Stranger in a Strange Land

For my inaugural post, I would like to write about two things *: 1) My favourite bar, and 2) About being a ruiner.That made up word means exactly what it sounds like – someone who ruins things. In preparation for this little coeur-à-coeur, it may not be the worst idea to hearken back to this piece of sageness about drinking in bars where you do not belong. And subsequently, should you choose to turn up at my favourite bar you will be well schooled in how not to be an asshole, saving me the trouble of having to be very rude to you.

I like to drink at Keen’s, an old-fashioned English chop house (they changed it to steak house some years ago because the Americans were confused) that’s been in existence since 1885. Their signature dish is the mutton chop and their bar has one of the finest single malt whiskey collections in town. Back in the day, Keen’s was a gentleman’s establishment in what was then the heart of the theatre district. And while women could be present they would not be served. Lillie Langtry sued the fuckers in 1905 for women to be served there and won. To show that there were no hard feelings, they named a room after her. The place is packed with all kinds of American history including the program president Lincoln was holding when he was shot, and paintings by Alexander Pope (no, the other one). Also taking pride of place are the clay churchwarden pipes left over from when it was a pipe club. You will find pipes signed by such diverse fellows as Buffalo Bill, Douglas MacArthur, Stanford White, Rube Goldberg, Teddy Roosevelt, Babe Ruth and Albert Einstein. Members had their own pipes and on furnishing their card, a nice young man would locate their pipe, clean and pack the bowl and hard working guys sit and have a pint and a smoke and eat charred cow.


This is a very masculine place. Just so you know how manly it is, the presiding feature of the bar is a painting of a naked woman recumbent on a sofa draped by a lion skin (after Goya) called Miss Keen’s. And though there are no urns, it is art. Generations of young males have been shaped into manhood under her impervious gaze as their fathers and bosses have glared at them for ordering mixed drinks in the middle of rush hour, or when bartenders have given them the stink eye for being so crass as to order an Irish Car Bomb. It’s a very Manly Bar. In fact, it’s such a sausage fest, that on occasion even guys feel their weens shrinking when they enter into the testosterone-polished warm glow of the sanctum that is Keens. And though they have many women working there and a tough as nails female general manager who can make grown men cry, the main bar is served only by bow tied, waist coated men. A fact that is somehow strangely re-assuring even to a feminist and super gay girl like me. So, it is definitely a guy’s bar. Not by any particular policy, but out of sheer habit (and also by sheer accident of being so close to Penn Station). The greatest downside to Keens is the after office and LIRR crowd that infests it between 1730 hours and 2030 hours. Also the MSG crowd who come for their damned games and Dave Matthews concerts. But don’t let that put you off the place. That would be like hating your dad for smelling of acrid smokes and Old Spice and being born in 1948.


When I first started going there in 2003, I was sometimes the only female patron, and often definitely in the minority. There was definitely a certain imposing quality to its history and its masculine air. No worries. I was there to drink my way through the entire Scotch list (over 200 single malts!) and people know not fuck with that kind of intensity. I was raised to adulthood there by the knowing and knowledgeable bartenders – steering me towards bottles I might have been a little reticent of and sneaking me a taste of the $100 a shot stuff that a student on a $300 a month budget could definitely not afford. And on occasion setting me right, on my private life, with no more than a look of pained disbelief. Keens is my favouritest bar in the whole world (you can tell I’m serious because I’ve allowed myself an ungrammatical turn of phrase). Except for the occasional sports fans and the passing corporate douchery, this has always been a great place to have a quiet drink, and talk whiskey, and in the more colourful moods have a classic cocktail mixed impeccably and served – without any phony waxed moustaches and poncy gartered sleeves involved. There have been only two places I have had a perfect Martini. One was at Keen’s and the other was at the Harbour Bar at the Taj Palace and Hotel, Bombay (more about this some other time).

Like all bars where the people working actually love their work and love their product and are not self-conscious about their image, the folks at Keen’s are perfectly willing to embrace any serious drinker regardless of age, sex, profession or vocation. This means that despite its guy-ness and its old money-ness Keen’s will love you even if you’re nominally an outsider. And if you’re a regular, bar tenders will know what your usual is and will set you up even while you’re still settling in.


In the last few years, though, Keeen's has suffered a few blows: voted best bar for adults by NY Mag – ironically the crowd that drew was a bunch of just out of college yuppie frats; spotlighted in Esquire magazine as part of their where celebrity chefs eat out feature; no more cigars if you win the trivia contest; and the lowest blow of all, showcased by Anthony Bourdain in Disappearing New York. All of which has meant that a regular at Keens now has to contend with all kinds of bozos wandering in and out of there.

I’m not begrudging Keens its extra success. The folks there work hard and do a great job, and whatever increases their pay is aces in my book. But I can’t help but grumble about the extra noise and stupidity generated by all the tourists and trendsters who come to gawk at what they feel is kitschy outmodedness. And who don’t know how to order a drink at a bar 30 feet long and three deep manned by two.

But the blow it has suffered that actually pains me the most is the increased presence of women.

