From Fork in the Road at the Voice:
What's this city coming to when even dive bars have to start serving signature cocktails?
"Well, we don't have to," says Mike Stuto, owner of Hi-Fi. "It's just about giving people what they want."
What's this city coming to when even dive bars have to start serving signature cocktails?
"Well, we don't have to," says Mike Stuto, owner of Hi-Fi. "It's just about giving people what they want."
5 comments:
What do you expect? The neighborhood is turning into one of America's douchiest colleges:
#11 -- drum roll please...NYU
"Home of: The "Yeah, I Did That When I Was 17" Douche
Affectations: White Wayfarers; vintage New York Dolls T-shirt; high-concept hat; complaining about how New York City is so gentrified now.
In ten years, will be: Still talking about how you did that when you were 17."
Sigh. I observed two such high-concept-hat-wearing, skinny-white-ass-hipster-posing douches just this morning.
I was awakened around 4:30am by someone tossing up a few of those "signature cocktails" outside the window of a parked taxi in front of my building on East 11th Street.
The noisy retching, multiple heaves, was followed by the Caribbean-accented fury of the cab driver, insisting that Douche No. 1, who had clumsily clambered out of the cab after hurling, clean up his mess, which had dribbled all over the outside of the door.
Douche No. 2, still in the back seat of the cab was screaming that the drive better give him "his fucking change".
The driver refused, getting out of the cab, pointing at the puke stains, and persisting in his request that Douche No. 1, "Clean it up, clean it up".
Douche No. 1, high-concep-hat-in-hand, was staggering all over the sidewalk, and Douche No. 2 now began to mock the driver's accent. "Give me my fucking change, MON."
Attention DOUCHES: if you imbibe too many Signature Cocktails, I suggest you call Mommy to come pick you up and then puke all over her Buick's back seat instead of causing misery for the hard-working working class that waits upon you.
Douchey douches.
Good God. This story deserves its own post.
Sorry. Didn't mean to hijack this post. Hit me on a rough morning.
I'm just sayin' -- eeeediats, they appear to be multiplying.
I was one of those 17 year douchbags (1994-1995, and 16, but close enough) and I can't beleve they turned Brownies into a jukebox bar full of clean people with nice teeth. Sacrilidge.
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