PICKING UP GIRLS

             I knew it was going to happen.

            I knew someone would eventually would ask this question.

            Now,  I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to post the email sent to me by this sad and confused gentleman.

            To The Bartender Knows

            Okay. Why is it so hard to talk to girls at bars? Every time I try to approach a girl I feel like I’m being some weird stalker dude. And if I buy them drinks I feel like I’m being a desperate, weird, rapey stalker dude. What are the secrets to doing this? You’re a bartender. How do you do it? How do I talk to these girls without feeling like a total asshole?

                                                NEEDSTOKNOW

            Okay dude. Mr. NEEDSTOKNOW. Let me break down a couple facts about the fairer sex here in New York City.

            1.

            Women do not need you at all. They don’t. They don’t need you. The fifties are over, brah. All a girl needs nowadays is a Rabbit, two hyper-sexual gay friends she can live vicariously through, and a good income job. Seriously. Add a cool group of uber-fun dance party girl nights and she’s set.  It is 2011. And New York girls are way more manly then you are. They got game. They run the show. They’re choosing all the pockets, and sinking them in two runs. Face that fact first, bub. You ain’t shit.

            2.

            Any girl over 25 has been BURNED badly by some kind of shitty dude. They have loved and lost. They’re precious hearts have been broken into a millions pieces and somehow home-girl has survived to live another day. So you just having a penis means that yes, you might do what that man before you did:

            Fuck her shit up.

            And nobody wants their shit fucked up.  

            So already their man-palette is all dirtied up before you even walk over. You must realize their initial rudeness is merely the left-overs of Previous-Dude-Wreckage. You must, in a matter of moments, somehow eradicate that dirtied man-palette and get the equation set back to zero. So the slate is clean. That is just the beginning. Now you have to somehow differentiate yourself from the Legion of other men skinnier, richer, and better-looking then you are.

            3.

            Everybody DOES something in this town. And most men, because of their essential egotism, begin telling everyone around them what ‘they’ do. Women are especially bored by this. They don’t need to know who the fuck you are. That comes later. You need to ask THEM questions. Who cares what you do? It’s probably far less interesting then the 17 other more successful, attractive men that have hit on her that day, so shut the fuck up and ask the girl some questions. And don’t say shit like: “Do you like music?” or “What’s your favorite color?” (my sister swears that she has been asked these exactly questions in the first five minutes of dialogue). Don’t be retarded. Be genuine. Be yourself.

            Wait. No. Stop.

            Don’t be yourself. If you are yourself you’d have to tell them that you are writing to someone you don’t know about how to pick up chicks at bars. Don’t do that. Just keep the attention on them.

            4.

            Here’s some rules you should live by. One girl at a bar means she’s waiting for someone. One girl at a bar with a book means she’ll talk to you if you’re literary, but she’s either getting over a break up or has serious emotional problems. Two girls at a bar should not be approached. They are chatting, catching up, and talking about guys their fucking. You have no place there. Three girls at the bar means party time. Approach, but make sure you know which one you want in advance. You can’t switch later (well, you can, but by the sound of it, you’re in division one of these athletics, so keep it simple). Just be careful from attacks by the others. They will make it difficult. This includes approaching women with their gay friends. This can be exceptionally brutal, especially if the gay friend is of the super-queen variety, and, essentially being a guy themselves, knows just what to say to her that will fuck your shit up.    

            Bars are made for people. That is the simple fact. People go out to get fucked up, to meet with friends, and to get laid (and sometimes all three). It’s just the way it is. Women go out to meet guys. They do. Face it. If you see a done up lady (hair, make-up, the works) she did that for you. Well, maybe not for you, specifically, but for someone like you who just might be A) not a sleazebag, B) funny and interesting, C) not going to fuck her shit up six months from now.

            Just remember brother, we all want love in the end. I don’t care who you are. We are all just little hippies looking for the potion of love. Some of us may be like rescue animals who bite the strangers who try to pet us, but beyond all of our psychic scars, we want a hug. And a good lay.

            So chill out, NEEDSTOKNOW. Just follow these easy steps and write back if any of this gets you to first base.      

THIS IS WHY MEN ARE UNNECESSARY

             

            

           

Brunching Is The Most Important Thing To Do In Life

             So I get a call from my flagrantly gay friend Roland, who just happens to be stuck in some small town called Ft. Morgan in the great state of Colorado. He’s flustered:

            “I gotta get my ass back to New York City, bitch!” He says on the phone.