Oh, dear. Wherever could I be going with this line of thought? Well, I’ll tell you: To the moon, Alice. To the moon! I am taking this moment to talk specifically about women in what is traditionally a masculine space, because at Keen’s I am one of few women in a masculine space. I don’t know if it’s because so many women are not enculturated in bar etiquette, or if it’s a class-specific cultural thing where girls are expected to drink only certain things and in certain ways. But I feel like my side (that would be the women) has been letting me down.

Listen, I get it. There’s a 20 foot painting of a naked lady on a lion skin. The bus boys wear leather aprons. Bar snacks include boiled eggs. Most of the customers are dudes in power suits and power ties standing around in exclusionary circles and wondering how to deal with the fact there is no Coors Light at this bar. There are too many guys. There’s too much corporate. It’s a sausage fest. The waiters address you as sir or miss or ma’am. All the Coke comes in bottles. There’s no Stoli Razberi. I get it. It’s a strange and alien environment. But it’s that way for a reason. This is an old school bar. This is where the movers and shakers of old New York used to come to sit in the proverbial smoke-filled back rooms and make deals. This is where the reporters and editors of The Herald used to knock back a few. This is where business men would ogle chorus girls and starlets away from the baleful gazes of their respectable wives. This is where companies would hold annual dinners to show their appreciation to their employees by treating them to Grade-A slabs of steak and a great pint. This is where D. W. Griffith secretly rehearsed the cast of his first Paramount Film in. And in more modern times, it’s where guys like Don Draper had a quiet whiskey to get away from work. You’re here on sufferance – just like I would be on sufferance at a Hell’s Kitchen leather daddy bar, or in a working man’s bar in Woodside. So respect the environment **. Don’t point and giggle and make a general fuss. Don’t flag the bartender if you don’t know what you’re drinking. And please for the love of god or whatever it is you believe in, don’t have your friends yell their orders across people’s heads when it’s as noisy as a marketplace, and then complain about getting Coke and Jack when your buddy wanted Diet Coke and Jack. Because the bartenders while efficient do not fucking have super hearing (also, in this situation, please think twice before ordering a Sex on the Beach or whatever heinous thing with “cute” names). Don’t ask what the eggs are for (they’re eggs, they’re for eating). Don’t lean against the bar and leave your coat all draped over the bar stools – some of us are here to drink and part of that involves actually looking the bartender in the eye as we sip our heaven’s brew of distilled sunshine and compare notes.


Oh sure, they’ll mix you anything you want, at any time– the best Sidecar, the best Martini, the best Manhattan. They’ll give you all the beer and Jack and Coke you want. They even have a pretty decent wine list. They’re a bar, that’s what they’re here for. But please pay attention to what’s happening around you first. It is a place of thinking and drinking. Neither of which can be truly enjoyed when you bring the atmosphere of a hen party or sports bar in there with you. I know it can be truly disconcerting to arrive at a place that seems a little out of time – after all, who’s expecting Victoriana in the cultural wilds surrounding Penn Station and Madison Square Garden – and so staunchly the opposite of who you are. But making a spectacle of yourself where you’re already an outsider will not exactly endear you.Keen’s is a great bar. The bar tenders are professionals who know what they’re serving and enjoy their work. It has history: earned history, not slotted in by a canny designer. It has class. Most of all it has style. The polished wood and the leather banquettes, the wooden refrigerator cabinets, the naked ladies – they’re not kitsch, they’re for real. You wouldn’t like a picnic atmosphere inside St. Patrick's Cathedral even if you were the most annoyingly screechy atheist in the world, because places like that matter in our lives. Places where people know your name and have your glass and place set for you by the time you’re done hanging your coat. Places where a broke-ass foreign student can sit down and learn about Scotches, Bourbons and life, and make friends with federal judges, experimental theatre artists and corporate lawyers alike. Places where the manager always finds a table for a regular despite the raggedy jeans. Old school places the folks serving you will actually take care of you. Not because you’re a flash tipper but because they appreciate your interest in their work. A place like this is a gem. And hard to come by.

So if all you’re seeing is a gentleman’s club (no coy euphemisms) where there’s a painting of a naked lady. For the love of what’s good, stay away. Go to Hooters, or the roof top bar at the Gansevoort or wherever. You’re better off there.

* Okay, maybe three things.

** You know, this advice goes for the guys, as well.

All images in this post © A. Das.
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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Benders

In drinking, like all things, moderation is the key. What some people never tell you about that guide is that “all things” includes moderation, so one must moderate in moderation as well. And there sometimes—not too often—comes a time in someone’s life when it’s time to go a little off the deep end. A good bender can be a damn fine thing, but you really have to do it right. I’ve done it wrong in the past and learned from my mistakes. I just got back to work after a week and a half off and I quite explicitly decided to make it a bender. So I’d like to now share what I’ve learned about this noble and horrible experience.

First off, make sure you have ample time to be to yourself. You’re going to need anywhere from a weekend to two weeks (longer than that I really highly don’t recommend) where you are pretty much free from normal human responsibilities like family, work, and hygiene. (Just kidding.) (Kind of.) Point being if you need to check in on Granny every now and then or work with children or make spreadsheets to keep yourself employed, don’t go on a bender then. Self-destruct in moderation! I’ve often used spring break, but it’s very vital not to do it in the way low folks like Floridians would. A bender is not an excuse to yell lewd things at impressionable girls. A bender is a hedonistic self-exploration.

