The Dinner Date

            Now, y’all know my opinion about dating and what a soul crushing, debased act it is. Every time, we foolishly dare to connect with another person, desperately hoping our skin won’t crawl in disgust as we volley back and forth stale preliminary questions like “What do you do?” and, “So, where are you from?” all night, ad nauseum.

            And this is the ‘adult’ way of doing things.

            Getting to know someone.

            What a crock of shit.

            I’m not saying it’s bad for people to eventually have to go out on dates. Sometimes, especially in our isolating world here in New York City, we must walk this plank and stand before each other as mutual firing squads, to judge and be judged in return.

            Completely forgetting of course, that all good, or at least memorable situations, have come without planning or reason. Think of the last time you hooked up with someone. Let me take a wild stab at how that went down.

            You were at a bar.

            Check.

            You were drunk.

            Check.

            A totally random situation appeared; an old flame walked in the door or someone you’ve had a crush on just broke up with their cheating mates and is now hunting for the four-alarm fire revenge fuck. Either way, I can assure you the last time you felt the burn in your blood pump hard was due to a total accident. 

            So let’s say it’s been awhile and horniness is eating away at your skull (and each person’s version of this is different. I have friend named Ole Cunny Bill who complains its ‘been awhile’ after just a week without sex. Some guys got all the luck. Others, like me, can go for months without sex. I am a sexual camel and can store fantasies away during long periods of draught). There’s no lucky situations walking through those bar doors and you realize, sadly, you must yet again face this frightening abyss:

            The Dinner Date.

            Can I first say this? Do not even try to be civilized. Forget the age-old ideas of chivalry or class.

            SKIP DINNER.

            Go right to the drinks. Shots even. The less you learn about that person on the first date will only lend itself to a second one.

            It’s not natural to eat in front of someone you want to fuck unless you’ve already fucked. Before that every sound, gesture and movement will lead to judgment or painful discoveries of seriously nasty things a previous good lay could have potentially forgave for the time being.

            Get them hammered. At least then, any frightening aspects of their personality will bubble to the surface thanks to the truth-telling chemicals in alcohol. Ask your bartender about them. Chances are, the barkeep knows more about the person’s sexual life then they remember after 8 Jager bombs.  

            But if you do insist on being an ‘adult’ and attempt some idea of sophistication and propose a dinner date, or accept one, allow me to paint several nightmare scenarios so when you spot one, tell the date you have to use the restroom and look for the fire exit.         

            BAD EATERS

            I’d like to take a moment and thank my Mother here for curing me of any bad habits I may have let slide into adulthood. She was such a Nazi about eating, I thought this tyrannical rule was unjust and unfair. However, now, and only now just what she was trying to teach me becomes crystal clear.

            Bad Eaters. These people are the most disgusting, stomach churning types of folk to ever live. Let me give some examples.

            Chewing with their mouth open. Especially when they are speaking. I can’t tear my eyes away from the crunched up torn strips of beef and salad on your gums when you tell me how much you love to work with children. You could be Mother Teresa and I wouldn’t even hear it. All I hear is the chomping down and the squish of food between your smacking lips. Also, what is with those people who drive their forks and knives hard into plates? Have you experienced this? They stab down, the metal screeching against the porcelain plate, like the dish owes them money. It’ll make your ears bleed. How about the super thirsty person? Chugging water, the little sops echoing out the glass, is equally gross. You just back from the desert? What the fuck is your problem? Picking their teeth as they listen to you talk. The list goes on and on. I actually morally judge these people. Since the majority of our time with a partner is eating and fucking, you had better make sure at least one of them is done without a mess.       

                      

            TOO BIG FOR YOUR BRITCHES

            This is an unpardonable offense. Especially if you work in food service. Nothing makes me want to stab people more then when they mistreat wait staff, especially if I want to be naked with someone. I’m on the side of the working class. I served front of house for ten years before graduating to bartending.

            I once had some drinks with a very pretty Russian girl named Tatyana or Svetlana or one of those names with a heavy Iron Curtain ring to it. We had several Martini’s already on 1^st Avenue, wandered into Tompkins Square Park, groping each other wet lipped beside a couple of homeless junkies, and stumbled inebriated into Flea Market (my favorite French restaurant in the Village). I was in full desire to kiss every part of her skin when I got her home.

            Suddenly, she hails, in that loud Russian conquering way.

            “Waiter! Two Martini’s.”

            All the passion crept out my pores and my penis began to crawl back inside itself.

            She turned and smiled.

            “What?” She says, her voice thick with accent.

            I try to pretend I don’t see her coldly ignoring the server already irritated by her yelling across the room for a drink. I try to ignore how crass she speaks to the help. I think I even saw her snap at a busboy for bread.

            My service industry alarm system started to ring…loud.

            Keep in mind people, just because they are serving you doesn’t make them your servants. I don’t know what the Bolsheviks teach their kids about manners, but I got the fuck out of there and left 'ole Ivanka to her horrid, self important ways.           

            THE SILENT TYPE

    

            Here is a fact:

            Being shy after 25 means you’re an asshole.

            Sorry.

            My heart goes out to the emotionally awkward, but if you can’t have a decent dialogue after 25, it doesn’t mean you’re a well meaning, quiet person, it means either you suffer from some undiagnosed psychological issue or you’ve watched to many emo-art films mistaking coyness for the illusion of mystery. I don’t know where some of these people learned their social skills from, but trying to get them to speak like regular people is like pulling teeth.

