About 2 years ago, I was producing a three play Off Broadway rep season in Hell's Kitchen. I was in way over my head, overworked, understaffed, and under-financed. So I needed a refuge from my plight, and a steady flow of booze to keep me from strangling someone. Luckily, one day before a show, Hubris (who was my right hand man through this whole debacle) and I discovered this little gem of a bar. We sat in the back of the bar, and ate dinner on what might be the most comfortable couch ever produced. That couch, along with a combination of chicken fingers and Harps, might have saved my life during that professional crisis.
Since then, we have spent many days and nights at the Rogue, slamming beers and woofing down their pretty decent food. The great thing about the Rogue is that they have stood by us despite us doing just about everything we can think of to get banned. We have had fistfights, burnt jackets, nearly knocked over tables, crashed private parties, abused chemicals in the restroom, and passed out by the john after praying to the porcelin god. The Rogue has never turned their back on us, only asking us once to leave (the passed out in the bathroom evening). Hell, we even rented their top lounge twice for theater parties. Any bar that would ignore our idiocy and keep serving us is a bar to note.
Trying to think of one event that represents the Irish Rogue is tricky, as we have pulled many a crazy night there. The best defining moment was probably a lunch. Bourbon, Hubris, Teach, and myself were running an arts in education program at Midtown West school, around the corner from the Rogue. We had just wrapped our final performance at the school on a Tuesday morning, which was the final act of a 5 month work bananza including the off Broadway season. We decided to celebrate with a liquid lunch at the Rogue. After some food and a couple of pints, we got a brilliantly stupid idea, A Beer Bone.
Now A beer bone is a 76 ounce plastic tube, ending in a spigot. The bar fills this tube with St. Pauli Girl beer, We empty said tube. The Rogue was at first hesitant to give us a beer bone at 1 in the afternoon, but we talked them into it. This leads us to being plastered before 4, with Hubris having to sleep in the park in order to sober up before work. A great work lunch. (For a even crazier story about beer bones, check out this story http://ivorynotes.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html)
So thus is the Irish Rogue. The consistently solid bar that forgives our madness, and offers a haven in the Times Square/Hells Kitchen area.
I am heading into winter holiday break, so no real crazy until 08, but I will try to throw in some posts about more top notch bar, or finally tell the tale of the Opening of this season's Premier League. Happy Holidays!
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Peer Pressure, or Beer Pressure?
Clever title right.
So this Friday, Bourbon Samurai returned from D.C. in order to see the show.
(Footnote, Bourbon had been directing the show I was producing, a comedy our friend Groucho had written, but was offered an acting gig at a major theater in D.C. so someone else had to fill in.)
Now Bourbon was in town for around 12 hours before returning home, so obviously he wanted to spend half of them wasted. Now, he was wiped, and I was getting sick, so the plan was to head to Grassroots Tavern and have a couple of pitchers before turning in. I can hear some of you laughing over the wireless.
Every time we tried to call it a night, someone new would show up. First it was my buddy Banker, who brought a friend of mine from High school who lives in Dubai, so we had to have a drink with them. The Hubris showed up (one of Hubris's superpowers is to show up or call just when everyone wants to go home. The waiter's life). Finally Uber260 made a 2 am appearance. At this point, Bourbon, Uber260, Hubris, and myself are the last men standing, and decide to finish the evening at the Continental.
Now the only reason people go to the Continental is to get 5 shots for 10 bucks. So thats what we did. 2 or 3 times. Again, right before we were about to go, Fate stuck its pint glass out for another toast. We saw a waitress wandering around the bar with a tray of 5 Amstel lights and 10 shots. We asked her what was wrong. Apparently, someone ordered the drinks then ran out. Now I am sympathetic to the men and women in the service industry, and and have excepted this evening has gone south a good hour and a half ago, offer to take the tray off her hands. Now, about another shot in, I realize I can shoot no more, and every time Hubris threw another shot at me, I would pour the shot onto the tray in defiance. Bourbon, not one to waste, would tip the trap and let the liquid pour back into the shot glass (with shocking grace) and do the shot himself. This happened about three times, if memory serves.
