The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Smoke Joint

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This weekend solidified my 30-day fast on booze as a complete failure. It all started with Rosé at Mother’s, which turned into Tempranillo at Huckleberry, which spilled over to the next day after The Vagina Monologues. I did start out drinking two mocktails very, very fast. But I caved and drank beer, beer, beer at B-Side, Lakeside Lounge, and some no-name bar in the East Village. Abstaining from meat, sex, and alcohol is way, way too hard to do all at once. Since something had to give, I’ve decided to let it be alcohol, since I only drink on the weekends anyway.

I wasn’t really hungover all weekend, which was nice, though I did feel super guilty about letting myself down on the pact. I had originally planned among other things for (what turned out to be not-) sober weekend was a screening of Cool Hand Luke at BAM. The friend who invited me is an aficionado of BBQ style food, and wanted to go to this place Smoke Joint, pretty close to BAM, off the Fulton stop on the G. So instead of a traditional brunch, I opted for that.

I guess it was a little bit of punishment for failing the alcohol pact. The funny thing was, after failing in that arena, it was a hell of a lot easier to not eat meat, even at a place like that. Go figure. Anywho, I split a side of BBQ-seasoned fries with my friend, and had the mac & cheese with a side of BBQ spicy corn. Oh, and I had some really, really sweet sweet tea.

The best thing about the meal was the fries, I have to say. The mac & cheese was a super small portion, and I didn’t even finish it. It was pretty rubbery and tasteless. The corn was pretty good, with all the spicy BBQ seasoning, but it wasn’t as good as I expected. I definitely contemplated getting a second order of fries My friend had the pulled pork sandwich. I’m sure it was pretty good, since it’s like one of his places to get BBQ. Oh, and he swears that BBQ sauce has restorative powers for hangovers. I don’t know about that, but I do, as a rule, know it to be true that BBQ sauce is categorically superior to ketchup when it comes to meat and fry condiments.

After the fry fest, I got a chocolate chip cookie for the movie. It was huge with huuuuuge chips. It was aight, probably better than what I could get at BAM, but nothing to write home about. Overall, I spent like a bit over $10, and though much of it left a lot to be desired, it was cool to be full with pretty small portions of 4 different things. It did kind of get me in the mood for Cool Hand Luke too, what with all the almost subtitle-worthy heavy ass southern accents, which must be at least partly due to the characteristic heaviness and spiciness of BBQ cuisine.

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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Las Vegas

I’m not a huge traveler. I came from shit-town, Kentucky and climbed my way to the heights of awesomeness in Brooklyn. New York City has just about anything you could want in any place, so rare is the time that I leave it. When I do, it’s with a mission in mind, be it food (lobster rolls in Maine), friends (wedding in Arkansas), or duty (family in-sigh-Kentucky). But way back in my college days my two best friends were attending college in Las Vegas. So, every spring, I’d go visit them.

And, seriously, fuck Las Vegas. Jesus Christ is there a worst place on the planet? (Other than the internet.) “Oh, but it’s party central, Masked Drinker!” you might be shouting at your screen (your coworkers hate you). No. It is stupid central. “But they have no open container laws!” (Stop shouting.) And, yes, that’s pretty awesome, at least, until you realize that most people in the world have no business drinking so much as to need to take it out from building to building.

Drinking in Las Vegas is a lot like going out to eat on Valentines Day or having pizza in Los Angeles: fucking amateur hour. Screaming morons with retarded novelty cups half-filled with shitty drinks or shittier beers lurching from specially-designed human maze-trap to otherly-themed human maze-traps wasting money that could be used for something useful like curing AIDS, getting me a better phone, or curing phone AIDS.

My friends did the best thing they could possibly have done for me when I first arrived. They picked me up at the airport and drove me straight to some casino. They gave me twenty bucks and let me choose where to spend it. I sat down at a blackjack table and lost it all within ten minutes. Don’t go to casinos in Las Vegas. They are designed to take your money and sense of time away. You might get a free drink or two, but they will taste like they were poured through the sole of your shoe.

It’s not that I mind gambling. Hell, I love poker. (Real poker, not that “Hold ‘Em” bullshit. Poker isn’t an exercise in card counting. Well, not that explicitly. It’s an opportunity to drink and lie with your friends. And sometimes lay with them.) But big casinos are just awful wastes. Also, you inevitably will find yourself faced with a line of elderly people mechanically dropping their savings into slot machines, and I don’t know about you, but pondering the meaninglessness of my own mortality isn’t high up on my AWESOME FUN list.