            Reticence is not interesting. You know what’s interesting?

            Talking.

            To Your Fellow Human.

            I get it. Maybe you don’t like your date that much.

            If you don’t like someone, don’t go out with them. Save everyone’s time. I’ve heard this from both sexes. “Oh, I just had to see…” See what, motherfucker? You don’t have to have lean to close to smell shit, right? If you have an inkling that you’re don't dig this person, leave it at that. Nature gave you instincts for a reason. And just because you couldn’t start a fire or change a tire to save your life, doesn’t mean you are completely out of the race. 

            Please allow Social Darwinism to run its course.       

           

            Till next time!

This chick is not mysterious, she's just a bitch.

This is a sex drive killer. Gross!
Keep the eating where it counts.

This kid, when you're not around, thinks about ways to kill rude people slowly with silverware. 

"The Lady Will Have The Red From Portugal..."

            This goes out to all the ladies.

            Here, come a little closer. Break out the Prosecco and the truffles, put on some Terence Trent D’Arby records, and gather around the campfire with me and discuss a problem that no doubt has been on your minds for some time.

            The ultimate question:

            What The Fuck Is Wrong With Men?

            Seriously, what is going on with Men? This is an immortal question and I know you are curious. You ask your gay friends about guys, hoping that they might have the answer.

            They do not. They are gay men.

            Gay men are very different from straight men. They are looking for someone totally different to sit on their face. Gay men know about gay men. Straight men crave women.

            So, you sit at the bar and ask your girlfriends, hoping they might be able to shed some light on this perplexing question. However, they are equally confused, left vainly to conjecture about what’s going on in the minds of men.

            They want to know why men are typically clueless.

            They want to know why men are selfish.

            They want to know what we are thinking.

            Sorry, fellas, but this is the part in the blog where I expose our secrets. It is high time the world knows the truth.

            Obviously, this is merely Part One of a very long conversation.

            It is a proven fact the women are by far more complicated--physiologically, emotionally, and psychologically--than men could ever dream to be. If women are like the wild and beautiful flower that grows strong, brilliant with all variations of color and petals of beauty, then men are sacks of dry dirt. It is embarrassing how un-complex we actually are. It is because women are so generally complicated that we seem complicated. In reality, our simplicity creates the confusion.   

            Taking off the 3D glasses helps, ladies. Our shit is definitely in 2D.

            Even I, who have toted the fact that I was raised by all women, sadly, and with great revelation came to terms with my doltish, stubborn, simple, elementary nature as a man.      

            Men only give a shit about 5 things, and the accumulation of these five things keep us happy building roads and civilizations chalk full of  tall buildings, being trash collectors and desk clerks, satisfied with our own little existence.

            Let the horns blows for here is the five-point track of what men really give two shits about:  

            1.

            FOOD, YUM.

            Now, I didn’t realize this until I got older, but essentially, we can talk all manner of philosophy and discuss the metaphysical nature of the universe, the corruption of politics and the endless parades of useless, bloody wars that span the entire history of time, but really, in the end, I would be just as satisfied, if not more so, with a well-cut steak. No mystery here, ladies. When you’re mother said the way to a man’s heart was not through his pants, but through his stomach, she was not lying. Yes, men like to play at being Don Juan. Yes, we like to play at being the successful, virile type. Yes, we all wish we could be Don Draper. But in the end, we’ll settle with the A1 sauce and some decent BBQ. That’s why male vegans are not to be trusted. Essentially, they are against the natural pull of our DNA to forgo rhyme and reason for some of that Fried Chicken and Greens.

            We really do care about the woman at work you hate that you think is trying to take your job, we do.

            “What are you thinking about?” You ask, noticing us drifting off. Don’t get mad—we just hungry. Let’s settle the food issue first. Then I promise, you’ll have our full attention.    

            Until…   

            2.

            THE FRANKS AND BEANS PROBLEM.

            Every morning we are reminded that our bodies want something. Our bodies ask us a question, and it’s in the form of a boner. Relentless, like clockwork, something beyond our control completely extends from our bodies demanding with rock hard dominance that something must happen. And, no doubt somehow fiendishly connected, are our balls. Each hour, 3.1 million sperm are created, pushing against our flesh for release. No wonder we can’t think straight half the time. So now, after the food problem is solved, we occasionally (a.k.a. three times a day) wish we could let those little friends fly to fulfill our biological imperative.  

            Which generally has something to do with…

            3.

            FREAKY SEX. YEP.

           

            The dinner is amazing. He’s not like the usual men you date. He paid when you went to the bathroom. You sit back down:

            “Oh, you didn’t have to do that...”, you say, smiling.

            He, without effort, folds his wallet back into his pocket, humbly saying back:

            “It was my pleasure,” he purrs with a little spark in his eyes.

            After that, dating a nervous, tight-lipped hipster who pulls out wet, crumbled dollars from his pocket to pay for dinner becomes an embarrassing, self-debasing act. The other one, the one with a job, was actually nice, steady, and fun to boot. He can charm the waiter. He smells great. The half-grown beard on the ‘boy’ you like’s face becomes laughable.     

            A woman after dating a man with certain class will never go less on the next date. Not a smart one, anyways. Men are just the same, but about sexual perversion instead of social class. Every man is a freak just waiting to happen. A man, once exposed to certain proclivities of perversion, can never go back.

