Let’s start by saying that the Bleecker Street Bar is in no way, shape, or form a dive. It doesn’t wreak of spilled booze and puke and the bathrooms are so nice that irritating corporate chicks use them in gaggles without screaming or commiserating about just how wretched and disgusting there are. When you have vaguely business chicks hanging out after work, you’re going to have the bland dweebs that love them on hand also. Or is it the other way around? Either way, the point is, no self-respecting drunkard should ever set foot in Bleecker Street Bar unless it’s out of desperation. And desperate were Whitesnake and I tonight.

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.

Cheap Shots

I’ve always believed the real way to distinguish a true dive from wanna-be dives is the bathroom. The bathroom in a dive should be in an absolute state of disrepair. Graffiti, broken toilets, leaking sinks, and a stench that causes one to question whether the bathroom is actually an open sewer are good signs that you’re boozing it up at a dive. Even better if dudes piss in a trough and chicks, well, don’t use the bathroom because it’s too disgusting.

When I used to live in Ocean Beach some eight or so years ago, one of the dives I frequented was the beloved late Arizona Café — the AZ to those in the know — which was on Bacon Street in OB. Never made it their during the day but made it their plenty of nights when I should’ve quit drinking hours before I rolled into the AZ. What made the AZ the diviest of the countless dives in OB and San Diego were the bathrooms, which did little that actual bathrooms do and was so foul as to cause most people to step in and quickly back out without doing their bizness. Ah, the AZ…

Of course, no mention of dive bar bathrooms is complete without saying an RIP to CBGB’s legendary bathroom. If you never got a chance to enjoy the facilities this is what you’ve missed:

This could be your toilet

Speaking of dive bar bathrooms, following our two rounds at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge Friday night, Whitesnake and I ambled on over to Cheap Shots, a raucous watering hole that usually reeks of spilled beer and puke. Always a good sign in my book.

Our pitcher of Yuengling was a mere $7 and we able to hole up near the window facing 1st Street so we could check out the chicks and East Village characters as we drank our beer. The best thing about Cheap Shots is, first of all, that the only place cheaper to get loaded is at home with a case of Powermaster. A close second is its bathroom, which has reached legendary status for being a complete shithole both literally and figuratively.

The AZ may be gone but it’s stinking fetid spirit lives on in the restroom at Cheap Shots.

Address: 140 1st Avenue, Manhattan

Happy Hour: It always seems to be happy hour at Cheap Shots, mostly because the patrons are busy throwing down booze so as to completely dull the senses and make the trip to the bathroom unmemorable.

Cuento Cuesto: There’s a reason it’s called Cheap Shots. Go on your birthday when you can drink for free.

Happy Birthday to You

Huckle Factor: It’s all about location when it comes to scaring up some action at Cheap Shots. Perfectly situated to catch the action from EV pub-crawls, everybody ends up at Cheap Shots at some point in their NYC lives. 3 out of 5.

Split Lip Factor: Whenever I’ve been there, folks are happily getting smashed so it’s tough to envision a Roadhouse-worthy brawl breaking out but, with booze this cheap, I’m sure some knuckleheads have thrown fists a few times here. 3 out of 5

If Cheap Shots were a celebrity: Chris Farley (RIP)

Who Would Like It: People with abnormally large bladders; fetishes for the smell of vomit; celebrating their birthdays; and anybody that finds some spare change under the couch cushions and is looking for a way to spend it.