MY FAVORITE NYC BAR

When I went to New York City a year and a half ago, it was my first visit as an adult; my buddies there took it upon themselves to take me to a wide variety of bars, from fancy joints in Hell's Kitchen like Vlada, to tiny, odd places like Barracuda in Chelsea, and many others in between. But my favorite bar, by far, is a shit hole in the East Village, appropriately named Nowhere Bar.

Actually, compared to some of the bars I like in Chicago, it's not that much of a dump. Overall, I most enjoy bars that are just that, BARS. Here's my formula for the perfect bar: the room is dark with faint hints of unfocused red lighting, a large, burly and bald bartender, a pool table and a jukebox. That's it. Nothing more (see image below).

Themes/karaoke/a million fucking flat screens do not, a bar make. In fact, I'll argue that they distract from the simplicity of a true bar. I mean, really, all I really want/need out of bar is a stool to park my ass on, super-cold cans of PBR and/or Bud and generous shots of Jameson. Oh, and some man-candy to eye-fuck. And that my friends, is Nowhere Bar in a nutshell.

When I went last Sunday night, they had $2 cans of PBR, a free pool table, a bartender that force fed me at least 5 shots of Jameson (for free, natch) and an array of entertaining (and attractive) boys and girls with which to chat. It's my favorite spot on that island. And although I'm not into souvenirs, they did still have a fishbowl of NYC condoms* in the bathroom!

Old shit-hole dive bars seem to be a dying breed, a trend that troubles me deeply. I despise bars that have a dress code, or that charge a cover (like the bar I work in) or that have stupid names like G Lounge (oh! I get it! It's a gay bar! HOW FUCKING CLEVER).

Oh, and hot bartenders annoy this shit out of me; I tend to think of them as glorified strippers. I like my bartenders like I like my musicians: ugly, balding and with a husky voice (imagine Tom Waits pouring you shots...[staring into space]...man, that would be fucking sweet).

*I'll stick with my Magnums, thank you very much.

ELLIOT GOULD LIKES ITALIAN FOOD (AND BRUNETTES)

Hi, I'm Elliot Gould (the one on the middle)...you might remember me from such films as Mash, The Muppet Movie and Ocean's Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen. On Sunday Night I was having a lovely dinner with my girlfriend Natasha at an little Italian bistro on the upper East Side. Whilst enjoying some anti-pasta along with a lovely bottle a chianti, I noticed that my clever/humorous antidotes were no longer holding Natasha's attention. More than once I noticed that her attention seemed directed just over my right shoulder at a random Guy From Chicago who mostly had his back to us. I tried to hold her attention by increasing the volume on my native Brooklyn/Upper East Side accent, but still her gaze wandered, over to this younger man with a buzzed head fronting a puffy coat on his chair. He seemed rather provincial to me, and one who very likely spends more time in front of a television than any off-Broadway stage, which is another way of saying that he seemed crude. He also seemed to use the wrong fork and utter the word "fuck" like a proper adjective. What a fucking tool...

OK - I'll admit, this might have been a somewhat clever post that was likely ruined by drinking too many margarita's with my Mom and the Roomie tonight. But seeing as my Ma' is passed out in my bed, and the TV in my den is too close to said bed (don't want to wake my peacefully sleeping Ma') I have turned to my PC to pass some time. But I did see a random "celebrity" in the flesh when in NYC, and this is my lame attempt to write about it without being lame about it (how fucking lame, no?) especially in light of a lame celebrity sighting...that man talks much too loud in person. Lame!

THE PERFECT ASS FROM HELL(S) KITCHEN

Rather than post one humongous post about the trip to NYC I thought I would break it up into smaller, more digestible chunks (some hiatus - two posts tonight!). Let's start at the end, shall we? We shall...

After having a lovely dinner last night with my Father in a lovely Italian bistro on the Upper East Side (a random "celebrity" sighting occurred, more on that later) I made plans to meet up with K after he got off work.

The P.O.A. (Plan of Action) was to get "a drink". One drink turned into me dropping over $100 on booze Sunday night, but I digress...

K met me at my "posh" hotel (his words, not mine, haha) on 49th and Lexington (no, I did not stay at the Waldorf, but close enough) and we braved the rain to march across to the West Side to JP's favorite haunt, Vlada.