It often helps to have something of an impetus for the bender. It can be something as simple as “I have time off” to something rather more serious like, “Holy shit, my marriage just ended.” Sad-started benders need to be monitored more carefully than others, as the point is to come out a little better than you started, not way more depressed. I’d say stick to a good reason at least your first time. No bender is trickier than the barely-avoiding-depression bender.

I should add that you should let people know what you’re about to do; at least the ones that won’t give you hell about it. I, uh, in particular mean people that you share some sort of activity or some such with. Like, uh, a blog. I’d like to publicly apologize right here for not sending anything in last week. Sorry, theoretical adoring fans, arch enemies, and lovely crushes. Also, sorry Colonel Harmon. Really should have kept you of all people in the loop on that one.

Mostly go to bars where they know you. Now, don’t only go there, as they’ll get really tired of you. A bender’s a nice time to explore joints randomly. Remember, though, not everyone’s on a bender so don’t be an asshole, at least not more than you usually are. Respect the rules of trying out new bars, just do so within a week-long stint of drinking.

Remember to eat. Some nights you’re going to be stuck with the dregs: a friend’s leftover sandwich, microwave bar food. That’s unavoidable. But make sure you eat normal food too. Pasta keeps your stomach from completely revolting and just leaving by way of the first orifice it can find. At times when you’re just starting for the day or nicely buzzed, eat something really good and tasty. You’ll appreciate it whilst swimming in your debauchery.

Speaking of food and digestion, be prepared to not digest too well for the entire time. We’ve all had beer shits before, but understand that a real bender’s gonna involve beer shits pretty much every day. Stock up on TP and the stomach placebo of your choice and just roll with it. You get used to it, anyway.

You’re going to be tempted to bathe less. This is not a great idea. Everybody skips a day every now and then but if you skip more than one, you’d better have a major excuse, and it has to involve either an explosion or sleeping with someone ridiculously hot. Otherwise, for Christ’s sake, nobody needs to smell your drunk ass. If you must, buy some cheap beers to drink in the shower for motivation. That’s actually really fun.

Bender friends help. They’re not always available and do make sure they’re good bender friends. Bad ones quickly lead you down paths that not even you want. But someone who shares your break or purpose and can actually hang with your drinking style is pretty awesome. Nothing’s worse, though, than a lightweight bender friend. Can I call them frienders? When you’re out and ready for a multi-hour stretch and he or she is hiccupping after one beer, problems arise.

It also helps to have a non-bender friend, someone who’s generally staying sober, or at least normal. This has to be a close friend you trust and who is not judgmental. You need someone watching out if you’re about to step over a line, like drinking a fifth of whiskey near some cops or hitting on someone you really shouldn’t hit on. REALLY SHOULDN’T. But if you’ve got a judger, they’re just going to be on your case about everything so you never know what to take seriously. A cool non-bending friend can be a real ballast making sure you don’t go about this all wrong.

Keep some sort of record of what you’re doing. I don’t mean some weird OCD list of every drink you have. But a journal or something. Personally, I like to keep my camera around. Benders often lead to amazing, unexpected times. It’d be a shame if you couldn’t remember them. So make sure there’s something that will keep these good times around even after you clean up.

Lastly, when it’s time to rein it in, do so. When you’ve set yourself a time limit, never extend it, not even for a day. You’ll feel terrible for a day or so but, man, you will feel great once you’ve worked it through. Elongating a bender is the surest way to wreck it. There’ll be another time. Besides, it’s time for moderation in your excess.

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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...

The Masked Drinker's Guide to Gay Bars (For Straight Dudes)

So I was at Fashion Week last, uh, week, surrounded by bizarre examples of genetic perfection, free wine, and toilets whose seats never stand. I spent some time trying to get the designers of Original Penguin to release a nice line of comfortable-yet-stylish masks, but they just don’t yet see the market for it. Anyway, this is all just to say that it made me feel now was a good time to write up why gay bars are basic places of superfun.

My first experience with a gay bar wasn’t really my best. However, it was a bar in West Virginia, and that state and the word “best” never go hand-in-hand. See, my high school buddies and I found out that there was a gay bar in the town near where we grew up and we were overcome with curiosity. It was what you’d expect in an Appalachian gay bar: dudes whose only idea of gay culture is what they’ve seen in bad comedies and ladies who could kill every one of us without even loosening their large-custom-buckled belts. The music was loud and bad, and we were too young to get served. The best part was a redneck football player we had grown up with running up to my friend and proclaiming, “I always knew you were, too!”

Anyway, that’s not the usual scene from what I can tell. Gay bars, maybe especially if you’re straight, are just fun, relaxing places to be. Even some fairly open-minded guys are a little freaked out by the idea that “OH SHIT I AM GOING TO BE HIT ON!” Listen, in New York, at least, gay dudes are hell of picky. If you DO get hit on (which probably won’t happen), then consider it a pretty awesome compliment. If you can make it in the NYC gay scene, you are one hot fellow. (Unless you’re at a chubby chaser bar, but whatever, you probably aren’t.)

Gay bars—and I stress bars here, not clubs—usually have decent selections, prices, and specials. The happy hour at my favorite gay bar, Nowhere, is two for one domestics and well drinks for, like, four or five hours. That’s fucking crazy! A man can get much loaded on Yuenglings and whiskeys while hardly spending anything.

