The Best Bartender in NYC! Introducing: Victor from Esca.

I accidentally stumbled upon the best bartender in New York City about a month ago and, as you know, I'm not that easy to impress when it comes to things of such profound importance.

Before Cesar and I headed to the Knicks game a few weeks ago, we decided it would be a pretty good idea to get sauced. You know - so we might actually enjoy ourselves. We picked up our tickets at my friend's place on 43rd and 10th, so I suggested we try this little Italian place called Esca. I'd been scoping it out for a while, so I thought that now was as good as time as any to try it.

Now, Cesar and I aren't very formal ... or very classy for that matter. So, no matter how nice the restaurant, or expensive the food, we opt to eat at the bar. We like to be close to the motherload and bartenders are usually a lot more casual than servers.

That's when we met Victor.

Victor has a thick NYC accent and a couple kids. He knows the menu inside and out, and he's really into his job. I like this. But even more important, he makes a mean sapphire dirty. A lady next to us asked about the Nero D'Avola - my new favorite wine. I spouted the virtues of it, so he gave me a free glass. At the end, Victor suggested a chocolate crepe with hazelnut gelato and mascarpone mousse. Good man. We left him a ridiculous tip and went off on our merry way to the game.

As we walked, I told Cesar that a good NYC bartender will always give his/her regulars free drinks (I'm his mentor, as it turns out). After all, NYC has so many tourists that bartenders strive to keep their local regulars happy.

Last night we were in the neighborhood again. I suggested we go pay old Victor a visit. I declared that if he remembered us, he was in. If he didn't, to hell with him.

Victor knew us right when we walked in. Asked us how the Knicks game was, etc...

We ordered our Maker's rocks and dirty sapphire, he suggested the goods, and we chatted with Victor about his move to Florida and back. He told me that Esca was a Mario Bitali (& partners) restaurant, which I didn't know.

As we finished our drinks, Victor took our glasses and said, "let me freshen these up a little." He completely refilled them. He then asked if I'd like a bit of my fave wine.

I mean, do I even need to go on? This guy needs devoted followers, my friends. Tell him I sent you.

P.S. If you do, give him a few extra bucks for me. We accidentally only left him $20 on $93.82 -- A good tip for a normal bartender, but not for Victor. Now that it's our regular spot, I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities to get him back.

My New Line: The Sequel*

Last time I saw D, he was wearing a pink shirt.

Seeing as how Cesar and I had just been talking about guys who wear pink shirts the day before, I was prematurely worked up about the whole situation. I guess that's why this comment made so much sense at the time:

"Nice shirt, it really brings out your vagina."

Tee hee. I made a funny.


*If you're not familiar with my original new line, you can find it here.

P.S. Last night, D told me he was going out to dinner for work. He likes to taunt me so he said, "Guess what shirt I'm wearing." Of course, I guessed right on: "The vagina shirt?" His reply? "Yeah, it's my power business shirt."

Yes darlin', the vagina = power. But we already knew that.

My Roommate, The Delivery Boy

I've told you about my roomate's list of prospective jobs before, but yesterday's addition - to use a cliche - really took the cake:

"I think I'll just be a pot delivery guy."

Huh???

Background: One of the cool things about NYC is that potsmokers have the benefit of having a delivery boy. You can pretty much get anything deliverd in New York, but the way in which pot arrives in these parts is nothing short of magnificent. The guys gets a page (Yeah - they still carry pagers. That part hasn't been revolutionized yet), and if he recognizes the number, he calls back to take the order. Once he arrives (about an hour later than expected), he looks around the house to make sure there are no cops and what not, then, with not just a mild sense of paranoia, he pulls out what can only be likened to a catalogue of different varieties, colors and season shades - each type seperated into a handly little plastic box. The box is bought, delivery guy is out. It's that simple.

I'm sure I sound naive in my amazement, but this is a new approach I wish I would've known about back in the day when smoking pot was still, well, cool (and when I say "cool," I don't mean there's something wrong with smoking it, I mean that it's not okay to put it on display the way my roommate does: "Hey everybody! I'm smoking pot. Yep, the ganja! Yayyy weed!"). That's pretty lame, which totally explains why my roommate does it.

But, moving right along, my roommate declared that this is what he's going to do. He's going to see the business from the other side! Going to learn a new trade! Start a new life! Yeah, all that.

In his words, this is why he's qualified (his resume, if you will):

• "I know all about the product (guffaw, guffaw)." [Yeah, most people do. Well, most people the age of 15]
• "I'm a people person and can get along with anybody." [Over here! Hello? Remember me? We don't get along and I I hate you!]
• "It will be good exercise." [Remember, he's a bodybuilder who shaves his chest]
• "I'm a salesperson." [Yes, let's hope the qualities that have made you excel in your present job, carry over to your next venture]

I am so wrong.

So, basically - had I actually been looking for another reason to hate my roommate, he delivered one efficiently. Maybe this would be a good job for him.

Just My Stinkin' Luck!