            “What the hell are you doing out there, anyway?” I ask.

            “Someone died.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Roland.”

            I hear him blow cigarette smoke into the phone (I know this because he smokes habitually. I scold him for this terrible habit, but as he says repeatedly: “My only two bad habits are Marlboro Reds and dick”).

            Roland continues: “What? No. Don’t worry you’re pretty little head, Matthew. It was some uncle who hates the gays, so whatever. But my mother was close to him, and I’m the good son, so now I’m stuck in this god forsaken redneck shit town wearing black at funerals with fat people.”

            “Jesus…”

            “Yeah. And there’s nothing to do here. New York has made me her bitch. I have to get back. There’s no place to drink. There’s no place to eat. I felt threatened buying cigarettes at the Wal-Mart out here.”

            “How are the bars?” I ask, for obvious reasons.

            “Horrible. Terrible. Disgusting. And not disgusting in a good way, like the Subway Bar, but like, actually Red State disgusting.”

            I think I know what he means.

            “I’m starving. I want to brunch. I NEED it. I need a fucking patio. I need a decent Bloody Mary. Matthew. I’m going CRAZY! The highlight of my trip was smoking dirt weed behind a Dairy Queen with some Goth kids.”

            I try to visualize Roland doing this and it makes me smile.

            But Roland brings up a good point. Here in Brooklyn, brunch is a very important part of life. Roland knows. The patio is important. The Bloody Mary is important (and I make the best, and y’all know this!).

            But there’s just some places that have been ruining my brunching high lately and it’s time to address this. Here’s a short list of places that have been fucking with my brunch life.

           

            1.

            EGG

            135 North 5th Street and Bedford.  

            You know what? Fuck you, Egg. I really, really wanted to like you. But like the popular chick in high school, you’re kind of a bitch. I heard great things about your food. I heard great things about your drinks. But that’s just the problem. There’s too many people who know about you. I know, I know, it’s like blaming a whore for sleeping around, they just can’t help it and they hate their Dad. But there’s other problems. Like the staff. Seriously, guys, smile. Just once. Pretty please? And get a bigger place, Egg. I feel like I’m on a subway car in Tokyo. By the time my food eventually arrived, the gravy over my biscuits was cold. And I fucking hate oatmeal. Egg, get over yourself. Expand and hire a new staff. Or at least hand out free Prozac to them to get a smile out of these fucks.

       

            2.

            MILLER’S TAVERN

            2 Hope Street between Roebling & Havemeyer.

            Again, what is with these uber-shiek terrible waitresses? Girl, I have been serving people all of my life. I need a refill on my coffee. Now stop talking to that bike messenger who doesn’t wash and fill a cup for a brother. So me and my now unemployed, full-time writing, less homicidal roommate Tony go into this joint to give it a shot. And of course, the waitresses here don’t smile either (perhaps it’s fashionable not to do your job now), they all are dressed like they’re at a fashion show, and the recommendations were terrible. Tony ordered something called Chicken Fried Chicken (or something ironic) and it ended up looking like two little wings tied together with a battered string, which he choked down begrudgingly. The portions are small, the plates are overpriced, and the service sucks. Good coffee though, which goes a long way. But we all know Stumptown is the shit.        

            3.

            RABBITHOLE

            352 Bedford Ave.

            You’re cute. You are. You’re very pretty. You are. I feel like I’m talking to that girl whose all looks and no substance. The Eggs Benedict here was served on rock hard biscuits. And I KNOW what Benedict should taste like. The sauce was like some imitation brand. Don’t fuck with what works, Rabbithole. Keep it classic. The Reuben Sandwich was horrible. The corned beef was sinewy and long, I felt like I was chewing on meat-flavored shoelaces. Now I know y’all used to own Read Café, and anyone who knows the hood knows that Café was the best Bedford Avenue had ever seen. But lay off the looks and get a new cook. 3 Michelen Star trained, my ass.

            Brunch is one of the most important things in life. Okay. Not really. But it can make life beautiful on a summer day with friends.

            Stay tuned for the Williamsburg Brunch joints that absolutely rule.   

            And let us pray for Roland’s safe return from Hicksville, USA.       