And casino bars suck. Hell, all theme bars suck. If I may paraphrase Tolstoy in a blog entry about how much Las Vegas sucks, all good bars are similar; but each shitty theme bar is shitty in its own themey way. Again, I lucked out as I had locals, or local-enoughs to be able to be hooked up with a normal bar filled with normal people who actually knew how to drink. It’s the only place, other than peoples’ apartments, I’ve happily been drinking in Las Vegas and I don’t mind telling you what it is. It’s called the Stake Out. Now, this was back in college so maybe it’s too college-y for me now, but I never had less than a good time there.

I’d like to take this time to anti-recommend a bar in Las Vegas, now that I think of it. There’s a Cheers branch there, and one friend and I went to see what it was like. HOLY SHIT IT WAS AWFUL. You’d think the most famous bar license in the world would have a bit of quality control. It was a horrible little hellhole with only two people other than us in it: the bartender and a customer, both with long, curly hair. We found the juke and played some early Van Halen and dude turned it off. He had the audacity to purport Santana was a better guitarist. Suffice to say the night ended with us throwing bottles in a rage and scooting on out.

That’s what Las Vegas is like. It brings out the retarded in you. Sometimes that’s funny, or at least is in retrospect. There was the time we semi-accidentally Cool Hand Luked a college parking lot; an epic story filled with danger, superhuman feats of strength, and a miraculous shopping cart. Unfortunately, even masked, I don’t think it’s the best idea to share it online, but let’s just say mistakes were made and we’re all very lucky to be where we are today.

So I guess I’ve had good times in Las Vegas. But it should be noted said good times were had with the people I had good times with in the middle of nowhere, Appalachia, so that may have just been the company. Go if you have to. Maybe it’s an experience people need. And you won't do so badly if you get some locals and get away from the strip. But understand that it’s going to be a weird, depressing experience filled with the lowest thoughts and deeds mankind has to offer at the moment. And that at one point you’re going to be totally wasted, carrying someone’s booze through a shortcut that takes you through a loud casino, and all the sudden you’re going to realize what Hunter was really talking about.
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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Roebling Tea Room

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This past Friday, me and a few friends went out for Broke Ass Stuart’s book signing/reading/walking tour/drinking fun (check out BrokeAssStuart.com). We stayed out fairly late, and partially because my friend Abby decided it would be a great idea for she, my friend Chloe, and I to split a huge bottle of champagne at like 4am, after already having drunk quite a bit, I was a total wreck Saturday morning.

I had decided that it would be my last day before making my pact with a friend to go off alcohol completely for 30 days. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m going to give it a shot and see what happens. Especially because, on Saturday, I had been planning on going to yoga, but I could barely get off the couch, and I feel gross about it. Also that night, I was also supposed to go see my friend Matt’s improv show at the UCB theatre, and meet up with other friends at what I later discovered to be an amazing party on S.5th & the Williamsburg Bridge (that big white old building everyone wants to live in. One of my friends didn’t get home until 9:45am, because she was dancing for so long! Instead, I put in Season 1 of Arrested Development, got ready to go out, and accidentally passed out at 12:30am.

So, I slept until about noon today, and it was possibly the best thing I’d done for my body since I last worked out, a few days before. And since that nice, long sleep left me slightly lazier of a lazy ass, plus the weather being in the high 50s, my roommate & I decided to walk to Roebling Tea Room. Though in the past he swore he’d never go back due to a pretty bad service experience we had there once. But, I have a pretty short-term memory/concern about that sort of thing.

For some reason, lately, I have been obsessed with Ricotta, and I had my eye on the ricotta, fig spread with walnuts & greens plate. [Sidenote: they also have the most AMAZING Baked Brie platter on the evening menu. Seriously, I go out of my way for it]. Unfortunately, and probably because of the recession, the portion was significantly smaller than I remember. But it was just as tasty. I think the greens they use now are slightly more bitter, but it was a nice contrast with the sweet, lightly creamy sweetness of the ricotta/fig/walnut mix. When I’m craving ricotta in the morning, I can truly think of nothing more satisfying, semi-healthy, and meat-free. Then again, I can’t think of any brunch dish that typically pairs ricotta and meat, but whatever. Oh, and I looove the orange juice there, and the large sized glass they give you.

My roommate got the baked eggs and grits with cheddar, 2 huge slices of fancy toast with apple butter. Although the grits at Roebling are different than my faaaaaavorite grits ever, at Relish, I like that they use sharp cheddar as opposed to something more mild. The only thing I didn’t like about this was again, the small portion of everything but the toast—opposite from my plate’s issue. We didn’t have a service problem this time, and even though it always looks crowded, we were seated in like 10 minutes. Also, there is always some waiter I or whoever I’m with thinks is cute. The one I normally like wasn’t working this morning, unfortunately. He has black glasses, brown hair and I think at least one sleeve-- which I normally find unappealing, but on him it doesn’t bother me. I think they might have hired new/more people, because there seemed to be way more waiters working brunch than usual…or at least the presence is more obvious.

