Sometimes you feel out of place; sometimes the world swims. Let’s assume alienation comes only from within and is of a moment or lifetime, ’cause the Hanger is about as friendly a bar as I’ve come across the past year. With the first drink ($2 PBR) came a pink origami-folded paper. It read: “At least you have your sense of humor . . . IN ENGLAND!” What does that mean? (Then, is it true?) They offered me candy—twice. The name incidentally comes via the vintage and vintage-looking clothes (from designer Lona D) they sell off a rack, putting Hanger somewhere between a possible hybrid-trender and gimmick-pusher. The decor feels like a gloss on New Orleans parlor bars: Ornate mirrors adorn a papered wall, dark-wood tables and chairs mellow a red paint job in back, while the subway bench reminds us that it’s more about being unique and resourceful than taking a concept all the way. On tap are Schaefer ($3), Stella and Brooklyn Lager ($5), and Bass, Guinness, and Hoegaarden ($6). There’s something perversely affected about sucking Olde English out of a can, but you can do it here cheap ($2). You can also choose three whiskeys or Scotches for $12 and $15, and if you buy an article of clothing it’s a dollar off your next drink. Stranded as it is between the L.E.S. and the East Village, the Hanger may never fulfill its Hip potential. But that’s OK. Being original is as much a product of circumstance as primary intent.