NY Barfly

Communicate with the Spirits: Slather on the Svedka and Party Like its 2033!

Inspired by the success of Radio head’s use of Brent Spiner to promote their OK Computer album, Svedka vodka has turned to the world’s first spokesbot – SVEDKA_grl - to market their growing line of imported vodka. Barfly_sez_e-ok!

The Swede’s choice of a robot came after they scoured the country American-Idol style for a native inhabitant that could pitch the product to the U.S. Market. Realizing that the most charismatic people in the entire country were either ABBA members or those chicks from Ace of Base, the Swedes did what any rational nation would do: came up with a fake robot to sell their vodka.

According to the company’s website their strategy worked: Svedka is the fastest growing Vodka in the United States. “We feel that we’ve tapped into an urge shared by many U.S. residents” a spokesperson for the company said. “To better deny the fact that they are sexually attracted to a robot, Americans must drink more vodka.”

Barfly was walking the streets the other day and SVEDKA_grl winked at us from the side of a bus. Going with their futuristic theme, the ad claimed that Svedka was voted the best vodka of 2033. We got our crystal martini glass and peered into the progression of drinking in the future.

2009 - Finland's glaicers have melted due to global warming. Finlandia's vodka infused with drowned polar bear fails to take off. There is an opening for another Scandinavian nation to dominate the drinking world.

2015 – Drunk hover-boarding becomes a ticket-worthy offense. 

2022 – Svedka becomes even more popular when the tasty Soylent Green-tini is created. Sip, have some fun with the furniture, and don’t dare ask what’s in it!

2029 – Skynet has one too many and fights the humans. Much wackiness ensues.

2033 – Thirsty Terminators and the few surviving human-slaves vote Svedka to be number one. They have to. SVEDKA_grl is their luxurious and un-merciful queen.

Bkfly: Et Tu, Tummy?

Last night was a screening for three short documentary films at Monkeytown in Williamsburg. The event was sponsored by Dewars. BKfly went. We were pleased and mildly surprised to see our name on the list.

The girl with the clipboard smiled. "It’s an open bar. Have fun!” And fun we had.

This morning there was a vomitsnake coiled in our belly. We put him in the toilet. Or rather, he forced his way out of our throat and we directed him to the toilet.Dewars on the rocks; Dewars and ginger beer; juiced Old Fashioners. We set our little snake free and frowned, not compulsively from the acid burning the inside our cheeks, but internally.

Something was very wrong. Sick from drinking? BKfly sick from drinking? How could this be happening?

The mirror was close at hand. We pulled ourselves upright onto trembling feet.

Perhaps we are getting old. Times were we could down whiskey neat, on the rocks, sugared or sour, one after another, without the slightest protest from our body. What the fuck, body? Why now? Do you dare suggest BKfly can’t handle an open bar?

The shame was worse than the hangover. Obviously we would brush our teeth and never speak of this again. We were horrified to think our body may actually have the nerve to consider alcohol poison. Betrayal of the lowest kind! And not from our liver.If anyone’s going to start bitching it should be that old trooper. But no. We were betrayed by our stomach, a hollow organ! What’s his beef? Not enough food? Fine. Whatever. We can understand that. But you’re sure as hell not going to get any food when you’re playing host to a giant coiled vomitsnake! The last thing BKfly wants is to feed the vomit snake. It just makes him grow. If you want food you have to calm down. Pronto. Tranquilo, estomago (that’s Spanish for “calm down, stomach.”)

Apparently some films got screened at Monkeytown. We recollect fuzzily, but we have a vague picture. One of the documentaries was about a man who loved music and was terrified about losing his hearing. He wore earplugs obsessively, sometimes ear mufflers. He lived in his parent’s basement (maybe in Canada ... Minnesota?) and rode his bike everywhere. He always wore red.

Bike riding? Mabye it wasn't precious alcohol that made us dispel that vomitsnake after all. Maybe it was something even more posinoious, even more vile. We tried to remember what the other docs were about.