Oh, and we both also thought we saw Perez Hilton when we first walked in, which essentially, would be THE nail in the coffin to this neighborhood. But we can all thankfully breathe a big sigh of relief that this was a false alarm. The dude turned out to be more of a John Norris lookalike. Funny though, because my roommate and I always seem to be at the same events and restaurants as the actual John Norris. Anywho, yay for Roebling Tea Room ricotta, and figs!

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The Masked Drinker's Bourbon Pairing: Garth Ennis comics

I’ll be honest. I’m not doing so well right now, folks. I have had a bit too much too many days in a row. Jobs that start early and nights that go late can add up. And that goddamned animal holiday yesterday filled every bar with rank amateurs of questionable skill, knowledge, hygiene, and moral fiber. But I soldier on, fear not. I’ve got another bourbon pairing aimed right at your soul, high caliber style.

You may have noticed I’m a man who enjoys the occasional dip in the nerd pool. OK, fine, I’m prune-fingered from staying in too long. THIS METAPHOR IS GETTING TIRED. So this week’s bourbon pairing is all about me bringing you, the reader, into a pleasant nerd cave filled with excellence.

See, one thing that always goes well with bourbon is the comics of one Garth Ennis. Ennis is an Irish writer that came to American comics by way of a slightly different route. Most comic writers grew up reading the same superhero comics that are around today, but not Ennis. He grew up on a steady diet of British war comics, more anthology-based, more morally complicated, and often laden with irony and honor like ketchup on a classless person’s steak.

He’s worked on a number of books that are prime bourbon material. One of his few forays into (somewhat) traditional superhero fare was Hitman, the story of an Irish gangster with x-ray vision. Superheroes were skewered and satirized while keeping the action going and the humor ribald. Friendship between men, a common theme in his work, is an important strand throughout. I honestly don’t think it’s his strongest work, as some of it seemed derivative of the works of John Woo.

He’s more famous for the series Preacher drawn mostly by Steve Dillon. There were sixty-six monthly issues now collected into nine trade paperbacks. Both a love letter to the myth of America and a deconstruction of Judeo-Christian (especially Catholic) belief, Preacher is the story of Jesse Custer, a tortured man with a complicated background and a strong right hook who one day acquires the “Word of God,” an ability to make people do whatever he says. He, a hitman girlfriend, and a vampire best friend go off to find God and “make him pay for all the suffering.”

The tone moves from slapstick, gross-out humor to elegiac romance to action buddy-movie and everything in-between. Steve Dillon’s artwork is clean, full of expression, and representational enough to ground even absurd concepts, like the failed suicide called Arseface. There are lots of great moments and overall it’s an impressive, personal work. There are unfortunately points where Ennis falls a bit too in love with his characters, and tidies things up a bit too neatly, and other points where his critique of religion is more adolescent petulance than thought-out theology, but it’s a remarkable work well worth checking out.

It’s my masked opinion, however, that a more recent epic is even better, and it comes from the strangest place. Ennis and various artists spent the past few years working on the Marvel Superheroes gun-toting vigilante, The Punisher. The character debuted as a Spider-man villain, but eventually became popular enough to support several of his own titles (including a near pornographic “file” book detailing the various guns he uses). Largely and for ages thought of as something of a joke by readers over the age of 13, Ennis was given free reign to do whatever he wanted with the character. He started with a dark comedy called “Welcome Back Frank” that teamed him again with Steve Dillon. Sort of a morbid Road Runner cartoon, villains were dispatched in increasingly violent, absurd methods. But then Ennis wrote “Born,” a sobering look at The Punisher’s time in Viet Nam and here is where he seemed to really find what he had to say about the character, and, more, through the character.

He quickly relaunched the book with rotating artists for different stories and a darker, more serious tone. Now an adults-only book, it tackled various issues in the world today from sex trafficking to the war on terror. In truth, it became a years-long epic examination of the world and especially the United States, in today’s both post-Viet Nam and post-9/11 environment. Harrowing, poignant, and yet never losing the pulp excitement and action that carries the character, the series is one of the most significant pieces about America I’ve seen in the form. Frank Castle, the Punisher, is portrayed as a man of his time, completely dedicated to his psychopathic war, a relentless killer who just happens to kill terrible people. But the Punisher is more a vehicle for the social examination that Ennis is doing; he’s often less a character than a device.