So, about a month ago my friend Cak came over to discuss starting a marketing strategy and PR business with me. My feelings were mixed about the opportunity for many reasons. The most relevant of which were:

• I'm not a huge fan of PR work (Yes, yes - irony)
• I already spent two years working on a business that didn't end well

Now that I have a steady job, she wants to embark upon another start-up? To make a long story short, I said I could possibly help part time, which really meant that I wasn't interested in making a sacrifice... Call me when you get an account.

Fast forward to last week:

Hi Everyone!

Well....just wanted to send everyone an update on my business! All is going extremely well! I just nailed down 2 new clients as of last night (one including a new project that Donald Trump is working on and also the The Setai Hotel for South Beach Miami, (new development in Las Vegas) and (new development in NYC -- they are a leading luxury hotel of the world.

And, I just wanted to share *and um* somewhat brag! HA HA HA! I had dinner with Donald Trump last night along with 5 other people at his country club in Westchester, NY. And, of course my flash acts up after the dinner...but you can clearly see the Donald himself! I will be seeing him again in Florida all next week as I will be traveling on his private jet (bragging again - lol) to Florida to discuss business and view his new ventures.....along with beginning procedures I am devising for the Setai Hotel. Very nice guy....not as harsh and cruel as he seems on TV...but as I begin to work with his organization I will be able to tell you more!

I am also still working very hard on the luxury projects in Arkansas (and will also begin some in San Antonio Texas as of 2007) and have also officially signed on Absolute Vodka. I think I may begin to pursue luxury real estate and hotel development more as the money in it is tremendous...more than fashion/retail combined. I will also begin to seek of CPG (consumer packaged goods) products as they have extensive Marketing Strategic Research divisions that always need outhouse sources to execute strategy. I am also toying with the idea of some oil companies in the U.S.

etc, etc, etc...

Even worse... Here's the shitty cellphone pic evidence:

Bitch.

So, like any shameless opportunist would, I emailed her right back and said I was ready to go when she needs me. Fortunately she does. I'll start on a [insert brand name here] Vodka account with her in the summer. And she informed me that she embellished the letter a bit, I mean, a lot in her email because she was trying to impress her disgusting ex-boyfriend. She doesn't exactly have Donald, but she did go to dinner with him and she flew out on his private jet today. I'd say that counts.

This conversatinon took place over dinner at Dos Caminos ($14 sapphire martinis - expensive, BUT real alcohol and a lot of it). During dinner she got a call from her current client - a guy who is paying her top dollar to handle marketing for a new condo development. He wanted us to come meet him at the Rangers game. He was meeting with a guy he's trying to get a cool $100 million investment from. So, we went and sat in his box. Of course he has a box... I mean, who doesn't?

Turns out that the guy Cak works for is a bit shy. So, he threw in a few more hundred a month so that when he needs her to come where he is and act as a buffer, she does it. Fortunately for her, he usually just needs her to meet him at some of NYC's hottest clubs, sports events and, evidently, Miami...

Next time something like this comes my way, can someone please remind me of that saying about opportunity knocking and the simultaneous opening of the door that should take place? Thanks, that would be great.

To Hell With Convention!

Why bother visiting my blog the old-fashioned way when you can instead just type "Opera Winfrey's Minge" into google and get the same results? I truly don't have a convincing answer for you all.

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&safe=off&q=opera+winfrey+minge

I tell ya, this is the best thing since typing "Chewing" + "Penis" into google. Err, I mean, the best thing since buttered bread. Yeah.

Not Exactly Roughin' It, Part II (The Photo Doc)

I'm not too good to covet a pink and violet mansion.
Not too good at all...











I told you I'd deliver the goods.
After all, I'm a woman of my word.
Yet, somehow I'm still trying to find a good Jesus-stamp envelope for y'all.

Grandpa's Blackbird

I was sitting at my grandpa's kitchen table yesterday, texting a friend. My grandpa saw what I was doing and asked, "Is that your blackbird?"

Me: Huh? Do you mean Blackberry?
Grandpa: Oh, yes, Blackberry.
Me: No, this is a Sidekick. Kind of the same thing.
Grandpa: Have you seen my Blackberry?
Me: No.
Grandpa: Let me go get it.

I should have known:

Not Exactly Roughin' It

Hello from San Diego!

Just wanted to stop in and say hi before I hop on my redeye back home to NYC. I should be fresh as a daisy tomorrow - waltzing into work straight off the plane, wearing the same outfit I have on right now. I'm not sure why my boss puts up with me, but, hey, I don't ask questions. I'll just go with it until she realizes she meant to fire me a long time ago.

I flew into San Diego this weekend to spend a little time with my uncle since I couldn't make it for the funeral last week. As always tends to happen in touchy situations, I managed to put my foot in my mouth. But, before I get to that, I thought I'd share a couple of pictures with you.

