NY Barfly

Review: Jadis Wine Bar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rodeo Bar – The Best Little Drink House that Fakes Texas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rodeo Bar - 3rd Avenue at 27th Street -

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

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

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

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

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

Review: Dave and Buster's Times Square

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Primorski’s Russian Restaurant

Ladies and Gentlemen, our dearest friend LittleFly has graced us with another dispatch. And, not only is it just as disgustingly glorious as all of her other musings, but it involves one of our very favorite subjects: Soviet intrigue. Enjoy!

When it came down to the last 5 subway stops into Little Odessa you could sense the excitement in everyone. Half the excitement was our field trip to Primorski’s Russian Restaurant and Nightclub in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. The other half was the fact that we were finally going to get off the Subway – if we choose to continue on, Siberia was only another 15 minutes away.

We were really expanding our horizons with this Friday night birthday bash…4, 3, 2, 1….

The walk to Primorski’s was a delightfully non-Manhattan nightlife experience - the smell of the salty Atlantic (or was it the overwhelming stench of pleather mini skirts?), the kind eyes of welcoming locals (or was that the Russian mob on our tails?) and of course the dangling nightlights up ahead that served as our guide into Primorski’s.

Upon arrival, the icy doorman kindly took a break from an argument with his female friend (complete with big blonde hair and fancy fishnets, the Brighton Beach costume department clearly deserves some sort of award). He held open the glass doors and acknowledged us with a stony Russian poker face. When his stare made us genuinely fear for our lives, we knew this was going to be an authentic experience!

We entered the dining room to the sweet beats of our entertainers. Apparently, 5 middle-aged people bouncing around to an electronic dance mix constitutes “entertainment” in the Soviet Motherland. Our Russian is a bit dusty, but we suppose that the “live” part of the entertainment that the Primorski website so promised translates to their “Ipod”. There it was, in person on the stage.

“I picked the Russian banquet!” the birthday boy proudly exclaimed as our feast was so eloquently plopped down in front of us. The nervous diners picked at the recognizable chicken Caesar salad and a few were brave enough to take on the beautifully presented dog food, known to the Russians as Chicken Jelly. Bottles of chilled Putinka Vodka graced the table alongside glasses with no ice.

Putinka (Russian translation: “paint thinner”) goes down with surprising ease when used to wash the taste of tongue and eel out of one’s mouth. A few sips in and we couldn’t tell if everyone’s grimaces were from the food or the vodka. Inwardly, we were very pleased – when we saw all of our friends with those strange frowns we had to remind ourselves that they weren’t actually Russian. We also began to realize how Communism had lasted for so many decades, a gulp of Putkina and a sniff of that Chicken Jelly – our group was clearly on the road to mass delirium.

A fat man with a camera came around snapping photos of our table and then demanded to know how many prints we would be purchasing at $10 each. Oh this is like a Russian cruise!” exclaimed one diner. Another wasn’t so sure- “Shhh, they’ll kill us! Uh, four photos please sir!”

The birthday boy was a little too excited from all the commotion. “Do you know how to do that dance??” he shouted before folding his arms in front of him and attempting to kick his feet out. A shudder went through the table. The photographer was not amused, and he motioned to three men in the corner who appeared to be “discussing business”.

“Ha.. no, no, you don’t have to do that. I was just kidding, you know.” The photographer stared at him with a Russian poker face. “Uh, here’s fifty bucks, we’ll take five more photos. Yeah, five more!” The photographer took the cash, and plopped five photos down on the table. We had escaped with our lives, at least this time.

The dance floor was filling up and the “band” was hot. They got the crowd riled up by clicking “next track” on their Apple. They even took turns singing karaoke style. Our favorite move was when they half heartedly pretended to play the fake bongo drums.

Upon observation, we discovered that the only thing worse than the food was the dancing. Two or three iceless glasses of Putinka later and we were on our way to the dance floor to shamelessly do the Elaine, commie-style (involves dancing badly while pretending to be interred in a forced labor camp).

The end of the night left the group slurring and stumbling with genuine smiles of satisfaction. We filed out of the restaurant, 8x10 photos in hand to commemorate our true Little Odessa experience.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Da!” everyone shouted.

How about that – not only was Primorski’s a hit – but everyone learned a new word! 

Primorski’s – 282 Brighton Beach Avenue -

Russian banquet menu -3 olives - It was ethnic, pertinent to our trip to Brighton beach, and nicely presented by the waitstaff. It’s a shame that no one dared eat it.

