Easter
By David Detroit
So like, I was hanging with my girl in the afternoon who works at Beacon’s Closet in Park Slope, this cheap re-sale shop that has another location in Williamsburg. I get totally hooked up with dirt cheap clothes, that would probably sell for a bunch of bucks at some crazy high end boutique. But Beacon’s has reasonable prices, nothing tends to be over $50 max, and hot girls work there, my girlfriend’s the one and only black girl. Lurking is highly recommended at Beacon’s, much to the girls’ dismay. I’m there on a mission to get a new shirt for a job interview at the School of Visual Arts, to be a manager for the film department’s camera equipment. I find a decent fancy dress shirt, that Karen tells me was originally $600, made by some exotic designer, but I’m getting it for $10. A few of her co-workers vaguely flirt with me, which always brightens my day. Remember that dream sequence in Fellini’s 8 1/2?
Beacons Closet
So anyhow, I meet my buddy Cotty at Washington Commons for a long overdue drink. It happens to be Wacom’s 1 year anniversary,which equals happy hour all night. Depending on the bartender, happy hour is either $3 or $4 for a well drink, and $2 off their beer selection. It’s the type of place that’s good for a chill hang with your bro who you haven’t seen for months, not a crazy freak out party spot, or anything romantic. They tend to have decent rock’n’roll played by the bartenders, who all seem decent thus far. Kinda low lighting, tables, an octagon bar, and an outdoor patio.
Washington Commons
So yeah, since it was really nice weather for the first time in ages, we sat outside, and Cotty ended up convincing me to go see The Smith Westerns at Mercury Lounge later that night. He played them for me on his iPhone, and it kinda reminded me of like freak beat crossed with The Undertones, with a healthy dose of Marc Bolan. And they’re all teenagers, supposedly. So I was into it, younger kids are usually better performers and less pretentious about having fun. We caught up about this and that, and considered taking a spur of the moment road trip to New Haven at the end of the night with this kid Myles who was hanging out. Cotty wants to go to this pizza place he keeps raving about, and I wanna get some fucking cheap lobster. But they both puss out.
So Cotty really had to take a shit, and insisted on me coming with him to his apartment. But it’s like, dude, I don’t wanna walk all the way to your apartment just to sit on your video game couch and listen to your poop session. So I elected to stay at the bar and have a few more drinks, and hang with Myles, who reminded me of a younger version of myself, and discuss the differences between “Raw Power” and “Rough Power”, both of us being huge Stooges fans. I take a $3 shot of tequila, and head out the door. I ended up running late, and Cotty was kinda peeved. Stumbling along through Prospect Heights, I noticed I was just around the corner to one of the only rad Mexican joints in NYC, Chavellas. I told Cotty I was gonna get a cactus taco before meeting him at the F train, and Cotty forbid me due to tardiness. But being the disobedient type I am, I got one anyways, and they’re so delicious, yet too expensive for me on average. $3.25 for a taco is a bit much, $2 or $2.50 would be perfect. But they are perfect tacos, so whatever. They also make my favorite mole sauce in the city. Go there.
We got to the train, and discussed a bunch of jibber jabber about Bergman’s “Fanny and Alexander”. All the while I’m trying to convince my girl to come meet us, but she thinks she’s too bloated to come out, despite the fact that she weighs 110 lbs, 5’6. God damn, does this country make women feel inadequate. I suspect she was all bumming out about it because she asked me how she looked in a dress that was too small for her, and I didn’t lie. But like, I didn’t want her to spend the dough to end up buying an XXS dress that was meant for a fucking teenager. So yeah, she wasn’t gonna come, and didn’t want to spend the money, and I felt this odd sense of guilt.
So we get to the Mercury Lounge, a relatively forgettable venue at Essex and Houston in the LES (Lower East Side), and due to my vague negligence, Smith Westerns is already done with half their set. However, there is a perk to this, and this is a good tip for all you cheapskates out there. If at all possible, if you’re going to see a band, and the only band you’re interested in seeing is the last band, try to show up in the middle of their set, because often times the door guy will just let you in for free, rather than charging you ten bucks for 10 minutes of music. And if the door guy doesn’t let you in, he probably had someone spit on him earlier that night, so don’t bug out. I hate it when people bug out on the door guy. In ten years of going to clubs, I’ve only had one bad time with a door guy.
So yeah, we watch this teenage band for 4 songs. They remind me of GIRLS, and I sort of don’t understand the importance of this whole explosion of sissy rock going on right now, but I don’texactly hate it either. Cotty doesn’t mind missing half the show, because we got in for free. However, he had already paid $10 for the show the night before, at the Market Hotel in Bushwick, but it got busted by cops before they went on, and he didn’t get a refund because the door guy jetted real quick. So in a sense, he already paid for the show, but didn’t have to pay twice. So yeah, they were pretty decent, in a whiny sort of way, and one of the guitarists looked like Cousin It from Addams Family when he drooped his hair down, while playing the guitar. It was kinda charming. They play an encore, and seem genuinely humble. I’m sure they’re up to their ears in pussy.
We didn’t buy any drinks there, and decided to head to Motor City to see one of my facebook friends DJ. I think it’s come to the point where I have friends, and then I have facebook friends, and there’s a big difference. We pass by the LES staple Pianos and Max Fish, both of which I don’t have a hard on for, like some folks. It’s just something that’s before my time, and the decor just reminds me of Urban Outfitters or some shit, so I can’t relax, or pay attention to what people are saying. We get to Motor City (also a bit drastic on the decorations), and it looks kinda dead. My facebook DJ friend can be mega awkward or pretentious (I can’t tell which one it is) when he’s sober. And it’s only 11:30, so I doubt he’s drunk yet, but when he’s drunk, he’s fucking hilarious. So we don’t even go in.
So I decide we should head to Mars Bar. I feel this strange sense of responsibility to try and hang there, since I could generally be categorized as a punk. But like, the place smells so fucking bad, I just can’t hang. This is coming from a dude who grew up living in a dingy basement that flooded every month or two, if that says anything. I like how the place looks, but the smell is overwhelming. Cotty described the smell as a 3 year old jizz sock, that was used perpetually to dry off his balls after jogging for three miles every day. So yeah, just like the last ten times of trying to get a drink there, I end up walking in and walking out. It’s like, why do I wanna spend the $6 or whatever to sit in a smelly bar? The clientele reminds me of a rough Cleveland crowd, which is definitely a plus, compared to the typical East Village yuppie/hipster/whatever the fuck you wanna call these people. White people. But yeah, I guess I’m just too bougie for Mars Bar. It’s a shame, because I really dig that song “That Woman’s Got Me Drinking” by Shane McGowan, that has a music video that takes place in Mars Bar a billion years ago, with Johnny Depp drinking tons of Gin — I’m a youtube addict.
Mars Bar
We head to KGB Bar, at E. 5th St and 2nd Ave. They have these really awesome Russian beers that are a pint, 8% ABV, and fucking killer. I can’t remember the name, but for $6 in the EastVillage, this is kind of like getting two beers for the price of one, and less of a beer belly in the process. KGB Bar has readings there, but I’m too irresponsible to get in with the NYC writing scene going on. Me and Cotty discussed which whiskey is the most reprehensible to order, and we both decide Johnny Walker Black, with Dewars as runner up. I love this bar, again, for hanging with bros during off hours; it’s a blood red bar upstairs that seems to have lots of old timey decor. But the bartender totally cut off one of my favorite Richard Hell songs to play Nirvana’s “In Utero” in its entirety. Me and Cotty discuss Nirvana for the rest of the hour, and end up getting the fuck out of there after some weird lady from Rome tries to pick up on us.
So yeah, me and Cotty part ways, and I stumble over to my default late night snack, Mamoun’s. I don’t get any street cred for Mamoun’s, as it’s perhaps the most widely known falafel joint in NYC. But it’s consistently rad, except on this night, I don’t recognize the cashier, and he’s getting in a bunch of arguments with three customers, because he fucked up all their orders. This guy must be new, and he’s swearing at people and shit. I work in service too, and I’ve dealt with plenty of bullshit. But look, if you fuck up someone’s order, you gotta make it right again. You’re potentially scaring away thousands of dollars on a yearly basis, by losing 10 customers. But he proudly proclaims that he doesn’t care about being rude, and tells people to shut up. I not only get my standard falafel sandwich with hummus, but this time I also get a spinach pie, as advertised on the poster on the counter. The falafel is satisfying as always, but the spinach pie was actually disappointing, in a weird microwavey sort of way. I also recommend the shwarma at Mamouns, it tastes like really good pussy (All my gay buddies should beware). Maybe if you dig the shwarma, it means you’re an in the closet straight guy? Dunno. Girlfriend was sleeping when I got home.
So yeah, not a bad Easter. Thanks, Jesus.
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