Gay bars are actually pretty amazing for dates, too. Bring a girl to a gay bar and you know no asshole’s gonna try to hit on her while you’re peeing. And, at gay bars I’ve patronized at least, straight couples are almost as cute and exotic as puppies playing with tiger cubs. That’s pretty fucking exotic and cute. Also, there’s usually a juke or DJ with danceable music, and after a few cheap rounds you are so on that, admit it.

Lesbian bars are a bit trickier. First off, if it’s a really anti-male lesbian bar, don’t be an idiot; just don’t go. But most lesbian bars are just bars that happen to be run for and by lesbians. Whenever I’ve found myself in one, I act like I always act in a bar not really meant for me. Just stay friendly, and don’t hit on anyone. And don’t hit on anyone by not hitting on them, either. Girls are totally onto that trick, guys. It’s just that straight girls sometimes pretend it works because it’s easier that way.

I don’t know if I have any gay readers yet, but I just realized that if I do, this is probably the lamest article they’ve ever read. So here’s a picture of Clive Owen as a measure of apology to you, my theoretical gay reader.


Anyway, not all gay bars are alike, obviously. But I’ve never been to one that wasn’t a fun time. I’ve never been forced to dance ala Police Academy. The bartenders are sometimes happy to hear about girl-dating problems to remind them of some of the reasons it’s awesome to be gay. This is, at least, what I’m telling myself whilst I bemoan my latest girltragedy.

So try it out. I recommend, as I said, Nowhere on 14^th between 2^nd and 1^st Avenues. Good juke, pool table, nice seating, fun environment. But please don’t go all at once. Then you’ll ruin it. I know my audience is comprised of ruiners. RUINERS.

pictures stolen from the internet, as he so often does, by the Masked Drinker

dude how hot is Clive Owen? It's ridiculous.

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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Etiquette and Protocol

So far my Masked Drinker’s Guides have been pretty situation-specific. But I get asked fairly often about very general issues dealing with drinking. It’s kind of surprising and amazing what some people don’t know. However, I have to remind myself that not everyone is a seasoned, well-worn barhound. Some people go to bars pretty rarely and are therefore unaware of some standard practices that seem obvious to a guy like me. So I’m going to try to address these general issues for the inexperienced drinker in this column; topics like tipping, buybacks, flirting with the patrons or staff, etc.

First off, tipping. The basic rule is: tip, you fucking asshole. Bartenders make an extremely low wage, and, like all of America’s service industry rely on tips to actually live. So they’re busting their butt to get you that sweet sweet booze that makes the sad go away. So tip. Bare minimum is a dollar a drink. But here’s the thing; some drinks are more work-involved than others. If you’re asking for a martini or a cosmo or anything that involves shakeage, it’s courteous to leave something more. I tend to leave two dollars for my first drink, and alternate between two and one for most of the night. Never tip with coins, it’s a pain in everyone’s ass. And if you think your tender is doing a substandard job, tip anyway. Just tip a dollar. Everyone has an off day, but if you shirk on a tip you can guarantee you’re persona non grata in every bar that tender knows. That’s just assy.

Another big topic people ask about is that of buybacks. In case you don’t know, a buyback is a drink the bartender buys for you, usually after three or four that you’ve paid and tipped for. It’s a personal thing on the number, and some bars don’t even allow it. So, for Pete’s sake, don’t ask the bartender about it. That’s basically heck of gauche. It either happens or it doesn’t. And when it happens it’s a magical, wonderful time full of rainbows and superpowers. Appreciate it. And always tip for it; I tend to tip extra for a buyback. Not the full price of the drink, obviously, but two or three bucks is a nice way to show your tender that you appreciate them. And the buybacks will come more often if you do so.

“Hey, is that bartender hitting on me?” If it’s a male bartender, maybe. Remember, it is his job to talk to you, in a way. But it certainly happens. If it’s a female bartender, the answer is almost always no. So don’t hit on them. They’re at work, they hear it all the time and they don’t want to deal with your drinking ass hitting on their sober ass. Be friendly, respectful, joke around, but don’t hit on them. If they’re interested, they’ll let you know when they’re off shift. But they aren’t. Trust me. And guys, as Ms. Weiner’s article shows you, be careful about hitting on patrons, as well. I already went over how to meet girls at bars, but let me reiterate that going up to random girls in bars is very rarely a good idea. Make sure you have your signals straight if you think she wants you to, and be ready to immediately and politely retreat at the first sign of resistance. Better for everyone that way.

I know there’s a lot of debate about bringing babies and children to bars. My parents had a favorite bar that I was in a lot as a kid, but it was a bar-restaurant (with the best fried shrimp EVAR). That’s a big part of how I feel about it. If there’s food there, sure, bring your kid. If the place doesn’t serve food, leave the rugrat with a sitter. Babies under two get special exemption as long as they are not loud asshole babies. But once the little critters start becoming mobile, please leave them out of my bar. I know they drive you nuts and you need a drink; trust me, I know. But they drive us nuts too, and we didn’t choose to bring them into this world. I’m sometimes willing to make an exception if the kid is cute enough, shuts the fuck up enough, and basically sits there with their Shirley Temple/Roy Rogers/inappropriate whiskey drink and lets me forget they’re there. But that happens about as rarely as the Colonel not having an anecdote so just forget it.

