Killing The Sunset

            This weather is fucking strange.

            I’m with friends, drinking out, ready for Spring. It’s everywhere. By day, the warmth demands liquid comfort. Nothing is better than drinking in the late afternoon with friends on a patio, beer in hand, letting the last light-orange glow pet the skin as we lounge with our feet up.

            We need the sun in New York. We need it like money. It’s Vitamin D we lack, hence the foul neurotic sometime bouts of mania us New Yorkers experience on any given day. And after a grey, dark Winter, these small, early respites of sun and blue skies are golden. My friends put back their pints:

            “Man, what is up with this change of weather?” I say to the group.

            My Well-Published Friend, Reuben, already embittered and a prince of Doubt, stares coldly behind his brown sunglasses: “Who gives a shit? The afternoon is beautiful.”

            Roland smirks: “I second that, Reuben. Hence the spring jacket I’m wearing. Look at Wyatt, he’s even broke out that 40-year-old Dickie’s blue button up. Oh, the tides are a turning.”

            Wyatt, puffing on a hand rolled cigarette, blowing smoke from his beard, leans back, explaining: “Well, you see Roland, I was going for the working class look. I’m a hard working man. Thank you for noticing.”

            We cheers to that.

            “Still, the weather is changing. Global Warming will kill us all. Another round?” Roland says, standing.

            Everyone nods.

            “If these are the end of days, it feels pretty fucking good. I’ll make the Apocalypse my bitch. Don’t forget the shots, Roland,” Reuben decrees.

            There is nothing better than right now. I look around, the bar is clean, a little place off Berry, everyone’s laughing and getting along.

Then it hits me, we could take it up one notch.

            “Fellahs. Let’s call 15 people and meet for the sunset at Berry Park,” I say.

            “Where’s that?” Wyatt asks.

            “North 15^th, by McCarren Park. Best roof top ever.”

            Reuben slams his shot glass down. “Let’s fucking do it.”

            Wyatt looks over: “Is there women and booze?”

            I grin: “Does Mama Kennedy have a black dress?”

           

            And this is where the story goes to shit. What do you think happened to the young gentlemen and our little plan?  What could go wrong? We had everything going for us. The sun is out, the weather is warm, the boys are properly sauced, our buzz like a buoy in the water, staying afloat. We had 7 others agree to meet us there. The plan was perfect. 

            Now Berry Park has the most amazing rooftop, this is true, a perfect view of Manhattan, plenty of fine folks to leer at under the fading sun.

            That is until you want to get drinks.

            Our party has arrived, now we own the table, all 12 of us, chatting, lighting each other cigarettes, sneaking a bowl hit of weed every twenty minutes, and the sun is slowly disappearing behind the great monoliths of midtown. They even have a bar on the roof.

            Which is closed. On the first hot day of the year. Right? Stupid. Okay.

            “I’ll grab some beers downstairs,” I say. Wyatt joins me to help.

            “I gotta be useful for something,” he tells me.

            “You’re doing God’s work, sir.”

            We walk down the awkward long staircase that is made to kill drunk people and head over to the practically empty bar. There’s two waitresses arbitrarily standing beside the bar, a bored look in their eyes. Behind the bar, three, yes, three bartenders. The first guy looks like some weird Ukrainian pimp, bald head, bad retro sweater, 6’5”, khaki pants (always bad). The other is an emaciated girl with eyes sunk deep into their sockets. There’s another guy, a skinny, lecherous looking type, sort of the guy you’d think pays for Internet sex chat rooms, pacing back and forth.

            Everyone looks like they are high on drugs. And not in a rad Keith Richards way. More like Nick Nolte arrest photo high on drugs way. Me and Wyatt saddle up to the bar.

            There are bartender crimes galore over here. There’s only 5 other customers, other than Wyatt and I. First thing first, there are dirty empty glasses strewn across the bar. I actually have to grab a couple napkins to wipe off some dreck to rest my elbows on the bar while I wait.

Crime number two: everyone has their backs towards us. This is just a bartender rule of thumb. Never keep your back to the populace. It’s a real fuck you vibe to the drinker. I’m peeved already.

