The temperature is starting to break the 60 degree mark. You can see the sun staying out longer, there are finally buds on the trees, and so with that I knew it was time to start breaking some of my friends out of their winter hibernations.

I invited a few friends to come join me for a drink this past Friday night. I wanted to avoid any pretention, so we decided to go a welcoming spot by the name of- ‘Fat Annie’s Truck Stop’ on 33^rd street near 7^th Ave.

I picked ‘Fat Annie’s’ because the Irish man known as Fergal and I had been drinking at one of his favorite Irish Pub’s ‘Puck Fair’ on Lafayette near Houston Street. As we sat at the bar taking a quiz on “How Irish Are You?” (Apparently from our score- not really. While Fergal was born and raised in Armagh, Ireland neither of us quite had all the answers. I mean who knows Bono’s really name anyway?). Just beside us sat another Irish named Roy.

Roy was pretty sauced but entertaining, friendly, and passionately promoting his bar ‘Fat Annie’s’. “Come in next week and I look after ya.” He said to Fergal. “Aye, good stuff.” Fergal said back, taking a sip of his Guinness.

That next Friday I took my friends into the Fifties themed restaurant/bar. Roy made my girls and I Patron Raspberry Margaritas (d-freckin-licious!). The friends that joined me there ranged from Carrie (fashion marketer, she has known me since high school in Albuquerque), Bobby (theatre producer, we have known each other since college in Tallahassee) to my friends Lindsay, Lauren, and Nolan (artist managers, and associates from here in New York) along with all of their significant others. We really only had two missions that night- to get sauced and to tell stories, and that we did.

The next morning, slightly hung over, dehydrated ,and a little grouchy, I was invited to play softball with Fergal and his team from work.

This was a crazy idea for several reasons and they are as follows: 1. Despite the fact that my father played professional basketball and my brother played college football, and despite the fact that I go to the gym several times a week DOES NOT make me athletic nor coordinated. 2. I won ‘Most Improved Player’ in high school for basketball which means you sucked really bad at the beginning of the season, and sucked a little less at the end of the season and finally 3. When Fergal asked me if I catch with my left hand or my right hand I had know f*cking idea, ‘This isn’t going to be pretty.’ I thought to myself putting on my sneakers.

In spite of my fears, I had fun. I found instant comradery with the other girls on the team. They were just as girly as I and yes, we did have a conversation about lip-gloss, weddings (one of them was engaged), and our fear of getting hit in the head with a bat.

Fergal hit a few home runs (and managed to almost pulverize the guy at home plate). I manage to hit the ball, while simultaneously almost pulverizing the guy at home plate with the bat.

Later that night we all headed out to “Professor Thomas’” on 12th Street by 3^rd Ave. Virginie and I meet up first and were cornered by a half dozen men from Westchester. One of them put Virginie in what I like to call ‘the abusive boyfriend grip’. That’s when a guy puts his arm around the girls’ neck and pulls her in. It creeps me out every time. As I pulled Virginie away -the boys offered us shots of patron to celebrate a birthday being held- Virgine and I agreed (and watched to make sure they were roofie proof). We joined up with our friends-

and as I switched from gin & tonic, to tequila, to then whiskey- things begin to get a little scand-o-lust (exhibit A and B below).

The night was capped off with a game of 3am darts with Fergal at one of his other favorite Irish pubs ‘Fitzgerald’s’. We played against a couple that had a Bonnie & Clyde quality about them (that is if Bonnie had fake tits and wore slutty come f**k me pumps and Clyde was slightly balding with a paunch).

They beat us twice (it was close people! It was close!) and so we called it a night.

I do love Springtime, it brings with it old friends, new friends and experiences, and true…well, we shall see.

(my buddy christophe)

Maybe it was because the gorgeous Irish man was off visiting his homeland and therefore the universal bar fighting balance was off, or maybe because Virginie and I were just talking about how in Paris during the first day of summer every year massive bar fights spring up like brush fires, or maybe it’s because there was a drunk women from Utah saying racial slurs to my favorite bartender, but I found myself head to head about to start a bar fight on a Wednesday night at my favorite French restaurant.

No, I’ve never got in a bar fight before. I have split up a few dozen when I ran two nightclubs in Atlanta, and I’m a peace and love (sprinkled with ambition and a little aggression) kind of girl.

(dj on the decks at 'les enfant terrible')

Let me explain.

