Best Message Board Post of 2007
As regular NYCBP visitors know, I have been dismayed at the lack of activity this year on the message boards. There are only a few who regularly add comments and noteworthy message board posts. So it was not hard to locate the best message board posting of the year. It is by Eddie Goldman, who is a professional writer. For his troubles and devotion to NYCBP, Eddie has won a free night of drinking courtesy of NYCBP. (This offer is not valid at "21", and only at a bar on NYCBP). Thanks Eddie! And the rest of you, this is what you should aspire to.
Eddie's winning message board post:
Posted: Fri Oct 12, 2007 3:41 am
Post subject: There Ain’t No Bras At Yogi’s
As the Fates have decreed, or the Darwinian randomness of life has just let happen (I go with the latter), three times in the past seven days I have been drinking at Yogi’s. That is far above the average number of times I have been able to make it down there these days, but that is hardly a complaint, even though other obligations have sliced into my drinking time.
If I had to retire anywhere, it would be at Yogi’s, right by the jukebox and a few paces from its almost underwater men’s room. But as I’m still a workin’ man, I have to be selective in my trips there. And not mixing vodka, Jack, and whatever else they put in those shot glasses, with my beer has helped me stay a bit longer each visit.
Last Friday afternoon I had the pleasure of seeing Lisa Marie. She had on some little outfit with a separate collar and a tie, plus that luscious little plaid skirt she fills out so perfectly. She said she had been reading my piece on this site about Yogi’s being threatened by the Duane Reade monster. But as usual, she was dancing on the bar and wowing all the after-work boozers.
That Friday afternoon, the TV’s all had the Yankees-Indians game on. So when the Yankees played the Indians, who do the rednecks and cowboys root for? Just asking.
Tuesday night was another unplanned stop to see the longest-serving bartender at Yogi’s, the one and only Theresa. She had on a little tank top that read, “Tip or Die.” She is so adorable and professional that anyone who doesn’t tip her generously ought to be arrested for being a suspected terrorist.
Theresa also noted that there were few new posts on this site. I guess y’all are spending too much time on YouPorn and PornoTube.
Thursday night I also had another unplanned visit, and this time the bar was being womanned by the lovely veteran Betsy and the equally lovely newcomer Jen, a gift from the state of Michigan to New York. Apparently I got there a bit after the girls had been dancing on the bar, but after some old rock ’n’ roll tunes, a slew of country classics bellowed forth from the jukebox (except when it skipped).
There was a lot of Merle Haggard playing, showing the sophistication and aesthetic perspicacity of the rednecks drinking beer there that night. Betsy and Jen even let some of the slow ones play, including, largely due to my plea, “Are The Good Times Really Over (I Wish A Buck Was Still Silver).” Remember the line: “A Ford and a Chevy would last ten years like they should.” Could you imagine any commercial radio station playing that today?
Jen, now working there about two months or so, promised to send me a friend’s request on my MySpace page. She could be a real star in our universe.
Now about the bras, since this should be an area of expertise for all of us. I know my vision is bad, but has anyone else noticed that there are no more bras at Yogi’s? There used to be mounds of them hanging high on the walls. Now they are gone.
I was told that these bras had been taken down and disposed of because, over the years, they had become homes for countless roaches and other assorted critters. I wonder if that says anything about the hygiene of their previous owners.
Now the ladies who do get up and dance on the bar don’t want to take off their bras because, as some explained to the bartenders, they don’t want to leave behind these 40- and 50-dollar garments. What kind of woman wears expensive underwear to Yogi’s, drinks a lot of beer, and then hops on the bar when Gretchen Wilson tells us she’s a redneck woman and not a high-class broad? I don’t get it.
By the way, why are there never any forty-something divorced women at Yogi’s?
I still love it, though, and hope to see you there on my next unplanned, spontaneous stopover. And tip or die.
Eddie's winning message board post:
Posted: Fri Oct 12, 2007 3:41 am
Post subject: There Ain’t No Bras At Yogi’s
As the Fates have decreed, or the Darwinian randomness of life has just let happen (I go with the latter), three times in the past seven days I have been drinking at Yogi’s. That is far above the average number of times I have been able to make it down there these days, but that is hardly a complaint, even though other obligations have sliced into my drinking time.
If I had to retire anywhere, it would be at Yogi’s, right by the jukebox and a few paces from its almost underwater men’s room. But as I’m still a workin’ man, I have to be selective in my trips there. And not mixing vodka, Jack, and whatever else they put in those shot glasses, with my beer has helped me stay a bit longer each visit.
Last Friday afternoon I had the pleasure of seeing Lisa Marie. She had on some little outfit with a separate collar and a tie, plus that luscious little plaid skirt she fills out so perfectly. She said she had been reading my piece on this site about Yogi’s being threatened by the Duane Reade monster. But as usual, she was dancing on the bar and wowing all the after-work boozers.
That Friday afternoon, the TV’s all had the Yankees-Indians game on. So when the Yankees played the Indians, who do the rednecks and cowboys root for? Just asking.
Tuesday night was another unplanned stop to see the longest-serving bartender at Yogi’s, the one and only Theresa. She had on a little tank top that read, “Tip or Die.” She is so adorable and professional that anyone who doesn’t tip her generously ought to be arrested for being a suspected terrorist.Theresa also noted that there were few new posts on this site. I guess y’all are spending too much time on YouPorn and PornoTube.
Thursday night I also had another unplanned visit, and this time the bar was being womanned by the lovely veteran Betsy and the equally lovely newcomer Jen, a gift from the state of Michigan to New York. Apparently I got there a bit after the girls had been dancing on the bar, but after some old rock ’n’ roll tunes, a slew of country classics bellowed forth from the jukebox (except when it skipped).
There was a lot of Merle Haggard playing, showing the sophistication and aesthetic perspicacity of the rednecks drinking beer there that night. Betsy and Jen even let some of the slow ones play, including, largely due to my plea, “Are The Good Times Really Over (I Wish A Buck Was Still Silver).” Remember the line: “A Ford and a Chevy would last ten years like they should.” Could you imagine any commercial radio station playing that today?
Jen, now working there about two months or so, promised to send me a friend’s request on my MySpace page. She could be a real star in our universe.
Now about the bras, since this should be an area of expertise for all of us. I know my vision is bad, but has anyone else noticed that there are no more bras at Yogi’s? There used to be mounds of them hanging high on the walls. Now they are gone.
I was told that these bras had been taken down and disposed of because, over the years, they had become homes for countless roaches and other assorted critters. I wonder if that says anything about the hygiene of their previous owners.
Now the ladies who do get up and dance on the bar don’t want to take off their bras because, as some explained to the bartenders, they don’t want to leave behind these 40- and 50-dollar garments. What kind of woman wears expensive underwear to Yogi’s, drinks a lot of beer, and then hops on the bar when Gretchen Wilson tells us she’s a redneck woman and not a high-class broad? I don’t get it.
By the way, why are there never any forty-something divorced women at Yogi’s?
I still love it, though, and hope to see you there on my next unplanned, spontaneous stopover. And tip or die.
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