One had a guy cutting a hole in his trunk with a power saw to get his car keys. That was it. We think he was definitely Canadian. Afterwards there was a Q&A with two of the directors. BKfly thinks both girls were from some Eastern European block nation, surely somewhere non-sovereign, and unrespected, the kind of country that produces documentary filmmakers. Our memory really starts to fade as the first questions were asked, but we do remember feeling a bit queazy as they answered with their first "Da."

There we go. Once again, we owe you an apology Dewars. We'll have our secretary send you over our stock letter of sorrow, but in the meantime: we're sowwy drinky. We should have never doubted you. We do know that we're swearing off documentary films for a long time - we're off to attend our first VA (verite anonymous) meeting right now. Afterwards we're off to drink more -that should keep that motherfucking vomitsnake out of our motherfucking tummy. Word.

Fagfly: Drinking away the Gay

Fagfly understands our fellow homosexual's plight. As boring winter is on the way out and funtastic summer is on the way in, us nancys residing on the alcohol soaked island of Manhattan are faced with a terrifying dilemma. What are we going to be drinking this summer?

Fagfly has compiled a list of the top 3 cocktails the gays are going to be sipping on this shirtless season.

No. 1 - Father Figure Punch

Everyone knows all the silly gays are just whiny fags searching for daddy (who was probably absent during the majority of our childhood).

The homos are going to be gulping this one en masse until September. If you can just do this one thing right.. pops might actually take you fishing this time!

1.5 oz jack daniels (I can still smell it on daddy's breath)

3 oz of your own blood (for when we "fell down the stairs")

combine with ice and consume cold (and by cold we mean emotionally)

No. 2 - Internetarita

Cruising for sex in an actual bar has become much too time consuming these days. Fagfly recommends a computer and an internetarita on the rocks to "get you in the mood"; And if you end up in Staten Island in a 70 year old raisin's leather dungeon.. mix yourself our no. 1 cocktail and forget your troubles.

3 megabytes of amyl nitrate

2 ice cubes

stir well and enjoy with a total stranger, D&D free

No. 3 - GRID-tini

Fagfly predicts bugs called "AIDS" and "HIV" will be tres passe this summer. Let's bring gay cancer back and get GRID style with this tasty cocktail.

400 oz vodka

dash of self-destructivism

gulp until all your better judgement is gone and chase with our no. 2 cocktail

Barfly in the Bling

Barfly presses on to fame and fortune, we now have companies clamoring at the door to license our ideas.

We thought people would scoff when we talked about stuffing a pack of American Spirit Cigarettes into a bottle of vodka. But, we forgot about Europeans. They’ll put tobacco in anything. How we love their tar-stained existentialist souls.

Ladies and Gentlemen: Nodka!

If you pay us, we’ll give you a money making idea that you can capitalize on as well. Better act fast before those crafty French out oui-oui you. Here’s two word hint of something new, sure to corner the market: whiskey sour. That’s all we’re giving until we see some of that licensing bling. Email us now before you get too low on the pyramid scheme.

P/S - We're also selling some lovely cookware and beauty products. 20% off if you mention the code "get me out of this pyramid scheme". We love you readers!

And not the fun kind of shots either. . .

Last wed night, Barfly’s life flashed in front of our eyes (and it was glorious).

We found ourselves face down on the floor in the back room of our secret service industry job. Moments before, we heard a popping sound. Having had years to tune our ears to all sorts of noises made by champagne corks, we knew that this wasn’t one of those fancy pops that make people applaud. This was a pop that makes people DIE!

We know that we aren’t very valiant – we typically leave that for the princes. While many a patron at the bar jumped to cover their lover or spouse, all Barfly did was grab the bottle of Bombay and throw our heft over it like a good secret service agent. Our secret just happens to be that we love finely distilled gin more than people.