The first is my friend Bobby and I on Saturday morning. Bobby and I go way back to when I was initailly launching the magazine. I decided to stay with him instead of my sister, whose offer of "I'll try not to wake you up at 4 a.m., but things do happen," wasn't exactly enticing. Anyway, I kept on threatening to go running when I woke up yesterday and Bobby laid it out for me: "I'm sick of hearing all this running shit. You're on vacation, let's go grab some bloody mary's and get pedicures." How could I argue with this logic? I couldn't:



Do note that these Chinese women spoke no trash whatsoever. I know, I know - It makes no sense. Well, it makes no sense until you find out that they are Vietnamese, not Chinese. As it turns out, Vietnamese women do not talk a lot of trash.

And, in less verbose news, this is where I stayed:



I need to get a picture of the inside. It's an absolutely decadent mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. Anyway, I'll post those one day with the Jesus-stamp envelopes and the many other things I've promised to post but haven't. As an aside, this place has 20 foot tall ceilings, wrap around windowed-walls covered by by silk, Austrian Curtains, life-sized gold Egyptian warrior statues, an indoor pool and jacuzzi, etc, etc, etc...

I don't know how I walk into these things, but, like I said, I don't ask questions. I just hope that nobody wakes up from my dream and kicks me out of it.

The whole putting my foot in my mouth situation: Yesterday, I met my uncle for lunch. When we went up to the counter to pay, the waitress pulled out one of those leather bank bags that businesses use to transport money to and from the bank. I made a comment that it was my new purse. My uncle laughed and remarked, "Yes, it's my new wallet." I nudged him and said, "Hey, in that case - are you single?"

Not exactly the right joke to make to a guy whose wife just passed away. He let me know as much, but I had already realized it - in fact, I was already in the process of swallowing my foot by that time. We both laughed though.

My lineage of foot-eaters is a long one, with my dad and my grandfather both having asked a non-pregnant woman when she was due - on completely seperate occassions.

Alright, that's it for now. More to come tomorrow if I don't accidentally pass out at my desk. The chances that I won't are pretty slim.

A Wrench in the System.

Something is definitely up.

Exhibit A. Take a gander at this curious note my roommate left on the counter yesterday:

In case you can't read it:

Gigi,
@ Carolyn's tonight b/c she's leaving tomorrow morning.
You around tom night? Drink? Dinner?
I will email or IM you tomorrow.
When you leaving for the West Coast?
-Ken

There are 2 likely explanations and 1 completely unlikely explanation for this other-worldly phenomenon.

Likely

1). He knows that I plan to move out in July and is trying to charm me into staying so he won't have to deal with finding another roommate who he will also ultimately drive crazy.

2). This is the second weekend his girlfriend has been out of town and he is realizing that, "Hey! I have no friends!"

Unlikely

1). He realized what a benevolent human being I am, and what a miserable one he is. He would like to make an amends before the reckoning.
-----

Which do you think it is? I'm thinkin' option 2 in the "likely" section. Either that or the apocalypse is upon us, my friends.

Remember the Picture My Dad Sent Me?

Well, that's got nothing on the new outfit my mom sent me yesterday. Feast your eyes on this little gem:

No note. No letter. No nothing. I mean clearly though, this thing truly speaks for itself.

In that vain, here's what it does not say:

"Hello, I am a present from your super religious mother."

"He's not going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free."

Have you been reading the 'Rules' book I gave you?"

I might note that since I hate my roommate and have thought I was going to move out on at least 2 occasions, I have officially forwarded all of my mail to my office. Imagine my co-workers' collective surprise when I opened up this package yesterday. I might be wrong, but it was quite similar to the look on the faces of the people sitting next to me last night at dinner when I pulled it out to show Cesar.

She usually decorates her packages and envelopes with various sparkles, colors and stickers. My favorite design is the one that bares a Jesus sticker right next to the postage stamp. She circles the Jesus sticker and places an arrow at the postage stamp with a message reading, "This is the real stamp! This is the only stamp that matters!" Or something to that extent. I'll have to scan one of those when I get home later. It's pretty important material that you shouldn't be deprived of.

My mom is a funny lady to say the least. While we're on the subject of dear mother, I should let you in on the jist of our past 4 conversations. And when I say conversations, I also mean 10 minute voicemail messages she leaves that might make an outsider wonder whether or not she knows she's not speaking to anyone:

Despicable
"Hi Gigi, I need you to go to the store right now and buy lycine for the coldsores you get on your lips. If you take one a day, you'll never get one again. I have one right now and I'm telling you, I look despicable!"

Fake Boob Removal
"I've decided that when you and your sisters get older and are rich, I want you each to give me $1,000 so I can get my boobs taken out. You know, I've never asked anyone for any money. I never asked your dad for alimony, I've never asked for anything. And I've had these things for 20 years. I'm afraid they're going to start leaking and they're getting heavy. I'm sick of them! I'd rather have little sacks of skin hanging off of my chest than these things. So, do you think you can help me with that someday?"

Chicago Boy
"Why do you have to date a guy from Chicago. Hello?! He is like totally geographically undesirable! There are a million other guys in Manhattan. Just date one of them. Wouldn't you like to be able to go out with your boyfriend on, say, a Wednesday night? I mean, wouldn't you? Just, think about it."