I feel like those are the main topics I most often get asked about. Readers, if there are any other questions you’d like answered, respond to this post or email me at themaskeddrinker at gmail dot com. I look forward to hearing from you maybe.

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Guest Post: Dawn Weiner's Guide to Drinking Alone for Women

Hey, folks. I got an email from a faithful reader earlier in the week in response to my guide to drinking alone. Dawn wanted to talk about the female side of the issue and I thought it was pretty interesting. So here's our first guest post, written by the lovely young Dawn Weiner. If you have something you think might make a good guest post, email us at hcarblog@gmail.com.

So I’m sitting at the bar, by myself, eating a sandwich. A guy comes up and sits next to me. He glances over at me a few times. He’s interested. I’m not. I’m eating a sandwich.

Me: (eating a sandwich)

Him: So do you come here often?

Me: (mouth full of sandwich and without looking at him): Yes

Him: That a good sandwich?

Me: (mouth full of sandwich and without looking at him): Yes

Him: What do you…

Me: (interrupting him midsentence): Do you mind? I’m trying to finish my sandwich.

Him: Sorry.

After a few minutes I finish my sandwich. It's delicious.

Him: So do you…

Me: Look, dude, I’m not interested in talking with you so could you please stop talking to me.

Just another mildly annoying interaction recalled from my many years as a solo female drinker in New York City bars.

There are several assumptions floating around about women alone at bars.

They are alone and want someone to talk to them, most likely a man.

They are alone because they wanted some quiet time out of the house and to be around people but not be with people.

They want to engage in a friendly chat, either with the bartender or other patrons.

They want to read a book/magazine/paper and drink.

These are all true.

They are alone because they want to get fucked up and maybe also get fucked (perhaps by the bartender or any of the guys sitting along the bar)

They are alone because they are a drunk and couldn’t find someone else to check out with.

These are not always true.

If you’re a woman drinking alone at a bar, the bartenders are your best friends. They keep an eye out for you in case some hooligans from the other end of the bar traipse over to harass you. This happened to me once. I had my laptop up on the bar and was doing some research when these drunk tourists came by and the drunkest one of all stood next to me and demanded that I engage in some conversation with him. I refused his advances. All of a sudden he started yelling at me about what a bitch I was, and then all of a sudden his buddies grabbed him. One of them said, “Lets get out of here man. Come on! We have to go NOW”. What happened? Well, the bartender caught wind of what was happening and took the drunk guy’s buddy aside. He told him that if his friend didn’t stop harassing me, he'd physically throw them all out of the bar.

Most women are afraid to go to bars alone. I’m one of the few among my friends that hasn't been. I don’t do it much anymore, and if I do it’s to my friendly neighborhood bar. But I was quite a successful lone female drinker for a while, there. Wherever I went. Men wanted to talk to me (usually without hitting on me) about interesting topics. I was nice and polite to all my bartenders, and tipped them very well. Once, some mysterious stranger somewhere told the bartender to bring the lonely girl (me) a drink. Thanks, dude, but I'm alone, not lonely. At the bars I frequented most, the male bartenders became extremely protective of me, making sure that the men I was talking to weren’t bothering me. And making sure to let them know right away, because they’d take care of them pretty quick otherwise.

I even made up a signal at this one joint, where I didn’t even know the bartender. This drunk guy was slobbering all over himself and screaming at me about lord knows what. I yelled out really loudly, “YO!” and held my hand up in the air. The bartender looked up and I took my arm down, pointed it at the dude and then thrust my hand toward the door. I said, “This guy needs to go!” The bartender nodded, jumped over the bar and shoved the guy out into the street.

Sometimes people feel sorry for you. Once at Union Square Cafe bar (the best place to eat, there, is at the bar). I was eating seriously the best fucking donuts I've ever had in my life. Half the bar looked over when they arrived and exclaimed "Oh, my God, what is that? Is it good?” I was working on a glass of 20 year Tawny port when a drunk rich lady took the seat next to me as I was polishing off the remainder of my drink and asked me if I was by myself. How sad it was that I was by myself! I told her that I was very happy considering that fresh tasty donuts and port make for excellent company.

Personally I have more fun at bars by myself than with my friends. With your girlfriends you’re always chatting about boys and junk, and leering desperately at the men around the bar that you’re all too afraid to talk to. By yourself, you keep your own pace, decompressing after a long work day or whatever. You don’t have to gaze intently into your friend’s eyeballs to ensure her that you are indeed listening as she blathers on about this boy and that blowjob. You are free to look around! And that is especially fun when there's a cute guy at the bar. You can eyefuck the shit out of him. Who cares? Maybe they’ll talk to you. Maybe he'll get scared and leave the bar and you’ll run to the window to watch him go. This actually happened.

Another great thing about drinking alone is that the bartender can become your friend (for the time being) and even your matchmaker. They know all the people in the room and can set you up. You can’t get to know your bartender when you’re with your gaggle of girls. But you should, because he or she's the most important person in the room. Besides protecting you from men, bartenders are a great source of entertainment. They're interesting people who have have lives beyond the bar. You can exchange boy dirt with a girlbartender. They’re usually tough and smart and have good stories. Boybartenders are usually good to look at, have an excellent sense of humor and sometimes are good for a romp in the sack. Also, friendly banter with your ‘tender increases the likelihood of a buyback.

