Finally! The long awaited Happy Hour Miss(ed) Manners! I know you’ve been waiting for it, right? Right?
Hahahaha Psyyyyyyche Again! Got you! hahahaha oh man that was awesome.
Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just not happening. Over the past two weeks I took the heavy burden of pre-dark alcohol consumption upon my weary shoulders and hoofed it from bar to bar down here in hopes of pinpointing the exact time when the fabled “Witching Hour” of mega-conglomerate-bank-omnicorp happy hour celebrations takes place. The magical hour when Ken, the sweaty, mangina lump sporting IT guy can engage in a brutal make-out session with Sarah, the HR cougar-extraordinaire.
There were like, fifty hyphens in that paragraph
I went to a handful of places, because honestly, there really are only a handful of places to go down here. Ulysses, which everyone kept telling me to go to, is a clusterfuck of Spring Break proportions. My assumption that the ladies get tarted up to go out after work was dashed when a friend let me know that instead they just get tarted up for work in the morning and then respray on a sheen of slore-mist when the 5 o’clock alarm blares, by way of aerosol can.
I’d heard alot about how apparently during happy hour, class, race and station disappear and you’ll see construction workers playing pool with suits. Whatever, no you don’t. Everywhere I went it was the same shit: blue shirts, bereft of their loving necktie life-partners, talking to other tieless blue shirts about the same shit you hear at any other happy hour, sports. NO WAI! Did you know that that one guy is getting traded to that other team over there?
Long story short: Happy hour downtown is, for all intents and purposes, a self perpetuating booze cruise, a walk down frat-memory lane, a congratulatory circle jerk pat on the back, which you can find anywhere in any bar in New York; don’t waste the subway fare.
This was a little disappointing, to say the least. I’m a huge fan of cutting loose and having a good time and I mean that in the purest summer-camp movie sort of way. So when I found out my new hood’s party of choice was just so fucking plain and regular, well I was kind of sad and whenever I get sad I like to sit somewhere really visible and try to look as outwardly depressed as possible. It’s called pouting, I do it a lot.
So last Friday, there I was, pouting on the steps of some place next to some statue outside of the Stock Exchange, taking it all in when something started to make sense to me. People downtown don’t need to cut loose and get wild, they live in the world’s largest club, the Financial District.
That’s right, the F.D. is one giant analogy for a megaclub and it’s soooo obvious. Have you ever tried to walk anywhere down here? You don’t, you’re herded, following the waddling ass of some silly jacketed floor trader until you get to where you were supposed to meet your friends two hours ago but totally forgot because you were talking to some stranger about how the scene’s just not like it used to be, man.
The similarities are all over the place but lets start with the most obvious, the floor of the New York Stock Exchange:
Just add in a few colored spots, some phat beats and you’ve got something that’s hotter than a circuit party taking place in between Danny Tenaglia’s butt cheeks after a five mile run, check it out!
Actually, that looks like what I’ve always envisioned Daft Punk’s house would look like.
Anyway, more club structures. The deli’s and diners down here are the closest equivalent to a superclub bar. They’re always mobbed, the staff is uncaring, unpersonable and can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying to them.
There are even specific entrances and exits with bouncers checking bags. The office buildings are the dance floor with your office your own little pyramid steps where you and your boys hang out. The DJ’s are up in the penthouses.
The people all fall into severely limited categories. There are meathead traders who stand outside ogling every thing with a vagina that walks by, and I mean EVERYTHING. One morning I had just gotten off the train and was making my way to the office. I look up and see this really great can in front of me, bonus, great way to start the day right? I look off to my left and there’s this group of five idiots literally drooling as they stare in that really gross date rape sort of way while the girl walks past them.
Then I see what can only be described a female Weeble walking towards me and I swear the same five idiots give her the same stare. I swear if I’d started rapping out a simple drum beat anywhere within earshot they would have started pelvis bumping that poor chick’s donut around like a greased pig at a county fair.
Cops = Security. Same complexes, same asshole-ish nature. Thanks for saving the world by letting me know I can’t walk into the Stock Exchange/VIP Room, Serpico.
You’ve got your old school heads walking around with their briefcases and trenchcoats, talking about how things used to be, back when Chase was Chemical or when Twilo was Sound Factory.
There are the bottle service guys who are actually not an analogy. The guys who look like bottle service guys down here actually ARE the same twats who shell out hundreds for a chance to finagle a blow job out of some Weehawken airhead looking for a ride home. I found that amusing.
Oh and fucking tourists! Asking where Broadway is when you’re on it is about as funny as asking when Mr. Sasha Digweed is playing his set. Do some research, hayseed.
Oh and finally, I already mentioned the hoochies above, but let me do it again: Business Casual Fridays is basically the F. Diss equivalent of Halloween at Crobar. You’re going to see a lot of slutty secretaries.
That’s basically it, I’ve got to jet, DJ Customer Service is coming on and I never miss a set.