Clear presence of Russian hookers - 3 olives – No judgments. In Russian career choices, we hear it ranks slightly above schoolteacher.

Location - 2 olives - Putinka sipped neat leaves you unable to read subway maps, and surprise! There are no cabs at your disposal. Commission a school bus to pick you up as we did....

Fulfilling enough of an experience that you never have to go back - 4 olives - Primorski’s will forever remain untainted in our memory as a true depiction of how they do it in Moscow. Good thing. There’s no way we could afford any more of those photos.

Review: Scores East Side

Houses of ill-repute are an endangered species these days. Now that Manhattan has cleaned itself up, there are only small group of sterile clubs to keep your secret smutty side engaged (what, you think we don’t know that side? We’ve seen your Myspace photos, you slut). With the lack of options, its easy to spend your carefully saved “sin fund” entirely at American Girl Place (maybe with a sick, perverted stop at neighboring Build-a-Bear).

Luckily, there are still a few options when you feel like paying for a pseudo-erotic lap dance from a tarted up Eastern European “blonde”. Barfly was recently goaded into a trip to Scores East Side on a night out with a female friend. We had become bored of literally setting money on fire and decided to dispose of it in a more expeditious way. “Let’s go to a strip club,” she said. “I love the smell of baby powder mixed with sexual frustration. It reminds me of the better days . . . ”

She picked up the $30 cover when we arrived. We stopped for a moment to remind ourselves of the rules:

1. No touching the merchandise. Merchandise includes but is not limited to asses.
2. Everything costs money. Usually what you would expect to pay +$17 “for the girls”.

Well, it turns out that the rules are slightly different when there is a female in tow. We took a booth, and the strippers immediately started running over to us. Well, not so much to us. Their giggles were directed at her.

“Honey, how are you, I love your boots”

“Doll – where did you get your hair done? It’s adorable.”

“That jacket, is like, a great jacket, doncha think?”

One friendly stripper was particularly caught up in the impromptu pajama party. “I’ll be right back,” she said “I have something I have just got to show you.”

“Uh, wasn’t this supposed to be sexy?” we piped in. “I think we just paid $45 for two beers, and the strippers just keep petting your head. Aren’t they supposed to do something, like something smutty?”

She looked around and straightened her hair “Well, it may not be smut, but I do somehow feel violated and deeply unsettled”. 

“Looks!” our halter-dress sophisticate squatted down beside the banquette. “I told you I had something to show. Check out this lip gloss – it really makes your lips like, pop, you know? Here – you should try some.” Apparently the “no touching” rule does not apply to makeup sharing with the customers. This service was also free of charge.

The stripper leaned back and admired her handiwork. “See – you look so cutes now. It’s so nice to have a normal person in the club, it doesn’t happen every night, ya know. Thanks for chatting with me – I gotta run”. And run she did – right to the stage where she proceeded to twirl in the flashing lights for the oversized men in the front row.

The lights flashed off of our friend’s newly enhanced lips. “Well – at least your lips are sexed up. That’s kind of worth the cover charge.”

“I think we should go,” she said. “Don’t you feel shameful and dirty?”

”A little bit, but it’s hard to say why.” We stood up and gathered our things. “Look, they’re all waving bye-bye to you”.

She gave a wave as we ushered our way to the door. “They all just want a friend – did you see that? The poor girls. The thought of getting-off on this even for a second makes me feel like a complete sleazebag. They’re too nice! That poor little thing. Look at my lips – they look great. I feel so disgusting.”

As we walked to the next bar, we too felt uneasy about what had just transpired. Good to know– Manhattan hasn’t become completely clinical – there are still a few places that can leave you feeling like you did something naughty. There is just a tiny difference between today’s smut and the sleaze of the past. Before, you would wake up with a mild hangover and a vague feeling of guilt. Now, you wake up the next day, log on, and end up donating money to Romanian orphans. Sinful living sure has become expensive!

Scores East Side – 333 60th Street

Walking out and realizing that the club is tucked under the Manhattan Bridge – 4 olives – It’s strangely validating to feel “under the bridge” seedy after spending $200 on supposed high-end smut. They should spruce it up a bit with a few hobo canister fires.

Visiting a strip club on EAST 60th street – 3 olives – We’re used to seeing whores and sluts on the East side, but professional strippers were a little jarring.

Squandering our rent money on three beers – 3 olives – The alcohol content and the exorbitant price join forces to make that fake blondes’ size 36DD prosthetics look positively classy.

