NY Barfly

Thrillist at the Hamptons, Party Bus Bonanza

We were upset that we weren't able to make the recent Thrillist Day & Night Party in the Hamptons. Luckily, our friend LK was able to send a dispatch. After reading this, we won't miss out on the bus again:

Ken Kesey once said: You're either on the bus or off the bus.

A daily lifestyle email once stocked that bus with vodka, gift bags, disco balls and beautiful people.

That's my kind of bus.

Thrillist promised a luxury ride to the Hamptons for an boozy pool party with hot bodies and hard drinks. I showed up with a hangover and expected to take a nap on a quality Jitney. No such luck. Thrillist put their VIPs on a jumbo sized Starlight limo bus and stocked it with energy drink and Stoli. Fast forward one hour, and we were pouring shots in each other's mouths and dancing on the seats like a group of teens on prom night heading for expulsion.

After a stop at the gas station for Bud heavies and smokes, we landed at our destination in South Hampton: Day&Night. Decked out in Thrillist sunglasses and glowing with vodka, the women slipped out of their sundresses and laid their bikini-clad bodies poolside while the men ogled them from loungers.

There was no shortage of the online media elite. CNET's Caroline McCarthy, MediaBistro's Joe Ciarallo, Random Night Out's Nick McGlynn, the Post's Neel Shah all rubbed greasy SPF 30 shoulders.

Wait—was this the Thrillist/GuestofaGuest party or a music video? Suddenly, models were dancing on the table tops and a group of hard-bodied bros were pouring Veuve Clicquot into their mouths. The music was booming, there were fake breasts everywhere, and South Hampton began to feel like Meatpacking with less clothes and genuine tans.

Eventually, we were ushered back on the limo bus for another vodka and beer fueled dance party. The last thing I remember was dropping it like was hot. I woke up with another nasty hangover, a sunburn, and the vague feeling I had witnessed something Thrilling.

[all photos, credit Nick McGlynn - a few more below the jump]

The Flip Cup Guys

The Summer Olympics is coming up, and we’re already exhausted by the pesky chore of having to watch people with actual talent win awards. Yes – Mr. Phelps can swim with the best of them, but when’s the last time he artfully executed a keg stand? Watching sober people win shiny medals is like watching the Indian kid win a spelling bee. Good for them, but if we had those institutional advantages we could achieve the same glory.

But we’ve never been to Bangalore, so we look forward to a different type of game. The Flip-Cup Guys have kindly been organizing an Olympics for the rest of us. They’ve taken their love of beer-related gaming and parlayed it into what will be the World’s largest flip-cup tournament. Let’s see Kerri Strug vault on that.

The main event isn’t until October, so prepare by checking out their website and mastering the delicate art of chugging/flipping. The sport is built around teams of six, so it might be time to reconnect with those “friends” who you alienated when you told them the real Olympics are for “sober pussies”.

Barfly will also leave you with some of our patented flip-cup tips. We are a sporty-folk, and have been known to play a few rounds here and there. Beside Drunken Polo and lying our way out of awkward situations – it might be our favorite tipsy pastime.

Tips for succeeding in flip-cup:

-Intimidate opponents by glaring across table and screaming “Who’s America’s sweetheart now!”

- To chug faster, learn how to hold breath and siphon beer up nose.

-If it is clear that your team is about to lose, turn game into Flip-Table.

As far as the spelling bee – we recently proved that we could recite the alphabet while walking in a straight line. Don’t we deserve a frickin’ medal for that?

Barfly's Mail/Power Bag

A curious reader got back to us after we so helpfully defined the term bender for our audience. He is clearly a good drunken boy, because he asked a good drunken question.

Q: “Barfly, is it possible to plan a bender?”

A: We had to ponder this one for a while. We tried to ask the Ethicist, but he merely responded “Your breath reeks of scotch, do you even know what ethics are?”

We will have to leave that definition for next time - but we suspect the term has something to do with strategically placed nanny-cams. As for planning a Bender – we’ve figured out that it’s just like a pregnancy.

You can plan and plan, do it at the right time, work with many different props (a turkey baster filled with Mojito), and still end up barren and frustrated.

Then again – you can have every intention of never having a bender and then when the seal of the gin breaks and a martini is poured, you can wake up 9 months later and wonder “where your life went”.