            Ladies, you know what you’ve done to your ex’s. He asked you to do things, and, most of them felt good. Now he can never go back. He was shown some form of experimental activities, and the experiment is finally over.

            Now it’s just the facts, ma’am.  

            But don’t forget…

              

            4.

            THE NO BABY PROBLEM.

            This is a big one.

            It’s the No Baby Thing. I’ve analyzed this for years. Now we all know why men have to pretend they are in charge of everything.  This definitely goes back to the essential jealously of never having babies. It’s true. Imagine the cavemen, after fornicating (which seemed like a natural thing to do), nine months later some creature literally crawls out of his mate. The male cavemen watched in awe (as they do even in modern times) at the miracle of life. Right then and there, the males knew they were insignificant, not putting two and two together that they had anything to do at all with this pregnancy. Thus, they left the cave and picked up a stick to start hitting things with it.   

            We can’t have babies, so we build roads and shit. We go on to build cities and walls and nuclear weapons, all because of that first sight of the baby popping out of our mates.

            Our bodies barely change as we get older, unlike the constant metamorphosis of the female form. We pretty much either get stronger or weaker, get fat or slim down. But the chemical makeup stays the same. We are the blunt instruments. And we know it. That’s why we created Pop Tarts and Sham-Wow rags. What else is there to make if you cannot create life?     

           

            And that’s why we have this problem…

            5.

            LEGACY. AH, IMMORTALITY!

            Pass it on.

            Why do you think we were all hung up on that whole surname business for the last thousands of years? Since we know that we are only ruled by freaky sex, ego, and food, we still hope to somehow raise ourselves out of the primordial mud by doing ‘something’ in the world. This has manifested in several ways, from inventing things like Electricity to Facebook. This is very important to us. Our ego, our ever fragile, silly little ego is all we have to prevent against the truth that men, pointless unless something heavy needs to be lifted, are a blip on the Earth, and only money, sex, and power can make us stand out. We strive for some kind of immortality, and like Gandhi or Hitler, to give it our all and leave some kind of mark on this planet.

            So there you have it ladies, mystery solved. And I know this list doesn’t paint the male sex in the most flattering manner and lesbianism is now being considered, however I ask one favor ladies. Just try to understand our unbearable simplicity. It will make everything far more understanding between the sexes. After all, you wouldn't hate on a retarded kid, would you?

            Till next time…       

           

This girl is great and all, but somtimes...

...we'll settle for this. Yum!

These are the little bastards controlling our minds!

           

Any guesses why we build shit like this?

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

            I already see it on the streets.

            The frustrated eyes. The saddened wet cheeks. Couples moving together down the sidewalk, angrily speaking in muted tones, not able to face each other. I hear the F bomb and see one storm off. Uneasy circling of feet under the café tables lining Bedford Avenue. Gloomy tragic faces drinking heavily alone, their backs curved over the bar in defeat.

            I approach one lone man at the bar this week with a little banter.

            “How are you?” I ask.

            Little grunts come out.

            “Another shot?” I ask.

            “Fuck yeah, why not?” He mutters.

            I pour the shot.

            “So what is it, women or money?”

            The man looks up, face full of three days of unshaven misery.

            “Why can’t it be both?”

            He has a point.

            Another woman on the other end is furiously bitching to her friend. I try to make some light humor but scorn is painted across her face.

            I overhear: “And that son-of-a-cowardly bitch doesn’t even have the balls to tell me he fucked her! Like I wouldn’t know! I knew he was a whore from the start. I met him at Union Pool for Christ’s Sake! Back to the fucking Chelsea free Clinic. They know me by name now!”

            I dodge that end of the bar for a while, fearing my obvious association with the male race.

            And so it is. The weather is changing. The moods are changing.

            After an Earthquake, a Hurricane, and some poorly timed rain patterns, some strange, vapid humid air sits bulky, wetting our backs, sweat dripping down.

            And it’s stagnant.

            It’s muggy.

            It’s stale.

            The End Of Summer Is Here.

            And with it, comes the end of the Summer Romance.

            No call backs. Sudden realizations of a person’s past. Stood up three times in a row. Accidental discoveries of who they've been texting at night. All of this adds up to the big breakup. The send off. Like a snake shedding its own skin in order to shine a new coat.

            With Fall coming, it’s best to start fresh and start looking for that Winter hibernation buddy.  

            But sometimes it’s hard to know that you’re stuck in one of these overcooked romances.

            Here are three examples that are sure signs that your current situation needs to be kicked to the curb:

           

            THE UNREQUITED LOVE

            Face it. You can’t change ‘em. Remember when they said they weren’t “looking for anything serious right now”? You don’t need a code breaker for this one. They don’t like you that much. It’s harsh, but true. Trust me, if anyone really likes you, you will never hear these words come out of their mouth. It’s sad. Yes, you're wanted in the meantime when they’re not fucking that other person in their life (and there is always someone else). You’ll be there if they’re sad, or hurt, or didn’t pay their Netflix bill on time, sure. But like a substitute teacher, you’re the one day babysitter of their genitals until the tenured professor comes back into town.

            And no matter what you say to this person, things will not change. You missed the boat. And maybe because you’re sick, you like people who don’t quite like you back.

            But they are so mysterious! They are so elusive! They are so….unattainable. That look in their eye that seems like mystery is actually them fantasizing about your rivals naked sweating body crooning in orgasmic ecstasy.

