NYCBP Blog

Labels: beer, Bud Light Lime, commercial, In The Can

Little Michele & Kal of Blue Ruin

The last 18 months have not been good for drinkers who like their bars dirty and their beer cheap (and served by sexy women). There have been so many closures it boggles the mind. So I was extremely eager to attend the grand opening of Blue Ruin (538 Ninth Ave. between 39th & 40th) on Friday night. After a fantastic evening, here is my take: I predict every “Best Of New York” bar list for the next ten years—from Time Out to New York magazine—will feature Blue Ruin in the Top 5. Every time.

There is a major reason to get excited about this venue: one of the partners—and Blue Ruin’s head bartender—is Little Michele (just one “L” on that). To speak of Little Michele is to speak of greatness in a 5-foot-tall package of unstable dynamite. It does not do this leather bustier-loving woman justice to boil her drink-slinging career into a few sentences, but I’ll try. A dozen years ago she put Hogs ‘n Heifers on the map; it was Little Michele who got the Page Six attention and made the place famous (it is also where she got her bar name; Big Michelle is the Hogs owner). Then she quit and went to Red Rock West; imagine if David Ortiz quit the Red Sox today and showed up in the Bronx, that was the effect. She also was at the defunct Circus (rumored to becoming a gay bar soon). Little Michele is the archetype of the classic NYC roadhouse bartender: lightning fast, filthy mouth, sexy as hell and always remembers what you are drinking.

Before going too much into what Little Michele and Rachel, another Red Rock alum, had in store on Friday, let me tell you about the bar. It is located in the spot formerly occupied by the legendary Bellevue Bar (and the lame Why Not?). None of the Bellevue fixtures are left; the new owners started with practically a clean slate. Blue Ruin is still in the process of being fixed up, but here are the important details:

All female bar staff.

It is open 7 days a week, 11 am to 4 am, except Sundays, when it opens at 1.

Happy Hour is every day from 5 to 8, with two-for-one drinks.

A draft of Bud Light (my drink) is $4.

PBR in a can $2.

Great buyback policy.

Pool table.

All female bar staff.

Michele told me the philosophy of the bar. “It is all about New York,” she said. “If you want to watch sports, stay home with a six-pack. If you want to go to a bar with girls with their tits out, come here.” The partners are going to decorate the place with a New York theme of old photos and mementos; it currently does not have any TVs but those may come (“for New York sports only”).

I met Kal, who is the other principal owner. He runs Kabin downtown, another hit bar. He wanted Little Michele’s attitude. His wife came up with the name for the bar, which is a Prohibition era nickname for bathtub gin. This makes sense, because the whole bar has a speakeasy vibe. It is all exposed wood, metal, and a reproduction tin ceiling. It already looks 50 years old. Part of this has to do with the care these two took in getting the place ready, which knocked me out. It is some story.

The floor, which I usually only notice if I am spread out on it, is made of gorgeous wide wooden planks. It turns out these came from the old Pepsi plant in Queens, and the wood that was salvaged is 100 years old. They hauled it over to Hell’s Kitchen and Michele helped plane the wood! She was very hands-on with the bar construction too; Michele said the wood for this came from a guy on eBay for $10. It is Spalted Siberian Elm and she helped install it. She also got her hands on a blowtorch and assisted in the welding of the custom light fixtures. The overall look of the bar is like a speakeasy; it would be easy to picture this place in the basement of a brownstone in 1920, and not just in the shadow of the Port Authority, next door to a porn store.

The jukebox is eclectic; I can’t say I’ve heard a more diverse mix lately. I heard, in no particular order, The Ramones (“Sheena Is A Punk Rocker” and “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School”), Arthur Conley (“Sweet Soul Music”), Tony Orlando & Dawn (“Knock Three Times On The Ceiling If You Love Me”) and the ultimate one-two punch: Glenn Miller’s classic “Pennsylvania 6-5000” followed by Gun ‘N Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” Michele said, “The jukebox is work in progress… it will be all New York music… you will never hear fucking thrash metal in this bar.”