Makeup tips from the dancers – 5 olives – Instead of teaching silly things like the alphabet, the Romanian orphanage left these girls with some killer application techniques.

Review: The Art Bar (involves little to no actual art)

Having recently survived (barely) an encounter with “contemporary” art – Barfly decided to go back to our roots. We loved finger painting cocktail olives as a child. Our macaroni martini glasses were known on the playground as “da bomb”. After our recent visit to the New Museum, we needed to catch our conceptual breath. Sometimes its hard to remember that a printout of Mel Gibson attached to a rod does not represent the end-all-be-all of creative human endeavor.

It was difficult coming down from our art-rage, but we were able to think of some pieces that didn’t create the urge to push overweight tourists in front of busses. The Venus De Milo (lost her arms in a bar fight). Dogs Playing Poker. These paintings done by a monkey. Glorious – our hope in humanity was almost restored.

Almost that is, because Monkeys are only half human. We still needed +.5 to get us over that nefarious hope hurdle. Where to turn? If we couldn’t get there, we were surely doomed to a non-glamorous life of being moved by Monet water-lilies. We’re not sure how stultifying his pastels could prove, but we imagine that it’s analogous to having locked-in syndrome.

Luckily, we thought of the West Village stalwart Art Bar – the true centerpiece to any drunkard’s collection. What better to whet your appetite for more art than a 2-for-1 happy hour (better hurry up and enjoy as much “more art” as possible – happy hour ends at 8). The cozy booths are perfect for plotting your next Munch heist. And, most importantly, there is very little actual art to be seen. They have a gallery in the back featuring some local artists – but we much preferred sitting up front and watching the locals morph into masterpiece worthy subjects after downing a nip too much. We snapped a picture of one with our camera phone:

Art Bar – 52 Eighth Avenue – Between Horatio and Jane

Barfly’s Portraiture in Macaroni – 4 olives –. Apparently plopping a shark in a tank gets you all the attention these days. But, watch out Hirst. Once we cover these things in dung, your record auction numbers don’t stand a chance!

The New Greek and Roman Galleries at the Met – 4.5 olives – We haven’t seen them, but we figured rating them would increase our street-cred, hoighty-toighty style.

Paying $6.00 for two draft beers – 5 olives – Surely it should have been more crowded. But, you know what they say – true brilliance is never recognized in its day!

Review: Don't Tell Mama ('cause its Christmas!)

During the holiday season, Barfly frequently finds that we are jealous of non-city dwellers. Yes, we have our loneliness, bitterly mumbled Christmas carols, and "figgy pudding" (can anyone recommend a reliable figgy dealer?).  But, glorious suburbanites have all of the above and strip malls. Conspicuous consumption tastes even more delicious when you're 30-deep in a register line at Kohl's (25 of which are expatriated Indian housewives with kohl's cash tucked into every fold of their Santa sari.)

The other evening we longed for a taste of this suburb holiday spirit. We decided to jingle over to New York's own gentrified strip mall - Restaurant Row. There surely would be some suburban tourists with polyester Santa hats to keep us company. And if not, at least we could afford ourselves some mediocre Italian cuisine at one of the dumpy dining establishments. Their stale foccia is a sophisticated New Yorker's version of fruitcake (the fruity chunks replaced with dead baby roaches).

We almost ended up going to Yum Thai as we thought it would be fun to convert the heathenish waiters to Christianity, i.e. threaten to call the I.N.S. if they didn't take a Jesus pledge (plus we love spring rolls). But, as we walked down the street we heard the tinkling of a piano. Christmas music spilled out of one dilapidated looking bar. The sign read Don't Tell Mama and illuminated our way like the star of Bethlehem. If only those poor Thai waiters would get a glimpse. God help their damned Buddhist souls.

We sat at the bar in a room full of tourists. Our Christmas wish had come true. We may not be able to revel in the Muzak at Kohl's but we sure as hell could enjoy the singing waiters and piano player at one of the most non-New York institutions that exists: the piano bar. The only thing better? If they plopped the manger down in midtown and trotted out the little drummer boy for all to hear. Even that wouldn't be able to capture the true spirit of the suburban holidays. They wouldn't be selling anything.

Caught up in the spirit of giving we've decided that everything gets a glorious 5 olives (!) on this Christmas Eve. Yes, that includes the singing waitress with the corncob hat. Five olives to the fact that she was wearing an oversize sweater to hide her 1) immaculate pregnancy or 2) impetus for New Year's resolution. We call her Patty -  and would like to wish her a very Merry Christmas indeed. You might want to cool it on those Cosmos Patty, because whether its #1 or #2, you've got problems.

