Wednesday, April 23, 2008

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NYC Open Mic’s

New York City has a very lively indie music scene. If you want to check out live music of musicians that haven’t quite gained a large following yet, going to an open mic night at a bar or café is the ideal place. If you wish to participate in the open mic it is best advised to arrive early, and of course I would advise everyone to call the venue before going to make sure the event is being held.

Sunday’s

Bar Matchless – 9pm; 557 Manhattan Av, Brooklyn, NY, 10027, 718-383-5333, www.barmatchless.com; Subway: G-Nassau Av; L—Bedford Av.

Common Ground – 7pm; 2006 Av A, NY, NY, 10009 , 212-228-6321. Subway: L—1st Av.

Smith’s Bar & Restaurant 1:30pm; 1 drink min; 5 min limit; host: Obsidian; 701 8th Av, NY, NY, 10036, 212-246-3268. Subway: A,C,E—42nd St/Port Authority Bus Term.

Continental – 7-8:30pm; host: Eric Toast; 25 Third Av, NY, NY, 10003, 212-529-6924. Subway: 6—Astor Pl

Back Fence – 3-5pm; poetry; host: Brigid Murnaghan; 155 Bleaker St, NY, NY, 10012; 212-475-9221. Subway: 6—Lafayette/Bleeker St Note: The Back Fence, which opened in 1945, claims to be the oldest bar poetry reading in Greenwich Village.

Hope Lounge – 8pm, every other Sun; host: Jaime Garamella; 10 Hope St, Brooklyn, NY, 718-218-7191. Subway: L—Bedford Av.

Pete’s Candy Store – 5-8pm; 3 song limit; 709 Lorimer St, Brooklyn, NY, 11211, 718-302-3770. Subway: L—Bedford Av; G—Metropolitan Av.

Vox Pop – 7-11pm; 2 drink min; host: Punxsutawney Jesus; 1022 Cortelyou Rd, Brooklyn, NY, 11218, 718-940-2084. Subway: Q,F—Cortelyou.

Mondays

Baggot Inn – 7pm; 82 W.3rd St, NY, NY, 10012, 212-477-0622. Subway: A,B,C,D,E,F,V—W.4th St.

Café Vivaldi – 6:30-11pm; 2 songs min; no covers; 32 Jones St, NY, NY, 10014, 212-691-7538. Subway: A,B,C,D,E,F,V—W.4th St.

Cattyshack – 8pm-12am; no cover; hosts: Caroline & Ilan; 249 4th Av, Brooklyn, NY, 11215, 718-230-5740. Subway: M,R—Union St.

Don’t Tell Mama – 9pm; 343 W.46th St, NY, NY, 10036, 212-757-0788. Subway: A,C,E—42nd St

Sidewalk Café – 7:30pm; 1-2 song min; 2 drink min; lottery open mic; host: Latch;, 94 Av A, NY, NY, 10009, 212-473-7373. Subway: L—1st Av, F,V—2nd Av. This is the home of the urban indie folk movemet known as anti-folk, and the former stage of some of today’s leading indie musicians like Kimya Dawson and Regina Spekter. It should be noted that the open mic is done by lottery, so it doesn’t matter if you show up first or not, and it goes all the way into the night.

Nightingale Lounge – 7pm; $3 cover; 2 drink min; host: Su Polo; 213 2nd Av, NY, NY, 10003; 212-473-9398. Subway: L—3rd Av

Tuesday

Bar 4 – 7:30pm; host: Tanya; 444 7th Av, Brooklyn, NY, 11215, 718-832-9800. Subway: F—7th Av

Carlito’s – 8:30pm; 1701 Lexington Av, NY, NY, 10029, 212-534-7168; Subway: 6—110th Av. This is a great and friendly open mic in Spanish Harlem. The café also serves as a gallery and host to many social issues. I’d recommend drinking their Che Guevara wine.

Kili – 9pm; host: Tasneem; 81 Hoyt St, Brooklyn, NY, 11201, 718-855-5574. Subway: A,C,G—Hoyt-Schermerhorn Sts.

Nightingale Lounge – 8pm; every Tues except first Tues of the month; host: Cliff Schwarz; 213 2nd Av, NY, NY, 10003, 212-473-9398. Subway: L—3rd Av

Pyramid Club – 8pm; admission: $10, $5 for ladies; host: Mental Supreme; 101 Av A, NY, NY, 10009, 212-228-4888. Subway: L—1st Av

The Lucky Cat – (7pm; host: Edward Gorch; 245 Grand St, Brooklyn, NY, 11211, 718-782-0437; L—Bedford Av, G—Metropolitan Av)

Stain Bar – (8pm; first Tue of every month; spoken word; 766 Grand St, Brooklyn, NY, 11211; 718-387-7840; L—Grand Av)

Wednesday

Nuyorican Poets Café – (9:30pm; host: Flaco Navaja; 236 E.3rd St, NY, NY, 10009, 212-505-8183; F,J,M,Z – Essex St-Delancey)

Laila Lounge – (7pm; host: Gabriel Levitt; 113 N.7th St, Brooklyn, NY, 11211, 718-874-6484; G—Metropolitan Av, L—Bedford Av)