Kal said the best is yet to come for the bar, which it is still being ramped up. It will take time to get it just right, but I advise checking it out now. If anyone has a stuffed lion or tiger head, please bring it in for these guys.

Little Michele is hiring more bartenders in her mold: tough and fast. But it would be extremely hard to find a bartender with a dirtier mouth, which is another one of her bad habits. “My tits keep flying out,” she told me as she tried to shove her girls back into her bustier. You need to have her drop the F bomb on you a few times.


It was a great scene to watch Little Michele and Rachel behind the bar. Rachel is a spicy blonde who always, always, always looks like she is having fun. She has been out of the game for two years, but you would not know it from seeing her in action. I don’t think Rachel will be there too often, but if she is on duty, you’ll have to catch her act. For now, Little Michele will be there most nights except Thursdays.

If you are looking for a new bar to explore, make tracks to Blue Ruin. It is worth a trip to explore the newest roadhouse on the Manhattan scene.

Labels: bars, beer, hell's kitchen, patrons, saloons

Back in another time and era, pre-October 4, 2008, that is, many of us who had formerly lived on the Upper West Side would regularly make pilgrimages to our dearly beloved Yogi's. Its closing by the real estate sharks made numerous headlines, and far beyond the confines of New York, judging alone by the responses I have personally received about our coverage of its demise.

On the night of its closing, numerous writers, journalists, and photographers showed up both to record this sad event, and also to have one last beer or shot, since at least some of them had puked there more than once.

While trying to navigate through the human sea of beer-worshippers who had gathered there that night, I started talking to this fellow who said he was there covering the closing for VanityFair.com. He said his name was George Gurley, and we talked.

His story, with the politically potent title of "Another Dive Bar Dies in Bloomberg's Manhattan", indeed captured the flavor, sounds, and scent of this bar, from the customers to the music to the bartenders to the bathrooms.

The story included a quote from me that I had wanted to celebrate my 60th birthday at Yogi's. That joyous day was Sunday, March 22, 2009. I had a cold all week, so I postponed any celebratory drinking until my aging body said "beer and vodka" to me instead of "soup and tea."

But I was in the neighborhood to have dinner and shop, so I wandered a few blocks to the intersection of 76th Street and Broadway, and sat down on a wooden bench in the area which separates Broadway. I had passed by the site a few times when it was all boarded up, and had also seen it recently now that the entire building has been ripped down, destroyed, incinerated, obliterated from our lives.

Now I have a photo of it, albeit an unintentionally misty one because I took it late at night with a phone camera, and not a real one.



I think the seeming haze adds a surreal quality to the photo, since all it took to destroy such a vibrant mini-community and oasis of controlled debauchery was the unquenched zeal and greed of a tiny handful of real estate, banking, and political pirates.

I'll be back drinking again very soon, now in my 60th year. I hope to see y'all in the barrooms – unless, of course, you're one of those types of bastards who go around looting and stealing from people like us. Our day is coming, and we'll bury you at the foot of the big beer can mountain. You can count on that, boys.

Labels: beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, upper west side, Yogi's

Did you watch the president's speech last night? There was one topic he did not mention, in all that talk about banks, schools, the war in Afghanistan:

Alcohol sales are down.

I was shocked by that. Particularly since movie ticket sales are up. It seems to me, if the economy sucks, you'd either go to see something like Transformers 2, or else buy a 12-pack and go home and watch porn.

According to Bloomberg News:

Beer sales fell the most, 14 percent, in last year’s fourth quarter. They accounted for 61 percent of the $111.9 billion in alcohol sold to drink at home. Wine sales retreated 1.6 percent and sales of liquor slid 0.9 percent.

There is more here about the startling statistics. Let's just hope we get over this recession soon.

Labels: beer, drinking, news

Regardless of which holiday you celebrate (or, for people like me, don’t), you can’t help being bombarded this time of year by armies of Santa Clauses, usually seeking a bailout, and from you.