Follow-up on Chicago Boy
"Gigi, I was thinking about it and I'm calculating that if you go see D once a month and it costs you $200 per flight times 12 months a year, that's, umm, 12 x 200 is $240, no, no, no 12 x 200 is $24,000. No, 12 x 200 is $2,400? $2,400!! You're spending $2,400 a year going to Chicago! Can you please date someone in New York, honey??"

So, yeah - just like the outfit speaks for itself, I think that so too do these conversations. Check back later, I vow to dig up one of those Jesus envelopes for you.

Miami and the Minge

Aren't we just darling?Don't tell anybody, but we're models.

As odd as it might sound, the tone for this past weekend's Miami trip was set by a Southpark episode that D and I were fortunate (and lazy) enough to catch on Thursday night. The episode was a dupe on James Frey's book, A Million Little Pieces. The part of the episode that caught our attention was Opera Winfrey's speaking vagina. The vagina referred to itself as "Opera's Minge*," and it was pissed at James Frey for stealing the attention that Opera could otherwise be spending with it... A logical concern for sure. Needless to say, D and I were laughing our asses off; commenting on the how perfect it was that the minge spoke with a British accent. His nextdoor neighbor, the asshole, was named Gary. We thought that Gary should've had a more clever name, so we renamed him Gomez.

D and I went to town with this the whole weekend. We couldn't say 'minge' enough. We even named our minges (we decided that, for our purposes, 'minge' could refer to both sexual organs): Juanita and Boris. It was an over-abused private joke, just like our fake grillz of last month.

On Friday night, we went out to a Greek restaurant and saw the most heinous individual ever. One of those androgynous things you could probably speculate upon all night. Guy? Girl? Both? Neither? And, just as I did after having not taken a picture of the escaped Beetlejuice extra of last week, I'm now kicking myself for not having caught this beaut on camera. At one point, it got up from its chair and flashed its ass, which was not subtly hanging out of its pink mini-dress. D and I never did figure out what gender its minge was.

The weekend was pretty much like every other weekend we spend together, only with a different background. We laughed like crazy. We drank. We relaxed. We ran. We speculated upon the global impact of minges in a contemporary society. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except that we had a hell of a lot more time together.


At one point on Friday night, D tugged on this shirt and said, "This shirt is way too loose on you." I agreed, explaining to him that it's basically a moo moo.

I think it was this weekend that I actually started understanding D. Not due to the complexity of his creation, but moreover, due to the fact that we don't usually spend significant periods of time together. Don't get me wrong, I love going out to eat nightly, drinking profusely and so forth, but if he lived here, we'd probably be doing a lot more relaxing than we usually do on his visits. Said visits are pretty much spent trying to cram as many activities into a short amount of time as possible. I realized this weekend that the whole relaxation thing suits me more than I would've ever expected. I always thought I was just a perma-crackhead.

At one point, we saw a guy fishing off of a bridge and I told D how I used to love fishing with my dad. I went on to say that I love having guy friends because I'm pretty much a tomboy and guys are like big kids that I can pal around with. I've never much enjoyed talking to my girl friends about guys and have even stifled my stepmom many a time when she'd initiate boy talk with me:

Me: Don't you have anything more interesting to talk about?
Her: Well, why don't you go ahead and enlighten me with another topic.

(FYI: I remember changing the topic to this great idea I had for a talk show where I was not only the host but also a psychologist who helps the guest with his/her problems. My dad butted in at that point: "It will never work." That was in high school - about 6 years before Dr. Phil and Opera's Minge collaborated to successfully steal my idea.)

Anyway, during the guys=big kids and I=a tomboy conversations, it kind of occured to me that these facts are what lend to both, us getting along so well and me getting upset about stupid things. My inner tomboy loves to joke around, drink like a sailor and talk like a truck driver, but my damn estrogen gets in the way at times, fighting with the tomboy and essentially kicking its ass. The biproduct of my inner bitch's glory is that I begin worrying about stupid girl shit like the length of time it takes for him to return a text message from me versus the time it takes for him to return those from a friend. I shit you not - I actually analyze these things. I'll give myself credit though, I only analyze when PMS-ing. Otherwise, I'm somewhat sane and secure.

As if struck by a revelation, I tried to rapidly explain all of this to D, but he didn't understand any of my banter about my inner heavyweight bitch champion of the world, or my references to my "inner dude" or temporary psychotic tendencies. He's a guy after all and I was speaking in chick. I had to communicate in his terms. I thought about it and then translated my thoughts into a language he could understand:

"I'd like to perfom an exorcism on the estrogen in my body and donate it to that thing in the pink dress and its ambiguous minge."

"Well then, why didn't you just say that in the first place?"
------------

*I think I'd be pretty pissed if someone was talking about my deprived minge in a public forum. Nevertheless, tally hoe.

Making waves in Bahrain...

While I'm not exactly living up to Michael Jackson's legend in Bahrain, my NYC Bar Review did make news on a blog there. And maybe I should mention that it is my friend Chad's blog. And even moreover, that Chad is my friend because he found me while scouring the internet for blogs tagged "Bahrain."