Drinking alone is a fun activity. You've gotten your quiet time, a nice buzz going, increased your knowledge of various topics depending on who you were chatty with at the bar, read your magazine or book, talked with, or drunkenly smiled at, a cute guy at the other end of the bar. Now its time to go home and burn frozen sausages in the pan because you drank too much and passed out long before they were cooked. Or you are buzzed enough to chat with your parents about what you’re doing with your life. It's a pleasant conversation. Or maybe you drink more and sing loudly to various musicals you drunkenly bought on Itunes.

Whatever it is that you do when you get home, make sure you get home intact. Be aware of your surroundings while you walk home. Don’t call people on the way home because it will distract you. No Ipods neither. If you’re really blasted, take a car service and ask the driver to wait until you are inside your front door. Be safe.

--Dawn Weiner


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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Drinking in Bars in Which You Do Not Belong

Recently I've found great delight in a sub-genre of the drinking life. I've always enjoyed finding and walking into a random bar I've never seen. It's not always the greatest bar ever, but you're guaranteed at least one decent story, even if it ends, like every story from my high school years did, with the phrase, "and then we ran away."

Little did I know the thrill of taking this just one step further: bars in which you simply do not belong. You know them . . .you walk in and it is as if a needle scratches off a record. All eyes on you like a stranger in some old west saloon.

Now I don't mind saying, my first few times doing this, it scared the masked crap out of me. But after a few successes, I realized how much fun it was—I guess it's as close to my weak-stomached self can get to enjoying a roller coaster.

The reasons behind my out-of-placeness varies, but generally it is because I am "other." Other nationality, other race, other culture, other orientation, other gender, other age . . .you get the point. Like on the Electric Company, one of these things is not like the other.
Whether it's been an old mafia bar in Williamsburg, a Mexican salsa dive in Bushwick, a lesbian bar in the east village, or an old man speakeasy in Appalachia or anything else out there, the same method of becoming accepted has worked every time. So this week's Masked Drinker's guide is How to Go to Bars in Which You Do Not Belong.

Step one: walk straight to the bar. I won't lie—with every eye on you you're going to want to turn tail. Don't. Walk straight to the bar and sit down. Don't go to a table, no one wants to waitress for your alien ass.

Step two: order quickly and decisively. As to what you should order, look at the folks around you. Get the beer they're drinking. I don't give a shit if you hate Bud or Corona or whatever, get it anyway. You do not want to be the asshole asking for a goddam microbrew beer.
Step two-point-five: order a shot with your beer. No purple nurples or kamikazee's or other mixed drink shots. Make it easy on the bartender. Whiskey, tequila, vodka. Ordering a shot straight off shows you mean business. Real drinkers will take note, and you're one step closer to acceptance. If you want to go full bore, down the shot and order a second for sipping.

Step three: tip immediately. This might not be commonplace at the bar, but either way you let your tender know you're taking care of him/her. Don't overtip, though. No one wants a show off. A buck or two per drink is perfect.

Step four: listen. What's the tenor of the conversations going on? Baseball debate? Work woes? Raunchy jokes? Pay attention without being a creepy eavesdropper. Get the mood of the joint and basic personalities of the inhabitants.

Step five: talk. Throw something into the conversation if possible and appropriate. Crack a joke about something on the TV or juke. Whatever you do, just make sure it's funny and slightly self-deprecating. Establishes you as a fun person who isn't stuck up their own ass.

Step six: do not force it. Try joining in or talking no more than twice per visit. Sometimes the natives take longer to warm up than others, but the last thing you want to be is the annoying pest that keeps bugging everyone. Just wait and try again next time. I've never had to do this more than three times, and usually one will do.

Step seven: regardless of your reception, stay a while. Get at least two more rounds. If you've struck up a conversation with someone, buy them a round. This might seem like base bribery, but, hey, if it works . . .

Step eight: come back. Let them see you're not just a one-shot drinker who walked into the wrong place and acted like it wasn't a mistake (honestly, that's how this all got started). Come back within the next week and repeat the previous steps. Hopefully you'll see some of the same patrons or staff members. You're well on your way. Note, though, that you should be doing this alone. Bars in which you do not belong might accept you, but they don't want to feel like you and your asshole friends are going to take over. Once you're accepted, you can bring a friend or two over from time to time, but don't lead off with that.

There you have it, folks. Eight simple steps to making yourself at home in a bar where you're supposedly out-of-place. In today's increasingly tribal times, it's good to break through these barriers and get drunk with people who don't look or act just like you. Somebody get me the Nobel Peace Prize for Drinking now. I want it.

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This One's On Me: The Apologetic Bartender

Bartenders make mistakes. Some more than others, some fairly minor, some quite explainable. Life goes on, people get their drinks and an occasional bad review gets posted on the Internet somewhere.

Sometimes, however, a bartender makes a mistake so dire that it causes them to go against their bartender ethics. For these, we must repent.


