The Lack of Buybacks is Whack, Plus Ion's Take.

I’m writing today about buybacks, free drinks, comps, or whatever else you call them. A buyback is when you’ve drank a few beers (usually three to four), have tipped for these beers (I’m talking a dollar per drink, minimum,) are in a real bar (not a swanky lounge or some lame place like that,) and the bartender gives you a free beer. Sometimes they knock on the counter and place a new pint of what you ordered; sometimes they’ll just say, “On me.” A nice dive bar I’ve written about turns over a shot glass and stacks it on your tip pile to signify that the next one is “on the house.” It’s a little thank you for the tipping and for spending $5 a beer when you can just walk next door and buy a six pack for $7, okay $10. Buybacks are good business. To make a long definition short, buybacks are fucking fantastic.

So last night, at a nice local bar, my friend Ion and I meet up for drinks and encountered a stingy bartender of epic proportions. The bar is a place we go to with some frequency, as it’s the only option in the neighborhood, but it’s not like we’re close with the bartender, who’s a nice guy if not totally clueless. Tonight the bar has five people in it when we arrive. We order and drink our beer jollily and recount the excitement of our day.

Things are going swimmingly as the guy across from me gets his third whisky on the house. I order my third beer, “that will be five dollars.” My friend orders his third, “Five bucks.” No big deal, although that guy across from us got comped. I order my fourth beer, “Five dollars.” Okay, that sucks, should have been free, whatever. I order my fifth beer, “five dollars, thanks.” Shit’s getting ridiculous, and I’m starting to take it personal. Twenty dollars and not a single buyback! He gave the whisky guy a buyback after TWO whiskeys, but I guess they were friends, apparently we’re shit. I order my sixth beer when Ion orders his fifth. The bartender walks over and says looking to me, “ok I got yours,” turns to Ion, “yours will be five bucks.” Fucking balls. At least he smartened up with me, but the rocks on this fucking guy for not comping my friend at the same time. You need to buy five beers before you get a free drink! You can’t even enjoy a sixth beer. Ion never got his free beer that he earned and deserved, and we left the bar defeated.

Tonight I’ll see how many steps you have to pass before you get a free sobriety token.

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Ion wanted to respond as well. His recap is much shorter and blunter than mine and I think you’ll enjoy. Without further ado, the first installment of Ion's Take.

Hey mister bartender, I've bought 6 beers without a buyback from you and I now think you are a douchebag. Actually, I thought you were a jerk after 4 beers, but this proves my point.

Massive Attack - Roseland Ballroom, New York City, 10/5/06

I went to the Massive Attack show last night at Roseland and it fucking rocked, hard. I'm lucky I came out alive, what with the seizer inducing light show and heart-stopping bass. At one point , during the encore, with green and white lights flashing brighter than lightning and moving at a frenetic stomach-turning rate, as the hard guitars and bass screamed, I saw groups of people turning away from the stage, staggering out, but that beats throwing up all over a complete stranger or fainting in the middle of a crowed general admission audience. I was almost one of them, but I somehow made it out alive and in one piece.

They played all the songs I wanted to hear, Hymn Of The Big Wheel, Angel, Mezzanine, Rising Son, Butterfly Caught, Karmacoma, Safe From Harm, Unfinished Symphony, Inertia Creeps, I could go on. Horace Andy was in the house, he missed a few shows weeks back when his wife gave birth, his pipes still supporting his unequaled vocal style, even at age 55. That’s a fucking concert if you ask me. If not for the typical lame-ass, too-cool-for-school NYC crowd, the show would have been perfect. Here are some photos taken by my friend, Ion.

3D Shaddow Boxing












Grant "Daddy G" Marshall


















Horace Andy












Massive Attack














Photos courtesy of Ion, All Rights Reserved.