So Ukrainian Pimp Guy comes over, doesn’t smile a lick. Wyatt even tries to be charming. The guys face is a solid pink cube.

“What do you want?” he says, in some thick Communist accent.

“Gimmie the Pilsner,” I say, returning the kindness.

“No more Pilsner,” he huffs, then he’s off again, helping one of the drugged out waitresses with a question. Wyatt and I look at each other. Internet Sex Chat Room Guy now comes over. But he’s one of these bartenders who avoids the eyes of people. As if he’s he won’t be seen by the customer if he doesn’t acknowledge them, visually speaking.

“Excuse me,” I say. No response. He’s two feet away from me. He’s pretending not to listen.

I look down the bar. Every other customer looks pissed. Two girls angrily stroke their hair. A pack of guys stand stone faced, as if they just witnessed a car wreck.  There’s no music playing. Just some murmurs from the waiting customers.

3 bartenders. It’s been 6 minutes. We finally get their attention.  The Deep Eye Sockets Chick comes over. I sneak the big order quick, getting a couple of extra beers so I don’t have to come back down to this madness.

The thing is this people. You roll into my bar; you get a greeting, a smile, and beer faster than you can say Miller Genuine Draft. And that’s on my bad days.  I’ll cut the place some slack if it’s packed. I’m not that much of an asshole, but these bartenders are terrible.

We ascend the drunk killing stairs and make it back to our party. The Whiskey Twins (fine, fantastic literary characters who walked straight out of a Fitzgerald novel) smile and greet us.  There’s Victoria, the wild, chatty blonde, and her sister Anne, a brown, doe eyed people watcher.

“What the hell, you boys get lost down there?” Victoria asks, kissing me on the cheek.

“Don’t ask. Bartender Hell down there,” I say.

“It didn’t look that busy,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“And the bar up here is closed? That’s weird. On such a nice day like this?” Victoria says.

“Yes. I know.”

“Well, let’s get one of the waitress to help us,” Victoria says, pointing to the two waitresses from down stairs. “I’ll try babe, but I’m pretty sure they are on drugs or just don’t give a shit.”

Victoria nods, taking a drag from her cigarette: “Williamsburg Customer Service,” she says, grinning.  

This waitress is definitely a heroin addict.

I approach. “Hi. My friends and I were wondering if we could start giving you our drink order. It’s a little weird downstairs.”

She looks at me with strange, vacant eyes, as if she didn’t really work here, and she was just some chick I was bothering.

“What? Oh, yeah. My boss just told us to stop serving customers up here. They have to go down stairs,” she whispers, then exits with a “Sorry, dude.”

I return to Victoria.

“Verdict?” She asks.

“The boss doesn’t want them to serve up here,” I repeat in the waitress’s monotone voice.

Nodding, Victoria says: “Right? Why make anything easier for the customer.”

I brave it again downstairs; get two more beers from The Deep Eye Sockets Chick (7 minutes for each). Then they lose my credit card. Ukrainian Pimp Guy finds it, but when he brings it to me it is the wrong card. He charged some other poor sap 40 bucks. Now Internet Sex Chat Room Guy is on the case. He’s asking the waitresses for information. I stand, stunned.

Finally I’m back upstairs. And that’s it. The sunset was already gone. I still had my friends, but Berry Park killed my sunset.

Thanks Berry Park. Your beer selection is shit. You’re overpriced. You fired one of my favourite bartenders in Williamsburg for arbitrary reasons (The Bartender’s Bartender folks, she’s the shit), and you killed the first beautiful day of the season.

Losers. All of you, you being the managers and owners. And just like the Democrats this election, it’s time to get you’re fucking shit together.

YES. I ACTIVELY TAKE A HEAPING SHIT ON THIS PLACE. NOW I FEEL BETTER.

UKRANIAN PIMP GUY. HE'S A SHITTY BARTENDER. HE'S ONLY GOOD IF YOU WANT SOME UKRANIAN PUSSY.

                                                                    

THIS WAS STOLEN FROM ME. THANKS BERRY PARK.     

             

                 

             

     

The Power Of The Slut

            The scene:

            Iggy’s on the Lower East Side.

