NY Barfly

What defines a bender? Hmmm. We better put our drinking cap on.

Of late, there has been some controversy as to what constitutes a proper “bender”. The sober-minded spouses of our dear drunken friends mark a bender at “two days of heavy drinking in a row”. On the other hand, there are people like our local congressional representative who qualify a bender as “five days in jail after getting a DUI, ruining your political career and exposing your secret second family.”

To a proper sophisticate, the truth lies somewhere in between. While we certainly drink a hearty share for more than the aforementioned two days, we would never think to out our secret polygamous side. By the way - Jezebeth and Mordicai - if you’re reading this, you best be off to bed (blessed be).

The benevolent Barfly that we are, we decided to get to the bottom of this definitional dilemma. We’ll start with the usual suspects. And no, the urban dictionary does not constitute a usual suspect – we don’t care for when those pomo posers fake the funk about such serious things. Word.

Dictionary.com: Bender (n.) –

1. A person or thing that bends, as a pair of pliers or a powered machine.

2. Slang – a drinking spree.

Well, that doesn’t help very much at all, now does it? How much can a pair of pliers drink before it feels tipsy? We watched 6.5 hours of Myth Busters and still have no answer.

A drinking spree seems more reasonable, but that’s still too ambiguous. We did what any proper journalist would do and turned to the streets for answers. When we realized that asphalt can’t speak, we decided to ask our friends. We cataloged what we could make out through their glorious slurs:

• ”Two words. Tequila Sunrise. You still have to be drinking it when that thing in the sky comes up and blinds you.”
• “6 nights of excessive drinking. At least two of them have to involve gambling but less than three can end with you waking up in your own bed.”
• “A fortnight of trying to clear your head because of the direction your life is going - nowhere” (we love people who use the word fortnight; we bought her another case of champagne for clarity purposes).

For balance, we asked a smattering of Mormons and recovering alcoholics the same questions.

• “Two nips of the peep-stone is a party, three nips a bender.” (We’re so proud of young Mordicai for coming up with such insight)
• “Why the hell are you asking me this? I have to call my sponsor.”
• “Just because I tuck my pants into my jeans doesn’t mean I’m a Mormon.”

Ay! We are so exhausted by this research. We decided that we would reward our field work with a delicious martini. The very moment we added a dash of vermouth, the true definition hit us! Like dictionary.com – it comes in two parts. Gentle reader, please keep in mind that we pursue such scholarly discourse purely for your benefit.

Bender (n.) –

1. Two consecutive nights of not drinking.

2. Who care’s what the hell it means. Quit your yapping and have another drink.

Review: Jadis Wine Bar

As most of you know, we recently finished our bi-annual salute to our primary muse: Marcel Marceau. We are sure that the committed readers amongst you enjoyed our new expressionistic art form: blog mime. Note to committed readers, please stop asking - we will never reveal how we make it look so real (as if Mr. Marceau would ever admit that there wasn’t actually a wall in front of him).

Of course we were left parched after our tribute was over – fake blogging is a tremendous amount of work (just ask the fake writers over at the Gawker empire). We decided to continue the theme into cocktail hour. No silly, we didn’t climb a fake rope to a fake bar and drink ourselves into a fake drunken stupor. We mean the French theme. We drove down to Lower East Side Bar Jadis for some tasty French wines. Though we tried to keep up the theme the entire ride down, New York taxi drivers can be a surly bunch when confronted with a Barfly driving on the wrong side of the road.

Tucked away on a cozy strip of Rivington Street – the bar offered everything that we desired (except perhaps a magical serum that could bring Marceau back from the dead). We ordered a glass of sparkling rose and enjoyed nibbling on some mini-quiches and bacon-wrapped scallops. As the night wore on, we found that this was the type of place that we could really settle into. A private party lit up the back space with their conversation and the smell of chartreuse wafted our way as couples picked over selections from the menu.

We were well on our way to getting ourselves into a cozy (and genuine) drunken stupor. We raised our glass, and hoped that wherever Marky Marceau happens to be, he is as comfortable as we felt in Jadis. This place certainly wasn’t some fake trip in the elevator that amuses the kids – it’s the real deal (admittedly though, those fake elevator tricks are the most hilarious thing we’ve ever seen).

Review – Jadis Wine Bar – 42 Rivington Steet (near Forsyth):

Mainly French Wine List – 4 olives – With a selection like this, it makes us want to sign on as a collaborater. Viva La Ristance! Or, wait – we think we’ve got the metaphor backwards. Viva La Nazis!

Mime Time – 5 olives – The most fun time of the day (except for drunky time, which is off the olive scale). Try it sometime – in the morning you can mime that you don’t secretly resent the person that you’re living with and in the afternoon you can sit at your desk and mime that it’s exactly what you wanted your life to be.

Caged-in Smoker’s Patio – 4 olives – At first we were put off. Why would they want to keep the smokers caged up? Then we realized that these folks are french – the steel bars are meant to keep the hideous non-smokers out.

Sparkling Wine on a Sunny Spring Day - 4.5 olives – Can we imagine anything better? Well, in fact, we can. How aboout a few shots of gin in that champagne!

Drink of the Week: We don’t care what it is, as long as it’s purple and laden with alcohol.

To a proper Barfly, the colors of the drink Rainbow can get oh-so tiresome. When we were a wee-little Barfly studying the color-wheel, we imagined that there were endless hues to be mixed from the three primary colors - gin, vodka and vermouth (we went to a very progressive learning institute, instead of nap time we had Limoncello mixers).

