NY Barfly

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

Cover at a Vegas Club? Just $500,000 (plus a 2 bottle minimum)

When it rains in Las Vegas, it pours. We all know what precipitation in the arid sin city really is: a metaphor for dollars. No silly, not the dollars earned by a dose of hard work and some back-breaking effort. This is Vegas. The rain is a metaphor for naughty dollars.

According to the Las Vegas Review Journal, the Feds have started paying attention to the cash-laden nightclubs that are springing up faster than slot machines. At a recent raid of the mega-club Pure, it came to light that the doormen were making over $500,000 a year. At first the Feds didn’t realize that anything about that was illegal. Then, they celebrated their raid with a late-night viewing of Martin Scorsese’s Casino. The next morning they hurriedly issued a statement:

“Shit, there’s like tax fraud all over this frickin place. I guess we should get some warrants and stuff.”

The bouncers earn such bling through a brilliant money making scheme: shaking down the patrons in line for “tips” that will get them into the club. Barfly has a source on the inside, and he explained the process of climbing the capitalist ladder:

“So, everyone wants to get in – and I’m like, well, you dickheads gotta pay me to get in. I’m living the fucking American dream here, and those flat screen TV’s ain’t cheap.” Our anonymous source provided a copy of the laminated “dickhead tip card” that he keeps on him while canvassing the line for marks.

• Group of pretty girls - $25 each
• Group of pretty girls with one fatty friend - $30 each - plus a promise from the fatty to provide “comic relief”
• Group of ethnic looking guys - $50 each - They pay a premium if you keep referring to one as “sultan”.
• Mixed group of stylish and attractive 20 something’s - $100 each – They may look the best, but a good bouncer knows that their entire sense of self worth is dependent on getting into the club. I.e. “Yeah, my sister went to Harvard, and my best friend got this great job, but so what! They can’t get into this place. Losers.”

When all of those payouts are added up, the bouncers make an annual salary that’s higher than the President’s paycheck of $400,000 a year. There have been whispers of a conspiracy surrounding the raids. Not only is the president upset that he can’t get in, he’s incensed that the help makes more than he does.

“I don’t know anything about those conspiracy things,” our bouncer informed. “All I know is that this is democracy at work, and that the Feds don’t understand Vegas.”

Our friend later confided that he would just use the money to hire Chriss Angel, who would make the tax-charges disappear. The best perk of being a highly paid bouncer? "I can afford to have him get rid of the charges while pretending to levitate!”

Booze in the News: Keeping America Safe for $525 a Shot

Republican National Committee coming over? At the last minute? And your liquor cabinet’s run dry! Gasp!

Better act fast - they’ve got guns. And not the “we just want to win your hearts and minds” kind either.

Luckily, the St. Paul Grill in Minnesota has provided an example of what to do in such a situation: obtain the most expensive bottle of alcohol available, preferably costing upwards of $12,000. The establishment purchased a few bottles of The Macallan 55-year-old single-malt scotch just in time for the planned Republican National Convention. They plan to dole out the drink for $525 a shot.

The bar owner explained “Everybody could have the chance to pay $525 for an ounce of alcohol if they just worked hard enough – it’s the American dream.” When asked if he himself could afford the shot, he shook his head. “No. Damn immigrants, stealing my dream.”

The Grill is serving the shot in a slightly smaller, 1 oz glass known as a “pony shot”. They had trouble deciding which animal/glass combination sounded the most egalitarian, and settled on “pony” to bring out the smoky flavors of youthful fox hunts (“Hippopotami Dram”, “Egret Flask”, and “Platypus Nipper” were all close runners-up).

As he sipped on a bit of the luxurious Scotch - former RNC Chairmen Ken Mehlman exclaimed “This reminds me of my days in boarding school. The other young lads in the dormitory – all of us were riding ponies together - excellent.” The RNC issued a press release the following morning entitled Ken Mehlman still not gay. The release went on to contest that by “pony rides” he meant “fucking women”.