Did you ever wonder where the hell all this money goes? Have you ever received a detailed accounting of who gets what from your handouts? And are you now or have you ever been just a tad suspicious that this “goodwill to all” stuff is merely another scam or racket, just like the stock market?

I was ruminating about just such things the other night at The Patriot Saloon, where I somehow ended up after being a guest on Joey Reynolds’s late night radio talk show on WOR. As I was sitting there, enjoying the lovely Jessica tending bar, and talking with a bunch of old friends who are fellow survivors of Yogi’s, I noticed another one of these Santa guys standing in the bar.

Now, I always wondered why his nose was flaming red, but now I had ironclad, documentary proof: Santa is a big fat boozer, and we caught him red-nosed and red-handed at The Patriot with a beer can in his hand.

So next time one of his cronies tries to bum some dough from you, just ask him if he wants a can or a bottle, laugh, and then walk away. Then go to the nearest dive bar, and if I’m there, buy me a cold one. At least you’ll know where your money went, and, after I hit the can, that while it was in the end flushed down the drain, it was put to good use.

(Photos by Eddie Goldman.)

Labels: beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, Patriot Saloon, Santa Claus

A few months ago, we started to chronicle the doings of veteran bartender Lauren. She had just started working at Yogi’s shortly before the real estate sharks destroyed it, and after the bar where she had worked for six years, Fubar, had physically been destroyed by a crane collapse.

More recently, I ran into her Sunday night at The Patriot Saloon, where for that one night she was filling in. But she does now have two regular shifts: Wednesday nights at The Duck, and Friday nights at The Patriot. So go see her, somewhere, anywhere, as often as you can.

Now you really have no excuse ever to stay home!

Labels: beer, dive bars, Lauren, Patriot Saloon, The Duck

Labels: Alyssa, beer, dive bars, Doc Holliday’s, Eddie Goldman

I guess turkey day is the start of what is called the holiday season. That is what all these incessant advertisements and commercials have been insisting, and they wouldn't lie, would they?

For some, this time of year is a busy one, pre-programmed to carry out shopping and all sorts of other rituals. The creative tendencies, whether produced by DNA, experience good and bad, or, more likely, some equation involving the two, tend to get overwhelmed or even crushed in this seasonal onslaught of conformity and commercialism.

Such a time is particularly difficult for those among us who think and, more to the point, act independently. Convention, custom, fashion, and the like count for naught to many of us, unless they can be shown to make sense, to be proved so.

But we, the independent and thinking folk, are a minority. Some of that is by economic necessity, as any economic system will not reward its outsiders.

So what do we do, while the prevailing mores, prejudices, and fears are utilized and manipulated to marginalize us? Sure, we all fight back in our own ways, to varying degrees of effectiveness. But alas, we are also very human, fallible, and emotionally vulnerable, too.

In the meantime, while the existing dumbness prevails, we need to feed our minds and spirits. What the dominant institutions cannot provide our critical minds, we find elsewhere, in the public houses, taverns, barrooms, and honky tonks. These crazy places may be our best refuge from all this insanity. Our problems may not be solved there, but our hearts and minds can be recharged so we can not only survive this season, but continue to go against the tide.

For us NYCBP'ers, this has become a harder task with the closure of so many of our bars like Yogi's this year. But they are still out there, so don't hesitate to free yourself from all this mindlessness. Have a rowdy good time, but remember to tip well.

Labels: beer, dive bars, Thanksgiving, turkey

Labels: beer, country music, dive bars

This Tuesday night, Oct. 7, my nephew was in town, so we went out for dinner at Artie's on Broadway near 83rd Street. I had taken him to Yogi's a time or two, and normally we would have stopped in to see the luscious Theresa, the queen of Tuesday nights for about the last seven or eight years.

Before heading to the restaurant, I passed by Yogi's to see if somehow my recollection that it had closed this past Saturday night was just a hallucination implanted by alien kidnappers from a hostile galaxy, or maybe some falsehood claimed in a campaign attack ad. Maybe I had dreamt it all, and now that the beer from the previous week had worn off (except on my dirty laundry awaiting cleaning), I would discover that it was all some big misunderstanding.

