Check out Joey Welz’s myspace page here:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=49654257

So a group of us guys gathered together in E.J.’s living room to watch the aging legend’s rap show. My favorite tune was called “Yoyo Man” where he raps and performs yoyo tricks at the same time. (Although, he hasn’t figured out yet that rapping isn’t just talking over a beat.) During one tune he leaned over to me and goes “They’re playing this song on the radio in Europe.” He wrote a song to the Asian tsunami victims where he averred “Tsunami, once every 20 years” over sounds of thunder. Another song was written about the game show “Deal or No Deal,” whose chorus was, predictably, “deal, or no deal?!” He said he planned to approach the show’s producers the next weekend in Atlantic City to talk about licensing it.

See a video of Joey performing “Skeletons in the Closet” here.

After we paid Joey a good chunk of change for the night, E.J., Tim, and I headed over to a local dive called Hildy’s, which is known for brawling. One time I heard a loud smack behind me and turned around just in time to avoid a man’s unconscious body landing on me—real Kenny Rogers/Patrick Swayze type sht.

After about three shots and a beer at the bar (and about eight Lion’s Heads and shots of Maker’s Mark at E.J’s), I did something I never did before, I fell over at the bar. The barkeep then kicked me out and I fell again outside, this time in front of a cop who called about four other squad cars. E.J. heroically talked them out of throwing me in the drunk tank by letting them know we were walking home. Somehow in the chaos before I passed out back at the ranch I lost only my mobile phone battery.

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If so, check out Lost Taverns on the Forgotten Buffalo website. It’s a veritable treasure trove of classic neighborhood bars in Buffalo, most of which, for some reason, I’ve never been to. I plan on changing that next time I got home by starting with Forgotten Buffalo’s Irish Buffalo Pub tour.

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Soccer Tavern

Soccer Tavern in the heart of Sunset Park’s Chinatown is to go-to spot for Guinness and playing the ponies

Somehow, despite having lived in Brooklyn for most of the eight years I’ve been living in New York City, and having been to Sunset Park’s Chinatown on countless occasions, I had never been in Soccer Tavern on 8^th Avenue in Chinatown. Why that is, I’m not really sure since I’ve always been intrigued by this humble-looking watering hole that seemed wholly out of place in Brooklyn’s fast-growing Chinatown. That changed last Sunday, following a trip to Pacificana for some killer dim sum.

With my best friend from Buffalo visiting and in dire need of some libations following an hour of scarfing down semi-identifiable slimy, slippery, and fried foods, we wandered down 8^th Avenue towards Soccer Tavern on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. I expected to see either a couple of ancient old-timers hunched over beers or some youngish Polish dudes with close-cropped hair and clad in sweatsuits trying to look imposing when we opened the door and stepped inside. I couldn’t have been further off in either respect.

About 15 Chinese men chattering away sat surrounded by dozens of empty Heineken bottles and tumblers of beer. Heineken being swilled aside, I’m guessing this is what an opium den might’ve looked like. Or an illicit card game in Beijing, perhaps.

Getting over our surprise, we wandered over and perched at the bar. The friendly bartender, an obviously Irishmen in his early 60s, poured Eric and I couple of perfect pints of Guinness, as we began to drink in the unusual ambiance at Soccer Tavern. As the patrons wandered over to the cooler to grab frosty mugs or to the make your own sandwich station set up against one of the back walls, Soccer Tavern felt like the most chilled out basement I’ve ever drank beers in. Throw in the the Paddy’s Day corned beef slowly simmering on the stove in the kitchen and this is the kind of bar I wish was across the street from my apartment.

“They’re lost without the racing,” the amiable bartender said to me and Eric as he leaned over the bar to chat with us. Seeing that we responded to his statement with quizzical looks, he went on to explain.

“They (the Chinese guys) come in here every Sunday to drink and bet on the horses but there’s no horse racing on Palm Sunday and Easter so they’re just hanging out drinking,” which elicited big “Oohs” of understanding and affirmative head nods from Eric and I. Seeing that we understood what he was talking about, he went on to further explain how this unassuming watering hole could be so hectic on a Sunday afternoon.

“This is the only bar around here. They’re usually about 30 of these guys here (there were about 10 or 12 dudes drinking there this Sunday). They start coming in at about 10:00 AM and stay all day. Buy 6 Heineken’s for $20 with cash. Nicest people I’ve ever served and never seen one of them get drunk,” he told us.

I asked how much Heineken they go through on a normal Sunday.