It might seem odd that my blog is tagged with "Bahrain," but hell, everybody needs a gimmick. This is mine.

Here's my news clip, found at Those Are My Pants:

Because New York keeps up with the affairs of the World.

Check out GiGi's post on bars to avoid in NYC.
She details the top culprits, from real hand experience, that you should absolutely avoid when drunk or thinking of pursuing such past time. These particular establishments will charge you as much as a Russian hooker on a warm Bahraini night!
Posted on Thursday, April 20, 2006 at 12:41AM by

By the way, thanks for all the comments guys. I'll be back several times (okay, at least once) today to tell you about Miami and D and the weekend.

Week in Review

Now, don't get scared by the title of today's post. This doesn't necessarily mean that this is the last post of the week (although it might mean exactly that). I'm taking off for Miami with D this afternoon, so unless something wonderfully delightful happens, you might not hear from me for a couple days. Kleenex anyone? Don't be afraid to cry. A real man is strong enough that he can do so without shame, or so says Spartucus' wife in his self-titled movie. That said:

Mexican Humor
This is a phenomenon that has gone unmentioned for long enough. I must broach it before it infests humanity proper. Mexican Humor is no more than the art of being annoying just to be annoying. I first discovered it during my years working in the restaurant/bar industry and it shines through many a time when speaking to my own personal Mexican, Cesar.

Unfortunately for those who are subjected to it, Mexican humor is quite versatile and can take place in or out of the workplace. Some common examples of Mexican Humor include:

- Looking at your arm and declaring the time is "A quarter past freckle" when someone asks you the time.
- When a female steps into the walk-in fridge (this is a work-related one), one guy follows behind her, pretending to need something to, while his compadre stands outside and turns off the light. All of the kitchen staff proceed to make humping noises, then laughs when the happy couple steps out.
- When asked a question to which the answer is "no," the offender instead answers: "How 'bout soooommmmeeee .... no?"
- The Cesar delight: When he asks me if I want to get a donut and I say no, he presses the subject: "You're lying. You know you want one. You want a donut, la-la-la-la-la!" Then why would I say no? I've never been one afraid to put back some food. I just don't want one!

There are so many other examples of Mexican Humor, I just can't think of them. I will start an official new column though where I document incidences as they occur. Trust me, you will get annoyed just reading them. And that, my friends is the double-edged sword we're dealing with here. The Mexican Humor Practitioner wants you to get annoyed, for that is the fruit of his ploy. The only way to stop this is to pretend you're not annoyed, which is an almost impossible feat.

Google Search Term of the Week
I've told you before that a lot of people find my blog by typing "Fake" + "Grillz" into google. This week takes the cake though. Some scumbag from Saudi Arabia found me by typing in "Chewing" + "Penis." Chosen seems to think that this is not as bad as someone finding his site by typing "Sam Waterson" + "nude." I beg to differ.

Chad Says I Need More Traffic
For those of you who don't know Chad - he's my eyes and ears in Bahrain. Chad looks after my best interest, so when he said that I needed more traffic, by golly, I believed him. My thoughts are that if y'all link to me, the whole world will eventually be enlightened as to the more important issues of our time, such as: trash-talkin' Chinese women, Mexican Humor, NYC bars that take advantage of innocent drunk people, fake gourmet grocery stores that hire the extras from Beetlejuice, disgusting roommates and most importantly, my obsession with a man known as D. So, with a cherry on top?

New NYC Bar Updates
This week I introduced what will be a regular feature: NYC Bars that take advantage of innocent drunk people. Just to be fair, I'll report the good ones too. Here ya go:

Dos Caminos on Park between 26th & 27th: My order was a sapphire dirty martini. It was real alcohol, but it did cost $14. For a pool (where pool=about 3 oz) of top shelf gin, that's not too shabby. I'd go back.

Uva on 78th & 2nd: Same order, real alcohol, but the bartender was new. She poured the sapphire into the shaker, shaked it only slightly, then let it sit while she clamored around trying to find olives, olive juice and a martini glass. Alcohol melts ice very fast, so half of my only semi-cold martini was water. Then she tried to pull a $30 minimum for credit cards with me. This is one of D's pet peeves and it happens a lot in NYC. If you call and complain to your credit card company, evidently they will call the offending establishment and berate them. In any event, one martini + one beer =$18.85. I'd go back. The food is good and it's one of my fave dinner spots. I just hope another bartender is there next time.

I go out a lot. There will certainly be more updates soon. Perhaps a special Miami edition.

Primrose Oil
I was bitching about how depressed I get when I do the whole PMS thing and the lovely Paulina suggested Evening Primrose Oil tablets. Anyone know anything about these? I need something, damnit. If not those, than perhaps a horse tranquilizer or two will work.

Stalker
It's been a while since I've heard from my super-stalker. So, if you're out there super-stalker, just let me know that you're okay. (On another note, I really despise having to beg my stalker to do his job).

Knicks game
Went to the Knicks game with D and some friends on Wednesday night. It was in Jersey. We didn't get there until the 3rd quarter and then we waited outside for the car for an hour after the game ended. I don't suggest anyone do this. Plus, the people in Jersey are a bit off.