Now, the only way to top off this evening was with a monument to our foolishness. Hubris began constructing a 'shot-amid' with the empty shot glass. While I believe only one broke in construction, the final product was quite impressive. The management was, not surprisingly, unhappy with this construct, but this being the Continental, waited until we all had taken pictures of the creation before demanding its demolition. Last call come and gone, we returned home. Bourbon woke up to his 10:30 bus back to D.C., I woke up to prepare for my matinee. Smart men, no, but men of principal, well no. But entertaining men, hell ya.
So this Friday, Bourbon Samurai returned from D.C. in order to see the show.
(Footnote, Bourbon had been directing the show I was producing, a comedy our friend Groucho had written, but was offered an acting gig at a major theater in D.C. so someone else had to fill in.)
Now Bourbon was in town for around 12 hours before returning home, so obviously he wanted to spend half of them wasted. Now, he was wiped, and I was getting sick, so the plan was to head to Grassroots Tavern and have a couple of pitchers before turning in. I can hear some of you laughing over the wireless.
Every time we tried to call it a night, someone new would show up. First it was my buddy Banker, who brought a friend of mine from High school who lives in Dubai, so we had to have a drink with them. The Hubris showed up (one of Hubris's superpowers is to show up or call just when everyone wants to go home. The waiter's life). Finally Uber260 made a 2 am appearance. At this point, Bourbon, Uber260, Hubris, and myself are the last men standing, and decide to finish the evening at the Continental.
Now the only reason people go to the Continental is to get 5 shots for 10 bucks. So thats what we did. 2 or 3 times. Again, right before we were about to go, Fate stuck its pint glass out for another toast. We saw a waitress wandering around the bar with a tray of 5 Amstel lights and 10 shots. We asked her what was wrong. Apparently, someone ordered the drinks then ran out. Now I am sympathetic to the men and women in the service industry, and and have excepted this evening has gone south a good hour and a half ago, offer to take the tray off her hands. Now, about another shot in, I realize I can shoot no more, and every time Hubris threw another shot at me, I would pour the shot onto the tray in defiance. Bourbon, not one to waste, would tip the trap and let the liquid pour back into the shot glass (with shocking grace) and do the shot himself. This happened about three times, if memory serves.
Now, the only way to top off this evening was with a monument to our foolishness. Hubris began constructing a 'shot-amid' with the empty shot glass. While I believe only one broke in construction, the final product was quite impressive. The management was, not surprisingly, unhappy with this construct, but this being the Continental, waited until we all had taken pictures of the creation before demanding its demolition. Last call come and gone, we returned home. Bourbon woke up to his 10:30 bus back to D.C., I woke up to prepare for my matinee. Smart men, no, but men of principal, well no. But entertaining men, hell ya.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Great Bars in NYC part 2: Nevada Smiths, where futball is religion
Our next bar is the only other bar in NYC where I can be presently considered a regular. To tell the tale of Nevada Smiths is to explain a new obsession in my life. Around two and a half years ago, Arsenal brought me to the East Village bar one Wednesday afternoon to watch a soccer match, featuring Arsenal Football Club (or AFC, or the Gunners, as not to be confused with the person Arsenal). While I had watched soccer before, I had never watched it with people who cared about the outcome, or more importantly, drunk people who cared, or even more importantly, drunk English people who cared. The bar came alive with every goal attempt, every corner, every point. And then there was the singing. The fans would break out into various chants and songs about their team, laying insults on the other team or absent rival teams. I had never seem this in a sports bar (now I am sure down by Fenway or in Wrigleyville there is similar energy, but until I go to the Cask and Flagon and here a song about Manny Ramirez done to the tune of the proclaimer's "500 Miles", I still give it to our neighbors across the pond). This game also saw the first time I saw Thierry Henry score a goal. A Religious Experience.
This alone makes any bar fun, but a couple of weeks later, I came with Arsenal to another game. This game, however, was at 10 in the morning on a Saturday. The bar was packed near to capacity, and the singing and drinking was twice that of the earlier Wednesday afternoon. While the earliness of the morn was a shock, a couple of pre-noon Carlsbergs took that edge off real quick.