             

These are the kids I imagine Roland smoked weed with.

               

            

And this is where it went down. 

Who Ruined My LIfe??? (part 2)

            Most kids, particularly the nervy, book-obsessed, girl-shy, Dungeon and Dragons type (who ever would I mean?) wish that something special may happen to them. They wander the halls of high school, books clung closely to their chests, and hope, pray really, that somehow they’re horrible case of acne will disappear, that their Mother will stop dressing them in short blue shorts and lined blue and white tee-shirts, making you look like a pirate, but not any dangerous pirate, but the kind that repeatedly get mistaken in boy-porn ads in the back of crumpled Stag Magazines from the 1970’s. You hope that the bullies will finally leave you alone, that the old phrase ‘just punch ‘em in the nose’ was told to you by your pops (mine did not say that, they, being somewhat peace loving intellectuals, suggested I opt for diplomacy, which is an adolescent version of the French white flag of surrender quickly followed by bloodied noses)

            You can’t play sports worth a damn and always have a look of dejection on your face.

            Essentially you are a frightened little youth with zero social standing watching the world fly by without you (sort of like being broke in New York, but that comes later). You really wish you had a awesome friend named Stiles who’s got a quip for just about anything and an penchant for spot on tee-shirts.

    

            And, of course, you hope that maybe, maybe, that specially to-die-for lady (she’s probably only 15, but then again, so are you) will finally take notice of you (Facebook wasn't invented yet, neither was Internet Stalking). This dashing young lass, in eighties feathered hair  and always present cheerleader uniform, wanders the halls by you. You push out your chest, trying to act strong, hoping she notices, but instead wrinkles her nose like she smells fresh shit.  

            You know you just may be cursed to an invisible existence for good. Until you see the cinematic achievement called “Teen Wolf” starring Michael J. Fox. Never in my life have I wished I could suffer from lycanthropy more than after watching this film. I wanted to threaten old men into giving me a keg of beer, ride on top of Stiles weirdly similar but non-militant version of the A-Team van, and open beer cans with my teeth.

            Unfortunately, the sad truth is that it is all a lie that my little 14 year old self within can never quite give up on. The closest I come to “wolfing out” is on that 7 shot of whiskey and my only ‘feral’ skills is an uncanny nature to walk back unconscious to my door step in Williamsburg like a  lost dog who always finds his way home.

            Thanks Michael J. Fox. Just one more broken fantasy of youth. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbIerQkXm_k 

            Stay tuned for the next installment of “Who Ruined My Life??? (part 3)

 

            Did girls really look like this in high school? I don’t think so.    

Who Ruined My Life??? (part 1)

            I had a terrible realization that my entire adult life regarding women has been influenced by one creature, the charming and slightly pathological Looney Toon character named Pepe Le Pew (see below).

           

            Now for anyone who is not familiar with this wonderful character, Pepe Le Pew is a highly passionate French skunk who only wants love. And not just any love will do. He wants the love of a particular black cat that, in each episode, somehow accidentally paints a white streak down her back, confusing the amorous Pepe into thinking she is the female skunk that Cupid has made for him. Of course, with all the charming words at his disposal, he pursues the cat (named in later episodes as Penelope Pussycat, see below) with the ferocity of a freight train at full speed.  

            Somehow, most often times, Penelope Pussycat also consumes some sort of intoxicant that renders her delirious. Pepe thinks it is his charm that causes this temporary intoxication, and being French, he firmly believes this.

            Of course, in the end of each episode, Penelope Pussycat awakens from her temporary slumber to the indulgent face of Pepe Le Pew. She promptly kicks the living shit out of the non-violent skunk, leaving him ragged, torn, and utterly dejected.

 

            How Pepe Le Pew continues on, broken-hearted, is beyond me, a strength that only exists in the pictorial universe, because, just the next week, the poor kitty spills some more white paint yet again along her backside and Pepe is at it again (as seen in this clip):           

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEdBndu0YUM

            Thanks a lot, Pepe. There I was, a young impressionable boy sitting on some shag carpeting in a Rhode Island cellar watching this tawdry affection, learning that, one day, my amorous nature towards the charmingly intoxicated kitties that fall deeply and madly in love with me will, once they realize the truth about my nature (I’m a skunk, i.e., they sober up), will leave me torn and ragged by the steely claws of their truest nature.