To the rest of you, we suppose you get 5 olives, yada yada. . . Happy holidays, blah blah blah. . . All this "joy". . .how exhausting. Do we really have to do this every year? Though, those Kohl's cash coupons do make all this baby Jesus humbug seem worth it. They've got Vera Wang designing pillows now. Five olives indeed!

Review: Port Authority Bus Terminal (no, believe us, its fancy)!

Part of what we enjoy ever so much about being an NYBarfly is our ability to find off-the-beaten-path places to drink. We’ve delighted in bathroom cocktails, hiding in the stairwell-tini’s, and curled up under the sink (if our nesting instinct is acting up) lager. But, time and again, we constantly find that the combination of desperation, vagrancy, and murder-suspects make mass transit hubs our favorite “in the know” drinking destinations.

Out with a group the other night we debated where to head:

“How about dinner? I like sushi,” one of our friends said. What is this sushi business, we wondered? Probably something she found out about on Citysearch – poor plebian follower.

“I dunno,” another chimed in. “Maybe we should head over to the W hotel and have cocktails.” Wethinks someone has been paying too much attention to New York Magazine. If Adam Moss told you to jump into a mysterious vortex of cool, would you? (imagine that said vortex is full of sharks).

Luckily we had just the thing that would bring this disparate night together: “Hey kids, we know a great place to go that will make everyone happy.”

“Tell us Barfly, tell us! You always know the best places. You’re amazingly cool . . . “ (compliment stream cut short for sake of time).

“Why, where but the bus station will make this a truly special evening.”

And, a special evening it made indeed! After our friends stopped shaking their heads and murmuring variations of “such an alcoholic” they were on their merry way to wherever it was that Rachel Ray told them to go (ladies, if Build-A-Bear served martinis, we certainly would have accompanied you). We, on the other hand, felt like inhaling some exhaust fumes with our stale beer. Off to port authority we were!

Port Authority Bus Terminal Bar – South Building – 8th Avenue at 41st street (2nd Floor) -

Having to take an escalator to the bar – 5 olives – Goodness – mechanized transport certainly has come a long way in the digital age.

Homeless vagrant that stares at you through the bar window as you drink – 4.5 olives – Some people may be put off by his maniac gaze, but he’s just good ol’ Bummy to us. Don’t be so quick to judge - he’s not one of those homeless people at all! He lives in the bus station silly!

Patrons – 4 olives – It’s hard to figure out who we like the most. The runaway teen in the corner seems sweet, but his forehead tattoo is a little much for our tastes. The battered woman quivering over her whisky might be nice. Oh, wait- these two know each other – he is going to talk to her, maybe it’s his mom or . . .oh, we guess not. Jeeze – we get that they like each other, but if they are going to use that much tongue they might feel more comfortable at Penn Station.

Discovering who your “true friends” are – 3 olives – We suppose it had to come to this. They ended up coming back after their excursion and attempted to join us for a drink. Such a shame. If only they had built us a bear, we still would be talking to them.

The Producer's Club - Staging the premire modern American drama (drunkenness)

What is this? Broadway's stage hands are striking? No one told us. We thought those guys walking around in circles outside the theaters in midtown had something to do with the Sopranos ending.

Just Barfly’s luck. This past weekend, we were all ready to be overcome elaborate song lyrics like “the Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore” and the truly sophisticated “rent rent rent rent rent”. When we got the news that our show was closed, we sang our own Broadway caliber song (to the tune of Don’t Cry for me Argentina): “damn damn darn darn darn-gentia”. Please feel free to forward the aforementioned to your fellow Tony voters.

We arrived early to see How the Grinch Stole Xanadu. We were truly looking forward to watching German youths sing about sexuality while on roller blades (all as the mean Mr. Grinch prepared to ruin joyous Weihnachtstag forever!).

But, Barfly was left with no great white way this Friday evening. Just a blue collar barricade and a giant inflatable rat – even A Chorus Line was better than this. Ever resourceful, we decided to get some vodka and drink in the corner of Schubert alley. Perhaps we would serenade the passerbys with some more of our song (i.e. the glorious second line “they’re not getting paid, no sets are being made”). The unhappy teamsters would hear none of it though. Apparently being within 10 feet of someone who may sing in rhyme constitutes three work hours and requires 2 men. Wow – Barfly supports you guys – we know how exhausting a day of hard work can be!