            The happy hour crowd is here. 6:30pm. The bar is already body to body, but not in a bad way. There’s still breathing room. The beer and shot combo they got going is keeping everybody happy. I’m there, calm, which is rare for me, not having any particular plans, wandering.

            New York City is the finest place to wander aimlessly. It’s the wandering that teaches you about the 9 million collected inhabitants squeezed into each corner of the city.  And there’s a bar on every block if you need a drinking respite for the weary legs.

The Central Park walk is good. Up Third Ave, my friend and I discovered a peaceful bar, hosted by a Greek/Italian bar keep. He cussed every other sentence and we took to him immediately. He liked my friend, her blonde hair in particular, barely taking his eyes off of her as she ordered some appetizers.

            Then, properly drunk, hours later, we went for the inebriated 1 hour run through the Met. There are rules to museum adventures. You should never be in a museum longer than 2 hours. Otherwise, it’s just Art Porn. But with a little drink in you, the museum is fun as all hell.

            That was last week. Now alone, I went for another walk. This time from Williamsburg across the bridge descending onto Delancy. Thirsty, I took a quick right and Iggy’s it was. I thought I knew someone who worked there. But that’s what all us drinkers hope for.

A friendly face, a buyback. A funny story.

Goddamn benevolence is another word for it.

            The bartender was nice enough, a curvy little thing, pacing back and forth, a sardonic grin, shaking up some martini’s for two suits leaning by the corner, awkwardly laughing, watching the bartender’s ass as she bends over for each Miller High Life she grabs from the ice bin.

Now the crowds are here. All types. The two suits, a gang of obvious NYU kids reeking of self-importance, lost in some Spring Break fantasy. Some punks, remarkably still in existence, smelling of body odor and leather, take the back corner. The place fills slowly, the door cracking every 10 minutes. The suns already going down, the bulb lights inside glow a sick orange hue hanging from long wire cords behind the bar.

The music gets turned up and it happens. You feel it in your bones. Eyes start flashing at everyone else.

Alcohol has just unleashed lust into the room.

            The normal bar routine starts. I’ve seen it a million times behind the bar. Now I am just a civilian, a drinker. Part of the jungle.

            The hunt is on. The men walk a little taller, the women, with coy confidence, all look their best. I usually spend most of my time in dive bars far dirtier than this. There are barely any women in places like that, and any young ladies that do stroll into the Subway Bar for instance were either suffering from depression or on a slumming kick.

            But here at Iggy’s there’s a mix. Everybody is looking for someone, or on their phones texting the person they’re hooking up with after they meet someone here.

            The sexual milieu is present.

Rule One: Act uninterested. It’s the New York Way.

Here, it’s disinterest that gets people interested. They like the challenge. They’re all little masochists.

            I can see people looking over shoulders, giving sideline glances to someone walking back from the bathroom. This is the human game, especially on a Friday Happy Hour. The workweek is over. Now it is time to play.

            The rules are obvious when you observe them from afar.

Rule Two: Keep your options open.

People will talk to you, but not pick one until they’re on their way out. Or, like some others I know, take as many numbers as they can.

It’s a usual Happy Hour shift in Manhattan.

Then the door opens, and in she walks.

            Big hair, tussled, thick and lovely, hang over her all but bare shoulders. No make up, black dress, cut right up above the knee. Deep décolletage, her breasts almost spilling out of the little black thing.  She’s obviously already drunk with a huge smile, howling right when she walks in. This girl rolls in like lightening and the whole places pauses as if a record scratched.

            She languidly swims through the crowd, winking at every man near her, lightly touching their stomachs, their shoulders, their backs as she passes. Every woman immediately in the place has hate in their eyes. Every man suddenly, like a starving prisoner who can smell food when the cage bars open, puts an eye on her. I watch the tide change in the room. The girl reeks of sex. It’s the way she slinks across the room. It’s the way her easy eyes have no fear of recourse, staring down both the men and the women.

            She makes her way to the bar. I see her laugh and raise up her arms to a hipster dude. They hug and she plants a kiss right on his bare mouth. Then she moves to the next man, maybe she knows him, maybe she doesn’t. All I hear is:

            “What’s up, baby?” And kisses him too.