“’Bout 15-to-17 cases of Heineken. Distributors tells me we sell the most Heineken of any bar in Brooklyn.”

Judging by the empty bottles of Heineken everywhere and the guy who walked up to the bar and ordered six more, I’d be surprised if Soccer Tavern’s not selling the most Heineken outside of China.

Bring a friend, take $10 each and join in the Sunday afternoon fun at this affable classic Brooklyn watering hole.

Happy Hour: No happy hour per se but $10 for three Heinekens or $20 for six is as good a deal as there is to be had in the BK. Especially when you throw in the free sandwiches.

Cuento Cuesto: Expertly poured pints of Guinness run $5 while pints from the other pumps — Bud and Bud Light — will set you back $4. Not sure how much the hard stuff is but I’m certain it’s reasonable.

Split Lip Factor: You have a better chance of getting into a fight at a Quaker church than you do of getting into a scrap at Soccer Tavern. 0-of-5.

Huckle Factor: Similarly, you have a better chance of getting some ass just about, well, at any other bar in the City. 0-of-5.

If Soccer Tavern Were A Celebrity: None other than Tommy Smyth, soccer commentator-extraordinaire and Grand Marshall of the 2008 St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Who Would Like Soccer Tavern: Chinese gamblers and alcoholics; Chinatown bus drivers on their day off; Heineken aficionados; Dim sum refugees; Norwegian-Americans; and people who’ve always wondered what it might’ve been like to have a Schlitz in Archie Bunker’s basement.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHE9LfMVyT0

Help to make St. Patrick’s Day a national holiday by signing the Proposition 317 petition. If the folks at Guinness get a 1 million signatures by midnight on March 16th they will formally submit the petition to make St. Patrick’s Day a national holiday to Congress. Since Congress rarely does anything useful or important, I’m not sure the petition would get that far but this being an election year, you never know.

As for us at Dive In NYC, we’re kind of surprised since we always thought St. Patty’s Day was a holiday. We don’t work and we spend the day getting blotto so all the hubbub is news to us.

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Even the Trum Tavern has some rules

I’m a city-dweller by nature, but a lot of my friends choose to live in the sticks. So this past weekend I took a journey by bus to Milford Square in Upper Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Two of my best buddies, Scott and Isaac, just bought houses in this town, so I figured I had to see what all the fuss is about. With my friend E.J. playing chauffer, we hit up the best and brightest drinking spots the vicinity had to offer.

First, we stopped in at McCoole’s in Quakertown, not a dive, but more like a working man’s bar with a lot of polish. Met some guy called John Lennon while gassing $2.75 Yuengling pints. Decent enough place to hang.

Then we moseyed over to The Pub, which is located next to a Friendly’s in a strip mall in Milford Square. The lager was cheap and the patrons were derelict. I put “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones on the jukebox, while E.J. and I played Photo Hunt. Some hillbilly guy sitting across the bar then leaned towards me and said “the Bee-a-tles” in a horrible attempt at a Northern English accent. Then he started rambling incessantly to me about “Casualties of War,” a bad 80’s Vietnam movie starring Sean Penn and Michael J. Fox.

Next, we headed back to Quakertown to stop at Hobo’s. This name turned out to be very literal as the whole place was decorated with paintings and frosted glass depictions of hobos and tramps with red noses standing on railroad tracks. E.J. astutely dubbed it “Hobo Art.” The patrons seemed to consist primarily of lonely Philadelphia Flyers fans and middle-aged divorcees drinking alone. I truly hated this place and can’t imagine why anyone would drink there a second time. Nothing depressing about sipping at a beer with 50 pictures of homeless winos surrounding you!

The mighty Trum Tavern patrons

The Iron Liver and Lungs Posse

Trum Tavern, was next on the list to check out. This place had a bit of a bad reputation in the area as being a den of criminals and bikers. I didn’t find this to be true, but there were definitely a few rough characters in there who could potentially shank you if you said the wrong thing. Let’s just say I got a few cock-eyed looks from the regulars. The drinks were expectedly cheap - beer between $2 and $3, and $1 PBR’s. We played a few rounds of darts and smoked up a storm.

Last stop was Casey’s in Quakertown, which was full of old men. It was really boring until I rocked a little Exile on Main Street on the jukebox. We downed a $7 pitcher of Yuengling and headed over to Isaac’s house to down shots of Eagle Rare and pass out.