Over the last 2 years, I have spend many more weekend mornings and some weekend afternoon at Nevadas, cheering on the Gunners over a couple of pints. Hubris also came on board, as the football fandom played to many of his strengths (such as drinking heavily and being really loud), and eventually Brownsox signed up. Sasquach is also a fan, but his team is Newcastle, so we do not see him there that often. Teach and Uber260 make the rare appearance, but the early hours wear on all but the hardest fans. After a while, we made some friend with the other Gunner fans, with one recent transplant from England saying that we brought North London to the states. After that comment, Hubris, Arsenal, and myself declared that we were "Arsene Wenger's 3 Man Army" (Arsene Wenger, nicknamed 'the professor' is AFC's coach, the longest running one in the club's history). This season, I have been to so many games (yay not having a job and being able to be at a bar at 2:30 on a Tuesday), that the staff knows my name, which is no small feat considering the number of regulars this place pulls. I even go there at night when I need a chill bar in the East Village, (the place is surreal in that it does all its buisiness Saturday and Sunday day, and is deathly quiet most week nights)
Next up, more bars, or the epic tale of the all night drinking binge for the opening of this years Football season.
This alone makes any bar fun, but a couple of weeks later, I came with Arsenal to another game. This game, however, was at 10 in the morning on a Saturday. The bar was packed near to capacity, and the singing and drinking was twice that of the earlier Wednesday afternoon. While the earliness of the morn was a shock, a couple of pre-noon Carlsbergs took that edge off real quick.
Over the last 2 years, I have spend many more weekend mornings and some weekend afternoon at Nevadas, cheering on the Gunners over a couple of pints. Hubris also came on board, as the football fandom played to many of his strengths (such as drinking heavily and being really loud), and eventually Brownsox signed up. Sasquach is also a fan, but his team is Newcastle, so we do not see him there that often. Teach and Uber260 make the rare appearance, but the early hours wear on all but the hardest fans. After a while, we made some friend with the other Gunner fans, with one recent transplant from England saying that we brought North London to the states. After that comment, Hubris, Arsenal, and myself declared that we were "Arsene Wenger's 3 Man Army" (Arsene Wenger, nicknamed 'the professor' is AFC's coach, the longest running one in the club's history). This season, I have been to so many games (yay not having a job and being able to be at a bar at 2:30 on a Tuesday), that the staff knows my name, which is no small feat considering the number of regulars this place pulls. I even go there at night when I need a chill bar in the East Village, (the place is surreal in that it does all its buisiness Saturday and Sunday day, and is deathly quiet most week nights)
Next up, more bars, or the epic tale of the all night drinking binge for the opening of this years Football season.
Great Bars of NYC Part One: The Irish Rover, the local
Our series on the best bars in NYC (in my foolish opinion) start with this spot in Astoria, the Irish Rover. The Irish Rover is a basic Irish bar, good tap, lots of sports, Dart board, all the basics. It is located literally down the block from where both Teach as well as Arsenal and Sasquach live, so easy to get to (it is however, a good half hour walk for me, but I could use the exercise).
What makes this bar unique can be explained in the story of the first time I went there. After work, I went over there to meet up with Teach, who arrived there several hours earlier. The bartender was a cheery middle aged Irish guy, who quickly earned our love by comping our every third drink, like clockwork. Now for everywhere else in the world, a nice bartender in a local bar comping a couple of rounds is no thing, but this is New York City, where if they get your order right you are happy. This guy was happy to offer the extra rounds of Guinness or miller lite for Teach and Harp for me. Eventually, Bourbon and Brownsox came by, and we made a night of it, raising only a $40 bar tab between the 4 of us over the course of the entire evening. I was smitten.
Now the next evening, teach and I decide to return to the Rover for another couple of rounds. We are barely in the door, where the same bartender from last night smiles at us and ask if we want a Guinness and a Harp. This guy did not miss a beat before memorizing our drink orders. He even remembered when Teach dropped down from Guinness to Miller Lite (3 in, if u be curious). The most amazing thing was when I was standing at the bar, finished my Harp, turned around to talk to this girl who was convincing me to get a batman tattoo, and when I turned around all of a minute later, my empty pint glass had been replace by a full and beautiful Harp. I thought the bar was haunted by the greatest ghosts ever.