Spike Hill – (8:45pm; host: Zack Dinerstein; 184 Bedford Av, Brooklyn, NY, 718-218-9737; G—Metropolitan Av, L—Bedford Av)

Thursday

Artland Bar – (8pm; host: Hank Starr; 609 Grand St, Brooklyn, NY, 11211, 718-599-9706; G—Metropolitan Av, L—Bedford Av)

Micheline’s – (9pm; host: Brer; 1124 Broadway, Brooklyn, 11221, 718-453-3223; J—Myrtle Av)

Café Shane – (7:30pm; host: Toyia T & Mani; 794 Washington Av, Brooklyn, NY, 11238; 718-399-9001; C,S – Franklin Av)

Mooneys Pub – (8:30pm; first Wed of month; host: Edward Coyne; 7710 3rd Av, Brooklyn, NY, 11209; 718-491-3155; R—77th St)

Friday

Postcrypt Coffeehouse – (8:20pm; no microphone; Earl Hall Center, 2980 Broadway, NY, NY, 10027, 212-854-1953; 1—116th Columbia University)

Wicked Monk – (9:30pm; select Fridays, call; 8415 5th Av, Brooklyn, NY, 11209, 917-842-6585; R—86th St)

Saturday

Paddy Reilly’s Music Bar – (5:30pm; host: Rick J; 519 2nd Av, NY, NY, 10016 , 212-686-1210; 6—33rd Av)

SoulFire Suites – (7:45pm; host: Rob & Shay; 373 Broadway #B4, NY, NY, 10013, 212-219-2133; N,Q,R,W – Canal St, 6—Canal St, J,M,Z—Canal St)

Also see: www.openmikes.org

Sunday, March 9, 2008

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Poem: This is How It Used To Be

This is how it used to be,
torn jeans, slouching,
sixteen beers in me,
vomiting greasy slang
that we developed along
our path to alchohol-laden nihilism.
We worked for the Man
and knew it, “slaves” we said
to ourselves at the end of the day,
thinking how come we
didn’t get a piece of
the fucking pie.
Or maybe we did, but
it was rotten, and tasted like Cleveland.
And when the bars closed
we paraded like sleepwalkers
with blood on our ankles
amid factories, empty ones,
like graveyards.
And when I return
to see my city, it seems
everything’s changed.
My friends are far from one another,
stuck between the ground
and the gutter; paler, thinner,
older. We’re all growing
millions of miles apart.
But it wasn’t always like this,
life was supposed to go forever,
not faster into nowhere.
And those who still have
the sense of something divine
living in the gutter can
understand that something
somewhere went wrong.
The train derailed and
left us all stranded, with a
minimum wage job
and a floozy girlfriend.
Is this how it was supposed to be all along?
Maybe this is how it has always been
and always will be.

November 28, 2007

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Short Story: The Worst Things in Life Are Free

This was around five o’clock in the evening, just when the sky is getting dim and the world starts to get cold and desolate again – and the streets of Bed-Stuy become an outpost for thieves and whores. At around this time I usually came up to the roof to drink a strong Beam and Coke, followed by a smooth cigarette. I especially enjoyed to lean against the wall and watch the sky gleam in a blue and red – almost melting behind the steel herd of Manhattan.

This daily ritual eventually followed by a few more drinks of Beam, until the bottle went empty and I’d have to dig into a bottle of wine, or head down to the bodega and dive into a six pack of Bud tallboy’s. Either way – the nights usually ended up with me drinking myself to insanity, while listening to old recordings of myself, and lamenting – like an old man in prison – over the life that could have been.

I’d stay up on the roof, if it wasn’t too windy, until it got dark – and then I’d head back down to refill my glass, usually bring up my laptop to start a short story. After a few drinks I’d start texting my friends, “what’s goin down tonight?” Hoping that there would be a crazy-ass party that I could go to, where the booze was free and the women were easy – usually there were few answers back. Most of my friends worked, whereas I did promo’s on the weekends, and didn’t have to work a nine to five gig to support myself – and so, usually they’d be tired as fuck, watching television, eating a salad.

The lameness would get to me, and I’d think about just going out on my own – but there’s nothing worse then going out to bars on your own. You sit there like a madman, downing drink after drink, sometimes smiling at a few girls, who in turn leave their seats. Girls in New York don’t talk to boys they don’t’ know – horror stories abound the streets. And anyway, the bars that I went to rarely had fine looking women, and if they did, chances were they were taken – most probably by a pompous douche who lived only for a wet pussy and a Franz Ferdinand album. Shit, I’d probably have better luck at a gay bar if I was into the good old cock – however, who knows – with my luck I might have even worse chances there. And to be honest, I don’t want to take that chance – cause if I don’t even have luck at a gay bar, then shit – I might as well take my ass into the mountains and never return.

At around seven my next door neighbor usually came home from work. Frank was in his early twenties, and we got along all right. We drank heavily, smoked, and played guitar – many nights in the summer were given to bouts of drinking, getting high, and staring at the lit up city across the East River. We became good friends after a few months, and I didn’t his sociability in order to maintain sanity – cause I rarely left the apartment during the day.

