OMG STFU about Max Fish already! The Lower East Side has not been the destination du jour for some time now. The last time I invited someone to meet me there the text I received back was “ARE YOU DRUNK? WHY ARE YOU THERE?” Also, the last time the Lower East Side was considered hip, living off of Lorimer was still considered edgy and if I’d told you that I thought Justin Beebz was hot you could’ve locked me up.
In 2008 - 2010 I spent some time skulking around the LES but it was only because I was going through my “I only date bartenders who are 50% covered in tattoos” phase. Everyone else hanging out on the LES was from the UES except for the staff of every bar, and that was three years ago.
See, I missed the actual cool era of the Lower East Side because I was A) very underage - that was a decade ago - and B) I was hanging out with a dude who had a loft in SoHo, and a loft in SoHo with ultra high ceilings is better than the LES on any day of the week, and also, he was partial to Milady’s when he was in a dive bar mood. Milady’s is a better dive than Max Fish will ever be by virtue of it’s angry old lady bartenders, many of whom are missing their teefs! #glam
So, let’s get over it. Max was open since something like 1989, if you’re reading this blog you likely missed the hey-day, and that’s that. The only decent thing that ever happened to me at Max Fish is that this one time I made out with a skateboarder dude who had a tattoo of the batman symbol on his face when I was there at about 2 am on a Sunday after being at Sway. That’s a story I can tell my grandchildren.
Proceed with your regularly scheduled program of hanging out at bars you actually like, or if you want to recreate the Max Fish experience, feel free to invite a bunch of semi-homeless barbacks to your apartment and serve $2 PBRs to them over a rotting log.
The bartender at The Ides @ The Wythe Hotel was a total sourpuss, but who could blame the hip young chap? Judging from the detritus that remained at his feet, he must’ve had a terribly busy Sunday Sunset shift.
Sunday Sunset: The last socially acceptable time to indulge on the weekend in NYC if you have a typical nine to five, best done on a Brooklyn Rooftop.
My gang of idiots (none of us work typical nine to fives, presently) didn’t arrive at The Ides until well after dark, having spent the duration of the beautiful sunset at Berry Park.
Berry Park is a rooftop bar that has been a favorite of mine for years because they have pink wine on tap. Also, I can usually find an ample supply of Cougiesnacks wandering around the semi-sportsbar interior, but on Sunday I felt that the tides were turning on this Billyburg rooftop.The only interesting strangers I could find were clearly on Molly. They were jamming out hard to late nineties R&B, and sweating, and looked like they’d been awake since Thursday night. Also, one of them was wearing a Grateful Dead shirt…I had to deal with enough pseudo hippies growing up in whitebread Westchester so engaging this group was a no-go.
The crowd was better at The Ides, not to mention the view. I’m basing my opinion of the crowd solely on the fact that a couple of 7 outta 10s hit on me.Also, the unisex bathrooms at the Ides are far nicer than the toiletpaper-less cave that you have to wine pee in at Berry. Bathroom layout is important. Case and point: Le Bain.
With that having been said, this summer is off to a slow start in the snack department.If things don’t start looking better I’m going to open a faux modeling agency call 5M: Miss M’s Mens Model Management.I had the idea on the downtown N/R today, where I “discovered” two 6’2” wonders of chili lime boy-jerky toting their adorable little comp cards. I wanted to be like: “How was your casting, I’m a really big agent,” but I chickened out when I realized I didn’t have any business cards. One of them was complete Euro-trash and was wearing a windbreaker around his waist and he looked wide-eyed and new to New York. I bet he regularly gets lost on the A Train. You know what that means? MISSED OPPORTUNITY.
I’d write a missed connection for Windbreaker BeBe Zoolander on Craigslist if I thought he knew how to read… and wasn’t born in the 90’s.
I’m not quite sure why my response to potential disaster is “try to look as pretty as possible and go make out with boys.” I see this as a bad thing and a good thing. It’s a bad thing that I wanted to go shoot pool in the East Village with my handsome neighbor on Monday night because I could have died in the process (potentially even before the potential makeout-sesh). It’s a good thing because in the real apocalypse I will likely be taken out in the first round. I won’t be wandering around in the nuclear fallout drinking pee-pee with all of the people who are better at surviving than I am. Or, I’ll quickly wind up “with child,” and thus be cared for by everyone at large because I’m carrying our future, and I’ll continue the human race.
On Monday Night, I was not seeing any of this clearly.
"B-b-but," I pleaded with my brother, who’d locked me into his Murray Hill apartment, "It’s not that big of a deee-al! He’s really cuu-ute."
I was sure things were going to be like last Hurricane, the “Irene” one. We had a grand ol’ hurricane in the East Village last hurricane! It involved cheeseburgers, martinis, Mai Tais, Ben Stiller movies, and ultimately Coronas at Destination in the East Village.
Needless to say, I was convince this “Sandy” chick was going to be just like that ho Irene. I even applied make-up while watching last season of RuPaul’s Drag Race rather than the news on Monday Night. I was halfway through my eyeliner when BOOM went Con Ed. Then our power went out.
Rather than wash my face and go to bed, I hung out of the window and waited for it to flicker back on. My brother, being a responsible human and a doctor, sensed that I was plotting to make a run for it. He made me take an Ambien before he ventured to the hospital to see what the damage was. I fell asleep in full make-up at eleven PM - there’s not much to keep you up after you use up your phone battery texting your current infatuation about how he walked home in waist-deep water.
I was even more kinds of irrational on Tuesday morning. I was fixated on how I was going to charge my phone - I NEED TO TALK TO WORK. My brother kept yelling at me about how I had food and shelter and was warm and how THE HOSPITAL DIDN’T HAVE POWER.