But, the drink menu of the present day never varies from the same sorry standards. There’s margarita green for when you need to make grass on your drawing. There’s brandy brown for the unspeakable things underneath the grass. There is also that unique color of grain alcohol that they used to call “Injun red”. Alas, we are now forced to refer to it as “yellowish”. Enough alcoholism on the reservation sure ruins all the fun.

We were just about to give up our quest for color and pour all of our spirits into the same glass. We would call our new pigment maudlin mauve and drink it because we were feeling blue.

At the last minute, we thought to look in a very unlikely place for some inspiration: our cupboard of nutritious things. We decided that we couldn’t drink flax seeds and that all of those iron-ore flakes were far too crass. And then we saw it, beckoning to us like invisible indigo: Purple.

Just what we needed – a color, and yet a drink. This health-conscious beverage (using what we assume are the powers of a Genie) combines the exotic acai berry with six other fruits. It’s perfect for color-fying martinis, margaritas, mojitios and all the other cocktails under the drunken rainbow.

In fact, it has a grand total of 7 antioxidants – it is no coincidence that this happens to be the same number as colors in the spectrum. As far as we can tell, it is a coincidence that this is the same as the number of dwarves, deadly sins, and purple drinks that took to get us feeling “back to normal”.

The best part about drinking this luxurious new color? When we toast to our health, we can actually believe it. It's such a refreshing change of pace not to have our liver snicker ever time we raise our glass.

Staten Island Rep. Vito Fossella Gets 1. Arrested for Drunken Driving 2. Our Vote

Yo! Vito! What the freak ya’ doin!

Being the Manhattan bound Barfly that we are, we’ve never wanted to live on the island they call Staten (American-Indian for Superfund Site). Some recent news has made us reconsider our high-end habitat. Vito Fossella, Staten Island’s representative to the U.S. congress, was given one of those little gold stars that we used to receive in kindergarten: a drunk-driving citation.

Vito was doing his Drunk Town civic duty when he was pulled over by Virginia state police last Thursday evening. He claimed that he had “two or three glasses of wine, about three hours earlier.” When the officers didn’t seem content with that attempt at honesty, Vito entered the spin room before the room started spinning. He claimed that he was in a rush “to go get his daughter who had to be taken to the hospital.” The officers were not given a specific reason for the emergency visit, but were told that symptoms included the fact that she “loves America too much” and “don’t you know who I am? She’s fuckin sick if I say she’s fuckin sick.”

To get his very own gold star, the officers asked Vito to complete a very hard big-boy task: recite the alphabet, starting from D. “Mr. Fossella started: ‘D, E, F, H, G, H, I, J, L,’”. Ohhhh, so close! While the alphabet on Staten Island does have 2 H’s (see local dictionary, yes = “Huh” and no = “uh-uh”), he missed the K!

The officers decided on extra-credit. Though he failed the alphabet portion of the exam, they were impressed when they asked Rep. Fossella to spell his name and he replied “G, U, I, D, O”. It was then that he was told that he would receive the shiny star, plus four days in jail.

“Right now politics is the last thing on my mind,” he said at a recent press conference. “Right now it’s the embarrassment of my family, my friends and my community.” We could tell that Vito was embarrassed, especially when he looked out at the press room and said “God, like, this is like, so frickin stressful. Does anyone have two or three glasses of wine?” Why is it that we’re always the only journalist that carries a portable bar, didn’t they teach them anything at that Columbia place?

Well, when Vito returns, we propose a ticker tape parade on the Island for him (Barfly parade planning tip #79: torn up cocktail napkins make great ticker-tape). If he was at home, he never would have been arrested. Those silly Virginia police thought it was a problem that the representative’s blood alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit. But on Staten Island, that sort of thing is normal. Driving under the influence isn’t measured by B.A.L., it’s determined by the driver’s all important garbage-fumes index.

Derelicts, Despots and Deadbeats Rejoice - It's Derby Day! Southern Gentlemen, we suppose you can rejoice too.

Gentlemen – start your engines! Uh. . .no, that’s not quite right (we’re already a little juleped from our third mint cocktail). We do declare, we say we do declare that what we meant was: Horseys – start your haunches!

It’s Derby Day – our favorite horse related non-holiday (our second favorite being Jell-O Appreciation Tuesday). When else do we actually get accepted for wearing our adhesive white goatee and walking around with a mint-julep poured in a KFC chicken bucket? When we do this on a normal Saturday, we are met with screams of pervert (it is not our fault - decorum insists that if the children on the playground ask for a sip, we must comply).

But Derby Day is special. The malicious glares are replaced by splendid women in bonnets asking for a “line” on the coming race. Being the gentleperson that we are, it is our duty to help them. Dear reader, you can also feel free to place your bets using the below odds.

We are sure that 98% of you are true Southern Gentry and have no need for such insight, but for the 2% of you that are glorious Jersey-City dwelling derelicts – here’s your line. Be sure to pay attention, she’ll kill you if you don’t win that wedding ring back.

Barfly’s Odds on the Kentucky Derby:

2:1 odds - You’ll get annoyed at figuring out the multi-step process that makes a true julep and decide to swill the Maker’s Mark directly from the bottle instead.

3:1 odds – That the NASCAR set amongst you are shaking your heads and asking “what’s the big deal with a bunch of horses running in a circle.” Just do your best to imagine that the ponies are front loaded with Danica Patrick’s breasts, then you’ll understand.