            “What are you thinking about?” You dare to ask.

            “Nothing,” they say, eyes darting to the floor, their foot circling slowly under the table.

            Like a tumor, it’s best to cut this one out, because it will kill you in the end. Bonus thought though: They are probably obsessed with someone who really doesn’t like them as much, and the little carousel of pain spins round and round. All you can hope for is that their pain is as horrible as yours, which it won’t be, you little sniveling masochist. Buy a voodoo doll.

            GOOD SEX/SHADY PERSON

            I often times wonder what I would ask God if he/she existed. One of the questions, once we get past the problem of evil and where the human race is headed, is why in the world do we have the most amazing, toe-curling, unforgettable sex with the most shadiest people in the world. Everybody remembers that one person who rocked their world. And let me guess, you met them 20 minutes before you fucked, you didn’t know their name, it happened without planning or reason, right out of the blue, an orgasm that shattered every other memory of one to smithereens.What is with this?

            You would never let them meet your friends.

            You would never let them meet your parents.

            Yet, you yearn for their touch like crack rock. They walk near you and your stomach drops. After several encounters, a creeping sensation arises. You want to know more about them. Who is this person that makes you feel this way?

            Don’t.

            Like a horror film, you don’t want to open that door. That’s when the machete wielding truth of their actual existence comes out, and it will only make you want to vomit. Yes, they are married. Yes, they are actually escort girls. Yes, he’s slept with 356 people, only 9% of the time with condoms. Yes, she spends most of her time with her legs up like rabbit ears on an old TV set. That’s why they’re good at what they do. That’s why you need to run (okay, fuck one or two more times, just to get it out), run far away and fast, before you ask questions like:

            “So, what do you do the other nights you’re not with me?” and start to feel that little bile crawl up your throat.

            THE LOVE VAMPIRE

            Admit it.

            You have one of these hanging around.

            The person with that look in their eye. You know who they are. They act like they’re your best friend. They ask you if you need help moving. They always look at you, head half cocked to the side and ask: “How are you? Really? Do you want to talk about it?”

            Then one drunken night you accidently sleep with this person and you happen to be exceptional in bed. And it’s over. They are sunk.

            You like them, but you don’t like them. They’re nice, but nice is a nice way of saying fuck off.

            Now you’re the evil bastard, toting one of these love vampires around. You try to break it off, whatever it is, but you just keep finding the vampire right back at your throat, demanding love. And when they argue the case for you to love them like Perry Mason, this draws a whole new line of desperation in the sand. The only way you can kill a vampire is to use the holy water of being a dick. Or a bitch. Choose your gender's preferred sense of evil.  

            Which, in the end, will only make them pine for you more.

             And the vicious cycle continues, so start looking for that voodoo doll with your name on it.

   

            ‘Till next time love birds. Go out and start taking applications for that Winter snug buddy. It's coming, right around the corner. Like Hurricane Go Bag shopping, you don't want the only thing left to be an open bag of Cheetos and a busted flashlight. 

Someone who really loves you named this after you!

Sorry dude, she actually strips on the West Side .

"I love you soooooo much!"

The Confession Booth

            Now I was baptized Catholic, and that is, I’m sure, the reason for the illicit nature of my life and the cause of my sexually depraved, whiskey-addled evenings that have become rampant as I slowly glide into middle age (I just shuddered at ages’ death rattle). Now there is nothing wrong with this age-old religion, as long as one ignores the litany of massacres of indigenous people, the blatant ‘turn of the cheek’ to the sexual molestation of thousands of children, and the occasional clash with other major faiths, leaving cities burning in ruin. But at least you can say Catholicism likes to win, and as a betting man, I like that sort of gumption. And rosary beads are super cool.

            How can two centuries be wrong?

            On top of that, I am an Italian-French Catholic, which explains my penchant for fine food, beautiful women, extensive alcohol intake, and some BDSM tendencies.

            The first mention of Catholicism in the history of the world was in 107 AD by Ignatius of Antioch where he decreed: “Wherever the bishop shall appear, there let the multitude [of the people] also be; even as, wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the Catholic Church.” Now, we live in New York City, and I highly doubt old J.C. is anywhere in this 9 mile radius. I like to think he’s getting blown by Mary Magdalene and fanned by the Angels Gabriel and Michael on a rooftop Hilton in Dubai.  

            Ladies and gentlemen, we live in one of the most radiantly hedonist, debauched, highly sexualized, drug-rampant town that has ever been born upon this fine Earth since ole Gomorrah.  

            And isn’t it great?

            Since most of us despise even the mention of faith and religion, it is up to our minor deities to protect us in our travails out here in the mire.

            There’s only two places you can go when you’re are in need of some serious spiritual guidance:

            The pulpit or the bar stool.

            And if you’re anything like me, you’re skipping Sunday services for Jack and Ginger’s on a patio with a fine cigarette and a joint all rolled up for dessert behind the ear.

            People tell you lots of things under the influence of alcohol; all kinds of secrets about martial abuse and infidelities, about the wreck their children are doing to their lives, their fears about lay-offs and someone trying to back stab them at work.

            I hear about as much as one of those black clothed priests in the dark of the confession booth.

            But I got Vodka and Gin for your sins instead of Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers.   

            Which brings me to this week’s question:

           

            “What is the strangest thing you’ve seen bartending?”