The short answer: while planning a bender can prove difficult, it is possible. The accidental bender is more likely, and we’re sure you’ll come to love it when it is making goo-goo eyes at you. Our advice to the dude who asked the question: if you want to plan a bender, make sure to do it when you’re ovulating.

On other follow-up fronts – we just wanted to point out what tremendous power we have (nary ye fear - we wield it modestly). After we reported that Rep. Vinnie Fosella was stopped for a DUI – even more scandal came to light. His secret second family put a bit of a damper on his bid for reelection. Like, bummer dude.

Barfly has confirmed that Representative Drunky will be retiring at the end of his term. We are dismayed that Drunktown will have one fewer vote in the Congress. Ted Kennedy – we need you more than ever – kill that tumor with some good Irish Chemo (can’t they inject Vodka directly into his brain?).

The retirement party is sure to be a blast. Barfly has word that it’s going to be on Staten Island. As per local tradition, both of Fossella’s families will be on hand, and they will Jell-O Wrestle for the title of wife and children (the losers of the match will walk away with the titles “fuckin’ whore” and “little bastards”).

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.

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.

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.

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 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).

As always, Barfly is here to help you with some post holiday hangover tips. We ourselves are finally back on our feet. Admittedly, we turned a bit green after the merry day. It took a while to come to terms with what we did, but we are truly Irish inspired when it comes to rationalizing. That unspeakably ugly person that we ended up going home with? Why, they clearly were, uh, a leprechaun!

Tips for a top ‘o the morning hangover:

Eat potatoes - The starch alleviates the symptoms of your hangover, and the calories help prepare you for the impending famine.

Start drinking – This is the true Irishman’s secret. When St. Patrick visited the nation, he actually got rid of two things. 1. All the Snakes 2. The ability to function with a blood alcohol level below .08%. Every day is St. Patrick’s day on the Emerald Isle!

Spend some of that magical gold on Aspirin and Smart water – When the store clerk claims that she doesn’t accept magical gold as valid currency, calmly explain to her that “if she just followed the rainbow, she could have had the gold herself.” Jealous bitch.

Bang your head against the wall (preferably concrete) – This may not help your hangover, but it was the only method that got those frickin bagpipes out of our head. We understand that many of the Irish are herders, but why did they base their national instrument on the sound of birthing sheep?

Go to the nearest grocery store, and tear every box of Lucky Charms apart in a hung-over rage – That damn cartoon leprechaun – you know it was his fault. The bad news is that he’s done for. The good news is that the carnage also makes a tasty breakfast.

Better hurry up and get un-hungover – the holiday Gods have been kind to us this year. Easter is only a few days away, and we all know how excited we are for Blood of Christ Sangria. It’s truly a shame that we only get to enjoy it once a year – he SO should rise more often!

This isn't a damn game! Oh, it is? Our bad!

The dapper New Yorker that feels like staying-in for the evening has a few standard options. One can choose to huddle alone with some wine and a marathon of TV’s Mythbusters (The myth that a single person can’t drink two bottles of wine and finish off the vermouth that’s been lying around for two years = BUSTED). Another might gussy up the banquet table and invite a cadre of friends over for a dinner-party. Eating? Haven’t we evolved beyond that?

Our new trend has been lifted right from the poshest retirement communities and sexiest church youth-groups in the land: Game Night. Being the beneficent Barfly that we are, we’re going to vault you ahead of this craze and whisper some “in-the-know” tips for a successful game night. With some luck, you might even emerge a winner! (get it? like in games?):

Games: The second most important part of a well thought out game night (the first being the ample supply of “game juice” – i.e. box wine and malt liquor). It’s a good idea to choose the game based on your crowd. A room full of Jews loves the smell of Monopoly money. A heated game of Outburst is perfect for when you invite your ‘pity friends’ over – yes, you are a good person for inviting him, even with his mild bout of tourette’s. Taboo provides good cover for a drunken bunch. Once they players start to slur clues they can believingly claim that “this gameissohard”. Instead of being judged, the other players will giggle and say “oh, you’re so taboo”. To a drunk this is the penultimate of charm.

Choose wisely – if people aren’t having fun halfway through the game, you’ll have to revert to the ‘backup game’ – and no one really brought the right. . . er… “supplies” . . for a key party.