            She’s coming my way now. I try to avert my eyes. Next to me she mounts a bar stool, legs spread a little too wide, the skirt creeping up her thighs. She smells of yesterday’s perfume.

            “What’s up, you?” She says over my shoulder.

            I turn. “Not much.”

            The bartender comes up, scowling, already full of disdain.

            “What can I get you?” the bartender asks, deadpan.

            “Darling, you can get me every fucking thing you got,” she says, then looking over at me. “How about you quiet guy, what do you think I should drink?”

            “As much as possible,” I say.

            “Good answer. What’s your name?”

            “Frank.” (Note: I always give this fake name when I don’t want anything to do with the person.)

            She takes up my hand, and right there in front of the on lookers, sucks on my pointer finger, keeping her eyes on me, finger deep in her mouth.

            I look to the bartender: “2 whiskeys, please.”

            Suddenly, we are surrounded by other men. She takes the finger out of her mouth and, sticking out her tongue, licks up my arm. I’m stunned, dumbstruck.

“To Fuck it,” she cheers, and slams the shot back.

            Before I know it, I’m pushed out. This girl is now flirting, kissing, leaning her breasts on all of these men. I slowly sneak away from this sickening pack. I don’t know who she’s going home with, but it’s going to be someone. I don’t even start theorizing about her childhood.

            Women hate this kind of girl. You know what I’m talking about. When a girl plays the sex card like our ‘lady’ here at Iggy’s, it devalues the cat and mouse game everyone else is playing. It makes the sex too ‘easy’, as they say. All the men would rather chase the Slut then have to go through the useless pedantic games of trying to fuck a regular person.

            Sounds tragically bitter?

            Here are some facts about sex:

           

            1.

            No matter what anyone tells you, it is a game. Call it what you will. Dating is series of well-played (and hopefully honest) interpersonal revelations done systematically by both sides to appear to be more attractive. No? Everybody puts their best foot forward when first meeting someone. That’s not how you dress everyday! You don’t wear that much make up! You don’t offer to cook people food right when you meet them! You don’t usually wear cologne! Come on people, it’s a fucking game. A human sexual chess game. 

            2.

            The power structure currently in our modern world is that men are the initiators and women are the gate keepers. They choose who shall be the victor. Admit it ladies, you get hit on at least 37 times a day (and if you don’t, either you are not paying attention or your one of Medusa Sister’s).  And, in the end, you have the choice for your personal ‘preference’.

Men, we don’t get shit. We have to ‘get up, get out, and get something’, to quote Outkast. It’s just the way it is.              

           

3.

            The slut devalues these games.  Yes, the girl who sucks on your finger before you know her name changes things. Immediately, the other women are angry. If sex has value, and the rest of the upstanding women of the world insist on upholding this value, the power of the slut comes from de-valuating sex. Making it like breathing, or taking a piss, or a really fun handshake.

            I don’t know what happened to our slutty friend. I can make one or two educated guesses, however.

But I do know this. From the moment home girl walked in the bar, she changed the entire vibe of the place.

Her brazen sexuality sent a tidal wave of energy across the room, and not all for good (especially for the wholesome girl trying to talk about her day to her distracted boyfriend).

The Power of the Slut is revelatory. It shows men for the Neanderthals they really are, revealing pathetically simple and base natures. It erodes the power of sexual attraction by devalueing sex and the chase itself. The Slut puts it all right out there.

I’ve walked into a million bars and never changed shit (except that one time I collided with a bar stool, falling upon it, causing a domino effect of other falling barstools, and getting promptly kicked out of Zablowski’s a couple years back). 

            Keep your eyes in the bars. Look around for that ‘one’. Every night of the week, there’s always that ‘girl’. You’ve seen her. And now you know her power.

            Till next time by the drinking fire, kids, keep your shirts on. 

  

THE GIRLS ARE PISSED...

 

 THE MEN ARE REDUCED TO THEIR TRUE SELVES...

ALL BECAUSE THIS CHICK WALKED IN THE DOOR.

The Martini Shot

Indiana Jones ruined my life.