           

            Thank you, Anonymous, for your question.

            There is novel just waiting to be written for every year I’ve worked as a bartender about the things I have been exposed to. But the weirdest? This story takes the cake.

            Our tale, dear reader, begins one late afternoon in Boston where I working at some schlocky margarita joint in Harvard Square. I was new to the restaurant, so then properly cursed to the day shift. It was relatively painless, just a shift full of alcoholic graduate professors and other miscreants looking for libation at 3 in the afternoon.

            Not only did the place play old country songs in a unforgiving 3 hour loop, I also had to wear an oversized white button shirt and a bolo tie. You don’t know degradation until you’re condescended by some prissy undergraduate in a sweater-vest while making blue frozen margaritas in a fucking bolo tie!

            The afternoon was slow and I looked forward to my break to spilt up the twelve hour double I was about to work when a slightly heavy-set woman walked into the bar. She plopped right down on the stool, sweat glistening on her forehead like sugar granules, and huffed out a large breath.

            “Oooh, it’s a hot one out there, boy!” She explains, brushing her dishwater blonde hair out of her face. Her eyes were strange and wide, a clear blue, and darted back and forth as I moved between patrons behind the bar.

            I knew something was off right away, my bartending Spidey-sense ringing alarm bells. I ignored them, and greeted her.

            “What can I get you, Miss?”

            She paused, still staring intently right at me, as if she was trying to look through me.

            “Well, I need something very, very strong.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “And very, very sweet.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “What would you recommend for that?” she says, leaning on her thick arms over the bar.

            “We are a margarita bar.”

            “And you make good ones?”

            “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

            “Well, why don’t you fix me one of those then,” she said, winking.

            I do what I’m told, feeling those wide and strange eyes watching my every move. I use a heavy hand in my pour. She chimes in, “You can put a little more in there, can’t you?”

            To avoid trouble, I poured a couple more jiggers worth.

            “Oooh, that’s just right,” she said after gulping down ¼ of the glass. “Just what the doctor ordered. Can I ask you a question?”

            I started to polish a glass with my bar rag.

            “Shoot…”

            “You would say that bartenders are pretty knowledgeable, yes?”

            “Some of us know more than others.”

            “And I’m sure you hear a lot of things back there?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            Her eyes glazed over, still wild and blue, as she chugged back the rest.

            “Another, please.”

            I started on it. She continued:

            “Well, you seem like you probably have some answers for me.”

            I felt it creep up my spine. That cold chill of danger. I filled the glass with tequila. This was only going to go one way. I place the glass slowly in front of her, feeling those strange eyes burning a hold in the back of my head.

            “What did you have in mind?” I ask.

            She, again, ferociously puts down half the glass, a little liquid spilling over her thick lips. She rubs her face with her sleeve.

            “What would do if you had nowhere to go?”

            “What do you mean? Like you’re homeless?”

            “No. I have a home. I have a husband. I have a job. I’m saying if you can’t go to any of those things.”

            I step back and start polishing another glass clean.

            “Like you can’t go home?” I asked.

            “No. I can go home,” she said, her eyes wide, “I just can’t. Do you know what I mean?”

            I slowly shake my head: “I don’t understand, Miss, I’m sorry.”

            She leaned further over the bar, as if to tell me a secret. Her voice is low and steady.

            “I-just-can’t-go-an-y-where. Do you know what I mean? What would you do if you couldn’t go an-y-where…? What would you do if you found yourself in that position? How could you get out?”

            The clank of glasses slammed down behind me and I jumped out of the strange hypnotic eyes of the sweating woman. My boss, a fat Irishman named Bob, stood there with a case of dirty glasses.

            “Matthew, you’re on break. Take 20. I handle the bar from here.”

            I looked back to the woman who coolly sipped her drink, not taking her eyes off me.

            “Think about it, Matthew,” she said. I shivered as she said my name, overhearing it from my stupid boss. I threw down the towel and slipped out the back door.

            During my break, I ate a sandwich in Harvard Square, trying to shake that woman’s face out of my mind. All I could hope for was that she was gone when I went back in.

            I snubbed out a cigarette as I turned around the corner off Church Street when I saw the flashing lights. An ambulance was parked out front of the restaurant.

            I shook my head and swore under my breath as I walked through the double doors.

            There, on a stretcher, was the lady, tied down and flanked by a police officer and two EMT’s. As they wheeled her past me, she stared at me with those empty blue eyes and grinned, showing her teeth.

            “I found my way out. Thanks, Matthew.”

            They wheeled her out and I felt bile rise up in my throat. My boss came up behind me with his hands on his hips.

            “What the fuck did you say to her, Matthew?”

            I turned towards him. “What? I didn’t say anything. What the fuck happened?”

            Bob grunted. “Well, you left and she pounded that drink and told me what a great bartender you were. Then she went over to a table, grabbed a steak knife, brought it to her neck, yelling at the top of her lungs something about ‘getting out. What the hell did you do?”

            I felt dizzy. “I didn’t do anything. Jesus.”

            “You fucking better of not. We don’t need any more lawsuits,” he said, lumbering off, me not quite sure what that meant. I walked slowly back behind the bar. Two college kids saddled up, and laughing, asked for two frozen blue margaritas. Keeping my hands from shaking, I poured the tequila into the blender.

            They certain don’t teach you shit like that at Bartending School.