2:3 odds – The horse will cross the finish line, and you’ll jump up and scream “I won, I won!” You’ll excitedly daydream about all the things that you’ll be able to do with the money, until you realize that the race was two days ago and you’re actually watching Sea Biscuit.

10:1 odds – That she’ll accept you back after you return home with a tin-foil “wedding ring” around your finger and explain “what are you talking about honey – it’s the same ring!”

50:1 odds - Barbaro’s ghost will get the sympathy vote and be declared the winner of the race. It will be a truly joyous moment when the spirit of Jack Palance accepts the trophy for his deft jockeying.

If you can’t make it to Churchill Downs or your local (surely luxurious) Off Track Betting establishment – take a look at this list of New York haunts that will be slinging juleps and cooking up horse-burgers through the entire day’s worth of "midget-jockey jokes”. Can’t they have a 6-foot minimum next year? We’re so exhausted of tired jokes about the dwarf people, especially because they have wee-little feelings too.

360 Vodka - 360 Ways to Save the Planet (though we prefer way #43: drinking it).

Going green is hard, ladies and gentlemen. We want to be genteel - but this idea of environmental mindfulness has such crass connotations in our world. Martinis may cost $3.50 a gallon - but we still pay. How else are we supposed to feel American?

This past Earth Day, we were trying to muster up the courage to finally give this green business a go. We wanted to help, to make a difference, but most importantly we wanted to be in the "cool kids" crowd. Even though we are currently ourselves a svelte-citizen, we still feel the urge to rush over and join these folks when they do something especially exciting (i.e. buy pogs, save the planet).

We got to the park and were appalled. The cool kids were planting trees. We could even breathe more clearly when we gasped in horror. If we wanted dirt under our fingernails, we would have been breaking ginger into pieces by hand. If anything could save this sorry planet, it is surely our naturally infused Sake-tini.

We were just about to stomp off when we remembered something very touching from An Inconvenient Truth: our portable bar. It just so happened that we were carrying just the thing to make Roly-poly Gore proud: 360 Vodka.

The first green vodka? Not only does it save the planet, it makes planting trees fun! When you dig two small holes and give up because you want another sip, you needn’t worry. They've taken everything into account. It’s made from 100% local Kansas grains, bottled in a stylish container that contains 85% recycled glass, and packed and shipped in eco-friendly containers.

Most importantly, the empty bottle doubles as a buoy for a polar bear in search of the next fleeting glacier (though, we fear it still won’t help Finlandia recover).

And the taste? As clean as the fresh, carbon-free air. To attain this level of air-quality, we had to encourage the cool kids to get to their planted tree quota. Believe us, they had to move to get their next martini.

But, when they were done with a forest of saplings, we were ready with a canopy of 360 cocktails waiting for them. There may have been ginger sap under our fingers for days, but we were proud to do our part. It’s a dangerous time for this planet, and 360 vodka is only the first, albeit glorious, step.

Davey and Drunky: On Vacation!

New York Bars Closing at 2 am? Not on this Frickin’ Bat-Channel!

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is times like these that call for a Barfly bat-signal. A beacon should be projected into the sky to raise the alarm. The symbol would not be a blood sucking mammal – instead a glistening martini glass would inform the city that something nefarious is afoot (for the vocabulary deficient plebeians out there, nefarious=sober and afoot=truckin’).

We’d be happy to take on the Joker – once we get through Mary Kate’s security goons (Zock!), we suspect that Heath won’t put up much of a fight after his visit with the Xanax fairy. This week’s villain is a much more daunting foe. For the past three months, New York community boards have been subversively recommending that liquor licenses only be approved for establishments that shutter at 2AM. There are rumors filtering into our utility belt (we never thought rumors would tickle in so interesting a fashion). The State Liquor Authority may be conspiring with the boards to turn our island into a 2AM town.

Slowly fading out the 4 AM closing time? Telling the entire eastern seaboard “lights out” before the glorious witching hour of near dawn? Sluts having nowhere to go but “home by themselves”? All we can say is Holy Lame-Ass Party Poopers Batman! To the Martini-cave!

Barfly is sitting closely to the red phone – we will swoop (i.e. stumble) in to save the city if absolutely needed. The people – i.e. poor innocent bar owners – are understandably upset. New York liquor establishments reportedly make over 58% of their income between the hours of 1 and 4 am. We suspect that the 92% of city citizens would be up in arms if this truly is a conspiracy. 8% of the city would be thrilled. Who are they? Picture a fish eating Danny Devito sitting in a rent controlled apartment, their flippers furiously fingering a decibel counter that is pointed out the window toward the local bar.

Bless their hearts. Despite their villainy, we feel for them for two reasons. They think they live in Boston. And, that decibel counter is their only friend, save for the despots on their local community board.

Tune in next time gentle reader, we will do our best to keep you posted. In fact, Lois Lane is with us this very minute - sitting on the chaise and trying to get to the bottom of this. Oh, quiet you! Who cares if we’re mixing superhero metaphors? You’re just jealous because Lois isn’t asking you to pour her a dry martini.

Boston Bans Bottle Service!

Much to the chagrin of the powerful meathead lobby, Boston has become the first major city to ban bottle service from their clubs.

Members of the Boston Licensing board aren’t just party-poopers because they can’t get past the velvet ropes (aldermen wearing fanny-packs must go to the back of the line). Paying in excess of $300 for some Goose apparently breaks the city’s long time “happy-hour” law.

The statute states that an establishment can’t serve more than two drinks per patron at any time. When enacted, the purpose was to keep residents out of such dangerous businesses like “experiencing joy” and “being cool”. The public was prepared to revolt tea-party style, until they realized that they lived in Boston.