Virginie and I wanted to celebrate. It was about to be the first day of spring, and despite the rain, we felt the temperature raising and it was making us giddy.

We walked down the street to ‘Les Enfant Terrible’ (The Terrible Child) just blocks from our house to sip (or gulp down) our favorite drink ‘The Cosmopussy’ and to eat pommes frites (French fries), and mussels, mmm…delicious. Our favorite bartender Christophe insisted that we sit at the bar, where he plied us with a pre-cocktail shot and our favorite DJ mixed the Police and Chaka Kahn (it was a killer mix). As we danced in our seats, sipped our cocktails, and caught each other up on juicy gossip- a drunk women kept knocking into the back of Virginie chair.

I was mildly irritated by this but Virginie seemed to brush it off. As Virginie went outside for a smoke the women that was bumping her chair followed her.

Virginie came back in shortly, “That woman is SO DRUNK!” She said with a laugh and taking back her seat.

(virginie, always so friendly)

The drunken women came into pay; only do get mildly disgruntled that the place only took cash and AMEX.

“What is my money not good here?!” she said beginning to get more aggressive with  Christophe.

Christophe is a very good natured French man. He smiled, “Darling, these are not my rules, we only take cash or American Express.”

She begain to shove the card into his hand. “Well this type of card is a Visa, can you understand the word VISA, or do they not teach that word in Africa?” She was pointing her finger at his face.

That was it. I moved Virginie aside. I grabbed her hand and placed it on the counter firmly. “I think you need to locate and ATM machine, and pull out what you owe him, and then apologize for what you just said.” I said to her as she looked a little dazed.

Virginie smiled. She knew that the woman wasn’t going to try and start anything with me.

The women begin to grow irate, “This card works, I’m on business from Utah, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. I didn’t know this was a black restaurant.”

Oh lawd! Racism, alive and well and brought to you all the way from the land that does believe in polygamist marriages, but ironically not caffeine. The women had a friend that was sitting just beside her. She seemed not to share her friend’s philosophy or drunken stupor. I looked at the women’s friend “Seriously either pay for the meal or I might end up going to jail.” My face now only a centimeter from the racist women’s face.

The women’s friend pulled out an Amex card. No way! She could have solved this situation 20 minutes ago. For my troubles Christophe poured me and Virginie another complimentary round and a shot, the DJ hugged me and played me a few rounds of Prince.

I’m not saying everyone from Utah is bad, shoot; I used to live in the Southwest. But you best check yourself before you wreck yourself in NYC.

(me pulling my hair out my mouth....sexy...)

 

Bar Crawl LES Style

Quoted from Wikipedia:

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the term (including variations like "gin crawl" and "beer crawl") has been in use since the late 19th century. It's purportedly called a "crawl" because the participants are literally crawling from pub to pub after getting drunk at the first few joints.

Many European cities have public pub crawls that act as social gatherings for the local expat communities and tourists. These pub crawls focus on the social aspect of meeting new friends and being introduced to new bars in a strange city.

And with this the Irish Man, known only as Fergal (that’s right I said his name is Fergal) wanted to kick off the weekend before St. Patrick’s day right, with a Pub Crawl on the Lower East Side, with old friends and new. He posted the pub crawl map for a few friends on Facebook this past week and within 48 hours it had almost 800 hits.

This Blog is as dictated by Fergal.

7:00pm Parkside Tavern

The host: Fergal was the first one there. As host, and bell keeper (this was a serious bar crawl, there was beer to drink, people to see, and time was of the essence). Most people got there at 15 past 7pm.

The scene: Cool foosball table. Late comers were made to do shots in order to catch up (the bar crawls version of punishment for being late).

Persons in tow: 15 in total for the first bar.

Status of Schedule: On time
Average Drink per person: 1

Sobriety forecast: Clear

7:45pm Vasmay Lounge

The host: Fergal was surprised at how strict the bartender was. She was throwing a bit of attitude while she asked for everyone’s ID (I’ve been there before, I can’t stand this bar, and watch out, she will read your ID out loud and yell out your age to everyone within earshot).

The scene: It was buy one get one free if there before 8pm. The jukebox was great "all seventies." However, there was a drunken fat mumbling man being bothersome. The drunken fat guy was looking like he wanted to pick a fight. He started hassling Fergal’s friend Rocky (not unlike Balboa, a gentle giant). Rocky is more of a lover than a fighter, so when the drunken man knocked into Rocky causing him to spill his drink on his girlfriend; Fergal decided to take things into his own hands.
As a former boxer, Fergal wanted to put him in his place in a straightforward yet forceful way. Putting the man’s arm behind his back he informed him “It might be time for you to go…now.”