           

            I appreciate the lesson, Mel Blanc. I can’t help but wonder who I might have been without the influence of a certain arrogant, pathological French skunk.  

           More to come next week in the new installment of "Who Ruined My Life??? (part 2)". 

           That's all folks!

SLEEPING WITH BARTENDERS

            So I just returned from California. What was that quote Woody Allen had said about the Golden State?

            “Why would I want to move to a place where the only cultural advantage is being able to make a right turn at a red light?”

            Very apropos.

            There’s a couple immediate differences I noticed wandering back to where I spent my high school years. First, the women are friendly as all hell. Seriously, after years of getting spat on by New York women, when one of these buxom beauties says “Haya doin?” I look over my shoulder, thinking they must be speaking to someone else. Yes. And they all have large robust breasts. What the hell are they putting in the water out there? Seriously, every woman is at least a C cup. The swell curvature of a well-formed ass is to follow as they walk by. Maybe it’s the Latino heritage. Maybe they are all the children of overpaid actresses from the seventies and burned out porn producers from the San Fernando Valley. Undoubtedly, when it comes to beauties, New York City takes the cake. But if you’re looking for hourglass comfort food, the 31^st State is the place for you.

            And ladies, plenty of men are up for the running as well. Surf Gods and Ski Bums liter the place. An eternal youthful vibe permeates everyone’s lifestyle. And most of the guys are rich. And if they’re not, they’re Mexican gangsters. And they do drive some tricked out rides.      

            Note: Everyone is high on California Weed. Yes. Medical Marijuana is everywhere. Indica, Sativa, Ruderalis. Pot brownies. Weed cakes. THC droplets. Joints everywhere. Everyone out there has got that happy orange cylinder container stamped with the Bear and the flag of the Republic. No wonder the State is bankrupt. They’re high as fuck.   

            This was not what I remember about high school, trapped in endless maze of beige suburbs and stale mini-malls. If only this was what was going on then, I would have skipped this self- masochistic lifestyle and shot straight for the bungalow in Venice Beach with a severe case of glaucoma.

             But I digress.

            This week’s topic comes from a very curious young lady who calls herself ‘lovesfreedrinks333’. The question:

            What is the deal with bartenders? Are they all whores?

            Good question lovesfreedrinks333 (I’m already falling in love with you as we speak).

            This is the breakdown, gender wise, about the whole ‘sleeping with bartenders’ question, and let this be the definitive answer so everyone knows what they are getting into before they wait until 4am to fuck that mixologist of genitalia.

           

            WOMEN BARTENDERS

            Okay, fellahs. Are you listening? I’m going to give you the secret of how to get that sexy, slinking, buxom, raven haired beauty behind the bar to come home with you.

            Ready?

            Ready?

            Okay.  

            Fuck you.

            YOU WILL NEVER FUCK YOUR FEMALE BARTENDER. It just does not happen. This is why they put only hot girls behind 91% of bars in New York City. They want the men’s money. Because they know (the male owners) that these sad saps will sit there day in and day out for literally decades on the same bar stool staring at the ass of the new twenty years old traipsing up and down the bar mats at their favorite watering hole. Sure, some guys want to shoot the shit about sports or life with a male bartender. But there’s not a drunk in town that wouldn’t trade five ‘dude’ bartenders for a nice pair of tits and some revealing steep cleavage. It’s just the way it is.

            Women bartenders are the most jaded women to ever exist on this fair planet. This is not their fault. Usually, newer lady bartenders are the toast of the town. All that attention. All those shots of whiskey. ALL THAT FUCKING TAX FREE MONEY. It’s a hard deal to pass up and it’s better than stripping (we’ll get into the bartender/stripper relationship in later blogs).  

            But after years of drinking a fifth of Jameson a night and an army of losers trying to fuck you every night, things slowly start to change. There is a relentless barrage of men who think they get more charming the more they drink (never true), and they mistake a bartenders kindness (duh, that’s her fucking job, you pathetic loser) for true, and potentially actualizing attention.

            Wrong.

            She doesn’t think you’re sexy. She doesn’t think you’re that funny. She wants you to come back, day after day, and leave them dollar bills on the counter.

            All of my bartender lady friends (colleagues, I like to call them) have boyfriends, sometimes kids, and are very, very, rarely single.  