And maybe I would also get a text from Halle Berry saying that her hotel key was under the doormat of room 1410.

The place was dark and locked. It was night when I arrived and hard to see inside, but it looked like any ordinary, boring, spiritless bar. The big labels on the beer taps appeared to have been removed. There were some things littered about, although the liquor bottles still seemed to sit there. And outside, the bear was gone, gone for the first time in about 25 or so years. It was as if its heart and soul had been ripped out.

I only stayed outside the bar a couple of minutes, but in that brief time I heard several passersby commenting on the countdown clock and saying, "They held out as long as they could." If such decisions were left up to the community, and not some faceless real estate bandits, I might be drinking there right now instead of posting this.

My nephew and I both decided to split after dinner instead of getting beers somewhere else. He has a very busy schedule while here, and I just didn't feel like suddenly looking for a new bar home on the Upper West Side after first having gone there, when it was still McGowan's, at some time I now wish I had recorded, in the mid or late 1970's.

That is what Yogi's was to so many of us, a place for our drinking family and a place for our real family. I had taken countless people there from all around the world, and mostly made ready converts of them, even on the slowest of nights.

First what made Yogi's special was the people. While every place has its share of assholes, the people plus the setting made most folks quite friendly, and friendlier than any bar I have frequented either regularly or even a few times.

The music played a large role in that. The main message of the rockin', outlaw country music which filled its semi-functional jukebox was that life and individual happiness should be celebrated. There is a true passion for freedom in these tunes, freedom in the individual and social sense and not just meaning formal freedom like voting, etc. You could celebrate you right there, while drinking your beer, singing and yee-hawing along with the songs, and then trying to wade through the soggy men's room when it was time to unload.

The gorgeous women behind the bar also, of course, made Yogi's special. Most of them, especially the veterans, made you feel right at home. Many of us guys in there couldn't pass as metrosexuals if it meant getting a chunk of that bailout loot. It usually didn't matter quite what you looked like, and especially what you were wearing - so long as you tipped nicely, thank you.

And the cheap, cold beer, that elixir of the common man and woman, was the cornerstone of this perfect quartet which made so many of us fall in love with this filthy, little place.

The people, the music, the women, and the beer - all guarded by the bear, which has since gone missing.

Now we are orphans again, left to search for a new bar home either farther away or with a different vibe. Hopefully The Duck, which opens Thursday, will do well, and there are always gems like Doc Holliday's remaining, but East Harlem and the East Village may be too far to travel for those who liked to get smashed while listening to Merle and Willie on the Upper West Side.

At the behest of drinking buddy Joe, I hung around as long as they would let me to be the last paying customer to exit Yogi's, forever, at this location anyway. He said it was only fitting, since I probably had been going to this bar the longest of anyone there that night, and certainly among the longest.

A crowd hung around outside for some time afterwards, just as it started to rain, as if David Allan Coe went to pick up his mom again. The raindrops hastened everyone's retreat, the countdown clock with all those zeros told the story, and it was over.

The NYCBP.com message boards have some great recaps of the last night there by many of my rowdy friends. I am not posting my fuzzy pictures taken with my camera phone, as there were many folks there with real, fancy, digital jobs who have promised to flood us with these memories. But I still have my pics to save.

The last song played on that ole jukebox was Sawyer Brown's "Some Girls Do." Its line of "I ain't first class, but I ain't white trash" describes a lot of us who walked in the door past that bear. And for those who loved Yogi's, whether or not they were white anything, the line, "Some girls don’t like boys like me, but some girls do", summed up a lot of our experiences, both there and elsewhere.

There is no hiding the sadness so many of us are feeling now that Yogi's is gone. It was surreal knowing what the countdown clock said, and it will take some time and frustrations like I experienced Tuesday night for it to sink in. A lot of us put in some extra tours of drinking duty during this last week at Yogi's, so we may not be all that ready or eager to whoop it up this soon. But the emptiness will hit you, sooner, probably, than later.

