Your Labor Day Gonna Suck, Too?


It’s all a bit sad for those of us who know that we’ve come up with no bangin’ superhero escapee plan to flee the city’s rotting summer putrescence for the upcoming Labor Day Weekend. By Friday morning, the rest of our worker-bee drone friends will be out of the office, breaking off the shackles of cubicle farm life for Fire Island “delights” or sweet Jersey Shore sunbathing (hey, don’t knock it, asshole). Ours [Note to director: cue busted sea-lion wailing, cue savage beating of breasts] will be a more pitiful, dinero-less lot.

But we’ve got master plans. In an attempt to simulate some ersatz crusty beach (Jones? Coney Island?), we will avail ourselves of our landlord’s backyard, a few hotel-stolen towels, and mojitos concocted out of whatever “bits” are left in the fridge. Drunkenly retiring to the living room, we’re gonna follow this up with some sweet leftover Laguna Beach episodes, maybe hook it up with “Blossom: The E True Hollywood Story,” or that show about spoiled-rotten rich kids herding cattle (quote from loser participant Fabian Basabe: “I don’t work, and a lot of people don’t understand that”). And then later, later, comes the finale: We shuttle ourselves to a nearby bar, to drink ourselves sick till Tuesday rolls around—and we can hear about everyone’s fantastic, stupid weekend.

Here are our bar suggestions, in case you care to join:

1 The “Wow, Is This Paris!?” Escape: Barmarché has a French bistro-like décor (but for some reason, prickly pear cactus caipirinhas, honeydew martinis, and Brazilian sangria). Or suck down some wine at the always Euro-packed Café Gitane, a few blocks away.

2 The Classic Suburban BBQ Escape: The beer-on-rooftop chill is always a kind idea, especially when it comes complete with outdoor grill. At Liberty Heights.

3 The “Yeah, Just Got Out of My Sweet Jacuzzi” Escape: Stick your head in the mist machines at fancy Murray Hill bar Vapor, for that coveted, dewy J. Lo Glo.

4 The “Caribbean Paradise” Escape: Bembe’s rum punches strong enough to knock you off your feet, and they serve up cocktails straight from a coconut. Add some percussionists, and you’ve left Williamsburg behind for some tropical isle.

5 The “Drinks Are Ass-Cheap Here, So I Don’t Give a Crap Anyway” Escape: The Pabst and Bud goes for just a buck or two, round the clock, at Gowanus Yacht Club or O’Connor’s.

6 The “I Scored an Invite to Some Loaded Dude’s House” Escape: Pretend you’ve been invited to the weekend home of a rich architect friend into minimal wood design, at Larry Lawrence.

This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on August 30, 2005

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