One long-time resident explained: ”We don’t know what we’d do if there was too much joy. There would be chaos. And, this ‘coolness’ is surely the work of female witches”. Barfly would still like to know how he got his shoe buckles so shiny (could it be that those witches have more than one talent?).

The wealthy-drinking sect is up in arms about the expansion of this law. The last time they were this mobilized was when the legislature banned cargo-shorts from anywhere that served beer. “The townies were upset, to say the least,” the council president informed. “But, it was time to let go of cargo-shorts, they are all in their 30’s. I’m sorry to say, but life just isn’t one big Kegger. Not in my town.”

When asked for comment, the townie spokesman could only say: “Dude. . ..”

The licensing board believes that the recent bottle-service ban will be another “for their own damn good” success. “We’re not New York and we’re not South Beach," board-leader Daniel Pokaski said. “The city of Boston has a lot more to offer than just getting people inebriated.”

Barfly decided to test Pokaski’s statement. We were able to find plenty of other things to do than say Bah! to bottle service. Did you know that some Paul Revere guy wore a funny hat, and it stayed on the WHOLE time that he was saving America.

There was also a great sale at the local Gap. We may not have been tipsy, but we got a fantastic deal on some new shorts. They have tons of fancy pockets. Awesome!

Planning an intervention? Not before we intervene!

It’s sad for Barfly to see our loving friends step out of control – especially because it’s their turn to pay for cocktails. What makes us even more horribly downcast is the dreaded excuse for a party that middle-America qualifies as “doing-something” – the intervention.

A bunch of your “friends” and distant sober cousins (we didn’t intervene when you converted to Mormonism, now did we Steve) all sitting in a room and telling you that “they’re doing this for your own good”. How undeniably lame. We would even go so far as to elevate that to the almost unspeakable Lame-O, especially because they are sitting on folding chairs.

Barfly has oft-noted two things about these social gatherings. Firstly – it’s rare that the person truly has to change their lifestyle. Just because they set the bar on fire two nights ago doesn’t mean they need to get completely off the sauce. Instead, they should learn how to relax and not have “too much fun”. We’ve found that if subtly encouraged, these folks who seem to be ‘out of control’ will make the right decision. When faced with a choice between their next gin-and-tonic and stabbing that guy in the leg, they’ll stay on the right side of things. Note: although injury to others is indubitably fun, the possibility of bleeding-out makes it “too much fun”.

Secondly – even though it may be a solemn affair because you are encouraging someone to “drink less”, there is no excuse. It most certainly can be a memorable party. So, put those folding chairs back in the dumpster and dis-invite Great Aunt Esther – no one’s cared what she’s thought for 32 years.

Below see some tips for a Barfly approved intervention. And, remember – as long as the person with whom you’re intervening is at least 2 drinks behind you for the duration of the party, your task is done! Moral of the story? Have numerous drinks before they arrive.

Tips for a truly fantastic Garden Party (a sophisticate's code word for intervention):

1. Everyone loves croquet. And, if the slovenly drunkard of the group is not listening to “reason” (i.e. – instead of three martinis, how about two martinis and then a champagne cocktail) the mallets can be brandished as persuasive tools. The subject may even be drunk enough to experience Alice in Wonderland style hallucinations and deiced to drink “tea” for the rest of the evening. If they start manically screaming about cats in trees, consider the intervention successful.

2. Nobody likes a quitter (though, reverse-quitters have a special place in our heart). Make sure to encourage temperance with positive sounding language. Instead of preaching that “you should drink less” dance around and say “isn’t drinking less so much fun!” Other affirmations can include: “When I get older, its going to be so exciting to have my heart function properly!”, “Making a complete ass out of yourself is nowhere near as peachy as being able to have a coherent conversation!” and “OMG! Like, exercise personal restraint, cause like, everybody’s doing it and its awesome!”.

3. Theme it up. Telling someone that their habits are out of control can create tension and strife in relationships. But, how can tension and strife be created if you’re dressed like a pirate! “Arrghh, ye drink too much, ye scallywag!” – how irresistibly charming is that? If bad blood persists, quickly do a ‘forgiveness’ puppet show that stars your stuffed parrot.

4. Set examples and teach lessons through the creative use of skits. We suggest adapting children’s fairy tales to impart morals. Its fun for the whole group, and really gets the lesson across. A recent example, our staging of: Little Red Riding Hood Gets Sold into Sexual Slavery because she had too Many Stoli/Sodas. If you are going to take that idea, make sure that the actress cast as Red is suitably meek and nymph-ish.

5. Be sure not to worry so much. It’s likely that you will be able to get through to them, and they will change their destructive ways. Even if you don’t, be sure not to take it too personally. Throwing a successful intervention party is exhausting. The only person we’ve seen hit this out of the park is Death. We’re sure his cocktails are marvelous!

The Hog Pit is Closing! (Our pregnant sow is sure to be heartbroken)

Barfly is appalled, ladies and gentlemen. One of the last establishments that gives the meat packing district its trendified name is scheduled to shutter in the coming months due to a rent issue. The Hog Pit has been opening cans of PBR and pouring whiskey shots for over 15 years. There are going to be plenty of hungry piglets after they are forced to stop dispersing their delicious slop.

We’d like to be the first to nominate an official name change for the storied district. Meat is now a misnomer. How about the “New Jersey heifer stuffed into stilettos district”. This way, at least you keep the ‘flavor’ of beef.