That day he came up to the roof at around eight, and we drank the remainder of the bottle. I was telling him how I watched a documentary on the Antichrist, and if anything – I should be the Antichrist, because if you looked at it from a Biblical point of view, the Antichrist is actually a good man, because he brings judgment day, that without him there is no way for Jesus to come and save the unbelievers. He’d smirk and continue drinking, thinking about whatever the days events transpired, while I muzzled through the dirty tank of my mind looking for things to speak of.

“Shit, man,” I said, “let’s get out tonight – let’s go to the Union Pool, or shit – let’s go to the Subway bar.”

He squinted, “I don’t know man, I gotta go to work tomorrow.”

“Word.”

“What’s Josh doing tonight?”

“Shit, I don’t know what that kid’s getting himself into – I texted him earlier, we’ll see.”

Josh was a friend of mine since high school in Parma, he had just recently moved his ass up to New York to start a new life and get away from the draining coma of the Midwest. He lived in Red Hook and worked in a bakery, and every time I’d give him a call he was working, making cookies or cakes or whatever else they make. He was a wild man too, and had the spirit of a true pirate – perhaps that’s why we got along so well, because between me and Josh we could go through a good thirty-pack of beers and at least six bottles of wine. Shit, we could drink from sundown to sunrise and still be looking for more, and pissing ourselves from laughter. He had a true comedic streak in him – and there was no way that he would go through life without achieving some sort of fame for his behavior – he simply couldn’t, because if he didn’t – I’d have to kick his ass. I told him once, “Listen Josh, at least one of us from Parma’s gonna make it, and its gonna be either you or me.” He laughed and said, “why does it have to be either of us? Why can’t it be both?” He was right.

“He’s a funny guy.” Frank said.

I nodded, lighting up a cigarette.

“Well, I donknow,” I said exhaling smoke, “I feel like going out, I gotta start talking to some girls man, or else I’m just gonna go impotent.”

“Word, well I’m gonna head in, gotta get up early.” And he got up and shook my hand.

“Arright.”

I continued smoking my cigarette, and thinking about what to do. There was no way about it – I was going to get out today, I had to. I wasn’t going to spend another night on the roof, like a lonesome fucker, waiting for the stars to reveal something sacred. I had to actually get out there – grab the stars with my own damn hands and eat them, while they were still fresh and alive, so that they could ignite whatever fire still flamed within.

I never really made myself look too good, but taking the advice of my sister and a few other girls – I shaved, put some gel in my hair, and put on a clean shirt. A shitty thing about going out to bars when its cold outside is that you have to take two chances about what wear – either a huge nice warm coat, and that when you get to the bar hold on to it like a wild animal, or a sweet leather jack – but freeze your fucking ass off while getting there. I never understood the hot chicks who in the middle of winter are wearing nothing but a miniskirt and a bra, and they don’t seem to feel a damn thing. But hey, I’m not one to complain about it – if they don’t feel a thing, god bless them. I went with a small leather jacket.

Just before heading out I had two cold shots of vodka, to keep myself warm and give myself a buzz. I dreaded the ride on the subway – on the dirty G train from the Myrtle-Willoughby station. It always smelt of beer and piss, and here and there rats and mice escaped from under the tracks. It wasn’t so much that I minded the smell and the sight of rodents – it was the wait. The G train was probably the worst fucking train in the city, if you missed a train you probably had to wait a good thirty minutes for the next one. Often, the train was under construction, and you had to transfer here and there, and then take a nice long walk through the ghetto.

Stepping aboard, you saw the usual people. There were the Mexican workers going home from work, exhausted faces, half-falling asleep with four children falling over them. There were the Black residents that lived off the local stops – and of course the white hipsters, heading over towards the Metropolitan stop, so that they could get off and transfer to the L and get to Bedford Ave. But who am I to judge, I too get off at this station.

As I got out of the station, I got a text message from Josh, “Heading over to the Knock, meet you there.”

When you walk out of the underground into the dark and shining Lorime street – it’s a different sight from Bed-Stuy. This is Williamsburg area now, where the land is populated by skinny white kids, girls who sport American Apparel and all the guys have beards and eating disorders. Here each bar serves a two dollar Pabst and plays the latest indie music.

The first bar that I always head into was Knock bar. There you were always promised a cold Pabst, you could smoke cigarettes inside, and nobody fucking hassled you. If they did, then you’d act as my friend Joseph from Cleveland would, just tell them to “fuck off.”

I sat down, watching the game on the television, and ordered a shot of Jack and a Pabst. Next to sat Billy, he was an old alcoholic who’d been coming there since the early nineties. I got to know him one day in the winter last year, he was complaining about how his wife’s friends would always come over and drink his booze. His face was always red and he reeked of whisky. Billy grew up in Queens, but settled down in Williamsburg in the late eighties, where he worked as an MTA employee.

Billy often mumbled, especially when trying to hit on the young girls, which always made him seem lonely and pathetic, and which always made me smile. I bought Billy a beer and we talked about the game – it was Cleveland versus the Yankees. It was a big game, especially for Cleveland, back in the city people were getting all wild and crazy over it, I used to tell my friend Adam on the phone, “the Indians are the last great hope for our dying village.”

At about ten I felt Josh hit me in the back.

“Sup faggot.”

“Hey, man,” he said.

“What’s up.”

“Shit, working” He said sitting down.