One recent evening, as I was looking forward to wrapping up my shift, I noticed that a fellow was returning to the bar for his third pint of the evening. I have the luxury of being able to offer people a drink on the house at or around their forth drink. This is the buy back, and it’s no mythical creature, as some presume. It doesn’t exist at all bars in New York, as it is said to have in the past, and it is a discretionary gift from an attentive bartender where it does. I am unapologetic for those occasions when I miscalculate, when I misestimate the members of a group who are buying. In short, I do not feel bad if I forget to give you a buy back, it is a luxury extended to my by the owners of my bar, and it is my prerogative.

I did, however, make the ultimate blunder, for which I must now confess. The gentleman in question was a foreign chap. Possibly German, but possibly from an entirely different region of the earth, we only exchanged basic pleasantries and the name of his desired beer. His hair reached his shoulders and was a bit scraggly. By the time he came up for his third beer, it was clear that he either had been living in some part of the States for a while or had miraculously managed to read the section in the Rough Guide that covers gratuity. He had been leaving a perfectly appropriate dollar a beer and a genuine “thank you.” So I resolved that, should he return for a forth, I must remember to buy him his drink.

The bar became busier, and the number of long, scraggly hair wearers increased (the bar I tend is in a part of town where men take the occasion to wear their hair in this manner. There was probably a lot of confusion due to plaid, as well.) When our soon to be slighted friend returned, I was pleased that I remembered him and happily informed him that he need not pay for his drink. He, it seemed, was unfamiliar with the buy back process, was quite thankful, and asked me if I was sure twice. Again he left me a dollar tip, and very generous “thank yous.” So it only occurred to me after I had served a number of plaid wearing, long haired men that perhaps I had inadvertently bought someone’s first drink. Perhaps our foreign fellow was still sitting in the back, with his third beer. Perhaps I had bought back the wrong drink.

The thought of having bought some unassuming person’s first drink annoyed me a bit. There are only two reasons a female bartender would buy a strange male’s first drink. I do not find the scraggly/plaid look particularly attractive, and I am perfectly capable of paying my rent without using my boss’s alcohol reserves as an ATM machine. Nonetheless, mistakes do happen, so I carried on.

But it wore at me that perhaps this nice foreign fellow was going to go all night now with out a drink on the house. He’d have to drink eight or ten beers before he’d be up for another one, and by then my shift would be long over. I became consumed.

When he returned and ordered afresh, I put on my repentant face and as I handed him his next beer asked him if I’d bought him his last. He looked a bit confused, so I stuttered, mumbled, felt quite foolish I just, um, wanted to know if I got you you’re last beer, I’m, it’s busy… Suddenly I could see that something dawned on him. He said yes, and thanked me again. I picked up the ten-dollar bill he’d left on the bar, and by the time I turned around with his change he was gone.

I left the change under a coaster near where he ordered, and to my relief, he soon came back past the bar towards the bathroom, but when I tried to hand him his change he refused and looked down, embarrassed. My mission to show appreciation for a friendly, if not uninitiated, drinker was botched. I had inadvertently taken on the role of the greedy bartender and utterly failed at introducing someone to the simple kinship of the buy back.

Photograph from the Internet

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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Drinking Alone

Few things in life have more potential for enjoyment than going out and having a few with your friends. Conversations blossom into epic riffs, wonderful stories, and fart jokes of majestic quality. But if you’re anything like me (and if you are, HIGH FIVE YOU RULE) then from time to time you want to be more or less alone. More or less in that, while sometimes you just want to be totally isolated in your apartment watching a M*A*S*H marathon for 14 hours straight (just, you know, for example), other times you want to get out of the apartment, be around people, but not with people.

And that’s where the beauty of drinking alone comes in. See, drinking alone needn’t be some bullshit Hollywood cliché of an unkempt man, down on his luck, sobbing into a dirty tumbler, all wrinkled faded suit, all tie with a stain on it, all remembering on what his ex-wife done to him. It can actually be a beautiful, chill way to spend an hour or eight. So here are some tips for you to read, enjoy, memorize, quote until they become tired, be ashamed of for a while, but then come to enjoy again at a later time.

Nerd Out! “Alone time” even when it’s in public, is often a time to indulge in your geekier, solitary pursuits. Drinking alone is a great time to catch up on some reading. This can be anything from finishing that damn trashy novel you just can’t put down (you know, the one with the mustachioed fellow with a large gun, and the cleavage-bearer holding onto his leg) to muddling your way through some sort of boring but necessary reading assignment (if you have to read something lame, at least you get to drink). Of course, some novels work better than others with booze. A nice glass of whisky makes Chandler even more hardboiled, but I wouldn’t suggest 5 Harvey Wallbangers while trying to get through Ulysses.

I’ve also found that a beer and a crossword puzzle can be a fine way to relax while not totally abandoning your cerebral cortex. Sure, maybe the old guy with the Bud in the corner might look at you askance but two words, fifteen letters for rolling with Will Shortz is “FUCKINGPARTYING” and don’t you forget it.

I like to write when drinking alone, too. You definitely have to walk a careful line, lest your handwriting turn to hieroglyphic and your content turn to “ha ha ha fart that is cool,” but it’s a good way to reward creative work done. “Hey, I finished an article for the blog, I get to finish my beer now, too!” Other creative pursuits might similarly benefit; I know after acquiring that perfect buzz, I find way more things to photograph. It just seems to flow more naturally.