Labels: beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, New York, Sawyer Brown, Some Girls Do, upper west side, Yogi’s

Labels: beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, Yogi's

Such were the instructions of bar owner Tom McNeil, shortly after 2 AM Friday night/Saturday morning, on the next to last night at Yogi’s, to those who were planning to come for the final night of drinking, Saturday, October 4. Presumably he meant only the ladies, but, as we see from some of the photos below, it would not surprise us if some of the Yogi’s men tried to show to the world that they indeed have balls.

I already wrote my Yogi’s epitaph on the chalkboard:

The countdown clock is getting scaringly low:

The lovely Patience was behind the bar:

Plenty of folks jammed the bar for this next to last night:

Labels: bars, beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, New York, Tommy McNeil, upper west side, Yogi's

Janet is looking for something here, and is also unsure of where she'll land after Yogi's closes.

The cold, cold hearts of the real estate parasites have robbed us of Yogi's. Will we ever find another home like it again?

Labels: bars, beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, Janet, New York, Yogi's

It was the last Tuesday night at Yogi’s for Theresa, who is the longest continuously working bartender at our beloved dive. She was joined by Brie for this last Tuesday before the bar closes this coming Saturday, October 4, and the real estate cockroaches have it ripped down.

Theresa said she will be one of the all-star crew working the last night at Yogi’s. I asked her what she will be doing after that, and she said she planned to join the circus. I, for one, hope to see here again somewhere, sometime, even if it means watching her let a thousand clowns out of a car.

(Photo by Eddie Goldman.)

Labels: bars, bartenders, beer, Eddie Goldman, New York, Theresa, Yogi's

Labels: beer, dive bars, New York, Yogi's

It was a surreal Monday night at Yogi’s. Mondays have been one of the liveliest nights at this bar over the years, and Monday, Sept. 29, was just that, with girls dancing on the bar, outlaw country music blaring from the jukebox, and the gorgeously frenetic bartender Patience looking as radiant as ever.


But this one was different, as it was the final Monday before Yogi’s closes for good on Saturday, October 4. For those who hadn’t heard or believed the news yet, there were signs posted outside and inside the bar:


There was a countdown clock facing the street:


Even the legendary sewer of a bathroom had graffiti with the news:

It will all be over Saturday. Hopefully, however, it will all resume Thursday, October 9, at The Duck and, we wish, at a new Yogi’s near the present one sometime in the future when the economy, finance, and the real estate markets, i.e., the “big money” which is closing down this Yogi’s, allow.

(All photos by Eddie Goldman, thank you.)

Labels: bars, bartenders, beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, New York, Patience, upper west side, Yogi’s

It is doubtful that Yogi Berra ever set foot in any of the incarnations of the bar which currently shares his nickname. It is even less likely that he will be there to help close it, as he did last week with Yankee Stadium. But if he wanted to, he would have his chance next week.

I just got off the phone with journalist and drinker Paul Katcher. He had sent me a text message shortly before 11 PM Thursday night, from Yogi’s, with the dreaded news: the last night for this bar will be Saturday, October 4.

He said he had spoken with bartenders Patience and Brie, and that they had been told earlier today that the closing of Yogi’s will be sooner than expected, on October 4. I may head down there myself a bit later to find out more, and, of course, have a few beers.

Clear your schedules, friends, because Saturday, October 4, will clearly mark the end of an era in our rapidly devolving New York.

Labels: bars, beer, Eddie Goldman, Paul Katcher, Yogi’s

Labels: bars, beer, Eddie Goldman, Fubar, Lauren, manhattan, New York, Patriot Saloon, Yogi’s

Labels: Alyssa, bars, beer, Doc Holliday’s, Eddie Goldman, New York

So all these weatherpeople from the liberal/communist/capitalist/conservative media (just ignore whichever epithets you disagree with) are telling us that there is this big storm coming to these parts Saturday. Well, that didn’t stop a bunch of regulars, rednecks, yuppies, and hippies from descending on that den of debauchery Friday night, the one and only Yogi’s (so far).