We ran from the bar, sure that one of our many rivals was coming down the street to assassinate us (we’ve still got our eye on you, shittysearch). The pops continued. Two mounted patrol men galloped by on their horses. “Get inside, get down on the ground!” Shouts came from all directions. Tables were flipped, half-finished drinks thrown to the floor as people dived for cover.

“Bombi, this is ridiculous,” we quivered to our bottle. “What are we doing with ourselves?” We saw more police sprinting down the street and pressed our face to the floor. “Goddamn Bombi. Is this all worth it?”

The gin looked at us, its calming blue gaze telling what any proper spirit would inform at such a dire moment: “Awww, I’m inanimate.”

Screams echoed through the restaurant. More gunfire. A fat woman lay next to us, her breath heaving as tiny yelps issued from her mouth.

Were we really about to get Columbined for the $81 in wadded up ones waiting for us back in our tip jar? With everyone’s blood pumping and the managers distracted with the police, we surely could graft another few dollars from the till, perhaps this could make it worthwhile. If shot, we would need this money for the angelic drinks they serve in heaven.

As more gunshots sounded, we promised that we’d be perfectly fine with some less expensive, non-murder-related 2-for-1 deal in purgatory.

The fat lady’s breath calmed as the gunshots abated. There was no way that we were sticking around – screw the tips, screw our city, we were done. Our hands shaking, we made our way back to our bar, determined to put Bombi back safely with her friends and get the hell out. Perhaps it was time for that cabin in Montana, for peace, for (sigh) the dulcimer.

After collecting our tips we stood behind the bar and took a deep breath. We turned to face our frazzled patrons. Women were crying. People were picking bar stools off the ground. The fat lady walked in from the back room and sidled up against the bar.

Thoughts of fleeing slowly dissipated. We knew that even the most pungent bourbon would have trouble overpowering the smell of gunpowder that lingered in the West Village air, but we closed the flap of our bar. Hands still shaking, we looked out at the crowd, and said the only comforting thing that we could: "Bar’s open ladies and gentlemen.”

More people crowded around. Tears were wiped, drinks were poured, the music came back on.

“Shots on me.” A man from New Jersey put his credit card on the bar.

“He jumped over me, to save me,” his wife bragged. “Someone’s getting a blow job tonight.” Other patrons giggled nervously.

Tequila was poured. Limes distributed. Glasses raised. Barfly surveyed the group of customers knowing that at this moment, we were all together, that when the glasses were clinked we would become a group of friends.

We savored our tequila. The bar’s nerves were calmed.

It was definitely worth it.

(On a side note – we grifted over $35 that night. Worth it indeed!)

Review: Bikini Blood Bath

Ladies and Gentlemen, our friend littlefly is more than just a woman of the city (“slut” to the plebeians), she's also a cultural aficionado and pizza lover. Be sure to enjoy a slice and a beer as you read her movie review and secretly ogle the porn that is in your minimized browser window, hidden from your bosses shifty eyes.

The lights dimmed at Two Boots Pioneer Theater. A guy shouted “YEA!” and pumped an enthusiastic fist in the air as unnecessary boobs flashed the in opening credits. I certainly had come to the right indie film premiere this weekend.

A throwback to the cheesy slasher films of the 80’s, Bikini Blood Bath is a breath of nostalgia…so as long as you can move past the fact that 2/3 of the actresses are somewhat big boned and in spirit of the title (like any good low definition thriller) are clad in swimwear for the majority of the film.

Set in woodsy parts of Connecticut, BBB features high school students as its main characters. The young students are played by thirtysomething fat guys wearing football jerseys and suburban whores. When the girls decide to throw a house party and hang out in the hot tub it becomes clear that the Evil Chef killer (Evil Chef being made obvious by his chef hat ominously popping up behind bushes) is going to use his signature weapon—a butcher’s knife, (hello!) to slash at least two of the fat ones. The two token skinny ones who were scripted to make out and probably some of the jocks who come to spy on the girls in hopes of witnessing some lesbian “action” are likely also doomed, but after the fat girls. .