“Baking.”

“Yep, the good old bakery.”

“Fucking A.”

Josh ordered a Pabst and looked up at the television.

“Oh god, I fucking hate this shit.”

“Tell me about it.”

“After this beer, let’s go to the Union Pool.”

“Aright.”

“Hey, remember that chick from two days ago at the Sin Bar?”

“Yeah, what about her?”

“She texted me today, says she wanted to hang out.”

“Sweet. Are you gonna hang out with her tonight?”

“Maybe, she gets off work at midnight.”

“Oh right, she’s a bartender.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“What about Emma?”

“What about her?”

“Didn’t you go on a date with her yesterday?”

“Yeah, she’s a bitch.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, finishing his beer, “why?”

“Shit, she’s just been coming over everyday for the past three days and getting drunk with me.”

“So?”

“It’s cool and all, she makes out with me, she even gave me a blowjob on the first date.”

“So what’s the problem, you asshole, why the hell are you complaining?”

“I don’t know man . . . I just hate messing around like this. I’m not one of those guys, that just fucks girls, or has girls who fuck other guys and then come over and lean on me for emotional support.”

“You’re a damn son of a bitch.”

“I know.” I said finishing my beer.

“All right, let’s get the hell out of here, I have my one-hitter with me. Let’s go smoke it on the way to the Union Pool.”

By the time we left the Knock it was raining, and it was difficult to smoke the one-hitter. At the Union Pool we bought drinks for three girls, they were visiting from Texas – they were the definition of what an “all-American” girl was. They were blonde, with short skirts in the middle of November, but obviously not interested in us. They took our vodka tonics and by two thirty in the morning vanished.

As we were leaving the Union Pool later that night, at around three, I saw Emma. She was across the street at Macri Square, sitting on the lap of a strange guy. I kept walking to the subway.

November 13, 2007

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Historic Bars in NYC

In 2005 New York Magazine published a list of the most oldest drinking establishments in the city. These places have maintained an air of authenticity, and often have history written all over the walls. Beer and drink prices at these venues start at $5-up. If you’re into history and old bars, check these places out:


1) Bridge Café (est. 1794), 16 ½ Dover St, NY, NY, 10038, 212-227-3344,
www.eatgoodinny.com, (2,3—Fulton St);

2) Ear Inn (est.1817), 326 Spring St, NY, NY, 10013, www.earinn.com, (C,E—Spring St);

3) Chumley’s (est. 1830s), 86 Bedford St, NY, NY, 10014, 212-675-4449, www.midtownnewyorkcityhotels.com, (1—Christopher St);

4) P.J. Hanley’s (est. 1874), 449 Court St, Brooklyn, NY, 718-834-8223, (F,G—Carroll St)
Get Directions

Monday, February 18, 2008

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Photo from Central Park

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Fairway Market, Red Hook, Brooklyn





You can see the construction of a Red Hook Ikea in the distance.


Here also you can see they have significantly knocked down some old buildings.



The view inside of an old train car behind Fairway Market.

















Took a trip to Fairway Market in Red Hook, Brooklyn. This is a great place to go and shop for good organic produce, its also relatively cheap and located at a beautiful location on the tip of Red Hook. Check out their website here.

Friday, February 15, 2008

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Bar Review: The Four Faced Liar, West Village, Manhattan




Neighborhood: Manhattan/West Village
165 West 4th Street (between Cornelia St & Jones St)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 366-0608


Offering respite from nearby MacDougal Street’s sports bars full of beer-pong playing NYU frat boys, The Four-Faced Liar is a cozy Irish-owned pub full of neighborhood regulars. The Liar is home to an extremely friendly and sociable staff as well as my favorite bartender, Shafer. It’s easy to become a regular here since the bartenders learn your name and have your drinks ready before you take your seat at the bar.

There’s one small tv, usually tuned to a sports game, from which I watched the Democrats take the House and (eventually) Senate in the recent election. The juke box, sadly, is one of those new state-of-the-art-choose-almost-any-song-ever-released things. The music varies based on the crowd, but mostly falls somewhere in the vein of rock and country. The crowd varies from young to old, blue collar to white collar, and does have some overflow from the nearby universities. The Liar offers occasional live music and is home to the Frequency Reading Series. Happy hour runs until 8pm and offers buy one-get one deals on certain drafts.

The Liar is situated among West 4th Street’s many sex shops. Warm weather offers sidewalk seats, where you sit out front under umbrellas and watch the interesting West 4th crowd pass by. From the patio I once saw a bicycle messenger crash into a Buddhist monk. They both got up, dusted themselves off, and continued on their separate paths.

Reviewed by Gina Myers


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Bar Review: Carlito's, Spanish Harlem

Neighborhood: Manhattan/East Harlem
1701 Lexington Avenue
New York, NY 10184
(212) 534-7168
http://www.carlitosny.com/

I found out about this place on a Tuesday night, only a few blocks from my house, this cafe/bar is one of the best places to chill in New York City. Decked out with anti-capitalist propaganda, and supporting the liberation movements of women, indigenous people, and revolutionaries of all time, I knew I was in a good place. Not only do they sell Che Guevara wine but they have Zapatista coffee!