Barfly is continually dismayed to see the shuttering of long time New York fun pits – especially when said closings so aptly provoke metaphors that involve the beloved characters of Charlotte’s Web getting ground into sausage. We recently lamented the unseemly demise of Fez. Carpeting on the renovated dance floor? How are we supposed to force ourselves out of bed in the morning (of course by “morning” we mean 5:30pm and by “bed” we mean our Ottoman-inspired pillow room)?

Apparently, these nefarious landlords were still hungry after they had their share of bacon. They offered the Hogs a renewed lease, at a whopping 3x increase to $40,000 a month. The management realized that they would have to do away with the cheap beer and sell specialty cocktails to wide eyed European Tourists ($14 for a vodka tonic, artfully renamed the USA-tini). Although they have to move to another farm, Barfly applauds them. We weren’t raised on organic pork, and we don’t plan on dealing with this overpriced “health” nonsense now.

The other white-meat that is taking the space over? Rumor has it that the landlords are going to lease out the space to Ralph Lauren. Though it certainly won’t replace the fried pickles, we suppose that the store will ad something to the neighborhood. At least you’ll have a place to get a new pair of $325 chinos when you walk out into the street and quickly get covered with filth. The Hog Pit may be leaving its post, but that doesn’t change the fact that this once provocative playground is transforming into a muck-filled sty.

No Vodka Plans this Weekend? Why not a jaunt to Cape North?

It’s always tiresome for the glamorous to figure out a suitably delicious vacation spot. The Caribbean? We don’t care to experience hurricanes that aren’t awash with Barcardi. The continent? The dollar is so weak right now that it makes a simple night in Paris close to unaffordable. Of course, simple involves two Moulin Rouge prostitutes, a case of Burgundy, a flamenco show, and a friendly donkey – not necessarily in that order.

We know! How about The Cape? Sounds vaguely sophisticated. The perfect combination of old money exclusivity with new money pizzazz (i.e. using bio-diesel powered sand buggies to destroy the plover’s habitat).

Nantucket’s out. We went there last summer and due to what the court papers refer to as “the incident” we were subsequently banned for 4.6 years (despite the scandal, we did confirm that – yes - they are real cobble stones). Cape of Good Hope? Nah – we’re not buying that Obamania nonsense.

We decided that Cape Hatteras would have to do – at least we would finally get to apply a skill acquired in college (major: horse whispering). At the moment we were to depart – the alcohol gods intervened. And what did they say? “Barfly – why are you going to North Carolina? There is a Cape you can enjoy right here in your glorious city: Cape North Vodka. And don’t lie to your readers – you majored in show-pony whispering. ”

As always – the alcohol gods were right (you can at least pretend to be wrong sometimes, just because you’re omniscient doesn’t mean you have to be a smarty-pants). We didn’t need to hijack the Hampton jitney and have them drive us 12 hours into the south. We just had to head over to Marquee or Cipriani for a Cape North - straight up, with olives. Now that’s what we call a vacation.

Barfly is surprised that such a fine spirit would have flown under our radar for so long (as we have a map of the world with little pins in all of the Capes, not to mention fjords). Cape North is new to the American sophisticated-lush market. We were heartened to learn that it came from the magical land of fine alcohols: Europe.

Even better, it’s made with grains from France and ice-cold Nordic spring water from Sweden. This international supply chain is likely what gives Cape North its smooth thrill - can you imagine something sexier than a 6’3” pale-skinned blonde carrying around a baguette as they mouth “oui-oui” (if you can, please send it to us!).

So, this weekend, we can gladly say that we’re off to the cape! We plan on doing loads of site-seeing. On Friday, we think we’ll mix it with some vermouth. On Saturday, we hear that dill infused martini is supposed to be pretty exciting. And Sunday? Well, we’ll probably just keep it simple. Cape North, on the rocks. Travel exhausts us.

Rodeo Bar – The Best Little Drink House that Fakes Texas

Barfly likes to imagine what we would be like if we were born in the land of tumble weeds and armadillo. We’ve never seen one of these armadillo things, but we suspect it’s local speak for “illegal immigrant”.

We are certain that a delightful drawl would make our cocktail banter all the more charming (witness: all the more charming, y’all). The cowboy boots would provide a great place for hiding contraband – our luscious tuxedo T-shirt has yet to offer a comfortable place for our stainless steel swizzle. We might even be able to put down our quest for the perfect martini and reach a quiet contentment on the dusty plains.

A quiet contentment involves killing rattlesnake and shouting “giddy-up” as we pour a celebratory margarita and two-step on the snakes grave (y’all, that snake was a pussy, indeed).

We had all of the wagons packed and were ready to roll through the tunnel - off of our brilliant island and onward to distant frontiers. Of course, our plan was immediately thwarted when we rolled up to the entrance and were politely informed that “You can’t bring a goddamn Chattanooga Wagon into the Lincoln tunnel, where did you even get those horses? You must be high as shit.”

We explained to the friendly official that we certainly wouldn’t do something so crass as get high and drive a wagon – but apparently drinking two bottles of Bon Voyage champagne before hitching up is equally unacceptable. The horses? Barfly would never reveal our equine sources.

The official suggested that we “head yonder” instead – and pointed us toward a genuine Texas bar on the distant Horizon of the east ‘20’s. We turned around and headed over for some Manhattan based lasso-ing at Rodeo Bar. We also decided that we were lucky to escape with only $634 in fines -thank god he didn’t scalp us – our glorious mane was left intact.

