I can overlook comic sans and I can overlook “tequila lounge” but I can’t overlook both.
Rules for My Born Son. And You.
I have the contrarian bug today:
1) Be polite and smile your brains out, but let the bartender flirt first. Always provide a number, never ask for one.
A gender-specific injunction. If the bartender is a heterosexual male and you are a heterosexual female, flirt away. He is not allowed to complain, and any move to do so will be seen as braggadocio.
Andrew Breitbart gets a drink made by Rachel Maddow - White House Correspondents Dinner
It’s a visceral thing with me. You’ve ever tended bar? You sling drinks? We’re tight. I want to hear your stories. It’s a bond among legal drug dealers. Can’t explain it. Don’t want to.
Frat culture takes a lot of abuse (most of it justified). But give credit where credit is due. This guy was running around in a rugby-striped bishop’s hat with a fake green beard. Pretty funny drag for St. Patrick’s Day.
And Be 10 Pounds Underweight
“They’ve migrated to the Mission District, where a bartender must have a pedigree in ‘mixology’ and a modeling portfolio, plus be handy with a muddler for grinding Kaffir lime leaves into organic citrus syrup.”
On the Rocks: The Search For America’s Top Bartender was supposed to be programing for the Ed Hardy demographic. (Read: suck.)
So far it’s not bad. Granted, it airs during the post-SNL graveyard slot. But it’s actually a passable bartending version of Top Chef.
They start by testing a free pour. After a commercial break they evaluate food pairings and the show ends with personal recipies. Nothing wrong with that. Workman-like. Top Chef would actually be better if it focused on fundamentals, like knife skills.
That said, On The Rocks doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt. The Douche Advisory is still set to ‘Elevated’. I mean, Christ. But as long as there’s no flair in sight, I don’t see why the concept couldn’t migrate over to the Food Network.
Potential hosts: 1) Ted Danson 2) Hank Azaria.
UPDATE: Flair reared its ugly head in last year’s web-only version. Too bad. Had potential.
Downtown
In Downtown Los Angeles, there is a restaurant/bar that sells French Dip sandwiches, called Cole’s. Through a door at the back of Cole’s is a small bar, called The Varnish, that serves artisanal cocktails. Through a smaller door at the back of The Varnish is a closet-sized room, called Transistor, in which a bartender sits upon a piano stool and pours a single shot of 20-year-old Scotch for each patron. Through a doggie-door at the back of Transistor is a smaller closet with a four-foot ceiling, called Phosphor, where a dwarf named Hibernius will take a swig from a bottle of absinthe, demand that you tickle his exposed scrotum with a peacock feather, messily spray the absinthe into your mouth once you comply with this off-putting request, then cackle in a disturbing fashion as he devours the feather.
There is no door at the back of this room.
(via michauxfochaux)
The Endup is to San Francisco what San Francisco is to America.
I wish it was back then and not now.
The Pride of Massengill
Medjool is renowned for its douchey clientele. But I didn’t expect to see such a prototypical specimen right up front and working the door like that.
I have to admit, I was delighted.
The eyebrows were sculpted like you would not effing believe. If Michelle Obama and the lead singer from Color Me Badd had a love child with drag queen eyebrows, and that child’s eyebrows had eyebrows, they’d be on this guy. The cologne, the scorpio necklace, the pose … all priceless.
Made my night. 