Since then we have spent many a fine night at the rover, drinking cheaply near where half of us live. A local bar perfected!
Up next, either a post about this weekend, or we move the best bar series along to the East Village, to the best bar to go to at 7 am.
What makes this bar unique can be explained in the story of the first time I went there. After work, I went over there to meet up with Teach, who arrived there several hours earlier. The bartender was a cheery middle aged Irish guy, who quickly earned our love by comping our every third drink, like clockwork. Now for everywhere else in the world, a nice bartender in a local bar comping a couple of rounds is no thing, but this is New York City, where if they get your order right you are happy. This guy was happy to offer the extra rounds of Guinness or miller lite for Teach and Harp for me. Eventually, Bourbon and Brownsox came by, and we made a night of it, raising only a $40 bar tab between the 4 of us over the course of the entire evening. I was smitten.
Now the next evening, teach and I decide to return to the Rover for another couple of rounds. We are barely in the door, where the same bartender from last night smiles at us and ask if we want a Guinness and a Harp. This guy did not miss a beat before memorizing our drink orders. He even remembered when Teach dropped down from Guinness to Miller Lite (3 in, if u be curious). The most amazing thing was when I was standing at the bar, finished my Harp, turned around to talk to this girl who was convincing me to get a batman tattoo, and when I turned around all of a minute later, my empty pint glass had been replace by a full and beautiful Harp. I thought the bar was haunted by the greatest ghosts ever.
Since then we have spent many a fine night at the rover, drinking cheaply near where half of us live. A local bar perfected!
Up next, either a post about this weekend, or we move the best bar series along to the East Village, to the best bar to go to at 7 am.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The importance of food and rest to the funtional alcoholic
This last week I learned some things about myself. The most amusing thing is that I am a beast of a drinker, but only when I prepare. I am presently producing and crewing a small show in the east village, which leads to many late nights at bars. I am also unemployed, so there is no reason to not get blotto every night. During this adventure, I have come across some truths about drinking. Come along with me.
Rule 1: Eat Something!
Wednesday night was the first and only dress of the show. Needless to say, nerves all around, and a combo of stress and art always give me the urge to drink. Finding that the cast and crew were all to tired (or sensible) to go out, I met up with Hubris at the Irish Rover in Astoria (I will probably dedicate a whole entry to this place later). Now the only thing in my stomach at this point is a slice of pizza consumed around noon, and roughly 5 liters of diet pepsi. A smart man would grab a late night meal, or just go to sleep hungry. I decide a liquid dinner is in order, and start pounding the Harp. Hubris and I have a lovely evening, I bitching about theater, he bitching about women and work, and us agreeing that Arsenal is, in fact, by far the greatest team the world has ever seen. At some point in the evening, he starts suggesting we call it, and as he does this, I down a full pint, not chugging just drinking, in about 7 minutes. I am not a fast drinker, but I threw that beer down like it was the missing part of my being. I only had about four beers that night, but I woke up with a buzzing head the next day, all because I didn't eat.
Rule 2: Shots are magic, but work like time bombs
The next night we opened the play, and about half the cast and crew went out to the Continental to celebrate. Now as a producer, I am always concerned about team morale, so I made it my mission to make sure everyone had a good time. I then begin to order shots for everyone; cast, crew, co-producers, people's friends, people's parents, everyone. This goes on for about an hour, and just as I begin to start thinking sensibly, the costume designer, Mr. Gunn, takes up the mantle and demands round after round of soco and lime. This goes on into the night until Hubris gets off work and comes over. He brings with him a girl he worked on a show with. Now he had previously mentioned that I would like this girl and should 'get on that' as the saying goes. Of course, the moment she arrives is the same moment that my brain finally catches up to the seven shots and numerous beers that I have been throwing around. So I spent the show remainder of the evening just trying to make sure I can still speak, let alone appear to be a charming human being. Sorry Hubris, I will catch you next time.
Rule 3: Burning the candle at both ends will catch up with you
Friday night nothing odd happened, but worth noting I once again was out late slamming round after round of JD shots and beers. Saturday, I head up to meet Uber260 at a fundraising party for a new theater company at the Irish Rouge. I do not drink heavily, but by 2 language becomes a theory and not a practice for me. I take this less that I went crazy that night, but this was the forth night in a row I got wasted (not drank mind you, but achieved massive, wake up the next day feeling like you got slammed around by half the UFC, drunkedness), and I think this was my body's way of saying "Stop, if you love me, you will stop". So I spent the next evening watching Iron Chef and eating take out.
there, some words of wisdom for the aspiring drunkard. Next up, a tally on some of the best bars in NYC.
Rule 1: Eat Something!
Wednesday night was the first and only dress of the show. Needless to say, nerves all around, and a combo of stress and art always give me the urge to drink. Finding that the cast and crew were all to tired (or sensible) to go out, I met up with Hubris at the Irish Rover in Astoria (I will probably dedicate a whole entry to this place later). Now the only thing in my stomach at this point is a slice of pizza consumed around noon, and roughly 5 liters of diet pepsi. A smart man would grab a late night meal, or just go to sleep hungry. I decide a liquid dinner is in order, and start pounding the Harp. Hubris and I have a lovely evening, I bitching about theater, he bitching about women and work, and us agreeing that Arsenal is, in fact, by far the greatest team the world has ever seen. At some point in the evening, he starts suggesting we call it, and as he does this, I down a full pint, not chugging just drinking, in about 7 minutes. I am not a fast drinker, but I threw that beer down like it was the missing part of my being. I only had about four beers that night, but I woke up with a buzzing head the next day, all because I didn't eat.
Rule 2: Shots are magic, but work like time bombs
The next night we opened the play, and about half the cast and crew went out to the Continental to celebrate. Now as a producer, I am always concerned about team morale, so I made it my mission to make sure everyone had a good time. I then begin to order shots for everyone; cast, crew, co-producers, people's friends, people's parents, everyone. This goes on for about an hour, and just as I begin to start thinking sensibly, the costume designer, Mr. Gunn, takes up the mantle and demands round after round of soco and lime. This goes on into the night until Hubris gets off work and comes over. He brings with him a girl he worked on a show with. Now he had previously mentioned that I would like this girl and should 'get on that' as the saying goes. Of course, the moment she arrives is the same moment that my brain finally catches up to the seven shots and numerous beers that I have been throwing around. So I spent the show remainder of the evening just trying to make sure I can still speak, let alone appear to be a charming human being. Sorry Hubris, I will catch you next time.
Rule 3: Burning the candle at both ends will catch up with you
Friday night nothing odd happened, but worth noting I once again was out late slamming round after round of JD shots and beers. Saturday, I head up to meet Uber260 at a fundraising party for a new theater company at the Irish Rouge. I do not drink heavily, but by 2 language becomes a theory and not a practice for me. I take this less that I went crazy that night, but this was the forth night in a row I got wasted (not drank mind you, but achieved massive, wake up the next day feeling like you got slammed around by half the UFC, drunkedness), and I think this was my body's way of saying "Stop, if you love me, you will stop". So I spent the next evening watching Iron Chef and eating take out.
there, some words of wisdom for the aspiring drunkard. Next up, a tally on some of the best bars in NYC.
Let the madness continue!
Hello indifferent internet
As I character, my exploits in both theater and drinking have long been chronicled by superior writers, such as the Bourbon Samurai and Brownsox. However, since B.S. has slowed his writing and Brownsox sold out to the liberal media, the exploits of my friends and I are not being relayed. Alas! So I now am taking up the task.
I apologize if these early entries are filled with typos, poor grammar, and are just generally poorly written. I am making this up as I go.
Up next, a thesis on how to prepare for a night of crazy drinking. or "Eat some damn dinner".
As I character, my exploits in both theater and drinking have long been chronicled by superior writers, such as the Bourbon Samurai and Brownsox. However, since B.S. has slowed his writing and Brownsox sold out to the liberal media, the exploits of my friends and I are not being relayed. Alas! So I now am taking up the task.
I apologize if these early entries are filled with typos, poor grammar, and are just generally poorly written. I am making this up as I go.
Up next, a thesis on how to prepare for a night of crazy drinking. or "Eat some damn dinner".
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