A book about a guy with a skull symbol on his chest killing bad guys has no right to be such a vital, amazing work of art. But it is. Also collected in trade paperback form, I cannot recommend it more highly. Crack it open, pour yourself something brown and hot, and let the two things rattle your brain together with toughness and meaning. Read more...

The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Balthazar

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This weekend, my parents were in town from California. I always enjoy going to places I would otherwise not like to spend the money on, or would otherwise not like to drag my ass very far to get to ordinarily. Every chance my parents get, they always ask me to get reservations to Balthazar.

There is a chance Balthazar is kind of an annoying place to go because it’s almost always crowded, people think celebrities do nothing but go there, and it’s sorta on the expensive side. But, as long as you get reservations, don’t order something insane, are lucky to have someone paying, and don’t let your dad embarrassingly gawk at Paulina Poriskova at the table behind you, it’s not too shabby. Well, even though the last part actually happened, it was still ok. Oh, and did I mention that they have the best desserts/baked goods in the history of humanity? And I’m saying this having also been to Almondine, which was just proclaimed by NY Mag as the best pastry place in NYC.

I was VERY tempted to either get a burger or French Toast, but decided to be somewhat healthy and ordered the grilled trout salad with greens and lentils, with a side of amazing Balthazar fries that me and my Dad split. My mom got the moules frite, and my dad got a French onion soup with beef stroganoff. My salad was really, really good. I’m a big fan of equal part lentils to arugula. Plus, I think there was some sort of balsamic dressing that was sweet and good, contrasting and marrying well with all the other three flavors. I tried a couple of my mom’s mussels, and I have to say, though Fada is definitely a, if not the top contender in the fresh moules department, this was really extraordinary.

We HAD to have dessert. That's just what you do there. My mom ordered some sort of lemon tart-y kind of thing with 3 different types of lemon things. Though I’m usually not a fan of lemon-based desserts, this was pretty tasty. Being no fool, though myself, I went straight for the Chocolate Pot De Crème.I’m totally going to sound like a stupid yogurt commercial/Kathy comic stereotype, but this shit is like everything good about the sensory experience in a pot. It is, hands-down one of my favorite things that exist in life. If you never eat a meal here, the very least you can do is order this. You will not be able to understand how you were able to function without it. It’s better than drugs, getting a nice alcohol buzz, and seriously almost as good as sex. I am not fucking with you. It is REALLY this amazing.

All in all: DO IT!

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Dawn Weiner on Hitting on Boys in Bars

Syrcls apologizes for the delay in her brunchery, but promises "a free round of e-bloody-marys-on-facebook." I have no idea what those words mean in that order but it sounds promising. Thankfully, faithful reader and previous contributer Dawn Weiner has more words of wisdomfor ladies in bars. Enjoy.
--The Colonel

In my youth, when no one around me had figured out how to work a proper relationship, my friends were falling in and out of first loves, and no one knew what they were doing at all when it came to the opposite sex. Most every guy you liked was single. Or willing to dump his girlfriend to be with you. But it’s a different story now. I realized this when I admitted to a freind that I was hot for our student teacher at NYU.

"Nope," my friend said. "He’s married."

"How do you know?"

"Dude, he’s got a ring on his finger!"

Ooooooh.

That was me at 25. I’m 28 now and I ain’t playin’ anymore. People are married now. They’re in serious relationships. I’m nowhere near any of that. I can’t even get a kiss. The last time I got licked was by my cat. I recently got dumped by a guy who didn’t appreciate that The Wire was the best damn drama series in the universe. And the guy before that had never even seen The Big Lebowski until he met me. I have been in perpetual dating FAIL mode since I moved to New York over three years ago. Forget About Intimate Lovemaking, Fucking Avoid Infected Lovers, Fear All Imbecilic Losers.

Where do you meet people in this city? Bars. How do you hit on men? Like this:

(The following doesn't mean I had any luck, mind you. Just very large balls.)

I'm in a Park Slope bar with some of my perpetually single girlfriends and my perpetually single self when a hoard of guys walks in. One of them is carrying a blow-up plastic doll and all of them are drunk. Bachelor party. Congrats to the groom-to-be and his soon-to-be ball-and-chain, but huzzah! I spot a cute guy in the bunch. I tap the dude with the fake woman and ask him to point out all the single men in his posse. My friends squeal, "Oh my god, Dawn, what are you doing?" They’re embarrassed. I’m not. The groom drunkenly obliges, giving me a rundown of who has a girlfriend, who is married and who is single. The one I liked was taken. Shoot!

