Today’s soundtrack: Tell your mother, tell your father, send a telegram.
Today at 3:02am: on line for the bathroom


So on Saturday night I was a gay wingman.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: In NYC some people like to party hard, but I like to party smart. Which means no going out on weekends or to hotspots praised in publications, so I can avoid the retarded crowds. In terms of partying, I am not going to pay a lot for this muffler.

But after a day of cleaning the apartment on Saturday, and badly in need of a drink, I broke my rule and went out even though it was a weekend. I headed up to the East Village catch a drink with West Coast Artist Girl, who’s in town from L.A., and a bunch of her friends. They’d chosen to go to Holiday Cocktail Lounge, a dive bar on St. Mark’s.

On the way I rang up East Coast Film Guy, knowing he’d be out and about on a Saturday, and California Kirk, ‘cause he lives in the area. Received confirmation and sent them the coordinates.

“Dive bar” was no exaggeration--in terms of depth, Holiday Cocktail Lounge is the fuckin’ Kursk. Which made me happy because Saturday night or no, this place was emptier than the Red Cross building in Fallujah. A true shithole, with wood paneling older than Nixon’s lies and every square inch of the joint reeked of urine. Practically deserted. This would do nicely.

I had a hard time believing the three honest-to-god-truck-driver-lookin’ motherfuckers at the bar actually agreed to meet for drinks in New York City, but more power to ‘em. I was thrilled to see the bar stocked Miller Genuine Draft in a bottle--oh, to be in college again--and shocked to see they ran only two or three bucks. At some bars you’re aware you’re spending money, at this bar I felt like I was making money.

West Coast Artist Girl was at a table in the back, with two white guys and a girl. East Coast Film Guy was at the next table, with a white guy and an Asian couple. Neither table knew each other.

I said hello to everyone, brought that sweetly trashy MGD to my lips, and sat first at WCA Girl’s table.

I didn’t know her friends, and after a round of intros I learned the white guy next to her was from Sweden. I’ll call him Torkel. Torkel seemed a nice enough guy, and was fluent in English at any rate.

WCA Girl and I shot the shit, then I bounced back and forth between the two tables. During one of my rounds at ECF Guy’s table, all four of ‘em leaned towards me conspiratorially and asked “Hey, you know that guy at the next table?” They were indicating Torkel.

“Just met ‘im,” I said.

“Is he gay?” they asked, obviously extremely interested in the answer.

“Well, he’s foreign,” I pointed out, and everyone groaned. (As everyone knows, the very act of being foreign throws gaydar off.)

“Why, is one of you guys gay?” I asked, sensing someone was interested.

“Yup, him,” said ECF guy, pointing to his white friend sitting next to him. I’ll call him Brian. Brian expressed a strong interest in Torkel.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” I said, and headed back for the first table.

I waited until Torkel was engaged in conversation with the cat across from him, then leaned towards WCA Girl.

“Hey don’t take this the wrong way, but is anyone at this table queer?” I whispered.

“Why, you got a problem with that?” she said, putting up two fists. I explained the situation and indicated Brian.

“Ohhhhhh,” said WCA Girl.

“So izzy?” I asked.

“Well, Torkel ‘likes girls’,” she said, using her fingers to make quotation marks. I took that to mean Torkel was one of those cats that expresses interest in chicks, but no one’s ever actually seen him date one. I feel like there’s one of these guys in every group from those areas where being homosexual will get you chased through parking lots.

“Then I’m gonna have to let Brian figure it out,” I said. My responsibilities as a wingman stopped at basic intel and introductions; I wasn’t about to suss out a total stranger’s sexual preferences through nuanced conversation in a bar like this. I returned to the other table, to report my findings to the council.

Eventually half of each table stepped outside to smoke, and I found myself standing in front of Torkel, who was polite and started making small talk with me. Or maybe he was just happy that I’d actually heard of a Swedish city besides Stockholm--specifically, his home city of Orebro. I find that when you meet a foreigner and you actually know a little about their country, they’re surprised and sometimes happy.

When Brian came outside I took the opportunity to shift over and stand by WCA Girl, and it worked like a charm. WCA Girl and I shit-shot while Torkel and Brian got to talking. I hoped Brian had heard of Orebro and that Torkel had heard of amyl nitrate. (Statistically speaking, I guess only 10% of you will get that joke and only 5% of you will actually find it funny. But hey, this is LiveJournal, not the fucking Nielsen’s.)

California Kirk showed up, and the lot of us headed back inside.

For some reason, the fine management staff at Holiday Cocktail Lounge decided to close the bar early--around 11:30p!--probably because the urine smell was starting to fade and they needed to spray again. ECF Guy said his friend had just opened a bar up in the 40s and was having a party tonight.

“East side or west side?” I asked. I might have broken one of my rules, but I’d be damned if I’d go out on a Saturday night and start hanging out on the west side of Manhattan. I mean I might as well start taking heroin or join the Taliban.

“Between Lex and Third,” he said. So we headed up there.

We had to take two cars to fit everyone, so I figured I’d throw Brian the last bone I could. “Torkel, I don’t think you’re gonna fit, my car is small,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “Would you mind going in the other car with Brian and them?”

“Sure, no problem,” he said.

We arrived at ECF Guy’s Friend’s Bar--I mean that’s not what it’s called, but I can’t remember the name for the life of me--to find the party in full swing. The crowd was shockingly manageable for a Saturday night, meaning I could walk from the front of the bar to the back with a full drink and only have half of it jostled out of my glass, as opposed to having all of it tumble to the floor and shatter at the feet of a hoochie mama who screams and prompts her Riker’s Island boyfriend to bury a haymaker in my thorax.

Price-wise the drinks at this place were closer to normal range, meaning a twenty was enough for two cocktails and half a tip. The space was nice but the DJ, apparently A.D.D.-afflicted, was driving me nuts--he’d play one or two good tracks, then five tracks of trash, then one or two more good tracks, then more trash. Can’t keep the floor moving like that.

We met up with Brian and the other car and got the story. Turns out Torkel’s not gay, or he’s still keeping the clothes hangers company or whatever the case may be. Hey, I tried.

In the back room, we lit up illegal cigarettes and waited for the music to get good.