On Tuesday nights they have a sweet open mic, though usually it's a small gathering, it's a friendly one nonetheless. Beer prices are between 4 and 5, and drinks are about the same. (Though believe me they pour a mean drink). There isn't much formality here, and that's what gives it a dive-bar feel, with a revolutionary edge.

Everyone should go here for a good, quite, time.



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Bar Review: Ding Dong Lounge, Morningside Heights




Neighborhood: Manhattan/Manhattan Valley
929 Columbus Avenue (between 105th St & 106th St)
New York, NY 10025
(212) 663-2600
http://www.dingdonglounge.com/

We got there very sober and left very drunk, praising the place along the route home. I've heard about this place before, yet for some reason I never ventured the five blocks from my house to the Ding Dong. This is a punk bar, where you come to drink PBR's, Jack and Cokes, and listen to hard music while staring at old prints of Bad Brains and Black Flag concert posters.

As we spoke about the future, the friendly bartender Sergio kept pouring us drinks. The interior is perfect for a night out -- it is dark, with brick walls, with comfortable seats, and a wooden interior. It's also got a pool table. The crowd is young, attractive, alternative.

Go here. Drink here. Talk to someone. And though I am not a pool player, every time I play here it turns out quite fun.



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Bar Review: 1020 Bar, Morningside Heights




Neighborhood: Manhattan/Morningside Heights
1020 Amsterdam Avenue at 111th St
(between 111th St & Cathedral Pky)
New York, NY 10025 (212) 531-3468
Credit Cards accepted.

This is a bar that is mostly visited by older dudes and their girlfriends. The music is all decent. This 1020 is also mostly for semi-young crowd that lives in Morningside Heights, Columbia University area. The bartender's are very friendly, the beer's are not pricy at all -- $3 pints of Brooklyn Lager. There's a pool-table and a dartboard. The tone of the place however is kind of lame.

review by Alex


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Thursday, February 14, 2008

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Photos from a while back



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Another photo from Russian New Year


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Random Photos for Today

Bird on my shoulder.






Oyster Bar on Pacific and Smith, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.

Construction on Boerum Street, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.





Staring down the dirty streets of Bed-Stuy, 6am, Wednesday.

Joe.

Resteraunt on Smith Street, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.

Monday, February 11, 2008

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Bar Review: Last Exit, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn




Neighborhood: Brooklyn/Cobble Hill
136 Atlantic Ave
(between Clinton St & Henry St)
Brooklyn, NY 11201
(718) 222-9198


Even though there is a front window, Last Exit feels like a
hole-in-the-wall sort of place. Rumored to have been a former hangout
of Walt Whitman's, there is definitely an old feel to the bar as you
step through the heavy wooden door into a darkly-lit room with exposed
brick walls. On a recent Saturday afternoon, I found the bar nearly
empty. There were plenty of seats open at the bar as well as vintage
vinyl sofas available in the back. Fitting in with the retro feel,
there were a number of pin-up girl pictures on the wall. They had Red
Hook's Six Point Ale on tap, but it wasn't long before I switched over
to the cheap beer special—six bottles of Miller High Life for fifteen
dollars. Admittedly it isn't a great deal, but they average out to
2.50/bottle which is about as cheap as you will find them in NYC. You
can also get six cans of PBR for ten bucks—again, not that great of a
deal, especially when you can head into Red Hook and get eight for
ten. My penny-pinching aside, I had a great time at somewhere I could
see becoming a regular spot. The bartender and the other patrons were
friendly, plus there's a backyard garden for those forthcoming warm
days.

Reviewed by Gina Myers for nycbyme.com




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Bar Review: Cyn Lounge, Williamsburg



216 Bedford Ave
(between 5th St & 6th St)
Brooklyn, NY 11211



This bar hides nicely amongst the busy nightlife of Williamsburg. The jukebox has a great mix, and the $2 PBR's help. The bartender's are always happy and cheerful.

One of the sweetest things about this place is the back patio - where you can look out onto the happening streets. One of the best dive/rock bars in the area.


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Short Story: The Organization

Manhattan – This was at the height of my poverty, and shit, I’m not one to talk about poverty – I’m sure another bout of it will strike me at the most un-needed moment, when everything matters most. But anyway, I was twenty-two years old, hungry, broke, and working like a maniac on the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn trying to save the environment. I was what they called a “canvasser” – basically a bloody hound looking to scrape some cash from the passing by New Yorkers, coming up to them out of nowhere and asking them to “support the environment.”

It worked basically like this – I’d approach someone who seemed concerned about the environment and ask them if they care, usually they would say yes – then I would convince them to join the organization and give us a minimum of $10 a month. Each time I felt like a dog, and I knew I was one – but my personal survival was way more important then their $10 a month. When you live in New York that’s all you really care about.

I didn’t know a soul in the city except for my good friend Noel, who later became my sister’s girlfriend – she was a beautiful photographer, who would take wild and noble travels across the deep and dirty South with another photographer friend of hers and document the vastness and strangeness of the South, a South that had been forgotten and buried beneath time, rivers, bushes, and stagnant ideas. N oel, however, lived in Brooklyn and I lived in Harlem – and so we rarely saw each other. Instead I made friends with the street kids that I worked with – the lonesome immigrants from California, Prague, Seattle, Africa, and from all over the world. This was the only job in the city that probably hired anyone and everyone, shit – they didn’t even care if you had a working visa – if you could get them cash from anyone, then you were fit to work.