Topped off with a hair metal soundtrack I couldn’t help but be pleased with this deliberately cliché horror flick. A special thanks should be said you to the actors’ and actresses’ parents for letting the creators use their homes as a set.

Review: Bikini Blood Bath

Insertion of a blow job scene that ends in homicide -4 olives— It was fun to pretend that this never happened in my life - god rest his soul? Slurp slurp….

The majority of the audience being the cast - 1 olive—Perhaps if there was less sexual tension on the set more time could have been spent promoting.

Someone screaming “No, don’t run UP the stairs!!” during the highly anticipated girl running upstairs to get away from the killer scene - 3 olives— Running up the stairs seemed like a good idea to me.

Location- Two Boots Pioneer Theater - 3 1/2 olives - Props to the producers for taking the premiere of this low budget film outside of Connecticut. Maybe now it will be a hit…ha.

Pissed off lesbian gym teacher character - 2 olives — I expected more from her.

 

Booze in the News: Chugging on the Choo-Choo

There are many traditions that the Irish undertake to celebrate St. Patrick’s day – soda bread, bagpipes, kissing the warted town hag. Unfortunately, this year, a bit of the ‘ol Irish Magic will be missing from the St. Patrick’s Day celebration. Revelers will be unable to participate in the long standing Irish tradition of getting blasted on the Long Island Rail Road with Bud Tall Boys.

In yet another case of a dead girl ruining our fun – the state authorities have banned drinking on the train this St. Patrick’s Day. Last year, it seems that our currently deceased got a little too worked up on her leprechaun hunt. She followed the creature down onto the tracks of the rail road (or, according to authorities, she “fell through the gap”). Not to let the little bugger scurry away with its pot of gold, she did what any of us ol Irish blokes would do: crawled into the path of an oncoming train and was dismembered. That’s the luck of the Irish! (There are contradictory reports as to the leprechaun’s fate: the authorities had trouble discerning if the evidence was its pot of gold or “part of her torso”).

She may not have caught her leprechaun (and may now be in hell for doting after such pagan creatures), but it doesn’t mean that the rest of us shouldn’t be able to dance our drunken jig on the train.

As always, Barfly has come up with a fool-proof plan to help our readers get around the law. Instead of carrying your beers onto the train, carry your beers on the train in brown paper bags. The sober-minded authorities are sure to be fooled by your clever ruse and you can continue on with your St. Patrick’s Day Duty: getting dismembered, but in a non- locomotive-related way.

BKfly: Something's gotta give (namely, sobriety)

BKfly has heard of moderate alcohol consumption.  We have even seen evidence of it in films starring Diane Keaton. It looks nice, the dry white wine, soft sunlight, wicker deck furniture, limited piano. No one finishes more than a glass of sauvignon blanc, and if they do hilarity ensues, Jack Nicholson or Keanu Reeves sees there first over-50 nude female body, and in the end everything is fine because it all happens before Labor Day. 

This elegant, airy moderation in Nancy Myers films irritates BKfly. It’s like her movies are about something that doesn’t exist. They are not about pain. No one is drinking to be happy or to forget. There is no smoke, gunfights, no real loss, no agony or despair. There is the ocean and beautiful screened patios. We’d reckon even child abuse doesn’t look as bad surrounded by Ethan Allen. Even if the kid hits his head when he falls, that’s still a really nice Turkish ottoman he fell on.

We suspect that we’d have no fun on those posh Hampton weekends. In fact, BKfly really can’t trust any social gathering where people aren’t boozing. We aren’t sorry. It doesn’t feel real. It feels nice. And nice is boring. Add another o and you get what BKfly can be when we’re three sheets to the wind: boorish. It’s not that you can’t have fun without drinking (there are plenty of other substances, but a beer is always nice, helps with the hot flashes and drip), but why would you want any event to be nice and civil and beige? Why would you not offer alcohol at a social event? It’s not like we’re exercising, doing Pilates, slimming down, finding god. This isn’t a PTA meeting. 

