hook up.” Well, this dude is forward, but it takes all kinds. Is it strange if I dare say he was British? Maybe sodomizing Americans makes up for the whole British loss of the Colonies perhaps? Historical grudge fuck in the ass. Who knows? Just a guess. But just so I’m not totally throwing this Brit under the bus, his third point was “Stays for breakfast”. Awww.          

   

            7.

            “Being affectionate.” Well, there we go, a little softness from our New York tough crowd. She did let me know how dangerous it was, however, when people are this way. It makes her think they actually care for her. God forbid, right, anyone shows a little love? I stand by this woman. Let’s all be a little more affectionate to each other. Our bodies aren’t factory lines for Christ’s Sake.

            There were hundreds of other points, which I will more than willing bring up in future blogs about this particular topic.

            There were obviously a lot of classic responses, anything from “Makes me cum in every position” to my personal favorite “The 3 S’s: Shape, Size, and Shift”, which I’ll let y’all use your imagination on that one.

            What are your specific three reasons why someone is good in bed? Send your list to thebartenderknows@gmail.com.  

           

            Until next time I argue with Dostoyevsky…see you at the bar.

THIS IS THE BATTLEFIELD! 

STAY FOR BREAKFAST. AWWW.

EVERYDAY HE STARES AT ME, JUDGING....

Bartender Secrets (Part 2)

            There’s one place I know everyone goes, and it ain’t church.

            At least once a week (or for others, several times a day), most of you will step into a bar and order up a drink from your local, friendly bartender (And they better be friendly to you or you can rat them out to me and I’ll write a profile on them in the coming blogs. I now plan to wage a very public war against shitty bartenders).

            You walk into the bar. It already sounds like a joke, but the punch line is a good time.     

            That’s the name of the game.  

            A good time. Alcohol is not meant to be drunk when depressed. Being that alcohol already is a drug, and a depressant at that, it can make a perfectly rational man try to wrestle with my doorman Tommy from Bed-Stuy (i.e. Bad Decision). You will be chicken-winged directly.

            Now that you’re in the bar, I want you to look around. Let’s do a checklist of a good bar real fast.

            Good music? Check.

            A smile and greeting from the bartender? Check.

            A couple of shot and beer specials for the financially insecure? (and who isn’t these days?) Check.

            Okay. Now I want you to remember what a weird creation a bar is. There is no other place like it in the world. It is a state and federally mandated room where you are legally allowed to serve and consume drugs.

            That’s it.

            And people gather in a socially acceptable way to take drugs together.

            Now think of what a dive bar is (my personal favorite). A socially acceptable place where people are served drugs in a dark room. Wow. When you put it like that, that makes all of us bartenders State And Federally mandated drug dealers!

            Who can beat that?

            It’s like working down on Wall Street.

            I just discovered a very interesting little book titled “Ten Nights In a Bar Room, and What I Saw There” written by a Timothy Shay Arthur in 1865, and later used by Temperance Leagues towards the fight for Prohibition. In the publisher’s preface, it states:

            “Ten Nights In A Bar Room gives a series of sharply drawn sketches of scenes, some touching in the extreme, and some dark and terrible (Note: He should try the Subway Bar). Step by step, the author traces the downward course of the tempting vendor and his infatuated victims, until both are involved in hopeless ruin.”   

            I guess ole Timothy Shay Arthur didn’t have a penchant for the sauce. Ten nights Timmy? Try 10 years, brother. See what you see then. I’ll tell you about tempting vendors and infatuated victims.  

            The bar life is full of these interesting caveats of information and secrets. The only way to learn these things is to do the job for some number of years.

            I’ve covered some other Bartending Secrets a number of blogs ago (to read click go here).   

            To continue our little list of Bartending Secrets, please read on, to learn what all of us ‘downward course’ tenders have gathered in our whiskey soaked stations serving the world drugs.

           

            1.

            THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BARTENDER AND SOMEONE WHO SERVES DRINKS.

            There is a huge difference.

            A monkey can be trained to use a church key and crack open bottles of beer for everyone. I was just at a bar off Grand Street last night (I’m not going to start throwing stones just yet) and this young lady was working. Right when we walk in, she’s sitting on the bar on one side and two lowly looking fellahs are sitting on the other side. There was no conversation or engagement. She looks bored as she slips off the bar, huffing as she approaches us. With no emotion, she asks:

            “What’s up?”

            My jovial friends and I look at each other and make our order. She nods, brings the order, charges us, and goes back to the other side of the bar, jumping back up on the bar. My friends don’t care, they got their drinks, but I was pissed. This is the difference between a person who just goes through the motions and serves you drinks and a real bartender.

            Sure, a bartender is supposed to know some drinks, but on top of that, you’re happy to see them. They just make your day. They know what you like. They get it. You need to catch a buzz and we’re happy to get your there.

            You wanna talk? So be it. What topic? Politics? Sports? Human mysteries? We got that. Wanna bitch? We’ll listen. The real bartenders of the world actually give a shit about people.

            I’ve actually heard bartenders talk about how much they hate people.

            I suggest they find a different profession.            

           

            2.

            CHANGE ON THE BAR, and other BAR VOODOO

            No.

            No.

            No.

            Don’t do it. Like the ‘hat on the bed’ curse from Drugstore Cowboy, change on the bar calls upon a demonic curse on the business day. I can spot change on the bar from 12 feet away.      

            Don’t do it.

            Don’t buy anything with it.

            Don’t put it down on the surface.

            Don't drink at bars that price their beer at $4.25. That makes change potentially to fall on the bar.

            Do not tip with change, ever. This tells the bartender he works for change and is otherwise a jangling fuck you to the barkeep.

            If you are cursed with no business, the remedy for any bar and restaurant, as told to me by a Haitian bartender in New Orleans, is to sprinkle salt and sugar outside the front door, right in the center, blow a little of that ‘gris-gris’ on the pile, cover with two actually wooden stirrers in an X shape on top, and give it fifteen minutes. Customers will be rolling through the door in no time.

            And if your customer has the hiccups, old man Theodore (the bartender who taught me the ways and means behind the bar) espouses the three ingredient cure: take a lemon, pour white sugar on it, then douse it with Bitters. Have the ‘patient’ suck the lemon dry and, seconds later:   

            Hiccup free world.

            Stay tuned for more Bartender Secrets.

            Until our next drug deal….       

            To see what the bartender really knows: Send your weekly questions to thebartenderknows@gmail.com. 

I DON'T CARE WHAT COUNTRY THEY'RE FROM. GET THEM OFF THE BAR!

THE VOODOO PRIEST KNOWS!

           

THIS IS THE BITTERS THAT WILL CURE YOU HICCUPS!