There I was, my little finger claws clutching onto the carpet in front of the hulking television in my mother’s parlour, watching this charming unshaven man win the hearts and minds of the students in his class during the week and then sailing off on adventures to recover lost and stolen ancient artifacts. Indiana was my kind of hero. He didn’t win every fight. He got his ass handed to him several times, yet, he always made it out by his wits, generally with a attractive young lady (who mysteriously disappeared at the start of the following film, expect in The Last Crusade, when she fell to her Nazi sympathizing death after leaping after the Holy Grail).     

Last year I did a series of blogs regarding the numerous characters in the films of my youth that lead me to believe that life might end up slightly different than it is now for me.  That’s right. No whips, no fedoras, no crazed Nazis or Hindu Fanatics.

No Belloc (the best bad guy in 20 years).

Now it’s just bartending and Williamsburg, long nights at Cyn Lounge talking to the Bartender’s Bartender (who knows more, apparently), and the only exotic lands I get to see these days is The Wreck Room in Bushwick.

It begs the questions: what other films must have persuaded me that joining the league of the Service Industry would be some kind of gloating adventure? What possibly could have tricked me into the land of the “Golden Handcuffs” (a term coined because of the ease of the fast ‘that day’ cash bartending provides. Direct Deposit, what the fuck is that? How ‘bout direct to my wallet…)

So knocking back a bottle of wine to the head at the Subway Bar the other night, my mind drifted off in a tannin haze of memory as I tried recall the finest Hollywood jaunts celebrating the elaborate and often horrid profession of bartending for a living. And I asked myself: Who is to blame?

Here are some of the usual suspects that could have convinced my formative mind that wasting away pacing back and forth on greasy bar mats was the way to go:

COCKTAIL (1988)

Okay.

You knew this would be on the list.

Let’s paint the picture.

It’s 1988. You’re a cocky Tom Cruise (is there ever another kind?) fresh from the United States Army wanting to take on the Big Apple in business, but because of the ‘tough economic times’ has to become a bartender to make ends meet.

The beginning sequence of young Flanagan (Cruise) being trained by the Aussie-accented, tussled haired, sarcasm-filled, all knowing barkeep played by Brian Brown is the most accurate depictions of the ravenous thirsting anger a bar crowd resembles in those early fledgling moments of becoming a bartender and learning what the job really is about: the people.  After that however, the rest is just a painful example of Tom Cruise’s waist swaying, strange monkey-grinning face looking all too cool behind the bar somewhere in Jamaica, trying to put the moves on Elizabeth Shue, a dainty patron who succumbs to the greatest lie most other young women patron’s do: that their bartender is somehow a person of charm and sexual interest, not just a degenerate failure who somehow stumbled into the profession by fluke and circumstance.  

ROADHOUSE (1989)

There is no gayer movie than Roadhouse.  I don’t know how anyone could have confused Patrick Swayze’s bouncer-guru tale as anything but pure homoerotic fodder for future bloggers. Yes, it’s about rough and tumble honky-tonks down south. Yes, it’s about hard drinking and blondes with eighties tits (there’s a difference) slinking around with teased hair and tight skirts.  But there are more queer-oriented references in this two-hour romp than Priscilla: Queen Of The Desert.

Here’s a Roadhouse parlour game I want you and your friends to try some cold and dark winter night. First, grab a whole bunch of whiskey; drink 3 shots immediately to loosen up. Good, now get out a pen and paper, roll up a spliff, and press play on your VCR (sorry, stuck back in 1989).

The game is simple. Every time there’s some kind of gay allusion (such as Swayze himself, men telling each other they are going to “take that ass”, or yes, the brazen “I’ve had guys like in prison”) make a little check on your gay Geiger counter. If it’s not the Kelly Lynch love interest who looks like a total post-op tranny to Dalton character (Swayze) repeatedly having men tell him “I thought you’d be bigger”, Roadhouse is filled to the brim with homosexual imagery trying to disguise itself as a hardcore action movie. There’s even a monster truck somewhere in the film. And there’s nothing gayer than a fat lumberjack in overalls driving a monster truck to Ben Gazzara’s party mansion. Bear much?

We did this experiment one day and in the first 10 minutes had already 17 hits on the gay meter. You try it, and let me know how many you catch during the full feature length (not a dirty pun, I promise).