            That’s why bartenders are crafted out of steel.

            And why we’ve seen it all.

            Cheers to finding a way out, anyway you can.

            Just next time, do it at someone else’s bar.

            See y’all next week.    

THIS GUY SHOULD'VE
BEEN A BARTENDER!

YOU PICK: THE BAR OR THIS BOOTH.

   

THEY DON'T CALL THEM 

'CHURCH KEYS' FOR NOTHING!

           

The Best Brunch in Williamsburg

             I’m drinking my home state of Rhode Island’s classic tall boy can of Narragansett Beer with some of my artistic friends listening to a trombone player note Chet Baker’s “I Fall In Love Too Easily” at a little newly minted wine bar off North 6^th with a shitty owner but stocked full of lithe raven haired dilettantes and super cool guy named Dylan, when I suddenly realize my entire life, truly, and at present, is a cliché.

            Let’s do the Artist Cliché checklist for the evening.

            Okay.

            Highly creative individuals dressed in monochromatic colors pontificating a range of topics regarding Art, a return trip from Berlin, what dates we’ll meet in Paris over the winter, how my novel is going, and when the musicians we’re drinking with are playing their next gig.

            Check.

            We are in a moody, candlelit, wine bar, with bottles lining the walls, matched with framed oil paintings of glassy eyed children and old men with gray beards.

            Check.

            An anorexic, but highly sexually enticing waitress with red painted lips and lots of clanging gypsy jewelry hanging from her wrists sarcastically serves us drinks.

            Check.

            Lovers making out in dark corners to the narcotic sounds of the trombone while a singer dressed like Cole Porter with the teeth of an Englishman (craggily) croons.

            Yes.

            Two men, thoroughly older then the women who join them at their table, smile across at each other, talk of Henry Miller, what Old New York must have been like, and whether or not Rick Perry has a chance at winning 2012. The girls, twins no less, are both dressed wonderfully in completely different styles. One, who shows pictures of her recent Germanic adventures, has billowy blonde hair falling around her cherubic face smiling in the candlelight. The other, a short haired brunette with eyes like chocolate, listens to her sister fondly, her brown pools darting from conversation to conversation, taking in all in. More drinks are served and glasses clank in the night.

            Check.

            I’m waiting for Django Reinhart to walk in.

            My friend, his moustache sharply curled above his lips like electric wire, brings out his ‘to do’ list. Most of the items are crossed off with black marker, but one thing remains on the list. I grab the piece of paper out of his hand.

            “What’s left?” I ask.

            “Oh, a mustard jar,” he says, quite plainly, “I need a new mustard jar.”

            “Mustard jar?” I say, flatly.

            We both get the joke and start laughing.

            “These are Williamsburg problems,” I say, pounding my beer. “While the rest of the world starves, we have to worry about where in God’s green Earth can we buy our next mustard jar.”

            There is a special place in hell for Americans. But it will probably be air-conditioned.

            Moving onto another gut-wrenching, philosophical quandary:

            Where will we brunch today?

            Take a beautiful sunny Sunday, perfect Fall weather, not too hot, a little breeze, just waking up and shedding off that horrid hangover left from the 3 bottles of Prosecco consumed the night before; there is nothing better in the world than a fine, clean, happy brunch.

            Now I’ve told you all exactly where not to go in the neighborhood a couple blogs ago ( Go here!): 

            But where are the finest places in Williamsburg to enjoy your brunching?

            Here are the winners.

            1.

            TEDDY’s

            (North 8^th and Berry)

            I have never been out to a restaurant for a meal and left, 5.3 hours later, drunk as shit off champagne, fourteen shots of whiskey, fattened by a hot fudge sundae, spicy chicken wings, and the best 2 egg, potato, and Challah toast deal in the hood ($4.95, Hobo prices!). The place was around when William Taft was President for Christ’s Sake, so it’s got street cred. It’s unpretentious, completely warm and friendly even to degenerates like myself, always some kind of game on, and chalk full of cheap drinks.

            Every worker there is A) a wonderful drinker, B) completely sexy, C) and tough as nails, ready to throw down and fight if they got too. I keep telling them there should be a Calendar for “Teddy’s Girls”, each month christened by a scantily dressed Teddy’s worker with their favorite alcoholic beverage of choice in hand. I’m ignored, and often times threatened with calls to the police.

            Bonus Awesome: Wings that are actually good, air-conditioned through the summer, and jailbait hostesses to leer at.               

            2.

            LE BARRICOU

            (533 Grand Street, between Union and Lorimer)

            In all my travels through this godforsaken, sinful neighborhood, the greatest treat a man or woman can find is a place that does not fuck up Hollandaise Sauce.

            Seriously.

            Like ass play, Hollandaise sauce is not to be taken lightly.

            After testing over 25 restaurants for this dish, no one can actually pull this off like the decadent, rich, sweet flavor of Le Barricou’s Eggs Benedict. Top that off with amazing Parisian décor, relatively friendly staff (the male managers all seem like stoic hipster men wax statues), and fantastic music selection. Get their early, for this place is growing in stature. Best time is right before noon on the weekend, right before all of the uber-sheik elite arrive and fuck the whole experience by being themselves.

            Bonus Awesome: Great oysters, a slim Polish bartender named Olga, and walls painted with that special Van Gogh yellow that just demands you get drunk on absinthe and sleep with prostitutes.      

              

            3.