Another good tip is almost cheating. Be friendly with bartenders. If you’re drinking alone and you know the bartender, you can get your alone time as you need it and chat him or her up when you feel like it. This, unless you’re some freak with the social skills of a five year old asshole (you know you’ve met or at least seen one, fucking whining about how he didn’t get the retarded piece of crap he wanted), will a) help you get in good with the bartender (never a bad thing) and b) maybe make you a new friend (shockingly hard in this city sometimes). So drink alone, but feel free to make friends while you do it.

Drinking alone can be used for reconnaissance as well. Maybe you’re wanting to have a party or a date (“Why You Don’t Bring Dates to Your Bar” is an article forthcoming from your truly here I BET YOU CANNOT WAIT TO FIND OUT THE SECRET REASONS WHY!) and you want to try somewhere new, but don’t necessarily want to walk in cold and have the place turn out to be a real shitshow. You should note that this is more fun if you refer to yourself by a code-name, write in a cipher, and wear fatigues or some sort of black ops outfit. Now’s the time to break out those night-vision goggles that uncle you used to think was cool but now scares you bought you for Christmas!

Drinking alone gets a bad rep sometimes, but if you think about it, it’s just the lame-os saying that. You know, the people that made toy guns become neon colored; the ones that don’t like it when you make gentle love to their furniture; the ones that go by their full name even when “Jimbo” is totally fun to say. Those guys can go fuck themselves. Treat yourself to a nice time and as my great-great-great-great-great grandfather the Lone Drinker always said, “Hi Ho Silver, another round!”

photo by the Masked Drinker

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The Masked Drinker's Guide to Meeting Girls

When telling bar stories, there’s one question that I get more often than most any other, from both seasoned drinkers and teetotalers. I guess it’s a basic question and all but it was embarrassing and annoying the first time I heard it, and it doesn’t get any better from there. So I’m going to try to put it to rest for good, like when my dog went blind and kept bumping into shit.

The question being, “How do you meet girls in bars?”

Now, a little background is needed here. Now, this might shock you, but I have never once been voted People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Hell, I wasn’t even nominated! In fact, I barely made the top 100 Sexiest Humans Around list for the Dragon Magazine’s list two years ago. I’ll put it this way: I’m out of shape, I often reek of alcohol, and I have hair on my back. It’s the sort of combination that young women tease each other about one day dating (and sadly, often end up doing so).

So it’s not like I walk around and shoot sex pheromones at every girl I see, waiting for them to fall on my crotch. But, by all accounts, I do OK. I date fairly frequently, tend not to have awful dry spells, and I even do meet girls in bars occasionally. So people that know me are reasonably surprised by this, so they tend to talk about it. Other, more tangential associates (read: other barflies) get wind of it and want to know “my secret.”

Well, it’s no secret, really. I haven’t perfected some insane manipulation scheme involving “conversation starters” and generally being the biggest douche in town. So you might understand my frustration when people take me for some sort of womanizing mastermind. I mean I guess there's always some guy that thinks that there's some system to break, and THAT must be why he can't get a date. It's never his fault for not being charming enough or for having constant eye boogers or the poor girl just isn't interested. It's just because he never cracked the system. And the guys that think they have, simply have discovered that people with low self-esteem want attention, even from creeps.

So, here's the big plan, the big secret: don't go to bars to meet girls. Seriously, don't do it. It's lamer than a horse that's about to be shot. Now, I'm not admonishing you about the "low character" or some noxious bullshit about women you might meet there. You meet the same kind of girls in a bar that you would anywhere else, except it's just a bit more likely they enjoy a good drink as well. The emphasis is don't go to bars in order to meet women. Go to bars to have fun. Go with friends, go by yourself, but either way, go to have fun. Enjoyment of booze and friendly company are the only legitimate reasons to go to a bar (unless your tv's on the fritz and the game is on [or Project Runway's season finale for that matter]). If meeting girls is your motivation, guess what! You're going to fuck it up.

You'll either try some terrible line or nervously try making conversation, and the whole thing will be painfully obvious to everyone involved. And nobody wants that kind of bullshit going round. I have never, in my life, met a girl when the night started with that as my intention. I won't say this lesson was quick or easy to learn, but hopefully I can save you folks some pain.

"Oh, but Masked Drinker, how will I ever meet a girl then? And didn't you say that you've met girls in bars?"

Shut up, hypothetical reader, and let me continue to explain. I was saying that you should go out to a bar with your friends to have fun. Over time, I've realized that a man is never more attractive than when he's happy and joking with his pals (of any gender). If you want to attract women, be attractive to them. Hungry vultures and practiced bullshitters are not attractive to anyone you actually want to meet. But a charming, content guy with nary a care in the world? That's what you should aim for, really. And even if you don't end up accidentally attracting some girl, who the hell cares? You're having fun anyway talking about He-Man or Pete Rose or particle physics or Global knives or whatever else it is you might want to talk about.

Now, I'm not sure how this works for lesbians or gay guys, but I will say I've never been to a gay bar that wasn't basically the funnest place in the world. So hopefully that works out, too.

Anyway, the point is: drink up and have fun. That's all that matters in the end.



retarded photoshop by the Masked Drinker
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