BKfly speaks of the art opening we attended at Pratt Institute.  A photographer’s senior thesis projectVideo cameras looped into televisions showing the video camera filming the television. Fine. Whatever. Can we get a drink? 

Sadly, no. This is a university. You can have Vitamin Water or soda. Wait. No. Out of Vitamin Water. Just soda. And the pizza is all gone.   

When we were done nodding emphatically re: the self referential nature of video art with the Diane Keaton types we decided that it would be best to drink somewhere away from the exhibit, perhaps in the stairwell or near the troughs in the bathroom. That would be suitably post modern. Everyone can appreciate getting fucked up artfully at a gallery.

Not that other people weren’t drinking.vBKfly saw plenty of coffee cups with to-go lids being passed around; somehow this clandestine consumption bothered us even more, so very pedestrian.vWhen drinking is regulated it makes BKfly want to go all out. On the rare occasions when we are expected to be mature and interested in something beyond our own pleasure we want desperately to set the standard for our behavior so low that no one will ever make the same request again. Drunk on arrival for blind date time. Beer pong at the Christmas formal. A flask at the little league games.

Our lovely friend Wolf, just back from Buenos Aires joined us as we crouched in the stairwell and swigged. He let us know that those art openings at Pratt used to be crazy.

“When I went to school there they let us bring alcohol,” said Wolf. People got kegs. Especially in the summer it could get out of control.”

Ah so. We’re a couple years too late. Even though we weren’t around for it we miss the bright summer nights at Pratt on the green lawn under Japanese paper lanterns. We miss the steady acceleration of noise, the collision of the sexes, the good times overshadowing the art. We miss the mis-education. It sounds like something we could have wrapped our lips around.

We wonder what those Hampton nights might have been like when Diane was a little more spritely, when Kenau heated up some rum for midnight shots taken in the brisk, salty air. Perhaps some skinny dipping with Jack, some furtive love making in the sand. As we went back into the art opening with our belly warmed and our vitamin water spiked, we came to terms with the fact that these people only wanted to drink moderately. It wasn’t that they were nice and boring, it was that they were hung-over from the past. A wicked hangover – now that’s something BKfly can understand.

Review: Dr. Drunkel and Mr. Hyde

While Barflying the other day we came across a poster that goaded us to “explore our second side” with Jekyll and Hyde shots. And, as always is the case with alcohol related signage, we decided that we needed to drop what we were doing and immediately listen to what the sign had to say. It was from such a sign that we learned that alcohol can cause birth “defects”. Mom always told us that our flipper means that we are special, so it’s good that they have such signs encouraging the pregnant patrons to drink.

The secret ingredient in Flaming Moe’s may have been children’s cough syrup, but they could have used this red and blue concoction as substitute. We enjoy doing chasers with our shots – in this case we popped three children’s aspirins in our mouth. The clinical citrus tablets perfectly complimented the subtle medicinal flavor of the shot. We just wished it did a better job of alleviating our gout.

We stood by the bar and waited for the change to happen. In seventh grade public school English we read the comic-book version of the classic Robert Louis Stevenson tale, so we knew what would happen next. We decided to play god by mixing red and blue alcohol together, and we were sure to turn into a raving lunatic capable of unspeakable acts. As we felt a warm glow in our belly we looked around the bar and tried to decide which fine lady we wanted to ravish.

We awoke the next morning with a pair of fishnets tied around our neck and a small Mexican child in the next room. We were astonished when someone pointed out that our monstrous actions were videotaped. We’re not worried though, the judge is sure to accept the “I drank a magic potion and it was my evil other half that committed the crime” defense. It worked for Scooter Libby!

Ratings - Jekyll and Hyde Shot

Using 18th century jargon to cover up our crimes - 5 olives - When she goes to the hospital the next morning and asks to get a "ravish" kit, she'll seem like the crazy one!

Having an evil side in the digital age - 1 olive - You never know what's going to turn up on that "internet" thing. We just thank god we didn't say macacca.