Adveritsers
Thanks to Bufflo, BlueToiletDuck, Chad, Paulina, A Concerned Fan, and Cherokee for your comments. I love, love, love getting comments.

I think that's it. I might post again later, but then again, I might not...

Carla's Burial Instructions

Yesterday was my aunt Theresa's funeral in California. Aside from me, the whole family made it out to support my uncle (my dad's brother). I was going to try to make it out, but I would've had to take a redeye, drop in, take a redeye back. I opted to instead go out for a weekend when I could actually spend some time with my uncle Ken and the family. This isn't a sob story though.*

I called my dad's cellphone yesterday hoping I could talk to my uncle. My stepmom, Carla, picked it up and was quite cheerful. Hearing her you would've thought she just got out of a bumper car rather than having just left a funeral. It was odd. Especially since I had just talked to my sister who told me the funeral was a "real tearjerker."

Now, Carla is one of those people who lives for tragedy. She'll never bring up a current event unless it's tragedy related (she's got plenty to work with).

"Did you hear about the baby stuck in the well for 8 years without food or water or air?"
"Oh my God - a trashcan blew up in England. People in London can never throw away their garbage again!"
"GiGi, do you live by the tram that got stuck over Roosevelt Island? Imagine how those people must have felt! Suspended 10 whole feet in the air!"

All of these sentiments, of course, are spoken with underlying fear. Yesterday's conversation with her, however, was sprinkled with humor.

So, I asked Carla about the funeral and she reported the names of the sobbers and noted the fact that Theresa's weird mom brought two guests who Theresa didn't even know during life (this inevitably brought up the question: "Who the hell goes to a funeral of someone they didn't even know? I don't even like to go to the funerals of people I did know."). Then she told me that my uncle, Ken, went up and had to scoop up some of Theresa's ashes from a gold container and put them into another container. She called it the "passing of the ashes" or something. This is where it started getting weird....

My immediate reaction was to think about how painful it would be to see the remains of my spouse in a small box in front of me. Even more so, to scoop it up and move it around. I couldn't deal. I told Carla as much and she broke into song about how she told my dad she wanted to be cremated as well. She then started giggling and told me that my dad wanted her to instead be buried next to him.

"I told him that the only way I'm going to be buried next to him is if they dig me up after he dies and then put me next to his body in the same casket. I want us to be spooning. I have a certain way I like to put my arm around him so I would have to make sure that was right too." She laughed.

Did I say this conversation was outlined by humor? I meant alcohol.


*Here's the sob story: Theresa died way too young of brain cancer, but lived far beyond the expectations of her doctors. I spoke to my uncle the day she died. I had never seen even a speck of emotion from him. He cried as he told me that he held her hand as she died. He said her sisters and her daughter were there as well. They could all tell it was coming. He said that when Theresa was passing she smiled. He said, "It was the cutest little smile I've ever seen in my life. I'll always have that smile."

Theresa and Ken met years ago when Theresa called his house and got the wrong number. Minutes later she called him back, told him she liked his voice and well...

NYC Bars That Take Advantage of Innocent Drunk People

I've been meaning to do this for a while, where "this" is defined as identifying the bars and clubs in New York that make an honest effort to pull a fast one over on us innocent lushes.

I'm only presenting three this morning, but I can guarantee you that I've run past quite a few more and I'm destined to encounter new ones each weekend I venture out of the "alcohol safe zone" that is my Sapphire & Kettle harboring freezer. This, my friends, is the only reliable place in town, at least when it comes to getting what you pay for.

I feel qualified to disclose this information to the drinking public as:

A) I worked in the bar/club industry for way too many years after I graduated college

B) Because I drink a lot

C) Because I conduct frequent tastings of unopened alcohol bottles as compared to the shit being poured at the fine rip-off NYC drinking establishments.

Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #1

That said, our first offender is Music Box, a trendy bar (no sign outside...very cryptic!) in the Village (West? East? I don't remember. I was drunk). I walked in desperately needing a drink. After all, I was with bad company -- my roommate.

I ordered one of my regulars: Absolute Mandarin and Soda. What I instead got: well-Vodka, a dash of Triple Sec and Soda. As I have no shame, I called bullshit on the bartender 2 times, then, on the 3rd try, made him open a new bottle. While he did make an honest attempt to help me out, it was obvious that he knew I was right. I told him to taste it and he said he had gum in his mouth... A likely story, indeed.

Another explanation for the fake alcohol sensation I experienced -- one which I've witnessed at a bar I've actually worked at, is that after half of the bottle's gone, it is replaced with well vodka (or well-brand alcohol of your choice. Example: Jose Cuervo replaced with Montezuma. That is so wrong). The result is a half real, half fake combo disaster! As a disclaimer, I even used to make the bar I worked at open new bottles for my *free* drinks.

Anyway, I don't recommend ever going to Music Box, even though their fake alcohol drinks are only $6 a piece. If you decide not to heed my gracious warning, I suggest you order from the curly-haired guy. The other guy doesn't know how to pour.

Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #2

Our second offender is Doc Watsons on the UES (79th and 2nd, if I remember correctly). I feel bad calling them out for their fake alcohol because the bartender was so nice. In fact, I didn't. She rewarded me with a sufficient pour and a smile. Of course, I know that smile is no more than an apology. She knows it's fake. I know it's fake. But what can she do? It's her boss who commands her to enact ILLEGAL practices in order to keep her job. I just wouldn't suggest supporting said practices, i.e. Don't Go There. Ever.

Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #3

Our third and last offender, is Fizz, a club in Mid-town. Fizz is a criminal on different, yet equally disgusting, charges. If you look at the receipt below (might have to click on it to make it bigger) you'll notice that the bar automatically adds a 20+% to your bill. I bought 3 drinks at $11+ each. Even though I was sauced when I got the bill, I remember thinking that $41 for 3 drinks was pretty pricey. At least the alcohol was real, I guess. I graciously added an $8 tip and handed it to the bartender. The next day I noticed that the bastard actually got me for $15. No wonder he was all smiles. So, not only does Fizz automatically add a tip exceeding the extremely generous %20 they might have typically received from their drunken customer, they too make no mention of the fact and let you tip them double. Bonus: You're tipping them on the cost of your drinks combined with the stolen tip. Isn't this illegal? I thought automatic tips only occurred for parties over 6 or 8. Well, then and in Europe, where a further tip isn't expected.

I will never go back to Fizz again. I strongly suggest you don't either.



Do I feel bad outing and boycotting these establishments? No. For one, not many people will have the pleasure of reading this enlightening post. And two, a 32 oz bottle pours a suggested 32 drinks (although a good bartender will pour at least an ounce and a half). At $6 minimum - $12 maximum per NYC drink (assuming 1 1/2 ounces), that's anywhere from $128 - $256 per bottle. A bar buys a bottle for $18 - $25 bucks each. At a mark up of, oh say, 140% or so, I'd say we, the paying drunk customers, deserve real alcohol! Plus, these actions insinuate that drinkers - their bread and butter - are stupid. I don't think we're stupid. Just a bit not-sober...

Unfortunately, I think there will be more updates to come.

Remember those people in Beetlejuice with the shrunken heads?

...well, one of them escaped from the movie set and now works at a fake Gourmet Grocery Store on 70-something and 2nd Avenue. I'm kicking myself for having forgot the name.

Cesar and I walked into this supposed "Gourmet" grocery store the other night to get some olives for our obligatory Saturday night Sapphire dirty martinis. While the cheese selection sucked (no Saint Albray), the meat counter was closing (the bastards wouldn't divvy us up even a bit of prosciutto even though they should've been open for another 10 minutes), and the crackers were completely misplaced (by the cake mixes...come on now), they did have a decent selection of olives.

Since the cracker selection was somewhat of a bust and having just remembered that I had some blood orange-infused olive oil at my house, I headed over to the bread section to grab a loaf of French bread. Of course, there wasn't any. I approached the cash register and asked her if they had any French bread. Then, from out of seemingly nowhere, I hear this condescending squeaking sound.

"Ummm yeah, it's in the bread section," said the cashier at the next line, rolling her eyes as if to instead say, "You're a dumb bitch."

I look over and I sware to Krishna that one of the shrunken head extras from the Beetlejuice doctor's office scene was manning the cash register. I'm not kidding. I wish I had a camera, and I'm even considering going back (although I vowed to never return to the trashy "Gourmet" dump again).

Contrary to Beetlejuice's assumption, I'm not a total idiot.

"Yeah, clearly I already looked there." (Which, translated, means 'Look Beetlejuice, I cleaned my ear out this morning with something that resembles your mini-dome. Enough from you.')




Here's what I was dealing with. Really.

Then, a halfway courteous employee offered to go get the person who worked in the bread section to help me out with my simple request. About 2 minutes later, we see him - the seeming halfway courteous employee - standing around shooting the shit with one of his slacker colleagues. So, we ask him if he got the bread person?

"Yep. She was already there waiting for you but you didn't come over so she left."

Are you kidding me?

Cesar kept urging me to go. He'd seen enough. I paid the quiet and surprisingly non-trash talkin' Chinese lady at my register and we were on our way.

Now, we're not your average highfalutin assholes per se—just a couple of individuals with expensive taste and no money. A little courtesy with our overpriced snacks would've been much appreciated. We were pissed off to say the least, but just acknowledging the size of this lady's head made us forgive her. I mean really, she's probably dealt with a lot of shit in her lifetime because of that thing. Needless to say, after the martinis, her head became even better fodder for the Q-Tip jokes.

As for the picture above, I hate to admit it, but I drew it sober...

Easter Greetings, Anecdotes and Post-Festivity Predictions

If I didn't work in corporate America, where everyone but me was off for Good Friday last week, I probably wouldn't have noticed that it was a holiday. Same goes for Cesar. We're not religious people. Him—he hates religion and I—well, I have an overwhelming respect for the stuff, but can't stand the institution and I hate people (especially the self-righteous breed) so there you have it.