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Obviously, the very definition of a dive bar precludes a velvet rope from being referenced unless it’s referring to how a patron killed another while arguing over who was supposed to pay for the shots of Early Times. Since most of Manhattan has become an urban theme park for the moneyed why not add a “dive” to the attractions?

In an interview with The Diners Journal, a Times blog about eating and drinking, Friedman — by the way, are all dudes with the last name Friedman self-important assholes or is just this guy and Tom from The Times? — makes it clear that he’s never actually been in a real, live dive bar when he says, “We want people to have great dive-bar food. We want them to say, ‘This is the best food I’ve ever had in a dive bar.’”

I don’t know where this clueless fuck does his drinking but someone should have told him 99% of dives don’t serve food for the simple reason that even the most desperate of boozehounds wouldn’t eat the grub at a place like Jackie’s 5th Amendment, Soccer Tavern, or Club 773 to name a few Brooklyn dives that I frequent. Those that do serve food, like Rudy’s or The Patriot are turning out hot dogs and sliders, which are meant to merely absorb enough liquor so that one can drink even more.

Apparently, Friedman thinks that the size of the food he’ serving and the way it’s presented are what qualifies Rusty Knot to be termed a dive since he also says, “(the food) It’ll be small things that you can eat in one hand while holding a drink in the other.” How divey! How revolutionary! How fucking challenging for the obnoxious trend-chasing set that will comprise 100% of Rusty Knot’s customers! Holding a drink in one hand while holding food in the other? Wow! How fucking quaint! It’s just like they’re doing at Mars Bar.
Incredibly enough, Friedman makes even more of an ass of himself when he added, “that much of the food would be served in plastic baskets.” Yippee! What could be diveier than that?

I don’t know Ken Friedman and I don’t know anybody that’s eaten at his over-hyped “gastro pub” Spotted Pig but I do know that Rusty Knot has as much in common with a real dive as White Castle does with Per Se. That being said, I don’t mind educating Mr. Friedman on what a dive bar actually is.

Here’s the deal. If someone out there knows Ken Friedman, let him know that I’ll be happy to treat him to a night of boozing it up at several of Brooklyn’s best dives like Timboos, Smith’s, Smolen, Rainbow Café, the Green Isle, and even Montero’s so he can see that real dives don’t have velvet ropes nor do they serve food to patrons who get off on the novelty of eating out of plastic baskets.

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Being the dingbats we are, the widely forecasted torrential downpour that blanketed the five boroughs tonight somehow escaped our attention and we found ourselves waterlogged and wandering NoHo in search of a drink. Wisely — one of the few teams you’ll see that adverb deployed in this blog — we ducked into Astor Wines for their Friday night tasting. Couple Heavy Water vodkas and French and Italian vinos later and we had, against all odds, forgotten entirely about the monsoon again until we stepped outside Astor Place and got drenched for the second time in a space of an hour.

Desperate to keep on drinking and, oh yeah, stay dry, we made a beeline down Lafayette towards Great Jones and checked out Acme, which was, unsurprisingly, packed. With no other options, we reluctantly trudged down to Bleecker Street Bar and strode in to the post-college frat party taking place.

As lame as this place is, the happy hour special, $4.00 24-oz Yuenglings, is fucking killer. Two of those and Whitesnake was already convinced that every would-be and wanna-be Connecticut housewife in the bar was checking him out, which is usually my cue to call it a night, which I did.

Cuento Cuesto: Not horrendous for the ‘hood but NoHo isn’t known for it’s cheap drink spots. Expect to pay $5.50 to $6 a beer.

Happy Hour: The only reason to go to this gathering spot of future Joisey and Long Island homeowners. The 24-oz Yuenglings are as good a deal as there is to be had in the 212.

Split Lip Factor: Between the corporate types who get to the gym too much and the knuckleheads that are way into mixed martial arts, there are enough idiots here to make any experienced boozehound nervous. 3-of-5.

Huckle Factor: Depends on whether you want to make the trip up to the UES with the possibility of a nightcap on frat boy row or not. 2-of-5.

If This Bar Were A Celebrity: Ryan Seacrest.

Who Would Like This Bar: Dudes who think the flick Old School was a blueprint for how to live life; Arena football fans; Chicks who’s idea of edgy is Banana Republic; and corporate dweebs who just don’t know any better.