            There are only three exceptions that may allow you to fuck your lady bartender:

            1. You are a bartender. This is a fact. For some reason, once you show that Church Key in your pocket, you are no longer a civilian. You are a man who understands the pain. A confidant. Working Class. A trusted partner in drinking crime. Translations: Up on the pussy roster.

            2. You are a musician. I don’t know. These guys have powers. They have genital herpes and shitty tattoos, but they have powers.

            3. She is depressed. A Lady Bartender's life is hard. All that money. All those options. Once in a very great while, you just might land one of these gals as they are spiraling down into the depths of nihilistic depression and rampant drug abuse. It’s happened. She’ll hate herself for it, and things will be awkward at the local dive after wards, but you just may slip into that elevator door as it plummets fast towards rehab. Wait for full moons and talk of breakups with tattooed  bartenders and  musicians.                         

                         

            MALE BARTENDERS

            Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.         

            Much like musicians (see above), these classy Gentlemen have access continuously everyday to women. And not just women, DRUNK WOMEN.

            Every night.

            I’m serious.

            ALL THE TIME.

            Think about every male bartender you know. Whore, right? And if they’re married or they have a girlfriend, they whored their way into those situations and had their pick of the litter.

            Do not think you are special at all if you have somehow slept with a male bartender. They always have options. They are very similar to attractive women in that sense, and are able to turn that ugly tide to their favor. Like beautiful women, they have choices, and they can pass on contenders.

            This leveling of the playing field must be the attraction women feel toward their bartender. Either that, it’s the free drinks. Or the charm. We have to be funny because we don’t have the cleavage (see above). And, in turn, become masters of the moment, able to turn a phrase, a political event, or a B Movie narrative into an amusing antidote that entertains highly intoxicated individuals.

             In truth, sadly, most bartenders are just losers who somehow lucked their way into the profession by being losers who refuse to join the real world.

            But the allure of easy sex, tons of drinks, and the admiration of others keep them in a holding pattern for sometimes too many embarrassing years.

            There is no sadder fate then the aging bartender.

            A fate worse than death.

            But a Fate riddled with young women, free whiskey, and an endless supply of theories and stories about the world of bartending and at large.

            Hence this blog.

SHE WILL NEVER SLEEP WITH YOU.

SHE ACTUALLY DOESN'T THINK YOU'RE FUNNY

THIS GUY HAS FUCKED EVERY WOMAN YOU KNOW

Don't Be A Shitty Bartender

            I’m sitting with my flagrant gay friend Roland on the patio of Verb Café smoking rolled cigarettes last Tuesday afternoon. He’s a little flustered. Roland is notoriously cool as a cucumber, with his hair slightly parted to the side, a little devious mustache above his lips, he smokes the rolled tobacco with fervor, flicking the last of the snub across the sidewalk, barely missing two short, equally sexually ambiguous youths walking daintily arm an arm down Bedford Avenue.

            “What is wrong with these fucking bartenders, Matthew? Who the fuck do they think they are”

            “What?” I say, not listening.

            I’m lost staring a woman in black tights and a tee-shirt. The tights wrap firmly up her legs and fully form around a cherubic ass. These tights leave nothing to hide. I literally can see mons pubis. And that's from the back. Normally these girls wear long Alexander Wang white shirts to at least cover their asses, but some of these girls have completely ignored this, creating a new revealing fashion faux pas. I’d like to personally thank who ever decided this be the winter style in Williamsburg. I feel American Apparel has something to do with it.

            Just another pervert.  

            “Matthew!”

            I snap back to Roland, his generally serene face taut with frustration. He begins to roll another Danish Export.

            “Pay attention. You’re a bartender. What’s wrong with these other people? They act like aristocrats! Like asking for a drink is somehow fucking with their day! What is with these people? I’m sick of it. Jesus. I live here. I don’t have to drink at your particularly speak easy styled, heavily cocktailed, cheery wood paneled, zinc bar. Aren’t there about a billion of those with ‘signature’ cocktails in this neighborhood?”

            Roland is correct.

            I’ve seen this silliness before.

            How many of you have ever walked into a bar and got attitude from the bartender? All you want is a goddamn 2 for 1 beer special and the bartender acts like he’s getting a hernia just reaching into that ice to uncap it for you. Oh, what a strain!   