I’m at a bar by myself in the lower east side early on a Saturday afternoon just after getting off work. I’m downing a few before I pick up some Chinese to-go at Congee Village nearby. A very attractive (to me) guy comes through the door with a friend. "Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmmmmm," I think to myself. I can’t see if he has a ring and I don’t care. I think I’m drunk. Fantasies of sharing my soysauce noodles, shrimp paste pork ribs, sauteed pea shoots with garlic, and fish with ginger congee, with him dance in my head. I ask the bartender to the "guy in the hat's" next beer is on me, pointing out the dude out. When he gets his pint, he cheers me from across the bar. The bartender comes back and tells me that he has a girlfriend and wants to buy my next drink in return. I accept and walk over to him to apologize. He says he’s flattered, but his girlfriend will be at the bar any minute. My fish with ginger congee tastes watery and thin the next day, because I couldn’t finish it by myself.

This one didn't occur in a bar, but in a restaurant. They serve alcohol in restaurants and I sure do drink it, so there. I was at Momofuku Noodle Bar to celebrate some kind of school-related milestone that I invented for myself (I went to class sober! Or, I went to class!) and I ordered one glass of sake, and then several glasses of white wine. The waiter asked if I switched to the wine because it was cheaper and I said yes. When I got the bill I wasn't charged for any of the wine. Wowee zowee. After several more visits and friendly exchanges I decide I like him. But I do nothing. Then one day I'm allowed to leave early from work because I'm crying after having just found out that I didn’t get the world’s most perfect job for me. I walk into Momofuku Milk Bar to pick up a slice of friendly chocolate cake. My eyes are red and my nose is leaking and guess who’s slicing my cake? A few weeks later I take my friend to the Milk Bar and we order two slices of cake. He wordlessly packs me a blueberry lemon cookie for free. I’m, like, totally bonkers for him at this point. Finally, back at the Noodle Bar, I point him out to the girl with the clipboard. Seat me in his section I say. We eat very well and he brings us a free soft serve to share at the end. "Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask. "Yes."

So there you go. Buck up ladies. Don’t fear making the first move. And don’t waste your time. Find out if he’s single first before you get totally disappointed after you’ve been talking to this guy for like an hour about your favorite Simpsons episodes of all time when he casually slips in mention of his girlfriend of four years.

More tips for girls drinking alone who want to get chatty with the bodacious boozing boy at the bar:

Read something interesting. I don’t even know what that means and I personally don’t care what someone thinks about what I read, but if it’s interesting it could be a conversation starter.

Listen in on their conversation and jump in if you have something to add. But only if it's appropriate. Guy having intimate conversation with a girl. Inappropriate. Guy with buddy out for a few beers. Appropriate, sometimes. Use your common sense.

Smile at him if he glances your way more than a few times, buy him a drink through the bartender, ask him to watch your stuff when you go to the bathroom, ask him what he’s drinking, drink something weird so he can’t help asking what you’re drinking, bring your dog to the bar because he’ll probably want to play with it (and maybe you, later), start an argument with the bartender about stuff that people like to weigh in on, like who has the best pastrami sandwich, NY or LA (LA wins IMHO). Do whatever. But don’t act a fool. You’ll make us all look bad.

--Dawn Weiner

photo appropriated by my assistant. It seemed appropo.
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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Karaoke

There are a lot of things you know about me already. You now that I wear a mask. You know that I drink. It can even be inferred that you know I’m completely fucking awesome. But there is something that you may not have known about me that is a subset of my overall awesomenity. What I now refer to is my status as a Main Guy of Karaoke. Underneath this writerly exterior lies a wailing behemoth of rock, and from time to time it gets out.

But karaoke is no amateur’s game; it is not to be approached willy-nilly. There are certain tips and guidelines I’d like to share with you that I’ve garnered over my years of belting out tunes in establishments built up by Asian immigrants.

First, perhaps most obviously, drink. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Extremely handsome masked guy, why for you tellin’ me such obviousness?” Well have you ever seen the people who karaoke sober? Let’s put it this way: you know when you’re not wearing shoes and you stub your toe; and you don’t just stub it but you bend a toenail back; and there’s that rush of painful air on your tender, exposed, stubbed skin? That sucks. But sober karaokeers suck worse than that. They take this shit way serious.

That’s the crux of a lot of these tips. Don’t take it too seriously. To that end, avoid singing songs that have emotional value to you. This isn’t a recital, nor a serenade on a first date. This is having some funtimes and blurting out some funsongs. If you have a wedding song or a song your dad had played at his funeral or a graduation song and for some reason you actually like thinking of high school, do not sing these songs. You will ruin them, and then you will feel bad.