Mission accomplished.

Status of Schedule: On time
Average Drink per person: 1

Sobriety: Clear with chance of showers

8:15pm Welcome to the Johnsons

The bar crawlers arrived there about 5 minuets’ late.

The Host: Fergal was utterly impressed by the drink specials, “You know I got three beers and a shot for $8.00?” He said to me excitedly “$8.00 DOLLARS!!” Yes, the Johnson’s has the best happy hour in town.

The Scene: It was crowded (Happy Hour, so of course) Fergal sprawled out on the big couch by the pool table. Some of the girls played Miss Pac Man to entertain themselves as some of the indie rock posers manically stared at the girls. “These guys were overly trying to pick up the girls.” Fergal said.

No doubt throwing both bad lines and bad fashion sense.

Persons in tow: 25

Status of Schedule: On time (the Buzzer went off as they begin to leave the bar)
Average Drink per person: 2

Sobriety: Partly cloudy with a light drizzle

9:00pm Spitzer's Corner

It took about 20 min. to walk there from The Johnsons.

The Host: Fergal was impressed by the 20 named draft beers and over all thought it was a 'class' place.

The objective: Was to have one drink at every bar, it changed here. 2-3 drinks were consumed...trouble was potentially brewing.

The scene: One of the girls had an argument with one of the costumers trying to eat (the place was so crowded people were bumping into each other).

Status of Schedule: On time
Average Drink per person: 2-3

Sobriety: Definite Showers, more clouds rolling in.

9:45pm Lolita

The host: This is the first bar Fergal is not remembering completely.

He has to look on his blackberry to re-jog his memory, “AY! Ok, I remember this place.” He says to me as he looks at the pictures on his phone.

“This was where we picked up a 'stray’, an English fella.” Fergie said. 'He thought we were cool and liked the alarm."

One of Fergal's crew scored a date with a girl he meet at this bar.

Status of Schedule: On timish…
Average Drink per person: “I think 3” Fergie says

Sobriety: Sobrity. That’s a funny sounding word. Sob-ri-ty.

10:30pm King Size Bar

The Host: Fergal and his crew got to Kingsize about five minuets’ late. The punctual and dashing Tyrus was already there, as was Amber and two of her friends. Fergal couldn't get drink in that place. He tried to give the bar maiden a little Irish sugar.

She wasn't having it.

People in tow: They group was joined by 6 more strays and the group got to over 40 large.


Fergal changed from beer to whiskey.

Nothing good could come from this.

Status of Schedule: A few drop outs, but on time
Average Drink per person: who is keepin’ count?

Sobriety: Huh?

11:15pm Clandestine Bar

People in tow: 15 people. Most of the women and married fellows had to leave.

The Scene: The bar was tiny. There was a sign on the wall "no sheep allowed any sheep will be curried."

They ended up going to another bar before the last scheduled bars ...they don't remember the name of the bar...lots of slurred words and stumbling. A few people leaning against wall...

The host: Fergal motivates the troopers...the clock was no longer the use....

The person who was in charge of the clock could no longer see the numbers (...ehem....Fergal.)

Status of Schedule: What schedule?

Warning: Detour
Average Drink per person: 4 (plus shots, but do shots really even count?)

Sobriety: Drunkness: 11 on a scale of 10.

12 Midnight Sweet Paradise Lounge

The Scene: Couldn't find the bar, as there is no sign on the outside of the bar, it was very crowed. Women got drinks right away, however the fellows had a much more difficult time. They managed to all get about three drinks.

The Host: Fergal kind of remembers having about three Jameson and cokes in under thirty minuets’.

People in tow: The crowed was down to the hardcore 12. There were 2 more bars planned, but things were going a rye.

Food was now on the agenda. Fergal and crew jumped into a cab to get food. This is when he lost his cell phone. He called from his blackberry and a girl picked up.

"Hello who is this?" She said.

"I'm the owner of the phone." Fergal said (no doubt in the thickest drunken Irish accent known to mankind).

Wanting proof that it was his phone he let he know that “Spider Pig” was his phone ring.

Thoroughly convinced that it was his phone they attempted to negotiate a meeting place.

He offered her cab fair to come down.