And, although there were no actual bucking broncos – Rodeo Bar was exactly what we were looking for. Fake spittoons, oversize margaritas, and chubby cowgirls in straw hats and boots (so their sister heifers don’t break their toes on their way to the bar). And, all of this within the comfort of our delicious little island. We’re glad that we didn’t travel far - with all of that dust in our face, we might have been mistaken for an Oakie (the deepest insult that could befall any proper sophisticate).

The bar even lets you take a little bit southern charm with you. Barfly was able to smuggle out 5 pocket-fulls of peanuts (not to mention what we were able to store in our cheeks). Reveling in frontier spirit, we rationed them and feasted for days. Hee-haw!

Rodeo Bar - 3rd Avenue at 27th Street -

Jalapeno Poppers – 3 olives – We wanted a genuine tex-mex app to satisfy our need for southern sizzle. We know we shouldn’t be disappointed – in the south we’re sure that they genuinely freeze and microwave their poppers before serving them and charging $12.00.

Fake Bison Above the Bar – 4 olives – We were truly impressed by the size of the animal. Were Indians really able to use every part of it? We guess that its glass eye would make a great billiard ball and the carpet that doubled as its pelt could be sewn into a lovely duvet (in our Pocahontas themed summer home, that is). But we didn’t know what to do with the staples holding it to the wall – especially because we were already full from those peanuts. ..

Music Selection – 2 olives – We were all ready to go down to Georgia with the devil (we hear the fiddle playin’ is truly superb this time of year) but instead we were greeted with some top 40 hits and tunes by New Order. Then we remembered – when we won the Civil War we also got music dibbs.

Local Lexicon – 1 olives –Do we want to live in a place where a careful screening process at the velvet rope is replaced a bouncer saying “ya’ll can come in”? By the end of the night we decided that the southern drawl may not be so charming, especially when we realized that “ya’ll” includes fat people.

Our Valient Horses – 5 olives – The journey was long and hard and they held up remarkably well. As we set off into the sunrise, we did what any truly humanitarian Barfly would do – set them free on the traffic islands of Madison avenue.

Coming Next: Absolut Gimmie Back the Louisiana Purchase

Hot on the heels of their Katrina based Absolut New Orleans, the vodka maker has roiled up some controversy with their latest ad campaign: Absolut Do Away with the Border Established by the Mexican American War cause Mexico Rocks! The campaign en español: In an Absolut World.

The ad attempts to capture the imagination of the immigrant population of the American southwest, not to mention the thousands of people who hope to one day sneak across the border to freedom. In a cross promotional campaign, Absolut has provided free individual size bottles and promotional foam-fingers reading Absolut Numero Uno to smuggling coyotes on the Mexican side.

The thinking? When you’ve spent your entire life savings to crawl across the desert – nothing quite hits the spot like a refreshing Absolut screwdriver. Perhaps except for water. In a sign that the company recognizes this market potential, they are charging $4 a bottle for newly branded Absolut Agua.

The anti-immigrant community of the U.S. was so incensed by the ad that they’ve attempted to organize a boycott. They issued a press released entitled “Are you Too Drunk to Remember the Damn Alamo” which decries the spirit maker’s lack of patriotic imperialism. They’ve gone so far that they’ve organized a protest event at the actual Alamo. They plan to drink bottle after bottle of Ketel One while heaving the empties at piñatas filled with back-issues of The Nation (this is meant to symbolize the systemic rape of America’s social services by undocumented foreign workers).

The protesters have included an accommodation for those who cannot make it to the actual Alamo. You can join them in spirit by projecting the 2004 Touchstone Pictures film of the same name onto the side of your house. They add “be sure to get wasted on some freedom loving vodka – not commie Stoli, and not border jumpin’ Absolut. Make us as proud as Billy Bob Thorton’s portrayal of Davy Crockett did.”

The company promised not only to pull the Mexican ad, but to rush to production its “long planned” patriotic campaign: Absolut ‘Merica. Hoping to appeal to the very niche that has instituted the boycott, the magazine glossy features a Mexican parent being arrested by an INS agent as their American-born child looks on in horror. The copy reads: Don’t worry about the boy. He’ll be able to enjoy Absolut one day. He’s a citizen. God bless the U.S.A.

The Little Vagabond (man, he sure can hold his liquor)

The spring weather has so inspired Barfly that we’re positively giddy. In fact, we’re so giddy that we’re going have a nip of the dangerous drink that we sip only thrice a season: culture.

But, what to do? We’ve been to the circus – if you’ve seen one midget Asian in a body stocking you’ve seen ‘em all. . We’ve recently recovered from post traumatic shock syndrome after our visit to the New Museum (conceptually speaking, that is). If we have to pretend to like Jazzercise one more time, well, then we’d be content to live in a flabby, cultureless void for the rest our existence.

We went into our library for inspiration (only after the nursery failed to provide any ideas – a lot of good your help is, stupid Mr. Hobby Horse). Perhaps one of those dusty “book” things could guide us. As we ran our finger along the spines for an idea, we realized two things:

1. Books bound in skin may provide a sleek visual thrill, but they sure feel yucky.

2. Culture was right in front of us! We just had to look inside the books. We’ve always been so focused on the crystal decanter full of 100 year old brandy that we never realized this.

We pulled a book down decided to look in two places for our culture. We knew what we’d find the bottom of our goblet. The book? Well, if it failed to sate our cultural giddiness, then we suppose it would make good kindling for the fire that Habib drew for us.