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Like just about every neighborhood below 96th Street in Manhattan, the dives that remain in Tribeca are relics from an era when working people could afford to live in the 212. It ain’t been that way in Tribeca ever since Robert DeNiro decided he liked the ‘hood and developers rushed to build as many luxury lofts as possible but the dives remain, mostly serving a blue collar clientele that’s building those lofts, as well as the government employees who work in the area. Tribeca residents themselves are known to stop by joints like the Nancy and The Patriot when they don’t feel like blowing $12 a cocktail at charmless watering holes like Mocca, or The Bubble Lounge.

Having never been to Mudvilles I thought I’d make it my first stop. Turns out it was more a pit stop, as I walked in, saw the place was light up like a hospital cafeteria, resembled an Applebees, and that beers were about $6 a pop. Needless to say, I was out of that overpriced contrived-roadhouse quicker than one can down scarf down a White Castle burger after a night of boozing it up. Being that The Patriot, a watering hole that I’ve spent some time in, was but steps away, I didn’t have to go long before quenching my thirst.

It’s always beer season at The Patriot

The Patriot is probably the last real dive in Tribeca, which is ironic since it’s also one of the newest. It’s the younger sibling of the dearly departed Village Idiot and shares many of the same traits. Vomit is always in the air; the bartenders are cute and, usually, trashy like Christina Applegate circa Married With Children; country music blaring; and, most importantly, booze is cheap. A pitcher of PBR or Bud Ice will set you back a mere $6 or $7 quid while shots are usually $3 or so a pop. There are other selections on the pumps here but when you’re at a dive, you shouldn’t be drinking Stella or Guinness.

Looks like a dive to me

Cute-n-trashy — I hope! — bartender at Patriot

I comfortably settled into a seat towards the end of the bar and ordered a pitcher of Bud Ice and took in the scene. It was pretty simple really; people were getting smashed to my right and even drunker to my left. Dudes to my left were busy devouring some wings and, inexplicably, ordering beers even though they had full pitchers. Nice. Then things got, as they sometimes do, weird and tense.

Masked man and drunk at Patriot

This is how a dive’s bathroom should look

The two guys to the left were getting smashed with some drunk guy wearing this crazy-ass fake leather skeleton jacket. All the guy in the jacket kept saying was that he didn’t speak English. Didn’t stop him from pounding shots nor did it stop one of the guys from turning to me and complaining about “having to speak Spanish in this country.” What was weird was that the guy was probably in his mid-20s and, judging by the way he was dressed — stripey button-down shirt and khakis — seemingly doing okay for himself. Not the kind of guy you’d think would be aggravated about immigration. Yet he was.

As the Spanish-speaking guy passed out at the bar and had to be helped out after a solid 20 minutes or so of lying in his drool, the young Lou Dobbs clone continued his rant.

Passed out at The Patriot

“They should get in line!” he kept on thundering to both nobody in particular but to me in general because I was the closest person to him.

Being a bit more sober, I decided to egg him because, aside from masturbating to Rihanna and watching soccer, goading xenophobes is one of my favorite things to do. Unfortunately, it turns out that goading a slobbering and drunker than an Irishmen — i.e. me — in a whiskey distillery twenty-something year old xenophobe isn’t that much fun. In fact, in this case it turned out to be a big mistake on my part, as the guy began ranting about being quoted “everywhere. Even in the New York Times,” although he never stated what exactly it was he was being quoted about.

Wanting the blubbering wingnut blathering to end, I sensed an opportunity and apologized for not realizing who he was, which served to not only to shut him up but to offer to me to buy me a shot to cement the apology. I pounded my Jameson, polished off the rest of the pitcher and bid Justin and The Patriot goodnight, as I walked down to Murray Street to check out Raccoon Lodge.

Unfortunately, between the pitcher and shot at Patriot, the four beers at the show, and the pre-game boozing I had done at home, I wasn’t so sober by the time I got to Raccoon Lodge. After a Yuengling pint ($3.50) and shot of Jameson ($5.00), I called it a night and headed toward Pakistani Tea House. Because, after all, how would my girlfriend know I’d been out drinking if I didn’t come home smelling like Pakistani food?

Waylon and Willie chilling at The Patriot

Cuento Cuesto: The Patriot’s as cheap as it gets in the 212. Just about anybody with some spare change and a few bottles to recycle can drink there. The Raccoon isn’t as cheap but its very reasonable.

Happy Hour: There’s a bartender with huge fake boobs named Catalina at The Patriot and she’s more than happy to show them off. That’s happy hour.

Split Lip Factor: I’m sure there are fights at both spots but folks seem too fucking busy getting hammered at both The Patriot and Raccoon Lodge to think about fighting. 2-of-5.