            KASIA’s DINER

            (146 Bedford Ave, between North 8^th and 9^th)

            Bedford Avenue, as all of you know, has become the new Montparnasse of our modern era. Streets lined with the hip bourgeois, toting silly little dogs I want to punt across the street, and parades of poseurs and tourists, drug addicts and drunks, artists and provocateurs. All the restaurants that line this boulevard of cool are over-priced, over-crowded, and just a plain hassle to enjoy.

            But there’s a little gem in its mist, and conveniently closed on weekends (Ha-Ha you fucking weekend warriors, it’s all mine!!!!!). Kasia’a Polish Diner. It is just as you’d expect. Simple, plain, awesome food. Great smoothies with real fruit (try the ginger-apple-orange mix, divine). I have brought more women here after a night of whiskey and sex the wonderfully kind Polish waitresses must think I’m running a brothel off 9^th street. Just try it. Cheap food, great kielbasa, and nothing is organic, you pedantic health freaks! Just good food your depression era Grandmother would approve of.

            Bonus Awesome: Ana and her smile, great little patio for watching the world go by on Bedford, and working man’s prices, out the door for under ten bucks full and ready for the day (or evening).

            Happy Brunching!

            Stay Tuned for next Monday’s installment of “The Bartender Knows”

RHODE ISLAND's FINEST EXPORT (other then me)

YES, THIS IS PRESIDENT TAFT. LOVE THIS GUY!

How To Become A Bartender?

             Now that the Wall Street bankers, our Congress, and the President have decided to put the United States of America on a crash course with a credit default scare, everyone about now is a little worried that all of the financial markets are going to come tumbling down and those nice people who told us that investments and 401K plans were the smart way to go are currently loading unmarked $100 bills into private jets en route to some bank in the Cayman Islands, the idea of working a ‘cash that day’ job seems the intelligent choice.

            Yes, that’s right, no receipts, no proof, just work, smile, serve some drinks, make some people laugh, and skip, happily away with a wad of cash for your efforts.

            This is the life of a bartender.

            Now what seemed like a default choice of my own may just be the thing that saves my ass when this whole economy comes crashing down upon everyone’s feet.

            Listen up kids, do what you good ole bartender did! Try your hand at being a writer! Drop out of high school! Go develop a narcotics addiction! Live your life free of college debt and horrid academic graduate school garbage! Get drunk all the time! Date only strippers and women who suffer from severe depression!   

            Okay. Maybe all of that is a complete line of bullshit. This way of life is not for the faint of heart.

            Still, there are some of you out there who have lost their jobs during this damn recession, and now are looking for some way to stand on their own two feet. And, the first question I get all the time is:

            How Do I Become A Bartender?

            Now I have just the solution towards this plight.

            But, I will start with some warnings.

            As a bartender, or any position in the food/beverage industry, there are some essential risks by making this lifestyle choice.            

            Let me ask you a series of personal questions (and if you answer YES to any of these, please consider a different profession):

           

            1. Do you like getting up early and smelling the fresh, clean air?   

            2. Does the idea of living in a perpetual state of darkness bother you?

            3. Do you try to surround yourself with people who are uplifting, inspiring you to greater heights, and challenge you emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually?

            4. Do you like health insurance?

            5. Do you have strong sexual morals?

            6. Do you like job security?

            7. Do you seek parental approval of your life decisions?

            8. Did you go to bartending school?

            9. Do you have a drinking problem? (because you will after serving people for any time over six months)

            10. Do you enjoy being treated like a servile imbecile by those who are neither smarter, more ambitious, or with as much experience in dealing with customers than you (i.e. restaurant managers)?

            If you’ve answered ‘no’ to all of these questions, we can now move on to How To Become A Bartender.

            First things first. DO NOT GO ON CRAIG’s LIST!

            Craig’s List signifies two things right off the bat:

            1. The Restaurant/Bar is new. Which means you will not make any money at all. Which means the management probably has no fucking clue how to run a business. Which means they will treat you like shit. Or,

            2. There is no good rapport between staff and management. Any bar gets their staff from other staff recommendations. That’s just how it works. As my best friend J puts it, the bar world is a “cult of personality”. So, if the staff hates the management (as they often do), then the management must resort to Craig’s List ads to find decent help. Which means that the managers are a bunch of self-righteous assholes. Which means no one drinks with them after their shift. Which means you will make no money AND be demeaned daily.

            Second things second, do not hand in a resume. This isn’t rocket science. The resume in the bartending world is the most retarded, useless invention ever created. What does it really show? You can use Microsoft Word Templates? You know your friends phone numbers who will pose wonderfully as managers from other bars?

            I can tell a real bartender from a poseur in under an hour by putting that person behind the bar. How do you handle your speed rail? How do you talk to your customers? The proof is right there in the pudding. If they stand there like a deer in headlights and fumble the money and bottles like a blind juggler, you can be rest assured your new employee has never stood on a greasy bar mat in their lives.

            Here’s the sad and horrible truth about how to become a bartender.

            You HAVE to work for several years at horrid, disgusting, self-debasing, and abusive bars to earn your way up the ‘ladder’ to the final two goals of all bartender life: The Dive Bartender or The Fine Dining Bartender (these being the two pinnacles whom all strive for which I will discuss in future blogs).

            Or you have to sleep with the right person.

            Or your father is a part owner.

            Or you’re an incredibly hot woman.