The Little Vagabond – Poem by William Blake. Explanatory notes by your friendly Barfly (jeeze Blake, couldn’t you like, explain it yourself! Paraphrasing for the plebeians is so exhausting. Habib! Another Brandy!)

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

Mammy! Mammy! It’s coooooldd in dat dere church! We’d much rather plop our ass on this cozy barstool than deal with “eternal salvation”. Boring!

Especially boring if Heaven is the type of place that rhymes “well” with “well”. Foolish verse with lazy rhymes? Not where we will spend our time (get it? because we rhyme good!). . .

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Geeze church! If you’re going to keep nagging, you should just serve some beers after the watered down communion wine. We might stick around for some karaoke. And, if you compliment our soulful rendition of “Life is a Highway” we suppose that maybe you’d be able to talk us into going to this Heaven place. They serve drinks there, right?

Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

The priest – dude - he’s like wasted! And us, we’re as tipsy as some simile involving birds! And that anorexic bitch that beats her kids (damn them for making her fat!)? She’d get drunky too!

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

Like a good drunken grandpa, the old dude would look down and realize that we’re all as drunk as he is (we always knew he was – if not, then how do you explain this). He would be so happy, that he would pour his ostracized transsexual teenage grandson a Malibu bay breeze and buy him a new set of fishnets.

Footnotes:

1. Heaven – You may have to squint through your drunken eyes, but you’ll notice the H is capitalized. This is a literary device that indicates the place is not fictional. The reader can find similar examples throughout literature like Narnia, Hogwarts, and Israel.

2. Dame Lurch – Notice how the name indicates the character’s personality. Much like William Clever or Barfly Sexiest Drunk on Earth or in Heaven.

Ah culture! Being a God (you surely don’t expect a merely mortal Barfly to be doing something as omniscient as ‘blogging’), we’ve realized that we should take the moral of Blake’s springtime rhyme to heart. We suppose (if we must) that we love the commoners who hide in the glamorous milieu of our readership. We love you even better if you’ve been drinking in a religious place. And to bid adieu – both to you gentle reader and to our decanter of brandy – we leave you with a Barfly Blakeism:

The Little Charlatan, Isn’t He Adorable -

A judgmental stare, with endless talk of sin,

They say ‘try harder for heaven, right now you won’t get in.’

We roll our bloodshot eyes; it’s “yawn” to them we say.

Just bring a bottle over and for their souls we will pray.

Davey and Drunky: Bedtime Stories

Drink of the Week: Spring Fever!

Ahhh, the warmth . . . What is that? The seasons have changed? No, we meant the warmth of the champagne hitting our luxurious belly. Wait. We’re drinking champagne? The seasons have changed indeed!

New York in the spring is like Emily Dickinson in the deep and lonely winter: positively in a tizzy. People are talking about cleaning their apartments, about getting new jobs, about finally getting rid of that pesky significant other that’s been following them around for the past 6 years. And, the best part of the new season? Everyone just goes drinking instead!

Yes Ms. Dickinson – we are far to inebriated to stop for death. The only stops that we plan on making this spring are for drunk pizza and when we steal that lady’s adorable puppy while she’s busy flirting with the mailman. When our spry little friend is let out of the sac at home, we can truly bask in the warmth. What is spring without teething new life gnawing on our balustrades?

Hopefully the poetesses among you can get a glimpse of how lovely the warm months can be. Peep at us through your pane glass window. Barfly beckons you – come outside. Loosen up your corset, get a breath of that fresh and sunny air, think for a few moments of all the positive changes that you are going to make happen. Then, exhale and join us at the bar. We all know that the only two things really change: the seasons, and our alcoholic state.

We leave you with a patented Barfly cocktail that is perfect for carriage rides with drunken immortality. As you mix, please know no haste.

Spring Fever! (also known as Its Springtime! and Its just not working, I think its time for a trial separation!):

1 optimistic new goal

A bottle of your favorite alcohol, infused with grass

Nest full of baby birds

Lay on the ground, preferably on a sunny day. Look into the sky, and choose whatever cloud looks the most like your secret dream. If still hung-over from winter, adamantly nod and say “that one!” when you spy the fluffiest.

Start taking swigs from bottle of grass vodka. Claim the cellulose reminds you of “skipping in fields during childhood”. Forget the facts that when you saw someone skipping, you reflexively broke their jaw (thank god they weren’t frolicking). And yes, the abandoned lot full of hobos counts as a field.

Bring nest of baby birds adjacent to your ear and listen to their gleeful song (be prepared to vigorously shake nest until desired result is produced). Sip, and feel all of the grey pessimism of winter slip away. They call it spring cleaning for a reason.

Review: Dave and Buster's Times Square

Gentle reader, sometimes gulping a cocktail by itself just doesn’t cut it. There are even times when drinking, being well-lit, and searching for that perfect martini isn’t enough. What to do in these most dire of dilemmas? Some say that we should give up Leaving Las Vegas style and fill a shopping cart with Jack Daniels and Elizabeth Shue. As much as we know how it would help her “career”, we have a different solution. A solution that’s one leap above Jenga and one itty-bitty step below heaven.

Sorry Elizabeth, you’ll have to go back to First Born (we’re NEVER getting a C-section after sitting through that 95 minutes), cause we’re off to Dave and Busters.

Who are Dave and Buster you ask? Well, Barfly can only call them geniuses. Imagine, packing an arcade, overpriced mugs of beer, and the chance to win plastic tchotchkes all in one place. This confirms that they are run of the mill brainiacs. But, they decided to put this magical happiness-haven in Times Square. And serve chicken wings. Pure. Unadulterated. Super genius. If Stephen Hawking had ambulatory skills, he would jaunt up the escalator for appreciative game of House of the Dead 4 (unfortunately, he is wheelchair bound, and helper monkeys are not admitted).