            Or the frustrated, slightly annoyed look you get from your service staff when you ask for a Mojito? And it’s on the fucking menu!!!! (don’t ask for a Mojito at a dive bar, people, that look you get is totally justified)

            Let me give you a couple of facts about the bar world.

            There are at least 87 bars in the neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. That’s just in the 11211. There is absolutely no reason anyone should give you attitude when you walk into a place. There's just too much competition. I remember walking into a bar in Greenpoint (which we’ll just call Lulu’s for short), and asking the guy if he was open. It was dark and early so the question was valid. His response, staring up from his newspaper, looking around sarcastically, and shrugging his shoulders:

            “What do you think?”

            I pause, look to my friend, and said:

            “I think we’ll go across the street.”

            Or you when walk in and the girl's face behind the bar looks as sour as if she's been sucking on lemons all day and gives you attitude when ask her how her day went. Look, honey, we're not trying to hit on you, so take that self-indulgent ice pick out of your ass and fix me a Vodka Tonic.

            Now I‘ve been bartending for thousands of years.

            I believe in the bar.

            It is a place to forget.

            It is a place to hide.

            It is a place to meet people. It is a place to avoid others.

            There is something magical and special about a place where, legally, people can take drugs with each other and act crazy. You can’t do that on the sidewalks outside. You can’t do that in your cubicle. If you can’t go to your nearest watering hole and get fucking wasted, or feel as if you’re being judged by some high school graduate (or worse, a college graduate not using their English degree), then the world is truly a sad and terrible place.

            You have a right to get wasted with impunity.

            There are options. A real bartender knows the truth. They know what you want. They will help you get laid. They will answer any questions you may have about life, love, philosophy, politics, and the stars up above.

            Don’t let some of these horrible bartenders ruin your day. It’s not your fault they hate their lives. It’s not your fault they have shitty bosses. It's not your fault they are pathologically single. It’s not your fault they would rather be writing the next Great American Novel, but instead, have to explain the difference between PBR and High Life to a tourist from Oklahoma.

            So the next time you get some unwarranted attitude (we’ll go into how to be a good customer in future blogs) from one of these self-important, highly intoxicated, drug addled, clinically depressed bartenders, just walk the fuck out and hit up the next 86 bars in your general area.

            A cordial finger usually adds the right garnish to your cocktail of fuck off.

            Till next time, cheers to black spandex!          

(Ladies, you do look in the mirror before you leave the house, right? But thank you, anyways.)

Why Dating Sucks In New York City? (Part 3)

            “Just because my sense of humor is ahead of its time, doesn’t mean it’s not funny,” says my now Travis Bickle-looking roommate Tony after a jarring and thoroughly abusive haircut by an angry Russian barber (at the barber shop over by the Sunac off Union. You know the place).

            The scary thing is he actually thinks he’s funny. In truth, I half expect to see him loading a rifle on a rooftop targeting hipsters on Havenmeyer tonight.  

            So, ladies and gents, it is here we end our three week installment of “Why Dating Sucks in New York City?” at the start of the weekend.

            Friday Night.

            Shit.  

            This is one of the most unholy nights in my weeks’ repertoire. I know to my working friends Friday night signifies the beginning of their weekend, their time to enjoy the direct deposited pay check, and perhaps participate with another willing nine to fiver in some casual and forgettable sex you can laugh about with your friends when you’re brunching it at Teddy’s the next Saturday afternoon.   

            To the bartender, it is a most dreaded evening. Suddenly, packed into our favorite dives are all of these new people we’ve never seen. You can’t get a seat at the bar. There’s those douche bags in Oxford shirts that have been mysterious appearing in large numbers lately around the scene. We’re used to drinking heavily on a Monday night at the Subway Bar. Friday night is a cursed night.

            A night when you are supposed to have a good time.

            And it never works.

            Just like you’re supposed to enjoy New Years Eve. It never works when you know you are supposed to do anything. The human animal is not programmed for repression like that. Ask Freud.

            But we single folk still relentlessly attempt to find some kind of connection (either with our souls or genitalia) by dating.

            This must be closely connected to that American myth of Optimism we are instilled with from birth. The lie that tells us we can make something of ourselves, no matter what.

            That we deserve it.  