This in mind, Cesar didn't think twice before putting on a shirt with the following logo,* before spending Easter Sunday walking around Manhattan:

It didn't take too long until we figured out why people were pointing and staring. Oops.

In other Easter news, Cesar's girlfriend is—ironically—quite religious. Umm, like super religious. So, when he told me that she wrote him an email, wherein she randomly inserted some Christian propaganda like nothing had happened, I had to see it to believe it. This morning he forwarded it over to me, followed by his ensuing response:

"How was your night Did you have fun? Did you enjoy the place? Would you go back there? Happy Easter YEAH JESUS ROSE FROM THE DEAD... I love you. I had the strangest dream last night..."

His response:

"Jesus had a twin no one knew about. His twin came back."

While Cesar's reply is so utterly wrong on so many levels, it is just the type of creative humor we need a little more of! "Jesus had a twin" - I love it.

Lastly, I have a prediction. My roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—took his girlfriend back to the midwest this weekend to meet his family. While I'm sure they had a great weekend, wherein he confessed his undying love for her and gained instant approval from his mom, I imagine the experience will be nothing less than bastardized when his friend (we'll call him Ari since that is, in fact, his name) comes in for the weekend. I've mentioned it before, but my roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—likes to act out his machismo by talking shit behind his girlfriend's back and explaining to Ari that he can still get laid by 19 year olds, etc... Needless to say, Ari is thoroughly impressed.

My prediction is that when Ari asks about the weekend, about what his mom thought of the girlfriend, etc... My roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—will make some demeaning comment to the extent of:

"My mom loved her. I told the bitch that she should marry her then. It's almost summer. There's tons of bitches where she came from." Or, something equally as piggish.

This conversation will probably take place about Friday, so there will be a reasonable lagtime before I can update you on the results of my prediction. Trust me though, I'm about as psychic as it goes in this situation.

*About the shirt. Last night when my roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—and his girlfriend came home from vacation (because really, why would she spend the night at her own apartment?), Cesar started telling them about how he wore the shirt out on Easter, not having thought about what day it is. The girlfriend, obviously feeling a bit religious after having spent the weekend with that kind of a family, said this:

"Oh, you know what you were doing. You did it on purpose. You know, some people would be very offended."

"Okay, I did. I did it on purpose. You got me," he should've said, but didn't.

Literally, Cesar wears the shirt every other day, but yesterday just happened to be a conspiracy. Oh please—just shut it. Everybody is offended by something. In fact, I'm offended by the above comment. After all, she interrupted his story to insert it and interrupting someone mid-speech, my dear friends, is very rude and very offensive. Very rude and offensive indeed. I just don't appreciate it.

The End.

A Detailed Account of My Neuroses

Whilst telling me about a lady in Bahrain who was caught cheating on her husband and thus jailed and branded an "adulterer" ("adultress?") one of my fave readers, Chad, mentioned the following in response to me writing back to him the very instant he posted a comment:

In other news...
You check your blog entirely too much ;)
It's cool though, people with shame produce boring post.

I wrote back in my own defense, which freed me of accusations of checking my blog too much, but incriminated me of being completely neurotic:

Actually, it's not that I check my blog entirely too much, it's that I check my email too much. Every time someone posts a comment, I get an email and then my email alerts me. It's pretty hi-tech, really.

Yes, I have no shame though and am not sorry to admit that if the above wasn't the case, I'd probably be checking my blog more often. Even more disgusting, the reason I don't check my blog often is because I am just neurotic enough to not want to interfere with my pathetic visitor numbers. For instance, I don't want to have to subtract my number of visits from the grand total at the end of the day. All in all, this simple act would probably be a lot less daunting than jumping through the hoops I do in order to avoid it.

Are neurotic and pathetic next of kin?

One would think...

...that if someone had the nerve to patronize another about her (uh-hem) hair being all over the bathroom floor, that said person would have the decency to clean up his chest hair from the bathtub.

One would think that, right?

Well, this morning I got into the shower, only to greet millions of tiny fuzzlings that previously lived on my roommate's chest. Each individual hair is admittedly a very small entity, but when those little buggers team up, they somehow form a huge globule capable of clogging the drain. Thusly, I was forced (As my dad would say: "You weren't forced. Did someone have a gun to your head?" Whatever, Pa) to stand in 3 inches of freshly-shaved chest hair infested water. When I lifted my feet to get out of the tub, they stuck to my feet making it look like my dogs couldn't keep up with their 5 o'clock shadow.

I mean, I understand that the guy needs to shave his chest... He is a bodybuilder, after all. Wink. Wink.

Jokes aside, this is war, my friends! War, I say!

The Lucky Winner

Upon filling out her insurance forms, one of the girls I work with just asked the receptionist if she needed to fill out the life insurance part of the sheet.

Receptionist: "Yeah, fill it out in case you die."
Girl: "Oh my gosh! Well, what is a beneficiary?"
Receptionist: "The lucky winner."