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.

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.

Everyone Loves a Reverse Quitter!

Barfly has noticed a disturbing trend among our consumption compatriots. A recent rash of quitting seems to have taken hold. And its not the kind of quitting that we’re used to – that is, using passive-aggression to weasel out before we even try. “Uh, a sunny afternoon of basketball? How morose. How about you instead come over and try our new bloody mary mix? It’s extra spicy. . .”

No, this is the type of quitting that actually involves changing your actions. How curious.

The same sentiments have been echoed by numerous folks these past few weeks. Cases in point:

“Oh, Barfly, I’m going to quit smoking. I haven’t had a puff since our recent outing.”

“You know, that violent vomiting episode in the corner of the Duane Reade really wasn’t pleasurable. I’m not going to drink whisky anymore.”

“I sure wish I didn’t kill that meerkat. No more passing out while watching Animal Planet.”

“Wow, what a hangover, I’m not going to drink for the next TWO DAYS” (Added emphasis is ours, as it is impossible to have actual speech issue as bolded caps. Yes, we know the jury is still out on Japanese teenagers, but we’re talking about those of us who aren’t in the midst of a dance dance revolution).

We’ll, we’re tired of getting texts the next morning with the aforementioned poo-poos. Not to mention that we’re tired of getting texts in general. What did we buy that flock of carrier pigeons for anyway? Their inherent yummy-ness? We think not, though a little garlic may do the trick.

So, we’re going to start a new service for our gentle and misguided readers who have “seen their mistakes of their horrible ways” and want a “change in their soul-less lives.” Whenever you have a moment of doubt, you can happily call the Barfly hotline and we’ll walk you away from the edge. What better thing to provide than help to quit the nastiest habit of all: quitting. We don’t want to be alcoholics anonymous, now do we? We want to be alcoholics numero-unos!

How to call the hotline you ask? We suggest clicking those google ads over there and then perhaps clicking them again. If you still feel as though you’re going to go through with this nascent business, we suppose you can go ahead. We know it’s all a game; we all love to kill meerkats underneath. Just check back and we’ll have you drunk on our delicious musings in no time. We suppose that before then, its ok to feel as though you’re making “progress”. Its amazing what gets some people going.

New York Halloween: Time to turn those cruel intentions and horrible insides into a fabulous costume. For candy!

It’s the time of year to celebrate the truly scary. The bridge and tunnel denizens of New York club-going have their hussy tops and glitter eye shadow ready. Halloween is here! We can’t wait to get dolled up like a white trash ‘80s whore and tromp downtown to the parade with the other folks in their adorable get ups. Getting fraternized by fellow ghouls (that hobo’s erection is just part of his costume, right?) means autumn has arrived. We can’t wait to go trick or treating.

But, what to wear?

We all know that the most sophisticated New York bar goers wouldn’t be caught dead dressing up for Halloween as a sexy cat, yet that seems to be the only available option these days. Ladies and Gentlemen, surely we can do better. Let’s let our brothers and sisters from the suburbs take care of costume standards like the bloody surgeon, the playboy bunny, and the Latina she-devil.

While they’re busy collecting their tricks in the west village (i.e. contracting Hepatitis-C from that nice boy who was dressed-up as a resident of the Bronx), we’ll be gorging on treats in midtown. Everyone is at the parade. The bars are empty. The drinks are all ours! We have to be sure to dress accordingly for such delicious witch-craft. Here are some costume ideas. Please steal them as you see fit, and be sure to share them with your loser friends before the litter box comes out.

Baby stealer – We knew our hobby would come in handy one day. Only one hitch. How do we choose the lucky little one that gets to come out of their drawer for the night?

El chupacabra – In keeping with the cat costume tradition, we will gussy this up and be El sexy chupacabra.

A sober person – We think we saw one the other day, but we’re still not sure quite what these folk look like. We think this is on the right track.

Ricky’s clerk – We tried to pull it off but wasn’t able to get it right. And believe us, it was hard to find a name tag that read hoochie. We just couldn’t get our wig into that perfect ‘broken soul’ place. Those damn press-ons sure are tricky.

Disgustingly attractive, internet based, social maven – A great idea. But, alas. All the Arianna latex masks are already sold out.

All of this costume related blogging is exhausting, and we haven’t even started carving Jamie lee Curtis’s face into a pumpkin. No wonder those Salem ladies needed magic. We’ll probably just stick with our original and ridiculously sophisticated idea: Un chat magnifique et sexy. Take that jersey!

Rain, Rain, Come Again (and help us get back that money we blew on video poker).

Newly minted meatheads are just itching to go out and spend last year’s bonus. Forgetting that Jon Favreau’s character in Swingers was, ahem, poor, our investment banker friends flock to the city so they can feel money. Throwing hundreds away on bottle service and high stakes Keno (coming soon to ESPN negative 3) is apparently not enough these days. True meatheads aren’t validated until they can throw their money away by actually heaving it over a railing.

In the outdoor Vegas club scene, rain is a good thing. A local weatherman explains the situation:

“Patrons drop $100 bills from the cabanas up above the floor, and watch the crowd down below go crazy. We have a guy come in every Sunday on his private jet. He stays for the day and makes it rain.”

Barfly interviewed said patron, who asked to remain anonymous because he is exhausted from all the bikini-clad vixens asking for rides on the jet (yes anonymous source, we’re sure the readers know what you mean by “jet”).

What exactly about this was appealing? “It’s not the people who go crazy because they’re excited; it’s those few who go crazy because you know they need that dough. They try and try to get that rain in their hand, and just as they think they have it, its snatched away by some pudgy-ass black dude. That shit is MONEY!”

After a lengthy investigation, Barfly has found that the custom hasn’t caught on yet in our glorious city. Similar attempts have been made, with mixed result.

Club owner Amy Sacco explains: ”We once took a box full of starving lemurs and let them loose in the middle of the dance floor. We thought it would contribute to the clubs ‘exotic’ appeal. Let me tell you, lemurs do not like Beyonce songs.” Sacco stared off into the distance as she whispered. “I can still feel it crawling up my leg.”

With club row dying, we figured we’d try to capitalize on this idea again, without involving mammals. For east coast style, we’ll call it hailing. This Sunday, if you happen to be partying it up at one of your favorite haunts, and you get hit in the face with a dollar coin that was chucked at you from above, you’re money baby!