This is How We Slum It

Slumming It. Once a proud phrase describing those daring, radical, rich, and affluent members of our society willing to go against the grain and live amongst the lowly, yet surprisingly hip and trendy commoners. They smoked and drank in Harlem during the jazz age. In the 70s and 80s they blew coke with the artists in SoHo. Finally, they drank Pabst in the Lower East Side of the 90s and early 2000s. But for anyone who’s eaten at Schiller’s or fought through the Friday night Ludlow Street crowds the days of the LES as slum are over, with this soon to be opened gym as the death knell. Brooklyn looks to fill this new void, but can you still "slum it" in Manhattan? Being both rich and affluent, last Friday I decided to give it a try.

I started after a late day at work by heading to The Blarney Stone, 32nd Street, Herald Square. When you walk into this long dimly lit bar the first thing you notice is the humidity, the next is the smell. It’s not a bad smell but combined with the humid air makes for a unique odor. The reason for this are the steam trays that keep the food at the lunch station (luke) warm. Meats, gravies, sandwiches, mac n’ cheese served on cafeteria style trays that you carry to your table or to the bar. But I didn’t come here to eat, that comes later, I came here to drink and with the size of the bar you always can find a place to sit. Pints of Bud and Bud Light are $4.00 and the top rate bartenders buy back every 4th beer. Yes, this is a bar for drinkers. From a trendy and hip standpoint the bar ranks low, so now’s your chance to get in on the ground floor.

After my free 4th beer I headed out to meet my wife. She was walking down form 51st & 8th, so I said I’d get together with her on 8th Ave and go for a drink wherever we happened to meet. This couldn’t have worked out any better. We met at Port Authority (Yes, I walk fast) and went into McAnn's. McAnn's is actually a bar that I know well from my time living in Weehawken (a slumming it column of it’s own) and the time I came down for New Year’s in a blizzard and was stranded in POA for a good 4 hours. That particular night lead to a stay at the Plaza, but that too is another story.

When it comes to seediness Port Authority cannot be beat, and McAnn’s holds that torch proudly. This bar also features cheap Bud and Bud Lights as well as bright lighting and no hipsters. It’s more of a bridge and tunnel crowd, or more accurately, a tunnel crowd. Potential hip-ness is an absolute zero, but in this ironic age isn’t a zero really a 6? The highest rating any hipster could possibly give something.

It was after another three Bud drafts that I realized I probably should have eaten some mac n’ cheese at the Blarney Stone and we headed out to find some food. We could’ve walked west to Hell’s Kitchen, but if your slumming it from Port Authority you walk due east into the belly of the beast, Time Square.

Where to go to put an exclamation point on this night of slumming? Franchise restaurants. Franchise restaurants depress me, although I do have a soft spot for them, and are a perfect way to end the night. ESPN Zone, too classy. Olive Garden, too many bread sticks. TGIFriday’s, too much flair. No, instead we went to TGIFriday’s ugly little step daughter, Applebee’s. Needless to say, my wife was thrilled.

I ordered the Ribblets & French Fries basket for $13.50 and a Pepsi. My wife ordered water. The Ribblets, I’m not afraid to say, were fucking delicious. Plus, Ribblets help to promote good health. The place was jumping, the wait staff were teriffic and it’s a great place to pretend you’re one of the common folk. More importantly I felt like I belonged to a community. I felt like I was sitting in my very own neighborhood restaurant, the Applebee’s on Dekalb and Flatbush. Catch the trend before Applebee’s becomes too popular (we were seated next to Peter Sarsgaard and Maggie Gyllenhaal.) Before you know it they’ll be everywhere, maybe even on Ludlow.

Yuppie Battleground Report - Outdoor Seating

I haven't posted in the last few days and to my surprise the world is still turning. However, the overwhelming demand for another post reached its apex. So here we go with the latest Yuppie Battleground Report.

I went to an outdoor bar (not GYC) last night to enjoy a few post-work beverages. As with every place in New York these days the bar was packed with people and seating was in hot demand. Most people at this particular bar share the many large and small picnic style tables, “most people” being the operative term. This one gentleman decided to keep an entire table to himself while “saving” it for his late or perhaps non-existent friends.