Part of the reason, of course, was that on Friday nights, the superstar Patience keeps slinging the beers. If she weren’t such a sweetie, she could start bloody civil wars over her.



Also helping the clientele lose their senses was the lovely Danielle. Just a smile from her could get the Taliban to buy a beer for Toby Keith.



So you stayed home to watch 20-year-old Robin Byrd reruns, did you?



For you unfortunate few who failed to show this Friday, Patience works Friday nights at Yogi’s and Wednesday days at The Patriot Saloon, and Danielle works Wednesday nights at The Patriot Saloon, Monday days at Yogi’s, and scattered weekends where needed.

Of course, you did get a partial pass if you stayed home to watch boxing. There were three lives cards on Friday night, and HBO has a potentially great battle in Juan Diaz vs. Michael Katsidis Saturday night. Also, if you’re really Internet savvy, you could watch numerous other fights from around the world Saturday.

And don’t worry if you are more redneck than hippie, or vice versa. Gretchen Wilson’s new album, due out this fall, has a tune called “Hippies and Rednecks” that attempts to bridge the gap between these sometimes warring subcultures. No doubt this healing process includes a lot of beer.

PS – I know my pictures aren’t exactly the best. I just use my camera phone, which is all I have. I’m a journalist, not a photographer, so all you fellers who do have these 2009 model digital jobs are invited to put your beers down for a second and point, shoot, and e-mail.

Labels: bars, beer, Danielle, Eddie Goldman, Gretchen Wilson, New York, Patience, Yogi’s

Labels: bars, beer, country music, Lisa Marie, Patriot, Yogi’s

This past Thursday night at Yogi’s did find an assortment of sweet young thangs there, although most of them looked like extras from “Sex And The City”, with their fancy handbags and shoes. But for the few hours I was there, none of them danced on the bar or even acted much rowdier than a bunch of yuppie-ettes at a sale at Bloomingdale's. Even usually surefire anthems from Gretchen Wilson and Dolly Parton did not elevate any of these young ladies off the floor (although I was told that a few had danced on the bar before I had arrived).

The two lovely bartenders that night, newcomer Emma and regular Brie, of course, kept us wolves satisfied, of course.



But the most fun the menfolk seemed to have was when the finicky jukebox played “Dueling Banjos”, and we all started banging away on the bar.



Crowded as it was, the atmosphere was so slow that the white-haired, late-night regular Bobby (“Yeah, baby!”) actually made sense and got a few laughs when he suggested that something should be done for the “horny old men” amongst us.

Brie and Emma did what they could, of course within the confines of the law. Brie liked this photo I took of her, commenting, “My boobs look huge!”

Yes, even cameras in cell phones capture that image.

I don’t know if it is a summer thing, but dancing on the bar at Yogi’s has been a rarity in these hot months. Maybe the redneck women are on vacation, or broke, or can’t risk violating their parole.

In any case, one place the outlaw women seem to be is in the new video celebrating them, from country group Jackson Taylor. Here it is:

Labels: bars, beer, Brie, Eddie Goldman, Emma, Jackson Taylor, outlaw women, Yogi’s

I have been looking to buy some decent green tea, and was advised to check out Trader Joe’s in Union Square. I finally made it there Sunday afternoon. I wish I had been told that this place is completely swamped with customers, elbow to elbow, aisle to aisle. Even so, I had already made the trek from my uptown world headquarters, and was planning to visit Doc Holliday’s afterwards anyway, so the half-hour wait on the checkout line only came out of my drinking time. The staff there, also, was beyond pleasant, helpful, and patient.

Labels: beer, Budweiser, Doc Holliday’s, Eddie Goldman, green tea, Li, Mayo Clinic, MySpace, Trader Joe’s

A long time ago I spent several years living in St. Louis, and I've always been partial to Anheuser-Busch products, the Cardinals, and pretty much the entire Midwest. So today when I went looking for something to speak to the potential, and highly likely, takeover of A-B by InBev, I found this song by Phil McClary, a dude who really likes his Bud, the Cardinals, and America. The lyrics:

KISS OUR GLASS
by Phil McClary

We've got Momma's apple pie and baseball too,
Lets not forget we were the first up on the moon...
Great accomplishments aside one things perfectly clear,
America is not for sale and neither is her beer..