            In all actuality, we only deserve what we work for. When we earn it. Now I know I’m starting to sound like my grandfather here (he did build two houses with his bare hands, father 10 children, and was an expert marksman), but in the end, we are entitled to nothing.

            This includes lovers. We gotta to hunt for that shit. Fight tooth and nail to trick that special someone that they can’t live without us.

            Here, in summation, are some of the final barriers preventing us from dueting “Purple Rain” together drunk at Karaoke in Koreatown:

            1.

            YOU KNOW WHO THEY’VE SLEPT WITH.

            This is a real deal-breaker.

            New York is a small town! You can’t get away with shit in this town. Everybody knows everybody. Especially here in Williamsburg. It cracks me up when new-comers try to be sneaky with their nefarious activities. I’ve worked at every bar in this neighborhood. And if I haven’t worked there, then I get drunk in them. Which means I know the bartender. And they know me. There is a Rolodex of information at our fingertips as bartenders.

            We are your shit-faced Google search engines.

            You want to know who your new crush has slept with?

            Ask us!

            We know.

            And sometimes the truth is just Wrong. I recently was going to sleep with a particular young lady (who also does not live here, hence her flagrant sexual activity in a 3 block radius of Bedford) until I received some scary information about some of her previous beaus.

            I know them.

            Just gross.

            I mean, if they were a little bright and maybe actual artists I might of considered it. I’m no puritan. But thinking about these particular rivals slipping their erect members into this woman makes me gag. It says more about her than it does about them. If she’s willing to sleep with me right afterward, that means I’m somehow a apart of them, and my psychotically large ego would never allow that.

            And it’s not just the men who have to watch out. Come on girls, would you really go knees high for a guy you knew full well just slept with a stripper, a Union Pool Super Slut, and an NYU undergraduate, in that order? That shit dry up faster than support for Obama did.      

            I know we are all living in a sexual liberated time, but you are who you sleep with. It is a direct reflection of who you are as a person. And once other people find out who you’ve been fucking, they will judge you accordingly.

            You are what you eat.

             So next time you’re feeling a little horny/high-on-cocaine and want to fuck that dirty scenester, just remember, the bartender is watching.

            Just take ‘em to the Upper West Side.

            Nobody gives a shit what’s happening up there.

            2.

            YOU KEEP PICKING THE SAME TYPE.

            Feel me on this one people?

            Each date slowly begins to resemble the next. They all have the same dull tattoos. They all have bangs. They all have beards. They are all furniture designers or work in advertising. They have a Zip Car account. They were not born here.  

            I am victim to this as well. As any of my friends will tell you, I have a sorry and repetitious penchant for younger women. This is no fault of mine. Really, people. I’m not trying to work out a Lolita fetish here. It’s just the type of person that find me attractive.

            You got men who go to hair stylists. You got girls who love the Twilight series. I’ve got that hard-drinking, father hating, Kundera-loving, recent college graduate who thinks writers with no money are still attractive. It’s when they’re over 30 they realize you’re just a loser without a 5 year plan.

            I’m a bartender. Y’all know this. Who do you think waits for me to get off shift at 4 in the morning on a Thursday night? What type of girl does that? I’ll tell you. The ones that don’t have to work a real job because their fathers pay for everything. Or if they do have a job, it’s cause they’re waitresses. And we all know of that holy and true bond of the waitress/bartender relationship. Nobody has to get up in the morning. You can fuck all day, drinking Prosecco and listening to Prince, ordering take-out, never leaving the bed.

            We are responsible for attracting the same type over and over again.

            To really break this horrible cycle of repeated defeat, you have to change what you do, and more importantly, where you do it.

            If this means you can’t keep picking up girls at Savalas on Saturday nights, so be it. If it means you’ll finally stop dating musicians because you know they will always cheat on you, then God Bless (cause it’s true).

            We are in charge of our own happiness, damn it, and don’t let anyone tell you different. Join a yoga class. Stop hanging out at the Abbey Bar looking for love.               

            Thanks again to Anonymous for your question that lasted three weeks. It’s a helluva topic.

            Be safe out there tonight, kids.

            Tony is out there.

            And he’s watching.

("You blogging about me?" He just asked, looking at this picture. I'm not kidding)

To see what the bartender REALLY knows, send a topic to lechatnoir.us@gmail.com