Have some go-to songs, too. They should be fun, light, and recognizable. I recommend having at least one solo go-to and a couple duets. Duets are automatically better than solos, as you’re having fun with a friend (or a stranger that maybe you make out with later), and no single person must carry the burden of hitting every note in the song. One of my solo go-tos is the theme from “Cheers.” Getting the bartenders on your side is a nice step in karaoke rockage.

If you’re going to rap, be sure that you really, really, really know the song. I dialed up “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys once, because I love that song. Well it turns out I knew about 60 percent of the lyrics and thus 40% of the time gawped and looked an even bigger fool than usual. That shit is fast and difficult, and after a few drinks, the tongue doesn’t want to work like that. But I’ll say this: in the rare event someone does pull it off? MINDS ARE BLOWN.

You know those songs that you assume you’re going to hear when you go to karaoke? Like “New York, New York” or “Crazy” or “Piano Man”? Well, you are going to hear them. So don’t sing them. Nobody wants to hear the same song, no matter how good it is, over and over and over again all night. Put a little variety into the evening. Something you loved growing up, but don’t hear all that often. And if you know it, never fear a little old country. Even in Downtown Manhattan you’re going to be surrounded with more fans of David Allen Coe than you would have ever guessed.

Speaking of the people around you, show them some love. The best karaoke is public karaoke. I’m not so down with the private rooms with just you and your palsies. Do that a few times and you can predict what everyone’s gonna do. And it gets boring. One of the pleasures of karaoke is interacting semi-artistically with total strangers. So when somebody goes up and gives it their all, you goddam well better applaud! Especially if they’re into it. (Not taking it seriously, into it. Very different. Serious-takers have pained faces and sing important tunes with vibrato and heartfelt emotion. They make you want to leave, die, or both. Into-its are totally rocking out and having funtimes.) Cheer, high five, spread the love. It’ll come back to you. Don’t be one of those shitty groups that only listen to their own friends and never have fun with anyone else. They are like stepping in dog poo, except at karaoke and with singing.

Speaking of Into-Its, totally be one. Rock out with your best moves. Nobody expects David Lee Roth, but do what you can. A little dancing and rock posing goes a long way. Which is not to say do only the barest minimum amount. Let the rock flow through you like electric fuck. A lot of rock stars are neither hot nor that good at singing. It’s all about that electric fuck juice. Drink heartily of it.

The most important thing is just to let loose and have fun. Bring some friends who are ready to party, meet some new folks, and rock it out. The second most important thing is not to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody.” You can’t sing it, it takes forever, and everyone else in the room will hate you. If you MUST sing it, wait until right before closing time. Then people will be drunk enough to form a chorus with you instead of resenting your sorry ass.

portrait by girl the Masked Drinker wishes he remembered. And, yes, that's open mic and not karaoke but it's the best I had. Shut the fuck up. Other picture stolen from internet and written on using photoshop in its basest form by the Masked Drinker. Read more...

A Syrcls Brunch Review: Ordering In!

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

The night before the brunch in question, I had to a whiskey tasting at Bottlerocket
right after work. I tasted a Hudson Baby Bourbon, a Hudson Manhattan Rye, and a Spirit of The Hudson Vodka. Unfortunately, I seemed to have misplaced the information I got about each of these drinks, due to me clearly getting way in over my head with this tasting, so to. I think my favorite was the Rye, though I’m not much of a hard alcohol drinker. I think my only comment was “yep, that’s alcohol all right!”Anyway, I somehow thought that night that it would be a good idea to not only meet my friend Foxy at a bar back in my neighborhood, but to also have some additional drinks with colleagues in the West Village. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I should have probably just gone home. Instead, I proceeded to hang out with Foxy, and then some neighbors of mine, until I was too embarrassed to admit that I was too drunk to continue hanging out, walked out of the bar without saying anything to anyone, walked home, and passed out in my contacts.

Despite the early call of spring that Saturday morning, it was definitely an ordering-in brunch moment for me. Hey, sometimes, you don’t have the wherewithal to leave your apartment until absolutely necessary. Sometimes all you can do is lay on your bed and/or couch and sit still until that horrible spinning fades away. OK, I wasn’t that bad, but I was extraordinarily lazy. Oh, and ordering in is also good if you have a guest in your bed and you’re not quite “done” with them yet.

But on regular, non-sex partner nights, my roommate and I rely on Willburg Café pretty much across the board for ordering in brunch delivery. It’s not particularly outstanding in the quality of food, much less the service, it’s just that it’s really the best we have to choose from in our delivery area.
I have to say, the girl who takes delivery orders is has pretty far below average mental capacity. It’s been more than four times that she’s put us on hold and forgotten, royally messed up our order, or can’t spell anything we tell her. But, their tofu “omelette” (which is really more like a scramble), with combo of potatoes and toast, is pretty good and reasonably priced. In this case, though, we both got their yogurt, granola & fruit plate, which is a nice portion and a healthy option.