Perhaps the worst thing about the job besides sucking the blood of the innocent passers-by was the fact that you were on your feet the whole damn time. Soon you’re feet got used to the pain of standing for hours – and you got no days off if it rained or snowed. We were pretty much beggars for the environmental non-profit. I remember one time we were working in Midtown, during a bleak and rainy day, the people that day passed us by unnoticed and nobody signed anyone up . All of a sudden as we’re working we start noticing that something’s going on with the crowd – people are rushing suddenly, almost on the verge of hysterics – it turns out that the New York Yankee Corey Lidle crashed his small airplain into a skyscraper in Manhattan. Nobody knew what the fuck was going on, some thought it was another terrorist attack – and so its raining like hell, we’re cold and starving, and our “team leader” is pushing us to ask the people to join the environment – it was at this point that I realized that I didn’t give a fuck about this job. It was October 16, 2006 – and I knew that I had to quit this job, simply because I couldn’t handle the physical and the mental aspects of it – plus, I was nothing like the New Age hipsters that I worked with – I didn’t believe in peace, and more importantly I didn’t believe in the methods of the organization – I was still a devoted Marxist, and believed in a military uprising, and that revolution through violence is the only way out, especially if it was for the environment.

At the end of the day I’d head to a small dive in Harlem, known to some as the Rage. It was a fitting name – for it seemed like the only reason the locals went there was to let out the rage that had been building within after a long and fucked up day at work. All the other kids from the organization would go to more mainstream bars, but I preferred the dark and grimy – the smuttier and filthier, the better. There I got to know Sami, she was in her late thirties and had been coming to the Rage since she was nineteen years old – she played pool with me, and often teased me that I didn’t have a girlfriend.

“Are you a faggot?”

“No,” I’d say to her, “I just got out of a relationship.”

It was a lie. The truth was that I had a fear of women, and the relationships that I did have with the girls in Cleveland were all dysfunctional and filled with depravity and betrayal. I did long for a woman’s touch, that beautiful realm of softness and peace -- but the truth that I had discovered along the way was that love is a dirty whore, and the more attached you got the worse it got – and I always got attached. Hell, a woman could blow me a kiss from across the bar and I’d be in love. I still had to the learn how to scramble through the beauties and the whores. I still had to learn that most often then not it was impossible to tell the difference.

The bartender was Mani, a Hispanic guy in his mid thirties who worked as a DJ at a club in Chelsea on the weekends. He would often buy me the first shot and beer, for he knew I was a regular, and most importantly he knew that my bi-weekly paycheck was only $435. Though the bar attracted a slow, pathetic, and dingy crowd – most were in their late thirties to late sixties – the music that Mani played kept me alive – Slayer, Radiohead, Against Me!, and all the good shit that after a few shots of Jack and a countless amount of PBR’s only re-instated the notion that the world is fucked and you’re a lone cowboy just looking for a peace of the pie.

That night everyone was talking about the plane that hit the building – and everyone would say, “shit, I thought it was a terrorist attack.” I was the only person in the city that day that didn’t really give a damn – someone did mention it to me while I was standing on the street like an idiot trying to get someone to sign up – but it didn’t scare me, nor did it have any affect on me at all. I just wanted to get drunk and get the fuck out of there.

“Shit Sami, I seriously felt like throwing my sign-up sheets in the trash can and just saying ‘fuck you’ to the team leader.”

“You should have Alex.”

“Sure,” I sigh, “where the fuck am I gonna get the money?”

“Well, you can always start whoring yourself out.”

I smile and cheer Sami, “Sami, you can be my pimp.”

“Cheers.”

As the night progressed more and more people would enter. Sometimes chicks from Columbia would stumble in, probably because they looked up local dive bars online and found this shit hole – they’d walk in, look around, get sick to their gills and get the hell out. I used to love watching this scene. I could almost see the look of doom befall their painted faces – and I’d yell across the bar, “come fuck me!” That would probably last in their memory for a good while, and they would repeat those moments over drunken martinis in SoHo.

Anyway – that evening, after about ten shots of chilled vodka, and on my fifth PBR Mani invited me over to smoke weed in the back. The sweet thing about the Rage was that hardly anyone of any importance came there, and so you could get away with murder and nobody would know or say anything.

The rain was still falling, and the cold was setting in – my feet were soaked, and we stood against the wall making sure the rain didn’t hit us.

“I’m quitting, man.” Mani said as he passed me the joint.

“What the fuck? Why man?”

“I hate this place, I don’t make enough money bro.”

Mani spoke with a Spanish accent – I don’t know exactly where he was from.

“Well shit man, hope you stay in touch.”

“Yeah dude, I’ll be back – I mean, I do live down the street.”

“When are you quiting?”

“Tonight’s my last night.”

“Fuck, dude.”

“Yeah.”

We both stood watching the rain roll down from the dirty roofs of Harlem, and the thudding and clunking noise that it made against the windows, garbage cans, and puddles made us think of how insignificant we were, in our poverty. There wasn’t much to say – I felt bad for Mani, it sucks that he hadn’t been making enough money – he was probably one of the best bartendar’s I’ve ever had, and perhaps one of the only friends I’ve had.