BARFLY (1987)

This goes out to anyone who dated me during my own barfly days (particularly between the years 2008 and 2011). Apparently, I would drink until I couldn’t stand up, write extremely dramatic stories and poems at the local dive bars till the wee hours of morning, all the while forcing any woman that went home with me to watch this fantastic tale of drinking and writing starring Mickey Rourke as Charles Bukowski’s literary alter ego Henry Chinanski and a ghostly Faye Dunaway plays a trashed out nihilistic lady drunk.

So as the drunken legend goes, I would demand these poor women to watch this sad and depressing tale (I think it’s awesome) on my shitty little TV/VCR (Barfly is only available on tape). Since I’ve watched the film about 75 times, I would pass out, leaving a very unsatisfied and frustrated women to view this deranged boozer narrative about a local drunk whose only goal through the entire film is drink as much as possible and fight the cocky bartender in the back alleyway (wonderfully played by Frank Stallone, yes, that Stallone family).  

Now I’ve cleaned up most of my act (and stopped forcing this film on unsuspecting dating partners) and those dark barfly days are now memory, I think fondly to those debauched evenings, and let this entry be a small and meaningful apology to the myriad of women who had to not only watch Barfly but sleep next to one, thoroughly unsatisfied.

The Martini Shot is a film industry term for the final shot in a production, and signifying party time for the crew to celebrate. There is usualy a party, where the cast and crew gather together and everyone gets around to what is loosely refered to as their "Wrap Party Fuck", the person that have been waiting for the production to conclude and have passionless sex with. The film world is a shallow and dirty world. And these are the films that have contributed to my bartending fantasies. Even if that's what they were, fantasies.

THANKS TOM, YOU MADE ME WANT TO WEAR BLACK BUTTON UPS AND QUAFF MY HAIR!

SWAYZE. JESUS. SWEATY, YOGA FRIENDLY, INTO TRANNIES, RIPING OUT THROATS. THE 80'S WERE CRAZY, MAN!  

   

THIS GOES OUT TO ALL MY FAYE DUNAWAYS!

ARE YOU A BOUGIE FUCK?

Williamsburg is a funny place. This little hood is a dartboard for critics who live outside the 11211. Even the people who actually live here talk shit about the changes in the neighbourhood, the condo lifestyles, the sudden and rampant appearance of strollers fucking up our drug-addled stumble to The Levee Bar.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn is a self-hater. And like the pretty girl in high school, she secretly thinks she’s fat. Like the neurotic man gesturing with his hands like a puppet on an anxiety string, complaining about art, his lack of money, and the series of slightly abusive women that habitually desire his attention, this place is as deluded as believing we won’t be at war with Iran in 6 months.  

Goddamn First World problems. And this neighbourhood is full of it. Literally and figuratively.  

After finishing a Doppio espresso from Atlas café, I’m juggling several phone calls, pacing up and down Havemeyer Street. On one hand, I’m calling my Musician Friend to find out when his rock show is this evening, and on the other line, negotiating the time and place I’m supposed to meet this Best Selling Novelist Friend for dinner, and worrying how I can fit the two in for the evening while orchestrating another small gathering for everybody afterwards at the Subway Bar around the corner.

First World problems.

Back at home, I’m worried about my new cat Lysander’s bowel functions. Never in my life have I worried about another creatures pissing and shitting habits more than Lysander’s. I bought her ‘organic’ kitty litter and ‘organic’ cat nip at the advice of a ‘pet conscious’ friend, both of which Lysander rejected with a sort of hating scowl only cats reserve for annoying humans.  Lysander stares down at the ‘organic’ treats, smelling them slightly, then stares back at me, completely uninterested, her little gold cat eyes begging the question: “What are you, some kind of Bougie Fuck?” (I know discreetly that Lysander is thoroughly working class. A street chick. Might as well get her a black motorcycle jacket with some pink lipstick writing on the back, snapping her fingers and chewing bubble gum with her hair in a bun.)

It had to be asked. And, after doing a little research this week, I discovered a couple of signs that might signal a case of the Bougie Fuck. It can be caught quite easily like the common cold, and if you’re not careful, you too might wake up in Yoga class realizing that the Bougie Fuck syndrome has invaded your otherwise authentic street credibility. So if you qualify in any of these categories, please, take a moment to unplug your iPad, shut down the Mac, turn off Spotify, resist the urge to Tweet ANYTHING, and calmly listen close.