So we were forced to consider one of the modern horrors of the world: off Broadway.

Would it be a gender confused ex army sergeant giving a monologue about coming of age during the battle of the bulge (that better not be some kind of perverted metaphor you sick thespian)?

Could we sit through a futuristic “experimental opera” called Webber Squared. The robotic animals mewing patriotic French anthems does sound mildly appealing.

We already saw that one where those painted guys stomp all that stuff and squirt things at the audience. In any case, The Apollo Theater was too far away.

We wandered through midtown and became resigned to our normal Friday night ‘theatergoing’ activity: giving up and drinking. We’re on the fundraising board of this cultural institution, so luckily we can get tickets at the last minute.

As we ambled to our performance space (i.e. the bathtub) we noticed a sign on one of the small theaters contained three of our favorite words “wrestling / beer / jell-o”. Goodness! Salvation was upon us! They were going to have beer wrestling and give away free jell-o at The Producers Club. We quickly went up stairs and paid for tickets. Apparently, we had been a bit confused about order of the words but we didn’t much care. They’ve got a bar up there. And not one of those sissy Broadway Theater bars either - this place had razzmatazz all over it.

Review: The Producer’s Club – West 44th - Street Between 8th and 9th Avenue

Watching Blanche jello-wrestle Nora – 4 olives – Our money was on the sultry southern belle (the first thing she did was rip Nora’s blouse off) but the Danish damsel dominated when she pulled out those fierce tarantella kicks.

Patrons at the theater’s bar – 4 olives – This is where the really famous Broadway actors come. We heard that the singing waiters from Stardust Diner show up after their shifts. If you ask nice, they might even get them to sing their signature ballad. Summer Lovin never gets old.

Off Broadway – 1 olive – It’s so hard to figure out what’s good and what’s in the life-damaging theater category. Oh, and we’re pleased to announce Barfly’s upcoming one blog show: Martini for You, Martini for Me: An Intimate Night of Vermouth and Song. We know that you can tell what category it’s in (hint: the good one). In case you need some help, here’s another lyric: darling, don’t you want a martini / you’re our own little genie / now please take off your beanie / did you say you’re 18? (cue jazz hands).

Off-off-Broadway – 5 olives – That, like, puts us back on Broadway, right?

Iggy's Bar: Another marathon? We're so exhausted of winning.

Barfly was going to run the marathon this weekend, but our shin splints (ennui) got the best of us. Instead, we decided to lethargically meander (our idea of this ‘jogging’ business) over to a more familiar death trap. We figured $3 drafts at Iggy’s would be a better way to “get across the finish line” of mortality – none of the sweating and all of the wonderful falling to the curb in a blaze of glory.

Iggy’s provides the Olympic trials of happy hour – only the best can make it through the grueling 3 – 9 pm trek (half-priced, not for the recreational sportsman). Luckily, there are things to help one conquer the ordeal. At the 12 mile mark the bartender will hand over a free shot of Jager. We suppose you can poor it over your head if you think it will keep you going. Barfly likes to say to our self “this run juice will help us finish the pretend race!” That’s enough juice for another 2.2 miles of chugging along.

What good is any marathon happy hour without the proper music? We know those runners in the park will have little white health-buds sticking from their ears. Their soundtrack will surely be ablaze with techno “motivational” huffings and puffings. Barfly much prefers the old school punk and hardcore found on this classic jukebox. The runner ahead of us may think that their precious Moby will give them that last little push, but as Sid’s shrieks echo over the speaker we know that the push is ours.

They’ll realize it too, when we throw their asses to the ground and step across the finish line. We both get a prize – they get to see the white of their shin bones through the blood, and we get another $3 beer. Phew! Just made it, it was almost 9:01 – we would have had to pay full price!

Iggy’s – Ludlow Street near Rivington

New York Marathon – 2 olives –< It’s now called the ING marathon. We’d lament the corporate sponsorship, but we’re really just jealous. We’ve been trying to convince them to make us DeutschBankBarfly for ages!

Buck Hunter Video Game – 4 olives – Talk about things that should be made into Olympic sports. It’s a conspiracy. We’d dominate if they threw this, mechanical bull riding, and our own patented ‘flirty-ball’ into the games.

Happy Hours for Pros – 5 olives – None of this ‘obese man passing out in the heat while trying to run a 5K’ business. This sort of thing is for real. i.e. ‘obese man getting thrown to the ground by a bunch of fitness addicts, stomped to death by their designer Nikes, scoured for food, and passed over because his protein ain’t lean enough.’