“Well shit dude,” I said, “we’ll have to get you hammered tonight.”

“Fuck yeah bro.”

We walked back in the bar with a cold shiver coming over us, and I was nice and stoned – and started to text my old friends in Cleveland. That’s what happens when you move to New York all alone – you become a beggar and then a drunkard – you text your friends saying that life is grand, just so nobody thinks you couldn’t make it – but in reality the city is a death squad walking the streets looking for the next victim; and though the city is beautiful and vast and buildings reside upon buildings, there is a sense of awesomeness and emotional coldness, and it will get to a man – especially a young man, who is alone. You have to keep your cool here, and make sure you say the right thing at the right time – cause saying the wrong thing at the wrong time at a wrong place, that’s just gonna fuck you up.
By 3:30 Mani was closing down, and almost everyone had gone home – Mani kept buying me shots and I kept picking songs from his iPod. Sami had left by then, and I had down another five shots – they were going through me like water. After closing the doors we could smoke cigarettes inside the bar, and since it was his last night we decided to drink as much liquor as possible.

We talked politics and the differences between Hispanics and Whites.

“Why do you guys have those little mustaches,” I asked laughing.

“I don’t know – why are you such a fucking douche.” He said laughing.

He always said the word “douche” with the worst possible accent, so it was pretty much impossible to understand him – and often you’d have to ask him to repeat it like ten times, which proved to be hilarious in itself.

By morning we had finished two bottles of whiskey, and Mani got into a whole mad rage about how he missed his ex-wife and how he wished he had a child to pass on his family name. At one point he tried to kiss me –and told me that if he could choose he’d rather be born as a woman, cause then he’d be a “fucking slut, just sucking cocks all day.” I told him he’d make a great slut.

We laughed hard and perhaps for that reason I walked home drunk out of my mind at seven in the morning – yet totally satisfied and blissfully laughing about it all. I had a ravenous hunger and searched like a dog for a place to buy some good food – but the only thing that I saw was fried chicken and burger joints. That should always gave me a rotten feeling in the stomach, especially after a good night of drinking.

I reached into my pocket and found a soft pack of Camels – but it was empty. And as I walked home, stepping into puddles and avoiding traffic lights, I felt a sinking feeling come over me – I had to go to work in a few hours, and soon the whole thing would repeat itself again – and it seemed very much like a passage through Hell.

November 12, 2007

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Bar Review: Welcome to the Johnson's, Manhattan




Neighborhood: Manhattan/Lower East Side
123 Rivington Street (between Essex St & Norfolk St)
New York, NY 10002 (212) 420-9911


1970s basement/rec room theme complete with fake wood paneling, plastic-covered couches, framed yearbook pictures, awful landscape paintings, and those flying geese—you know the ones I’m talking about. This could be any old basement from Portland to the Midwest to New Jersey. Sure the place is full of hipsters, but it is also full of good music and cheap alcohol, including $1.50 PBRs during happy hour. There’s an old pool table and a table-top Ms. PacMan game, as well as a great jukebox. The bathrooms are almost as notorious as those at Mars Bar, but still have locks—give it a few years for the grime & stink to really sink in.

Reviewed by Gina Myers, for nycbyme.com


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Bar Review: Botanica, Manhattan


Neighborhood: Manhattan/Little Italy
47 E. Houston Street Basement (between Greene St & Mott St)
New York, NY 10012 (212) 343-7251

A few steps down from street-level, Botanica offers a break from the whirl of the boutiques and shops that Soho is known for. The walls are red and the long room is dark with votive candles flickering here and there and a shrine to Virgin Mary behind the bar. There is a lot of seating throughout the place, from the chairs at the bar to the thrown together couches and rickety tables and chairs. Long-hailed as Soho’s secret, a visit on a recent Friday night would suggest the secret is out. It was standing room only with a DJ spinning up front and the bar floor turning into a dance floor. The drinks aren’t too pricey here, especially if you take advantage of one or both of the happy hours. That’s right, there’s an early happy hour from 4 to 8pm and a late happy hour from 3 to 4am. The happy hours offer $3 well drinks and dollar off drafts.

Sundays, weekdays and nights offer a nice place to sit and talk with friends. Friday and Saturday nights draw a young crowd and the music is probably too loud to talk over. If you show up and find the place to crowded or loud, you can always head next door to Milano’s.

Reviewed by Gina Myers for nycbyme.com



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Bar Review: Otto's Shrunken Head, Manhattan




Neighborhood: Manhattan/East Village
538 E 14th St Frnt
New York, NY 10009
(212) 228-2240



NYC’s best and only grimy rock n’ roll Tiki bar. Whether you are down for a classic Tiki drink, a Singapore Sling or a $3 Pabst Blue Ribbon, Otto’s has it along with an event devoted to every imaginable sub genre of rock n’ roll. Rebel Night (third Friday of the month) featuring the infamous Japanese Twist is a Rockabilly dance party not to be missed. Thee Midnight Monster Hop (last Saturday of the month) brings out the darker side of Garage Rock and Rockabilly featuring live bands and killer DJ’s. Check out Tiki Boys Social Club (second Saturday of the month) for some punk, ska and hardcore. There is literally something happening every night, check the website www.ottosshrunkenhead.com and see what appeals to you or just pop in for a specialty drink and a cool retro atmosphere.