But, understand, my brother is three years older than me. He used to make me run obstacle courses in our backyard where he’d change the rules mid-round so that he’d always win. Granted, we were like three and six years of age respectively, but I’m likely going to be a little suspicious for the rest of my life. Because I couldn’t see or connect to anyone else, I was beginning to feel like I was the only person without power. Confident it would be restored within the hour - I needed to work - I put on a pink dress and tights and my leather boots.
Then, my brother made me change into a total refuge outfit - not an ironic one -anorak, rainboots…PANTS - gasp! and I was all like this guy having a panic attack:
I know. How ridiculous and selfish am I? I want to rewind to like 48 hours ago and lecture myself. I’ve got a dry apartment (albeit without power) and my neighborhood has been hurt but not destroyed. Not feeling totes amaze is nothing to bitch about.
Certainly, I owe my brother quite a few thank-yous because he kept me from 1) Staying in StuyTown/The East Village with a boy who went out playing pool and wound up wading through waist-deep, potentially electrically charged water on East 14th Street, and 2) He brought me to a somehow-open Korean restaurant in Midtown after the storm and fed me. (I get even more irrational without food.) Now I’m safe in Greenpoint while my brother does hero stuff being a doctor at a hospital and all, but the most I can do is write about it and reflect on how sometimes the city should sleep - or at least stay indoors - especially when scientists who know more than you are telling you to. It’s silly that what happened in New Orleans in recent memory seemed so far away from me.
When I get back into my apartment, I might buy myself a globe to remind me that we’re on a wet bouncy ball floating through a vacuum. We’re going somewhere, but no one is behind the wheel. It’s got nothing to do with me or my mini-skirt-wearing-boy-crazy-ass, so I may as well take care and not cause someone who does hero stuff for a living to have to put their life on the line because of my lusty idiocy.
Image courtesy of PB’s Google Place Page…note that all of the other Google images are not of Park Bar, but of the adjacent restie. #internetbatman
Obviously I used to frequent this place after slow nights on Sunday and Monday since I used to work at a tragic restie on 17th…
This past Friday, I dragged a dude with me to Park Bar and I was reminded of all of the reasons why I’ll endlessly bitch about Park Bar, and yet I’ll never stop making it my last stop before creeping back into my east village abode.
Back when I was a whacktress, I used to avoid this place at all costs on the weekends, opting instead for the vomit-scented 119. Why? Because it was such a massive sausage fest. After eight hours of serving mojitos to chodes who thought that a restaurant that was hip in 1995 could still somehow be cool in 2007, I didn’t feel like encountering any more stripey shirt wearing I-bankers with inferiority complexes…and sometimes, on the weekend, you’ll find that sort of crowd at Park Bar.
The bartenders at Park Bar are cool in that “surly bartender doin’ my job” way. If you’re acting like an idiot they’ll give you another glass of wine, but they’ll let you know that you’re being a weirdo, which I appreciate. Drinks here are poured stiff. They have those super-sized martini glasses. Order a martini and you’re basically presented with a dog bowl of vodka, if you’re into that sort of thing.
A lot of the dudes here are more mature (SILVER FOXES) so if you are rebounding from your last relationship, make sure you like grey pubic hair before you come here to cry into your wine and then hunt for what I like to call “a shoulder to cry on” or ”a sympathetically stiff salami to sit on.”
What I Like: Good wine, good value at happy hour (I think - I tend to not pay when I go to this bar because of all of the aforementioned silver foxes), window sills to perch on during the summer, adjacent sidewalk frequented by cute puppies, and that one time my friend Johnny the Fireman threw wet bar napkins at Julia Stiles from across the bar at this fine establishment.
What I Would Avoid: SausageFest Saturdays, and the giant velvet curtain over the door that hits everyone in the face… so you have everyone’s skin cells all mixed in with your skin cells! Also, my exboyfriends who frequent this bar. I try to avoid them, too.
When I was sixteen I took the train from the suburbs to Manhattan and wound up at Galaxy Global Eatery on Irving Place (since closed) where I drank a bunch of Long Islands with my friends. I wound up barfing in the Galaxy bathroom, rallying, and still making it to the concert next door at what used to be called “Irving Plaza.”
This was my first glamorous evening of New York Nightlife.
In spite of bad ass behavior, I still managed to get decent grades. I was also good at faking tears, a practice perfected when I was pulled over in my obnoxious red jetta by bored Westchester State troopers, so off I went to Tisch at NYU to pursue a degree in Drama.
Those were the days of Marquee, PM, and Bungalow, and you better believe that as a Drama major I had time to explore those castles of debauchery, as well as the many others that lay in between. I was seriously one of those clubrats at promoter tables who hadn’t quite mastered the art of walking in heels.
I felt like I’d made it.
I can’t believe I used to have conversations with uninterested jizzwads in striped shirts just for free goose.
College had to end eventually.
Much to my surprise, it was not that easy to instantly achieve fame and fortune, but I soon realized that my expensive BFA qualified me for all sorts of exciting opportunities in…the service industry. I soon found myself slinging mojitos at a restaurant on Union Square known for hiring models.
I’m 5’5” and only photograph well 28% of the time, so don’t believe the hype.
My exit from every place I worked was absolutely precious. I promise. I once threw four roasted chickens across a crowded patio in the middle of a busy dinner shift.
Side note: I firmly believe that you need to know how the machine breaks in order to understand what needs to be done to make it functional. Right?
Look at how high class I was in those days. Here’s a picture of me relaxing after work:
I no longer work in service, and my evenings out involve solid foods as well as social lubricants, and I try to not wear equestrian themed short-short outfits if I can avoid it.
Here’s what happens after dark. Here are the places I like to wine, dine, and 69.
(I’ll take care of that last item now: Your mom’s bed.)