The place was relatively quiet and we got to have a nice quiet convo, which was nearly impossible with the Madness that was Friday Night.

We sipped on overpriced cocktails and discussed all sorts of things that gay men tend to converse about...however our discourse quickly devolved into gay male bitch-ness with the arrival of the Perfect Ass.

Now, most bars in NYC are exceedingly narrow; those that have some sort of table/chair setup forgo traditional bar stools to make this physically possible. Those that prefer to belly up to the bar do so standing on their feet.

Midway into our second round of drinks, in walks this adorable/hot-as-hell guy with dark hair and an ass to die for.

Usually, I would have looked, played out some dirty scenario in my mind and said to whoever is near me "holyfuckingshitlookatthatass" and left it at that. If only it was that simple...

K and I literally had our backs to the wall and had no choice (well, we could have shifted to the little cube seat things) but to drink in the sight of this man's ass.

A few weeks back I blogged about the how I may have seen the "Perfect Ass". Had that guy I saw on my lunch break had an "Ass Off" with this guy, he would have lost, and been sent home ashamed.

It's safe to say we were content to view this particular specimen from not-sofar, however the arrival of his companion caused our latent Bitch to go into overdrive.

PA's "friend" was not nearly as attractive as he was, and frankly, it pissed us the fuck off. With each succeeding cocktail we became more adamant in our believe in the inherit unfairness that is the world we live in.

At one point PA ventured out for a smoke, and Guy That Didn't Deserve That Ass split for the pisser. I made a mad dash for my coat so I could grab my smokes in the hope of striking up a random convo with PA.

Once out there, I tried to make eye contact with him and perhaps talk about the weather (or invite him back to my posh hotel room for biblical session of sweaty boy love, yeah right!).

But a funny thing happened...I realized I had a cute guy that I like back home, and I made a resolution to keep it in my pants this weekend.

The sudden arrival of Guy That Didn't Deserve That Ass, who leveled a cold, icy stare at me caused me to stub out my smoke and return to K, and my drink inside.

Once they returned to their perch at the bar (no less than 6 feet from our eyes) he began a campaign of flexing his "asset" in a series of poses as if to mock us; as if to say "you know you want this ass, but this lame, weird dude already got it, bitches".

After another 20-30 minutes we could no longer take it and we decided to move onto greener/gayer pastures.

However, perhaps just to spite us further, both of these guys got up to leave just when we did, and the four of us simultaneously fumbled about, donning our coats/hats/scarves. K remarked how these two guys seem to linger near us for just a few moments too long.

Perhaps it was the vodka...but something else seemed to be at play just below the surface. And the sight of this object hovering above the entrance to the bar did nothing to ally my assumptions, however unfounded they may have been, (in case you cannot make out the neon, it reads "Sin Will Find You Out").

[CODA: Soon after arriving in NYC Billy took me to Vlada and I was struck by this sign, not only because of the obvious/ominous implications of the message, but also because I knew that I had seen image somewhere before. Soon after parting with the weird scene that was Perfect Ass and Guy That Didn't Deserve That Ass, I realized that I had seen this image hundreds of times before because it used to be on the opening credits on early 90's SNL. Go figure!]

I HAVE A MISTRESS

Dear Chicago,

There is something that I must confess, but before I do, please keep in mind that I love you, very, very much and always will. You are my home. My rock, if you will.

I didn't mean for this to happen...but I met someone...someone very special and beautiful and amazing and whatever other superlative my meek brain can conjure. The name of my secret lover...is NEW YORK CITY!

Please don't be mad. Stop crying! I still love you and am not leaving you (*cough*yet*cough*) nor will I ever (*cough*bullshit*cough).

You mean the world to me, and although you cannot boast the same quantity of cultural institutions, nor sheer amount of "drop-to-my-knees-and-open-wide" sexy European men, however, in your favor you have reasonable rents and you would never think about charging me $18.99 for a beef burrito.

For that, I am grateful.

Please stop crying, it makes Milwaukee and St. Louis nervous. There there, let me wipe away those tears...

Love Always and Forever (until I make six figures and can afford to live in Hell's Kitchen and I leave your sorry ass),

Justin

P.S. Would it kill you to open more gay bars in places other than Boystown?