[Reviewed by Eddie McNamara]



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Bar Review: Mars Bar, Manhattan

Neighborhood: Manhattan/East Village
25 East 1st. Street (between 2nd St & Extra Pl)
New York, NY 10003

If dive bars had national championships this would get first place.This is thee dive bar in all of America. It's dirt, filth, rock, andcreepiness all melted into one.As I was walking home one un-eventful night I spotted what seemed tobe a haven for rock and beer. It shined from a distance, the sound ofheavy chords vibrated out from the walls, and punks and metal headsseemed to be grouping around. And at that moment I smiled.When I stepped in I knew I found the right place -- it was tiny,probably fitting only 40 people, with stacks of old beer boxes linedup to the wall and radical memorabilia lining the walls. This isn'tthe bar for everyone, this is a bar if you love the scent and feel ofold rock and roll, of an attitude and a lifestyle. It brings backfeelings that you held when you moshed your way to the stage to dive,and sensation you have when you truly are disgusted with the Man.Beers are cheap, music is good. Go here.

Review by Alex Malina, for nycbyme.com


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Bar Review: Common Ground, Manhattan

Neighborhood: Manhattan/East Village
206 Avenue A (between 12th St & 13th St)
New York, NY 10009 (212) 228-6231


Truth be told: I don’t actually remember too much of the recent Friday night I spent at this bar. I headed in after work and took an empty stool at the bar. It wasn’t very busy, but that changed as the night went on—which is pretty much to be expected for any bar in the East Village on a Friday night. My friend who lives in the neighborhood assured me that it isn’t like that every night. Since moving to the neighborhood, Common Ground has become his local spot, and from the friendly bartenders and the generous drinks they pour, I can see why.

The place was dimly lit and had a strong pub feel, though there was a large couch area in the back. My friend and unofficial spokesperson for the bar says the idea behind the space was to create a sort of bar-meets-living room space. To quote him: “Somewhere you could come in, grab a seat and a board game off the wall, and hang out without the pressure to feel like you are in a hot spot, pick up joint, or alcoholic watering hole—even though it is a touch of all those things.” The jukebox has a mix of oldies and new artists, from Johnny Cash to The Clash to ACDC to Black Eyed Peas. You could tell Jersey was representing that night from the number of times I heard Bon Jovi songs—like I said before, my friend claims this isn’t the “typical scene.” (He asked me to emphasize this as he didn’t want the presence of Jersey to scare people away….)

Common Ground has a Wednesday night trivia night and open mic on Sundays. They also serve food and have drink specials during happy hour.

Review by Gina Myers, for NYCBYME.com


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Bar Review: Bar None, Manhattan

Neighborhood: Manhattan/East Village
98 3rd Avenue (between 12th St & 13th St)
New York, NY 10003
(212) 777-6663
http://www.barnonenyc.com/

Claiming to be one of the most popular bars in NYC, this place draws alarge crowd every once in a while. It's relaxed, friendly, and cheapfor the Lower East Side. I first found out about this place when aformer co-worker invited me to chill with her there. It wasn't bad atall.The vibe is for everyone, however I generally enjoy bars with a muchmore rock and metal feel. One thing is
for sure, if you enjoy 80smusic, they've got tons of it there!

Review by Alex Malina, for Nycbyme.



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Bar Review: Patriot's Salloon, Manhattan

110 Chambers Street
(between Broadway & Church St)
New York, NY 10007
(212) 748-1162


Reviewed by Eddie McNamara for NYCBYME.com

Calling The Patriot a "dive bar" would be an insult to every dive barout there. It's more like the waiting room at the free clinic or thegreen room at The Jerry Springer Show—with a bar. Once, I witnessed aman "have an accident" in his pants and refuse to leave until he hadfinished his drink, much to the chagrin of all those around him. Headdown on the bar next to a plate of their delicious mini burgers andfries is an all too popular pose. If you like country music you'lllove the never ending loop of classic hits. A good rule of thumb isby the third time Dolly Parton's "Jolene" comes on it's time to go orrisk being drunk enough to be confused with the regulars.


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Sunday, February 10, 2008

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Mitsuwa Marketplace, Edgewater, NJ



Window display for food sets at food court.














Views behind the Marketplace, looking at the Upper West Side/Harlem of Manhattan.



















In the food court.




Took a trip to Mitsuwa Marketplace in Edgewater, New Jersey today. It was a snowy and chilly day, however we wanted to check out the marketplace. It's a sweet place, its a big grocery store filled with Japanese food and other products. I gotta admit though, its pretty pricey in there, and some of the things I'm sure you can buy for about 50% cheaper in Chinatown. Nevertheless, its still a fun place. They also have a great foodcourt, and we ordered the Chicken Teriyaki set, which was only $7.20 after taxes, and included free tea.

The Marketplace is only a small drive from the city, maybe a five minute drive from the George Washington Bridge.

I took these photos today.

For more information see:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitsuwa_Marketplace
http://www.mitsuwanj.com/



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