It takes them about 20 minutes or so to arrive, and unless that genius of a girl on the phone has messed up something on her end, they’re usually good about getting there on time. Oh, and they have fresh orange juice, which is possibly a better than a burger for your hangover. Read more...

HCAR Drink Tasting: The Southern Bride

Hey, folks. I know Faux-Bee June usually writes up these drink thingees, but she’s off in the hills of Scotland collecting the heads of her enemies, so we drew straws and guess who got the short one? The hint is: he wears a mask and is me.

This week we had a gin drink called the Southern Bride. I thought maybe this meant it was 16 years old but it was actually 2/3 Gin, 1/3 grapefruit and a splash of Maraschino. Gin and grapefruit both prove to be pretty strong tastes, so we got some pretty strong opinions. Onwards.

Our roster:
Staff members Faux Bee, myself, Syrcls, and Rachel and frequent guests Meatball, Fraulein N, and The Pet sat around on a cold end-of-winter’s night and tried to enjoy life.
Generally folks didn’t like this drink. Every single contributor mentioned that it was too tart or bitter, and that gin and grapefruit just do not go well together, like peanut butter and knifestabs. Rachel felt that the drink was best suited for old ladies in Atlantic City, but Meatball put down a Johnny Ryan comic long enough to comment it was for Upper East Side Ladies. I felt it was more for sorority girls, and the Fraulein darkly commented more literally that it would be suited for “A woman getting married south of the Mason Dixon line.” So we basically thought it was for women of low taste.

When asked where and under what circumstance they pictured themselves having this drink, The Pet, Rachel, and Fraulein all flatly said they would never drink this. Syrcls allowed that if she were depressed and there was no Nyquil, she’d give it a whirl. Faux Bee would indulge if she were dating a fellow with a deep expense account. I was more lenient, thinking that on a hot summer’s day this might be a bit more pleasant.

On the subject of improving the drink, everyone mentioned some sort of replacement. Tossing the gin for vodka was a popular choice, but the Fraulein and I agreed that the grapefruit was the most offensive part. I thought maybe lemon juice and some sweetening agent would make this a pretty nice summer drink. Syrcls would improve it by “throwing it in the toilet.” She went on, “Dark chocolate beforehand probably made this even worse. Eww. Just eww.”

In conclusion, Ms. June donned her lab coat to tell us that grapefruit actually hinders the liver’s ability to process alcohol, so it’s basically the worst mixer of all time. I still hold to the belief that nuclear waste and razor blades are a worse mixer, but to each his own.
Sorry if I did this wrong. Faux Bee is better at it. Let’s hope the Quickening doesn’t drive her mad with power. Read more...

The Masked Drinker's Bourbon Pairing: Mad Men

The Masked Drinker was having computer problems, so I have posted this week's article for him.

--The Colonel
A main fact about me is that obviously I am extremely wise. I have been dropping twenty dollar knowledges on you from the inception of this blog. But my role as educator need not be limited to how to guides for bar living. Starting this week, I’m also going to occasionally talk about booze pairings. Specifically, I’ll be talking about bourbon pairings.

Now when I say this I don’t mean foods you should eat that go well with bourbon. I love bourbon more than I love a lot of people, but it’s not exactly refreshing or thirst-quenching. And the rich, caramel overtones in truth blend well with very few edible things. No, when I talk about bourbon pairings I’m going to be talking about experiences, media, and non-edible concepts that are great in and of themselves, but pushed along to splendor with a nice glass of Kentucky’s finest.

Today I want to talk about a television show that goes so well with bourbon, partially because it’s so often consumed by the characters of the show. That show is Mad Men. Now, 99.99999999999% of TV makes me wish the robots would finally rise up and destroy the puny humans, but every now and then something worthwhile gets by. Upon seeing ads for a show on AMC of all places about advertising guys in the fifties, I was certain that this would not be one of those worthwhile times. Hokey jokes about “Hey, back then people sure did act different!” and some weird deification of the world’s most disgusting business.

Well I was wronger than a Klansman in Bed-Stuy. While the first couple of shows did have some snickery, “Boy, wouldn’t it be great if we had a machine that could copy papers for us?” moments and the constant smoking seems to overdrive the point home, quickly something far more subtle comes through. The show, in truth, is actually about the societal change this country went through in the mid-twentieth century and, more importantly, how that affected different people.

The show covers all sorts of people, from executives to housewives to children to the nearly-invisible black help . . .and each person reacts to and is affected by these changes differently. Some fear it, as it represents the end of their control; some fear it because it gives them control and they don’t know what to do with it.

