This month's social agenda took a temporary backseat to sifting through, trashing and packing my life into grocery store boxes. I did manage to break free from this year's transition and do what I do best - Party til' last call turns into afterhours and the sun assaults what is left of my make up.
First stop: Three of Cups (83 First Ave. NYC). This place rocks every night of the week but nothing sends the neighbors into a 311-complaint frenzy like Thursday's "fuckYeah" rock and roll party. Tor and Scarlet (front man and bassist to New York City's finest rock band Joker Five Speed) play music that was composed to be cranked. They tear up the speakers and I try to avoid dancing atop elevated surfaces, with everything from Guns and Roses to local heroes, The Sex Slaves. This bar is the essence of the New York City rock and roll scene. Where else can you have a finger lickin' Italian meal and ascend steep steps to the closest thing to Dirty-Rock-Narnia? The beer is cheap and the boys and girls that make up this thriving subculture are more than willing to trick or treat you the closer it gets to last call. Many a rockstar ass, from Jack White to Slash, has left an imprint on the lush velvet loveseats of this East Village speakeasy.
Next stop on my jet-set crazy train was the Brooklyn Underground Film Festival. Due to mass consumption of coffee, not enough sleep and general physical abuse, I suffered through the kick-off party and nearly lost my Boca Burger when catching a whiff of the free wine offered. Although I wanted to go home and ingest antacids by the fistful, I stuck it out for the sake of indie film. I am so hardcore! The third annual festival was held at Brooklyn Lyceum. Up the steps in my nosebleed platforms and carefully placed hair adorning flower, fellow writer Angela Lovell and I politely weaved through wooly boys and heavy filterless cigarette smoke. Once inside I sipped a Brooklyn Lager hoping I'm not just masking alcoholism when I surmise that barley settles the tummy. Buzzed and less acidic, I got comfy in the enormous sub-ground theatre kicking off my shoes and settling into a hilariously heartwarming documentary called Abel Raises Cain created by Jenny Abel and Jeff Hockett.
Battling what may be a stress induced stomach ulcer over my recent move and nose deep in unpacked boxes, I managed to emerge from the deep dark basement I now call home. Semi unpacked but showered, I was ready to explore my new neighborhood. Lucky for me finding something to do in Williamsburg is easy as slapping on lipstick and walking out the door. My favorite bar this week is the Tainted Lady (322 Grand St.) The walls are covered in scantily clad, beautiful and grotesque pinups. The vibe is laidback but tantalizing. If you are looking for a visceral infatuation just look up at your server. Aside from having the best brunch I have ever chowed on the staff caters to lads and lasses alike with their androgynous scenster haircut prowess.
Just two blocks up you will find Trash Bar (256 Grand St.) This is not the place to go if you have morals or a weak stomach. The jukebox is chocked full of tunes for screw-on-the-pool-table instigation (or in the DJ booth which seemed to be my sidekick's style.) Happy hour starts after midnight. In the back room you'll find karaoke, a local band, or my best friend with fishnets around her ankles on any given night. But kiddies beware you will be called a "slut" or a "thief" if you dare to stray from the look-but-don't-touch rules of this debauchery condensed hole in the wall. The perv-peeped bathrooms are redeemed only by the free tater tots.
While walking off what I swore would be my last hangover, I looked up to the skies for salvation from sluggish thoughts and shaky hands. My prayers were answered! I ran into an old friend who invited me to a listening party for the Gorillaz latest masterpiece at Supreme Trading (213 N. Eighth St.) Once inside I was pleasantly surprised to hear former co-worker and DJ extraordinaire, Rob Flow, doing what he does best (and better than anyone.) The bar was full of eager listeners and industry types. Buzzing from free Rheingold (FREE is the only strategy for moving this shit) and killer tunes from what I first believed was just a silly concept Damon Albarn concoction.
It was time for some eats. We headed down to the Alligator Lounge (600 Metropolitan Ave.) where you get a free pizza pie with every beer while admiring half-eaten and bloodied mannequins. Six bucks for pizza and beer is a great deal for those of us lacking in funds. Just avoid Alligator Lounge on Thursday's karaoke nights unless you desire the massacre of your favorite songs by fat people who rolled out of a trailer park. (It's the lure of free pizza.)
Too many discarded brain cells has left this bar-hopping party girl exhausted and dehydrated. So I will leave you with these words of wisdom: Don't move to Williamsburg if you have a drinking problem. And always tip your bartender. Unless your Sagittarius bartender (see Angela Lovell's Whorescopes) accidentally gives you his girlfriend's phone number instead of his and pretends he never met you when confronted in the light of day.