Bars in Denver enlisted their rapid response teams to dream up a donkey-inspired libation to pour at the Dem convention. Unfortunately, a final decision has yet to be made. The party is split between two competing cocktail visions: an icy-cold classic martini with a dash of bitters or a punched up new drink known as ‘hope juice’. From what we understand its regular pink lemonade, but the server must chant the word “change” when placing it on the table.

When asked to comment on the other party’s cocktail divide, an RNC spokesman issued this statement: “What do those drinks cost? $4 each? There’s no difference! What’s going to keep you safe America? Some Sex in the City liberal, I-want-my-mommy- tini? How about a good ol’ fashioned $525 shot of Scotch? Pour that down an Arab’s gullet and watch him sing My Country, ‘Tis of Thee!”

When we pointed out that neither alcohol would, in fact, protect the country, the spokesman proceeded to refer to us as a “sober-pinko” and made sure to point out – “You know what will protect the country? Bombs. Now shut-up and go back to your Madarassa.”

Our friend calmly turned to the bartender and ordered another $525 worth of freedom. It must be nice to afford such things.

Don't Drink and Zoo!

Harkening back to Barfly’s safari days, we’d like to take this moment to offer three valuable life saving tips:

1. A machete, when properly wielded, can serve as an excellent shot-luge.
2. A stiff Bloody Mary provides the perfect anecdote to a shrunken head. Be sure to pack miniature cocktail straws.
3. When you get a bit too tipsy and feel like throwing detritus at the local wildlife, remember this helpful rule of thumb. If the target is smaller than you knee-cap, garbage throwing is a blast. If it is bigger, you better enjoy getting your neck chewed off. And, if you enjoy getting your neck chewed off, well, you might as well aim for the animal’s groin to make it more entertaining for the rest of us.

Unfortunately, they do not distribute the Barfly Field Guide at the San Francisco Zoo. It certainly would have come in handy two weeks ago when a tiger escaped its enclosure and attacked zoo goers. Although it was originally suspected that the tiger roofied its victims before ravaging them, the truth came out this week:

The three youths who were attacked by a tiger at the San Francisco Zoo last month had been drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana before taunting the animal.

Yes, once again, the deadly combination of alcohol, marijuana, and large carnivore taunting has claimed a young life. If they aren’t going to start giving our guide to zoo-goers, then they simply must do more to push the “designated asshole” program.

If you’re off to the zoo please designate one asshole in the group who will remain relatively sober and be sure not to take things too far. Just think of the different ways this tiger tale could have transpired.

-Instead of heckling the life-threatening tiger, the designated asshole would have directed the group to the petting zoo where they would have mocked the billy goats for having “Satan faces”.

-The D.A. could have encouraged his compatriots to get their energy out by doing the “Happy Feet” dance on the trash cans that they flipped over near the penguin enclosure.

- Rather than intense carnivore taunting, he could have pushed for simple, good old fashioned fun. In the rain forest exhibit, there were plenty of marmosets just waiting to be killed.

Finally, we’d like to point out that the dead heckler is not the only victim here. After injecting the large amounts of pot and booze that were in the victim’s blood, that poor tiger had a manic episode, shaved his head and was caught trying to lick tree frogs for a quick fix. Our sources tell us that he is now checked into an undisclosed rehab clinic.

President Barfly: Approval Rating - 90 Proof!

In the life of sober young lads and lassies there comes an inevitable moment. It may be inspired by a jingoistic career day. It could be a special moment on TV. Whatever sparked it, we all can empathize with the moment you told your stepmother’s boyfriend “Daddy Joey, I want to be president when I grow up!” We have our limits. We can’t empathize with whatever it was Joey did to you after (though we didn’t share your years of therapy).

We, on the other hand, were never quite as idealistic as the typical American youth. Even at the most naive of ages, it was clear that we would be happy as an assistant manager at the Cost-Co (a.k.a. the ‘glamour store’ of suburbia) if it afforded us our precious martinis. When the other students were playing Manchurian candidate and pledging ‘allegiance’ to the flag – we leaned over and whispered to our teacher “We want to be a barfly when we grow up!”

She bent over and smiled a strange smile. “Now, why would you want to do that?” she asked. “You should want to be president, like the rest of ‘em.” She motioned to the remainder of the class as she hiccupped. A light smell wafted our way – half acid reflux, half last night’s merlot. It smelled like freedom.