Oh AB you're Americana as Americana can get,
Don't sell your slice of the American dream cause
History won't forget,
All you hard working Americans stand up and show some class
Have a drink with Mother Freedom and tell InBev to Kiss your Glass...

I drank a bunch of cold Budweiser's,
watched Dale Sr rule the track,
Toasted a frosted mug of Bud light,
To every soldier in Iraq
I got silly drunk and crazy,
Praise the Lord I never wrecked,
I had a designated driver the day I married my best friend
Bud Select-

Oh, Augie I never knew you,
Nor any of your kin,
But sell the stock, this world will rock,
We might just switch to Gin..

All you hard working Americans stand up and show some class
Have a drink with Mother Freedom and tell InBev to Kiss your Glass...

Now God Blessed the Clydesdale,
the Arch and Old St Louis,
Mr. Buck and Mr. Shannon
God Blessed both of you too...

Every time I think of Baseball, Busch Stadium, Cold Beer...
It's A.B. Products that makes every memory Clear...
Oh AB you're Americana as Americana can get,
Don't sell your slice of the American dream cause
History won't forget,

All you hard working Americans stand up and show some class
Have a drink with Mother Freedom and tell InBev to Kiss your Glass...
Kiss your Glass,
Have a drink w/Mother Freedom and tell Inbev to kiss your...
RED WHITE & BLUE GLASS!

Labels: beer, music, video, web finds

Nine-to-fivers will disagree, but for us nocturnal beer drinkers, would that the week had many, many Mondays. That way we could go to Yogi’s several times a week to drink with the electric Janet.

I know some of you had to watch those Robin Byrd shows from twenty years ago on channel 35 and then have dates with Five-Fingered Mary, but you’d have been better off postponing such bliss and heading over to Yogi’s. I got there around 1 AM, and you never know who will wander in.

There was some raven-haired girl dancing to the songs next to the bar. I told her if she danced on the bar, she could become famous. She said no way, and that she was already famous. I then asked her how she had become famous, and she said she’d tell me for a dollar. I wonder what 50 cents would have gotten.

Around 2 AM, guess who moseyed on in?

Labels: beer, dive bars, Eddie Goldman, Janet, New York, Tommy McNeil, Yogi's

I hereby apologize to all my barfriends and bartenders: Because of work (I’ve been called the hardest-working person in my biz) and family issues, I was unable to fulfill my obligations this weekend to go out drinking.

Labels: bars, beer, drinking, Eddie Goldman, Janet, New York, Yogi’s

The broke folks, the weekend drinking dilettantes, and the tourists tend to show up far less at Yogi’s on Monday nights, and I guess at many other bars, than they do most of the rest of the week. That has made it a haven for serious boozers and partygoers that night over the many years this wondrous dive has been open. Legendary bartenders have ruled Monday nights for over a decade, including Elizabeth, Myriam, and Julie. (Look up their pictures on the site, or let Kevin add them here.)

Since February of this year, a veteran beerslinger has called Yogi’s her home on Monday nights: the one and only Janet.



Janet had already made her mark at the grand old Village Idiot, but now has inherited this prized slot to entertain the crowd while helping getting them all jacked up. While her predecessors largely made their reputations on Monday nights at Yogi’s, Janet took over this spot with her place in the Hall of Fame long ago reserved.

Now she has been joined, for at least one night, by a newcomer to this little subculture of bars, the lovely Krystle.



Krystle comes to New York from the great state of Alabama, and though new to Yogi’s and The Patriot, she had heard many of the songs on their jukeboxes back home. She moved to New York to become an actress, and until she becomes a superstar or whatever she wants to be, we will see her here, as she has recently been hired by Tommy McNeil’s brain trust.

So there is plenty to drink at Yogi’s.

Labels: beer, Eddie Goldman, Janet, Krystle, Yogi's