We can help. Bougie Fuck-ness is not terminal. Here are some symptoms of the illness. And like how they roll in Narcotics Anonymous, you must first admit to being an addict before the healing begins.          

1.

YOU DRINK AT A MILK BAR.

Seriously, I don’t even know what a fucking ‘Milk Bar’ is.

I don’t.

I even made my Roommate look it up on the Internet just to tell me what the fuck is going on and we couldn’t even find anything that said anything. No joke. But I’m pretty sure you might suffer from Bougie Fuck-ness if you even step foot in this place. I mean, I get the ‘The Clockwork Orange” reference, but that place had naked porcelain women you could drink drug-filled milk from one of their pointed nipples. That makes sense to me. That place on Metropolitan does not. I’m just confused, people, seriously. You know something is wrong when they sell alternative versions of milk WITHOUT drugs and NOT serve it from naked porcelain nipples. So, just stop, please. Bars, as we all know, are for one thing and one thing only: Booze. Getting fucked up. This ‘Milk Bar’ trend is an eerie cousin to those “Oxygen Bars” that tried to creep up in the late 90’s. Yeah. Right?

2.

YOU BUY ALREADY TATTERED CLOTHING.

This is terrible. Remember “Derelique” from Zoolander. It’s sort of like that. A funny thing I noticed when I was in Paris. The people all dress pretty well, being one of the fashion centres of the world. But there are no ‘beat’ looking individuals. If your clothes are tattered and dirty, it simply means you can’t afford new clothes or you might just be homeless. There is something generally illogical and frighteningly bourgeois about buying already tattered clothing. Would you buy a car with its front window broken? This seems like an insult to everyone who has to wear tattered clothes on the regular. They’re not cool. They po’. And that’s never cool.  

3.

YOU WRITE A BLOG.

That’s right. What sort hyper-egotistical, literary addicted, attention-obsessed person would devote a large chunk of their lives to write a blog, actually believing there is a great, unseen mass of readers out there who gives a shit about what the blogger is thinking about on any particular day or topic?

Famed literary giant George Orwell had this positive thing to say about writers: “All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies the mystery. Writing…is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention”.

Thanks, George.  What an asshole.

4.

YOUR PET LIVES BETTER THAN YOU DO.

This is a big one. I can’t tell you how many people treat their animals like a Baby Buddha, fresh from Heaven’s Gate and right to pissing on your hard wood floors. I know people who actually sacrifice human time for their animal’s time. I also know people who feed their animal overpriced food and they, the human themselves, eat horrible food. The cat gets Filet Mignon bites and you’re eating off the dollar menu at McDonald’s. I’m not advocating pet mistreatment here, but we got to get our priorities in check.

Pets need love, some decent medical attention, and a happy owner. While we stress about treating these creatures as if they were mini-Gods we’re causing unnecessary sacrifices to our lives. The dog needs a walk? Take yourself out for one. First thnigs first, you need love too, and I know that pets are wonderful conversationalists and all, but we need human affection as well. Whose going to pet us? You know me, I’m always an advocate for human touching. And second, your pet has a functioning brain the size of a walnut. Now I know there’s some folks sitting next to you on a barstool that probably share that same brain capacity, but there are actually smart, uplifting, inspirational people out their that can make you’re big brain happy. And a happy person is a happy pet owner. Animals pick up on that shit. Then they dutifully shit on your mattress.

Well, folks, if you have any of these symptoms, please consult the reality doctor for a quick cure. Nothing irritates Al –Queda more than these first world problems. Trust me, they don’t drink at milk bars, they wear shitty clothes because they actually have no money, they only write blogs about killing Americans, and certainly don’t give a shit about their pets. 

Somewhere between us and them is the happy place. And we shall find it together. 

Now, go and drink like a normal person and I'll see y'all at the bars. 

NOW DO WE REALLY NEED THINGS LIKE THIS? 

THIS IS A FUCKING MILK BAR!

THE LYSANDER KNOWS!

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.