“Such sheep” she whispered and shook her head. From that very young day, we always knew that our dreams were within reach.

Alas – it has come to our attention that the two career goals may not be so far apart. Apparently 43 shared our goal as a tot. But, it didn’t work out so well for him as he didn’t get the pre school memo about the perils of quitting:

“I doubt I’d be standing here if I hadn’t quit drinking whiskey, and beer and wine and all that,” George W informed in a recent interview.

Gasp. Could our current president be himself a barfly? We haven’t even done this quitting nonsense; it seems that we’d be much more electable. Thank god, we’ve wanted to tell our manager at Cost-co to screw-off for a while. He thinks he’s all cool because he just got his learner’s permit. Well, we just don’t think there is anything that special about being allowed to drive. He’ll see what we mean when he gets the wisdom that comes with age. Being revoked is, like, the high point of awesome.

Upon further studying the constitution (this news interview with the president, it’s the same thing if you’re a republican), it seems that W offers some words of warning for any young Barfly that wants to lead the free world into drunken oblivion: "Addiction competes for your affection … You fall in love with alcohol.”

After looking up this ‘affection’ business, we realized that we may not be presidential material. We’ve been in love with alcohol for so long, we’ve forgotten what feelings for anything else are like. And, as we wrote in our kindergarten essay “What I want to be when we grow up”, that’s certainly how we prefer it. (Title of said essay: We want to be a drunken charlatan utterly devoid of any plebian emotion. Or Scooby-Doo. He’s neat.)

We also didn’t realize that this sort of thing involves the voting “public”. If we wanted to be popular amongst those folks, we’d just run for king of bingo night at the local hospice. Though, it’s good to see that some people try to have an effect past the reaches of glorious drunk town. Like our former teacher. Last time we looked, we found her doing pretty well:

Duvet: Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs stab you to death.

While the genteel citizens of Sober-town spent black Friday shoving grannies to the asphalt for an extra 25% off at Kohl’s (don’t think of her as delicate and old, that bitch is the competition), the denizens of Drunktown found a more festive way to ring in the holiday season: stabbing each other in the torso.

Last Friday, upscale club Duvet moved from “that place with the beds” to “that place where that guy stumbled outside and died. Oh, yeah, and they’ve got beds.” No one has yet been arrested for the murder of a young Brooklyn man who was knifed during the wee hours of the morning. Police were able to take a few suspects into custody for other crimes committed on the premises.

Police commissioner Ray Kelly explained the arrests: “Did you see that girl, her stomach protruded over her skirt and poked out from under her blouse. Some may call that eating too much turkey. You know what I say: let’s see what the judge calls it.”

The city council worries that this is going to bring the Chelsea club wars to new heights. "They’ve all got music, they’ve all got overpriced vodka tonics,” Council speaker Christine Quinn explained, “what they all don’t got that Duvet now got is the blood on the dance floor that makes a night out truly special.” When called for clarification, Quinn explained that “don’t got” and “now got” is “club talk” for “do not have” and “presently contain”.

In a late development, Barfly has learned from trusted third party sources (entertainment blogs, why would they lie!) that rapper Fabolous may or may not have been in attendance when the stabbing took place.

In a late late development, Barfly has come up with some speculative celebrity news that we hope will drive some of this “entertainment blog” traffic our way. Come on public, you’d rather read lies about mid-tier rappers than visit with charming little us? We think not.

A member of the rapper’s entourage may or may not have stabbed the victim because he was confused about the “elimination” ceremony in the proposed Fabolous reality-dating show “Doin it Doggie.”

Angela Lansbury may or may not have exited the club and said “It was Colonel Mustard, on the dance floor, with a can of whoop-ass.”

Upon learning about the stabbing, Elizabeth Hasselbeck may or may not have commented “Gosh. Why can’t they just go discount shopping like white people? The sales were really good this year!”

And finally, the scoop that is sure to drive the celebrity obsessed masses our way (please be kinder to us than you were to that poor shopping Granny): Barfly might or might not be able to kick Perez Hilton’s ass.