Competition: It is imperative that at least one member of your circle take game night far too seriously. A player that accidentally glanced at another’s hand is lambasted as a ‘low-life bastard’ and the married couple that is taking too long to roll the die are goaded with “jeeze, you two are taking forever. Can you just get divorced and move this game along already?” A healthy spirit of competition makes the game more exciting, except when this player loses, flips the table, and claims “I never liked you cheating assholes anyway.”

Scorecard: Make the night more interesting by playing “best of 3” or “4 out of 7” tournament matches. Make the night doubly interesting by creating some “house rules” - i.e. whoever can drink 5 shots the fastest gets 3,444,000 coolness points or the player that finishes their drink last has to spend the next round locked in the old refrigerator out back.

Class: This is the true secret of a successful game night. The fact that you’re staying in doesn’t mean that you shan’t be classy as ever. Ladies should be bedecked in shimmering cocktail dresses and the gentlemen should wear nothing less than a tuxedo. As you move from the first game of Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit to a round of Boggle, pause and dance a classic tango for good measure.

So, good luck, gentle reader! We’re sure that you can impress your friends with our gaming advice (and that tourette’s guy will be happy just to be invited). Yahtzee!

New York McDonald's - If only we had the emotional capacity to lovin' it.

Barfly has eaten many things when we’ve experienced what the average drinking denizen refers to as “da drunk munchies”. First of all, its time to all start using the grown-up version of the phrase: drunky-dining, a la carte (French for “on the floor”). Second of all – why are you looking at us like we’re weird? We’re not some Frenchie – that’s raw meat and burnt taters we’re scarfin’ down-there!

On a recent evening we made a stop between drunk and drunker and searched for some epicurean delights. Drunker was waiting for us, so we had to hurry up – especially because we stood him up last time when we skipped right to ‘passed out in the stairwell’. What’s that thing that people eat when they have only a few moments to ingest? The phrase seemed so close – like a dream we had about the suburbs. . . . hasty eatings? . . .expeditious nibbling? It was too hard to figure out what the common people called their dining on the fly. We decided that we’d simply have to drop into the McDonald’s across the street and ask.

It was strange. Much different than our normal gobbling haunts. No one was swaying back and forth while they gorged on a slice of pepperoni. There was nary a girl on stilettos to be seen – much less one with her cheeks stuffed full of garlic knots.

There was only a single man – slouched over in the corner next to his shopping cart. Due to the number of plastic bags the carriage contained, we suspect that the cart also played the role of the gentleman’s BFF. We were heartened to see that he was holding a prize from one of those children’s meals. How surprising that they give out box cutters these days!

Even though the décor made us grimace - there was something in that place that seduced us. It wasn’t the strange man with the red afro and the clown makeup (we’re pretty sure his name is Lynchme McDonald). It wasn’t the clerk Franika - though her gum chewing and rainbow of 4 inch-fingernails did make us salivate. The thing that gave a sly smile and wiggled its hips at us? Why, the value menu! Saucy and cheap, just how we like ‘em.

We’re not sure what we were eventually served – we just know that it was shaped like a hamburger and cost us about $.34 with an extra large beverage included. The gigantic cup was also the perfect receptacle for necessary burger-purging session – what savings!

The best news about the night’s dining experience? We only had to eat three french-fries and we reached our drunky-dining quota of 1,450 calories. Not to mention the refreshing change of pace in the morning. The vague feelings of pizza related guilt were replaced by deep misgivings about agra-business. We even got to keep the plastic toy!

McDonald’s – with over 1 billion served, we figure you’d be able to find one yourself. Unless you’re a moron, but then you’re probably on your way to Taco Bell anyway.

Happy Meal – 3 olives – Yeah, that little toy dog we got is cute. You know what’s cuter? A boxcutter.

Getting to say “Supersize me” – 1 olive – They actually kind of forced us to say this – must be a brand-identity ploy. We thought our original ‘Yo, bitch, supersize that shit’ got the point across swimmingly.

Figuring out that it was “fast food” that we were having – 5 olives – Though we feel that our first guesses were slightly more sophisticated, we suppose this phrase plays better with the typical soccer mom. Fast, because they’ve got the kids in the back of the minivan. Food, because they don’t have quite enough cellulite.