            Although most people think that it’s a side job easily attainable, bartending is much like everything else: you have to work your way up, the right people have to like you, and you need to be lucky.

            The only true secret I can offer is this:

            Find a bar you love to drink at, love the bartenders at, and want to work at, and drink there ALL THE TIME. You personality will be discovered because of the truth inducing liquid of alcohol. And if the right bartender digs you, you’re on the fast track to success.

            Other than that, drop those crazy notions of personal pride, integrity, and mental stability, roll up your sleeves, and jump head first into the shark tank.

            Good luck, and I’ll see you at the bars.

           

            Stay tuned for the next installment: Bartending Secrets (part 2)  

THIS GIRL WORKED HER WHOLE LIFE JUST TO DO THIS!

 THIS GUY KILLED THREE PEOPLE FOR THE JOB.

         

             

              DAMN RIGHT!

Bartender Secrets (Part 1)

             You like to get drunk, right? You don’t have much cash? Or, if you’re a trust fund kid (god bless you), and you want to ensure that your parents hard earned money isn’t squandered on over priced drinks? Well, here we go.

            Listen.

            The bartender is always in charge. I don’t care WHO you are, we rule our beer-soaked lands. We will short change you if you’re a dick. We will cock-block you if you degrade us (by telling the girl you’re hitting on when you’re in the bathroom that we’ve ‘seen you around’, followed by the rolling of eyes. Trust me, girls believe their bartenders more than they believe your punk ass). We will always under pour your drinks if we so choose.

            Conversely, if you are a wonderfully sweet person, a great tipper, and somewhat of an interesting conversationalist (we get REAL bored back there sometimes), we can change the vibe of your night with a snap of a finger. We can get you laid. We can get you drunk. We can introduce you to our friends so you don’t have to sit lonely at the end of the bar staring into a candle.  

            Here’s some secrets of how not to anger/piss-off/infuriate your bartender so you can get all the perks a good wholesome drunk like yourself deserves.

           

            1.

            Twenty on the Bar.

            Now this is an old school thing. You roll in, after a hard day’s work, find a decent centered bar stool so you can scope the scene, saddle up, elbows down, and, after throwing a quick smile to the bartender, you break out a crisp, clean Andrew Jackson and slide it right on the bar and order a cocktail. You don’t even touch the money, the bartender will (if they know what the fuck they are doing).

            No one actually knows where this move was invented. But it states something very clear.

            I have money I want to spend here.

            No, I don’t give a shit about opening ‘tabs’.

            Yes, there is some of this twenty in it for you, Bar Keep, if everything goes smooth.

            This is a famed move of Italian Gangsters and anyone else who knows the bottom half of WWII.

            The bartender will continually take from this pool of money (always larger bills face up and on top), and respect the arrangement with a quiet sort of grace and respect.

            It’s got this feeling of class, like the patron doesn’t even have to handle the dirty business of the financials. It says street confidence and ‘no, I’m not going to run up a bill with you and drunkenly stiff you’. (Note: Ladies, it’s extra classy if y’all do it. In my career, I’ve seen only a handful of women pull this move, and I always lauded them with appropriate attention).

            2.

            “How Are You?”

            91% of the time, anyone in the food/beverage service industry is actually invisible to the customer. Seriously. We are all interchangeable faces that merely must shut up and provide a service a monkey could do if you trained him how to use a Church Key. When you are out to dinner, how many of you remember exactly what the waiter looked like? Or what the bartenders name was? Most of the time, the customer is coming off a long day and shuffles, tired into the bar.

Before them stands a mostly intelligent human being with hopes and dreams and feelings and, sometimes without even eye contact, the customer grunts:

            “Beer…”

            Now, nothing is more infuriating then one of these assholes.

            Hey, look, we don’t need to be best friends. We don’t need to talk about our feelings. But if you genuinely greet us with an honest “How are you?” it lifts us out of the nullifying abyss of obscurity and for a split second we actually feel like someone more than just a Robo Bartender (yes, they actually invented this, go here: ).

            Now, of course, we’re not going to tell you, actually, how we feel. You don’t want to know either. There’s just no time to discuss who knocked us up or how much coke we did last night, or how we can’t pay rent but still find the time to fuck 21 year old girls. But it’s your gesture that stands out in our bartending mind that you are the okay sort who will get their third drink bought back for them.

            3.

            Don’t Bring Up The Third Drink Rule!  

            This is an absolute imperative. Let me shout it from the mountains to be heard across every sea in the world.

            DO NOT BRING UP THE THIRD DRINK RULE.

            EVER!

            EEVVVVEEERRR!

            This will ensure that not only will you be ignored by the bartender, but you will be reviled and talked shit upon openly to other customers until you walk out in shame.

            Let me clear the air here. The Third Drink Rule is a loosely followed intuitive rule deeming that after the third drink bought (and tipped on) the bartender will buy the next one. This is not a hard and fast rule, and only decided by the bartender themselves.

            But somehow, as of late, I have heard customers (who obviously have never tended bar in their lives) bring this up with a bartender. Not only will you not get a free drink, but you will be hated for even daring to ask. It’s not funny. You’re not clever. You’re not ‘getting away’ with something, or proving anything to the bartender.

            You’re just proving that you’re a douche bag. Which wasn’t much in question to begin with.

            Stay tuned for Bartender Secrets (Part 2) 

Dont' treat us like this guy: