The Bar Exam
Minus the bar
Hannah Levine
Issue date: 5/1/09 Section: Features
Myopenbar.com is more of a free-booze bible than a mere website. If you have yet to familiarize yourself with this heavenly resource, it lists everything from Jack Baur Power Hour (a free shot every time he kills someone? Hell yes!) to PBR sponsored film screenings, and will save both your wallet and your nightlife. But sometimes it's not only the financial strain that keeps me away from the bar scene. When I tire of pick up lines, bathroom lines, and shouting small talk over bad music, I am forced to think outside of the bar. Here are just a couple of the endless possibilities:
Make like a hobo- Last summer, there was a one-month gap between leases when I was homeless. Technically. In reality, I was crashing at my (then) boyfriend's on the Upper West Side, at the same time that my friend Amber was crashing at our friend's place three blocks up. It was delightfully ironic-two bums living out of backpacks, sleeping in nicer apartments than we may ever be able to afford in our lifetimes. One of my best memories, however, from my month of hobo-luxury, was when Amber and I decided to actually act homeless. Our hosts were both gone for the night, and we felt strange sitting alone on their upholstery, soaking in the essence of our temporarily borrowed lives. Instead, we decided to embark on a noble search for the best stoop on the Upper West.
Our quest, like many epic journeys, began at a deli on Amsterdam, where we purchased 40s in appropriately brown bags (Colt 45-the hobo's fine wine). We skipped down the tree-lined blocks of the upper 80s, side stepping the husbands walking poodles as we surveyed the options: "No, this ones not high up enough," "this stoop is too pretentious. It clearly wasn't made for sitting," and so on. I won't give away the secret of where we found the perfect stoop, but I will say that I enjoyed the search far more than any night I spent at Marquee. It's true what they say about the best things in life-they usually don't involve waiting on line in five-inch heels so you can dance in a sea of Europeans on ecstasy. Just be sure not to get caught by the po-po while you're brown bagging it like a hobo.
Get cultural- The first time I ever got drunk in public was also the first time I read poetry in public. There was free wine, and they (they, meaning the venue I won't disclose) did not bother to card the then-underage me. By the time I took the stage, my veins were pumping with Cabernet-fueled confidence. Unfortunately, I also forgot every word of the poem I memorized, but it was a great introduction to the poetry scene, as well the free-wine-at-art-events scene.
Since then, I have become a Chelsea connoisseur, perusing modern art galleries ("that triangle is deep, man") as I sip complimentary Pinot Noir, an avid avant-garde theatergoer, watching pornographic puppet shows while sipping rosé, and rooftop film buff, while drinking Magic Hat. New York is, after all, the cultural center of the universe-we might as well cheers to that.
Make like a hobo- Last summer, there was a one-month gap between leases when I was homeless. Technically. In reality, I was crashing at my (then) boyfriend's on the Upper West Side, at the same time that my friend Amber was crashing at our friend's place three blocks up. It was delightfully ironic-two bums living out of backpacks, sleeping in nicer apartments than we may ever be able to afford in our lifetimes. One of my best memories, however, from my month of hobo-luxury, was when Amber and I decided to actually act homeless. Our hosts were both gone for the night, and we felt strange sitting alone on their upholstery, soaking in the essence of our temporarily borrowed lives. Instead, we decided to embark on a noble search for the best stoop on the Upper West.
Our quest, like many epic journeys, began at a deli on Amsterdam, where we purchased 40s in appropriately brown bags (Colt 45-the hobo's fine wine). We skipped down the tree-lined blocks of the upper 80s, side stepping the husbands walking poodles as we surveyed the options: "No, this ones not high up enough," "this stoop is too pretentious. It clearly wasn't made for sitting," and so on. I won't give away the secret of where we found the perfect stoop, but I will say that I enjoyed the search far more than any night I spent at Marquee. It's true what they say about the best things in life-they usually don't involve waiting on line in five-inch heels so you can dance in a sea of Europeans on ecstasy. Just be sure not to get caught by the po-po while you're brown bagging it like a hobo.
Get cultural- The first time I ever got drunk in public was also the first time I read poetry in public. There was free wine, and they (they, meaning the venue I won't disclose) did not bother to card the then-underage me. By the time I took the stage, my veins were pumping with Cabernet-fueled confidence. Unfortunately, I also forgot every word of the poem I memorized, but it was a great introduction to the poetry scene, as well the free-wine-at-art-events scene.
Since then, I have become a Chelsea connoisseur, perusing modern art galleries ("that triangle is deep, man") as I sip complimentary Pinot Noir, an avid avant-garde theatergoer, watching pornographic puppet shows while sipping rosé, and rooftop film buff, while drinking Magic Hat. New York is, after all, the cultural center of the universe-we might as well cheers to that.
Viewing Comments 1 - 2 of 2
Hannah
posted 9/05/09 @ 12:51 PM EST
Um. So where's our new issue?
James
posted 9/11/09 @ 10:21 PM EST
A week in and still nothing - either somebody's asleep at the wheel or nobody's behind the wheel.
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