Huckle Factor: 0-of-5. Girls don’t sleep with guys they meet at these places unless it’s to get cash for rent money or score some coke.

If The Patriot Were A Celebrity: Dennis Rodman. He grew up in rural Oklahoma, didn’t you know?

If Raccoon Lodge Were A Celebrity: Ted Nugent.

Who Would Like The Patriot: Lou Dobbs; Tom Tancredo; Millard Fillmore; Boss Hogg; fans of NASCAR; Ted Nugent; and people who think the point of drinking is to get so loaded you puke.

Who Would Like The Raccoon Lodge: Sam Elliot’s character in Roadhouse; Teamsters; longshoreman; and folks that need a bit of upstate in their NYC lives.

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Blarney Stone - hands of fate

Hitting the Grolsch

Ok, I guess it’s really obvious by now that I like to drink and I try to do so whenever possible. Perhaps I’m like Vladmir, prince of Kiev, who according to historical reports in the 12th century chose Christianity over Islam for Russia because, as he said “drinking is the pleasure of the Russe. We cannot exist without it.” But I digress. Well, i had some off-site job training today, a class on assertiveness to be specific. So I decided the best way to spend my lunch break out of the office was to hit a local dive, the Blarney Stone at 11 Trinity Place in the Financial District. (Popular name. There’s at least three other Blarney Stones in Manhattan alone.)

This Irish dive is home to construction workers and Wall Street suits alike. It’s even stacked with a hot lunch line serving up cabbage, mashed potatoes, and sandwiches.

There was a group of rowdy electricians sitting near me bollocksing up my phone call to my mother. But no harm done.

I ordered a plate of chicken fingers and three Grolschs on tap. Came out to $19 with tip. Then I watched some “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” as I got sauced.

They sent me back to my seminar on assertiveness nice and lit up. My class participation greatly improved. I was laughing and scoffing at the video they showed us - “I Feel Guilty When I Say No.” I captured a clip on my Treo 650. Enjoy.

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Sans Goldman Sachs employee

It wasn't this empty when i was there

Another fanciful night out in New York City brought me to the Lower East Side. I went to two bars that definitely don’t qualify as dives, but were fun all the same. It was one of those all-too-rare magnetic nights where people kept coming up to chat with me. Mason Dixon in on Essex just north of Rivington. I met my friends John and Tom there and we proceeded to pay $5 for Bud’s, $5 for Yuengling, and $6 for Sierra Nevada - standard midnight Saturday Lower East Side prices. Walking in my first surprise was that I had huckled one of the bartenders! John had to inform me of this cause I didn’t realize right away. To my credit, she’s very hot, so I looked like a man of taste in front of my two compatriots. (My second surprise was that this aforementioned bartender with whom I had had a brief thing didn’t supply me with any free drinks, merely some very uncomfortable chit chat.)

Then these two girls tapped me on the shoulder and asked me where the mechanical bull was. Despite the fact that it was right in front of us, I acted like this was not a superfluous question. They were with this dude who bartends at Clem’s. He took the ballsy move of jumping over the railing from the upper platform with tables. It was like a scene out of “The Fall Guy.”

There were a lot of preppy guys, which resulted in an inflated douche factor in comparison with how many hot ladies were roaming around. Also, it seemed that only these preppie guys were riding the bull. Note to the preps: Although it’s funny to watch you guys eat shit, only women should be riding the bull!

Then my friend Tom was playing Big Buck Hunter when this wirey oafish chap came over to me and John. In a thick Massachusetts accent he said Let me ask you guys a question. What is up with the girls here? It’s like a horse (pronounced hoss) field in here. I told him, much to his displeasure, that he just needed to drink more and he’d be fine. Fair advice if you ask me. This jerk definitely wasn’t going to be landing Helena Christensen.

Glam favourite Marc Bolan

We left straightaway and showed up at Rififi (11th St. between 1st and 2nd Aves) for Glamdammit. Igor from drivenbyboredom.com took a few shots of the night Glamdammit - 3.2.08.

There were a few decent girls at Rififi, and more than a couple trannies.  In response to the latter, Tom uttered the infamous words “This is terrible.  The hottest chicks here are guys.”

Split Lip Factor: 2 maybe, just be careful not to talk trash about finance

Huckle Factor: 5

If Mason Dixon was a celebrity: Jesse James

Split Lip Factor: 0, forget about that

Huckle Factor: 4, 5 if you’ll go for a tranny

If Rififi was a celebrity: Alexis Arquette

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