Barfly nominates Dave and Busters as the place to go when you’ve had enough, but you can’t help seeking more. A mild case of social ennui? That’s nothing when $20 gets you a game card that brings 12.3 minutes of fun. You’ll surely want to stay and play again after you figure out the fun brain teasers like: “Game over? Did I just shoot myself?” and “Why would people pay to have a birthday in this place?”. You’re well-lit, can get your drink and your game on, and then can justify drinking more by pretending its “virtual”.

When that’s all said and done and you think the fun is over, its not! There is still a photo booth you haven’t thrown up in. They really have thought of everything.

If the gaming, carousing, and merriment still “just isn’t enough”, there is a fail-safe that should only be pulled out at the moment when you say to yourself “I can never feel joy again. I’m going to figure out how to kill myself by crashing this virtual sports car.” Salvation lies in the Philly Steak Rolls Appetizer. They are enough to make any contestant once again believe in the game of life (or, we may just be hallucinating after ingesting our weekly calorie intake in one delicious bite).

Review - Dave and Busters 42^nd Street Between 7^th and 8^th -

Kicking Ass in Dance Dance Revolution – 4.5 olives – We can’t wait to play the much anticipated follow-up: Dance Dance Establishment of a Totalitarian State.

The awesome appetizers – 5 olives – Our favorite was def. the “mixer” platter. They take all the other appetizers and pre-grind them into a delectable bolus. Comes in hot, super hot, and five-alarm spicy!

Ms. Shue’s upcoming feature, Hamlet 2 – 2 olives – We suppose it’s nice that she’s trying, but we really are upset that she didn’t go with the more mainstream sequel Macbeth 2: Revenge of Macbeth. She would have been able to utter Lady Macbeth’s infamous line (of course retooled for a modern audience) “get the fuck out outta my damn refurbished flooring, you motherfuckin spot!”

Booze in the News: They're lowering the drinking age!

Barfly is pleased to see that many a state legislature celebrated the 5 year anniversary of the Iraq war in style. Truly patriotic states like Kentucky, Wisconsin and South Carolina have proposed drops in the drinking age for US soldiers. Working under the “you don’t have to be straight to shoot straight model”, the politicians in said states figure that if you’re old enough to grab a gun for your country, then you’re old enough to get bombed in a local country bar.

South Carolina State Rep. Fletcher Smith describes the thinking: "If you can take a shot on the battlefield," he says, "you ought to be able to take a shot of beer legally." He went on to proclaim that his constituent soldiers “damn better be straight enough to shoot straight, South Carolina boys ain’t pussies." He kindly demonstrated this fact by filling a shot-glass with an ounce of PBR and kicking it back in a single gulp.

Some states are taking their patriotism even farther by proposing a rollback of the drinking age for everyone. Vermont, Minnesota, and Missouri are looking to reinstate the 18-year-old drinking age across the boards. Faced with large numbers of their high school graduates leaving the states for anywhere else, they’ve had to rely on drastic measures. A source within the Minnesota governor’s office explains: “Why do youngsters have problems with abandoned mill towns? We don’t want them leavin! If we give ‘em enough whiskey, maybe they’ll get the idea to open up that mill again.”

The proposal in Vermont is slightly different as they’ve turned their old mills into profitable quilt museums. The liberal enclave decided to use the “we’re more learned than every other state” constitutional clause to justify the youthful drinking. The current bill allows 18- to 20-year-olds to drink legally after they complete an alcohol education program. This comes after the success of other education based ventures like handgun certification classes and the dress-code law that allows 13-year-old girls to wear “hoochie pants” only if they’ve read Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying.

Although he agrees that it is equitable, Rep. Fletcher Smith doesn’t appreciate the ideas of his northern colleagues letting just anyone drink. “They think they’re all smart with their learnin! Well, down here in the real America, some book smarts don’t get you a margarita. How bout those ivy-leaguers come down here after they’ve killed an Iraqi. Then the drink’ll be on me!”

Not everyone is happy about the idea of 18 year olds hitting the bottle. Of course, the primary opponent to this brilliant initiative is the Debbie Downer of anything that Barfly deems “fun”: Mother’s Against Drunk Driving. Yes, blah blah blah, drunk driving-deaths, brain damage, early onset alcoholism – we’ve heard all of these petty excuses before. We asked their spokesperson about making an exception for young soldiers, and she sternly shook her head: “How is a poor young solider supposed to fight for freedom when they’re tempted by alcohol”.

We’re sorry to say that these initiatives are likely doomed due to MADD’s opposition. They are a powerful lobby, equipped to topple even the drunkest of state legislatures (don’t get cocky New Jersey, you know they could kick your ass).

We leave with one bit of parting advice to those who hope that these laws soon pass. As Rep Fletcher Smith would agree, we’re the greatest nation in the world. No one can take away the most awe inspiring gift that you have: your fake ID. We urge you to go. Fight for your freedom!

The Curse of the Pretend Irish: A St. Patrick’s Day Hangover

We understand that dealing with a newly found pot of gold can be exhausting (newly found pot o’ gold = St. Patrick’s Day Hangover, two days later). If you did your drunken duty this past Patty’s day, then you should just be waking up. And, you should be properly groggy from telling so many Erins to go bragh (not to mention the Jameson’s).