She refused. "You can come up here, I'll leave it with my doorman"

He was on the LES. His phone was on 73rd and 2nd Ave.

A haired trip indeed.

After procuring his phone and dropping $30 dollars on the cab ride this Irishman made his way back home.....

Status of Schedule: Who the f**k nows
Average Drink per person: countless

Drunkness: Passing out…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 

I was recently invited to Ireland.

A breathtaking offer that most normal women would jump at. The chance to board a plane with a gorgeous man to go to a beautiful country, with rolling hills, and sheep. I really like sheep.

But I am a Yank (as the Irish man constantly reminds me), a New Yorker, which makes me over analytical, and less prone to spontaneity.

Lists are made of why and why I shouldn’t go.

Work usually always makes the top of the list (because it pays my bills, and I am, well, in my career).

Even something as a simple call from my friend Felicia bodes consideration.

Felicia and I are rollin’ partners during the spring and summertime, so I knew it was a sign of spring when she texted me “At the Johnson’s having a drink. Come join me.”

My thought process was something like this:

Hairdresser? Or Cocktail? Cocktail? Or Hairdresser?

It looked like rain, so cocktails won out.

As Felicia and I hadn’t seen each other in a minuet we had to do the obligatory catch up.

“The catch up” with Flea always involves her yelling “NO WAY!” While hitting me. While I answer her with “TOTALLY.” While rubbing whatever body part she has just hit.

I haven’t been to the Johnsons since the fall time; it was good to see familiar faces in a place that has the best happy hour drink special in town. While Flea downed PBR’s I opted for margaritas and we were slowly joined by a gang of girls that regaled each other in our new affairs and gave the newest updates on jobs, and new adventures.

After ending happy hour properly at the Johnsons we had down to the Johnson’s sister bar: St. Jerome’s.

As I threw down my credit card to get the first round (apparently I got the second and third rounds too…ouch) the bartender and I did shots of patron and talked about the idea of more freedom to travel, less responsibilities, and warm weather.

“It’s something you’ve got to do Maya. It will open your world up to you. Sometimes, you just have to put work on the back burner, and your life on the front.” He said as we both shot our second round of patron.

That’s the thing about living in NY. It is like peter pan’s playground, you never have to grow up, but you can’t live here unless you work very hard in a grown up manner (or are supported by one). I guess us Yanks work really hard here; maybe too hard. It’s the concrete jungle where our shamans come in the form of tattooed bartenders that pour a mean drink.

(i have covered this man's face with my face to protect the innocent). :)

Maybe it’s because Spring is coming, and the sun is staying out a bit later, or maybe because the cocktails I have been drinking lately are a bit stronger (seriously La Esquina makes a MEAN drink), but I feel a slightly floaty feeling in the air and me likey.

It’s been a week since I’ve met the Irish man and we have been like peanut butter and jelly, cheese on macaroni, chocolate and peanut butter (and by that I mean chillin’ together and edible). He’s a go with the flow type fellow and I’m a ‘what’s on the itinerary’ kind of lady. So it was nice to have a night that was slightly unplanned and up to interpretation.

What was a planned night of renting shoes and throwing heavy balls (e.g. bowling) became an impromptu triple date.

My roommate had gotten some good news from the Fashion world (she was told by a top Fashion house that she is a gifted designer) and we had to celebrate. Virginie is not the type of lady to wear rented shoes, she doesn’t even wear vintage, so plans changed and we decided to tell the Irish man to meet us at the “The Coffee Shop” in Union Square.

“I don’t want to go to a fookin’ coffeeshop.” Said the gorgeous Irish fella to me on the phone.

I assured him I don’t drink coffee after 11am, that this was a bar and restaurant. “Ay, good. I’ll see you there.” He said.

Virginie and I hopped into a cab, “Can we have music please?” Virginie always says this when we get into a cab. The cab driver obliged and with that we headed to “The Coffee Shop.”

Coffee Shop is always hopping, the hosts look like models, the bartenders pour a heavy handed drink, and everyone looks around to see who is coming in next.

The three of us were joined by two mutual friends out on their first date. From the looks of it (they were lip locked in the booth with us) the date had gone very well.

Virginie was then joined by a man she is chilling with, and the next thing you know, six of us where crammed into a four person booth, drinking whiskey and vodka cocktails, swapping stories (and some spit), over all have a smashing good time.

Some of the best things happen when unplanned. Oh to be a go with a flow type of gal!

I’m working on it.