Tipsy

Merlin's Magic

I know, I know - it was a sad day indeed when Merlin's closed its doors here in Buffalo. Where else could one go to have one's feet stick to the floor? Where else could one get Blue in a plastic cup? Where, other than the other dives that is?

Welp, don't hold yer breathe for a crap bar to move in; instead, a high end Belgian beer bar called The Blue Monk is in the works.

Say... wha...? What's next? A frites shoppe?

New Category Alert: Tipsy Abroad

By Jay  

The inaugural Tipsy Abroad column. This category came to me one day whilst driving around for work (yes, my job drives me to drink). After being told I needed to write a book for the umpteenth time, I began to replay the many nonsensical escapades in my mind, little of which had been captured on camera. Mercifully.  

So, grab your passport, stow your tray table, and return your seat (or yourself) to the upright position: Welcome to Tipsy Abroad.  

In 1998, I went to Venezuela. I hadn’t planned to go there; I believe I was meant to be heading to Antigua, but my cheap tickets fell through last-minute. After a full 36 hours in the Newark airport, I freaked out and bought a ticket on the next available flight heading south. Caracas it was.  

After a mapless week wandering the streets and slums of the capital, I got on a bus and headed to Puerto La Cruz on the coast. There, I could get a ferry to Isla Margarita, and from there, I planned to go on to Trinidad & Tobago. The bus rumbled through the dusty countryside, blasting past tiny shacks that miraculously managed to have fresh looking Coca-Cola vending machines. Capitalism at its finest.  

I arrived at Puerto La Cruz and, for a lack of Spanish, drew a picture of a big boat and said “Donde esta…?” while pointing to the picture. It worked and I got on a huge ferry that crept through the water for the next 8 hours. We arrived on Margarita deep in the night.  

Again, mapless, I wandered around town until I found what seemed to be an area with hotels. I rang the bell of one hotel and woke up an elderly man who ushered me through his house, into a back courtyard, and up a fire escape. He showed me to my room: one light that didn’t work, a mattress, and a toilet with stagnant yellow water. Perfect! AND, it was only $7.  

Although the elderly man was wonderful (he and his wife plied me with coffee in the morning and pointed to the map, babbling in Spanish that I didn’t understand), I changed hotels the next day to be closer to the action. Porlamar is the capital of Margarita and is a bustling tourist area. Over the next few days, I figured out which bus to take to get to the gorgeous Playa El Agua, where to find the best café marron in town, and located the perfect grimy ex-pat bar.  

Amsterdam Café was on a side-street. Owned by a Dutch man who simply went by “The Duke”, Amsterdam was a haven for seedy Europeans and the local hookers that loved them. Kas, another Dutch man, worked the bar, and you could tell Kas had seen way too much. Francisco, the Danish foreign legionnaire, would pound hard liquor and threaten any and everyone over nothing. Neil, the retired Brit, would laugh at the antics of the others, always maintaining his head. And I somehow fell into this fold a little too easily.  

One night, The Duke insisted I try his favorite vodka, appropriately called Sonovavitch. I’m not a vodka drinker, but I indulged The Duke. Every time someone would have some, he’d yell “SONOVAVITCH!” The locals didn’t get the joke, but I thought it was hilarious.  

I joined a heated poker match between Neil, Francisco, and another drifter. I agreed to deal. After a few hands, a card flipped over mid-deal. I picked it up and shuffled the cards again and kept dealing. Francisco grabbed my wrist. Everyone froze. “Never… NEVER… stop a deal…” I didn’t know what to do. He was very drunk. He was a nasty guy to begin with, but worse when he drank too much. I looked to the other guys for help. Just the night before, Francisco told of how he’d killed men with his hands. Whether it was bullshit or not was not something I cared to find out. The dude was fucknuts insane. Neil, the Brit, gently patted Francisco on the shoulders. “It was an accident,” he said calmly. “She didn’t mean to…” Francisco didn’t quite believe him, but he let go of my wrist. “Uhm… I think I’m done for the night, boys…” I said. I was losing money anyway.  

As a little post-script to the story, I was once telling it to coworkers and said “I thought he was gonna kill me! It was crazy!” There was a slightly uncomfortable silence until someone piped up with “What I find crazy is that you didn’t find it crazy to play poker with a hired killer to begin with.”   Touche, my friend. Touche.

New Category Alert!

Be honest: what is in your recycling bin?

Have you ever caught yourself whisking Miller Lite bottles out of sight before your friends come over?

Has your fondue recipe remained top secret because the star ingredient is Tostito's Nacho Cheese?

What about those mags Gato Negro you never allow to age to perfection?

Yeah, we've all been there. And here on Tipsy, we're going to lay it all bare. We will strip ourselves naked before you to reveal the sad truths that get us through. Maybe you'll laugh, maybe you'll cry, maybe you'll puke... but you'll definitely relate.

Welcome to the Dustbin Confessionals!

Lucky, Lucky Youse Guys

Ah, yes: the inaugural post here on Tipsy. What can we tell you that the name doesn’t already?

Tipsy is a response to the begging – nay, pleading – for snark about wine since the demise of The Wine Chicks. We killed the Chicks about two years ago. Jay was working in wholesale and had limited opportunity to taste anything other than her own portfolio. And that, dear readers, got trite quick.

But here we are – back and ready to drink once again. Except this time? We’re armed with a canon of cohorts, including the legendary Bree. Yes, that Bree – the very same woman who issued dire warnings about chugging pink champagne. Ah, memories.

Tipsy was initially meant to focus on all things boozy. But why limit ourselves to just booze? So we’re including food and recipes. And music. And whatever else seems to fit our pursuit of decadence and frivolity. We’ll be livin’ the American Dream, minus the 2.4 kids.

In the coming days, we’ll introduce ourselves and give brief biographical shpiels. After that, we’ll see how it goes. We still have a few kinks to work out with the blog itself, but I can hopefully get that all figured out this week.

As always, keep in mind that opinions expressed reflect solely those of the author. Except, of course, Bree’s. Hers are pending constitutional amendments.