Both the writing and the performances are pretty goddam sublime. January Jones turns what could be a typical frustrated housewife into a vibrant, discordant ball of petulance and neuroses. Jon Hamm, handsome guy extraordinaire, plays Don Draper so perfectly that every revelation both fits and shocks. Anyway, there’s countless places to read up on what makes Mad Men so damn good, so I won’t belabor the point.

What I really want to talk about is that it’s a damn fine show along with which to drink. The characters drink pretty freely, at home, at bars, and at work (oh, how I wish . . .) and they drink well. Lots of bourbons and ryes consumed throughout an episode. But here’s the catch, folks. Don’t drink in your ratty old t-shirt with that band you don’t even like anymore on it. Dress the part. In Don Draper’s world, men and women dress well, all the goddam time. At the very least, have a pressed shirt unbuttoned with a loosened tie. You’ll feel better. Ladies, put on a dress. Match your underwear. Make your drink an occasion of awesomeness.

But if any of you assholes want to make a drinking game out of it, I will personally crawl through your internet tubes and shit on something you love. Drinking isn’t a game! Drinking is an art, it’s a life, and it’s a pleasure. You heard me! Don’t fuck around.

So, I hope you enjoy this bourbon pairing. Mad Men Season 1 is available on DVD and season two probably will be soon. Make a party of it and live it up. Enjoy a drink, enjoy a cigarette, enjoy your friends, enjoy the show, and enjoy living in a world that can completely remake itself when necessary.

Mostly the drink.

pictures again stolen, I almost feel bad, but these dudes are awesome Read more...

A Syrcls Brunch Review: New Orleans Edition

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to sh\are my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

Earlier this week, I got back from an amazing (and spontaneous!) vacation to New Orleans with my friend, Foxy. I thought I’d be missing Mardi Gras, as I was leaving the Monday prior. Oh, dear, how exponentially far, far from the truth that was. Here’s the thing about New Orleans that I really didn’t understand before going: NO ONE STOPS DRINKING. EVER. Seriously. It’s a 24 hr/7-day a week shitshow.

While that can be kind of cool— everyone’s pretty laid back, no open container law (beers TO GO!), etc.—it can also be kind of a bummer, i.e. any and all sexual harassment is magnified times 5 million, Bourbon St.= Frat Central, shit moves SOO FUCKING SLOW if you want to get shit done, etc. Overall, I had an amazing time wandering around that amazing, culturally rich city, partying my ass off, randomly playing the bongos with legit Cajun musicians, and of course, EAAAATINGGG.

I had brunch my last morning there, directly after a night I had seriously lost my shit on more than a couple of dudes who made some of the most unwelcome sexual advances I’ve ever encountered-- not that I remember specifically, but hey, I’m fairly confident there was definitely SOME good reason I smacked, threw tater tots at, and chucked beads to injure those various fuckers. Not that I’m endorsing that sort of behavior (my specific reactions, that is), but it can be VERY frustrating to be a woman in your mid-twenties who’s drunk, angry, and feeling powerless against the overwhelmingly dick-baggish entitlement some men love to shove in your face at every second of the goddman day, everywhere you turn. Foxy and I did, however, meet some very nice men there who didn’t try to get fresh (we both have our own one particular person on our minds, respectively).

Anywho, at the recommendation of the fine Southern gentlemen we met (um why am I sounding like I’m about 90 years old? Whatevs), we went to a ridiculously picturesque place called Café Amelie. Unfortunately, it was pretty cold (compared to the rest of the time we’d spent there) and windy that day, and the inside was a long wait, so we were forced to eat outside. We were RAVENOUS and RETARDEDLY hungover from the drinks neither one of us paid for the majority of all night.

I ordered the crabcake (on a bed of greens, with citrus drizzle) and a side of potatoes. Foxy ordered the potatoes as well, and for the life of me, I cannot remember what she ordered, but I think it involved seafood. Anyway, if you are in New Orleans ever, seafood is a MUST. I don’t think I’ve tasted anything that fresh since I was in Hawaii a few years ago. The potatoes, however, were underwhelming, and I thought the crabcake portion was a little small, though that could’ve been my own fault for ordering nothing else.

On a nicer day, eating in that garden would have been a complete and utter delight. Take a look at that shit! I’ve rarely seen that level of non-showy combo garden/old building quaintness outside of Tuscany. And though the potatoes and waitress left a little to be desired, I highly recommend this place if you feel like dropping mad bones on a truly good quality brunch in a lovely environment. I think it definitely played a part in saving my mental health from the raging lunatic in my brain from the night before.

Photos by Syrcls

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