Listening to bar signs - 4 olives - We run our life by the invaluable advice they give. Just not that one about washing hands - that one be lame!

Lent: 40 Days and all you get is a stupid healthy liver and place at the right hand of God?

Whenever we see folks abstaining, we make sure to swoop right in and force whatever it is that they are pretending not to want down their throats. Of late, our subtle strategy of enabling hasn’t been working. Apparently, we are in the midst of Lent – a time that drunk Irish/catholic types use to sober up and give props to their lord and savior J.C.

I’m sure you’re finding this equally curious. To get to the bottom of said “sinless” living, Barfly decided to do what we do best: conduct an interview in which joke answers serve as a welcome substitute for substance. We pray that our Drunken Devotee can shed some light on this “religion” thing. Let the inquisition begin:

What is Lent?

Lent is the period between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday symbolic of the forty days spent by Jesus in the wilderness fasting while battling the temptations of the devil. Christians typically observe Lent by fasting (no meat on Fridays) and or giving up something that they enjoy. Lately for me it’s been a time to give my body and liver a good drying out in preparation for another spring, summer, and fall of beer leagues and happy hours.

Does the ban keep you from drinking church wine?

Personally don’t touch the stuff any more – I drank enough of it as an alter boy.

What would Jesus do? When Jesus drank wine was he drinking his own blood? Was he a vampire or perhaps, gasp, a vampyre?

I think Jesus celebrated pretty hard after battling it out with the devil in the desert. As for the vampire question lets just say that there is no way I’m calling him a blood-sucking Jew. Just not going there.

What does the Easter bunny think of this?

I don’t think he really cares. Don’t picture him as much of a boozer. He doesn’t stagger down the bunny trail. He’s got that never-ending hippitty-hop thing going on with those brightly colored eggs. Probably does a lot of X.

As the one day when you will break your fast, how much do you anticipate drinking on St Patrick’s Day?

A lot. It’s my own personal dispensation.

When St Patrick chased all of the snakes out of Ireland why didn’t he spend a few extra minutes and deal with the blacks?

Who says he didn’t? How many black Irish men and women do you know? I think the reason no one hears about it now is because the political correctness card is being played by the Church in an attempt to entice blacks to join the team. It’s all a numbers game and the boys at the Vatican don’t want to be losing ground to the Baptists.

Are there any vices that you are spending more time on now that you’re not drinking? Cutting yourself “just to feel” counts as a vice.

Find myself going to the gym a lot more. Not really a vice unless you count the occasional runner’s high I get now and then while doing cardio. Or it might be the cocaine, its sometimes hard to tell.

How many extra virgins do you expect Jesus to give you once you get to heaven? Instead of blowing themselves up should Muslims just abstain for forty days to get the big payoff?

To me the whole virgin thing is overrated. The key to great sex is being with a girl who knows her way around the bedroom. Unfortunately the ones that are really good probably won’t be making the cut for heaven. As for the other thing, from what I understand true Muslims abstain 365 days a year plus must fast for the whole month of Ramadan and then must still blow themselves up to get some virgins. Pretty shitty deal if you ask me. It’s no wonder they’re pissed off at the whole world. It must really infuriate them that the Jews get away with only having to fast for one day on Yom Kippur.

When’s the last time you rose again?

I rise every day. It’s called morning wood. Praise Jesus.

What’s your favorite book of the Bible? Are you one of those Christians who claim to read it “just for the articles”?

My favorite one is where Jesus turns water into wine just to keep the party going. Now that’s some miraculous powers I wouldn’t mind having. Can you imagine?

If you could be any animal on Noah’s ark, which would you be and why?

I would be a pink elephant or a unicorn. Oh that’s right; neither exists…unless of course you’re a drunk and/or an impressionable young child. I love impressionable young children.

Did thou enjoyest thoust daily bread this sober morn?

I have to admit that breakfast is that much more enjoyable without the pounding headache from a hangover.