“Hi can we sit here?” he was kindly asked.

“Ah, no sorry I’m saving it for my friends. They’ll be here soon,” he replied.

“Are you saving the entire table?” he was asked, this time more firmly.

“Yeah, sorry my friends are on their way and we’ll need the whole table. One is actually inside getting drinks. You know how long the line takes," he explained.

“Yes we’re familiar with the line we come here all the time. But do you really need the whole table?” he said, frustration setting in.

“Yeah, we do. Sorry”

After the couple was relegated to a much smaller table the friend with the drinks did come back to the table. Now it was just two people using a large table, mildly more acceptable.

Over the next 15 minutes or so the two of them proceeded to turn away other requests to share their table, finally giving in to their rudeness by allowing a pregnant woman and her friend to sit at the very edge. How noble of them.

Yes it is true their friends did eventually decided to show up, and it’s also true that it was I who was fetching the drinks from the shamefully slow line, and yes that was my friend rejecting request after request like an Ivy League admissions officer. But when you get a table in this city you need to guard it to the end no matter how much of a dick you feel like. Sorry, but that’s life in the Yuppie Battleground. This may be why “yuppie scum” is such a fun phrase to utter, no matter how hypocritical.

The Zoo is on Our Side of the Bars - The Bronx Edition

Bear with me, I'm going to be a bit of a dick for a minute.

I went to The Bronx Zoo today and nothing stokes my hatred of the masses more than a large weekend crowd, especially when 99.7% are pushing oversized strollers. Now, if there's anyplace that should be chockfull of strollers it's the zoo, it's a great activity for the family, but people the doorways of the world are no place to park your fucking Bugaboo. I know they look cool and I know everyone was fighting to buy it off your baby shower registry, but the world does not stop because you need to speak slowly and in an educational tone to your child. The sound of a father talking in that voice makes my skin crawl.

Also, have you noticed that every last mutherfucker out there is an amateur photographer? Digital photography and Photoshop has every asshole with disposable income thinking they're Ansel Adams. This one douche bag was dressed like he was working for National Geographic shooting pictures of Gwyneth Paltrow in the Kalahari instead of a sleeping tiger through a Plexiglas wall in The Bronx. Oversized backpack to get in everyone's way? Check. 12 inch telescopic lens? Check. Water bottle strategically strapped to backpack in case of sudden drought? Check. Fannypack to prove you're a tourist? You betcha! The width of this guy from backpack to lens was wide enough to stop most NHL penalty shots without moving. But did he realize this? Of course not. He was spinning and turning and backing up and stopping short just to be sure to smack everyone in a 20 foot radius in the face with his bag.

And then there was this one middle aged balding man and his video camera. I think he was alone which immediately caught my attention. There’s nothing quite like a middle-age loner hanging out at the zoo to make you check the amber alert when you get home. Everywhere I stood he would come up right next to me and video tape whatever sleeping animal I was looking at, riveting. (Or as The Bronx Zoo gift shop advertising would say "ribbiting".) I for one would love to get the dailies back from this little shoot. The five minutes he spent filming the tapir's ass is sure to be a tour de force. What I would give to be a fly on the wall when he plays this video to some poor schmucks at a dinner party, “Guess what everybody, I went to the zoo today…and I tape every last second. Let’s watch! Dear, get the lights.”

The lessons are of course are a) don't do anything in New York on the weekends, period. We’re talking lines that would make a communist dictator drool. (b) Unless you're a professional photographer, creepy stalker, or confined to a wheel chair in your apartment, leave the telescopic lens at home. We're all impressed with your little hobby, but let's keep things under control shall we? And (c) birth control, though condemned by the Church, is a good thing and we shouldn’t be afraid to keep using it for as long as possible.

Other than that, The Bronx Zoo is awesome and you should all check it out if you haven't, seriously.