The slum lord management of our apartment wants to rent the floor below me to a Belgian wine bar.
I vetoed the hell out of it (LIKE THE HOUSE DID TO THE PAULSON BAILOUT PLAN -- zing??) since the noise level around here is already high enough to require earplugs during sleep.

In other news, I was hanging out with Danker + Waldron on Saturday night and we accidentally ran into a hidden bar. We were in East Village, literally a block south of where I live, snacking at some hot dog stand when we noticed that people kept on disappearing into a tiny phone booth in the diner.

"So uh... I hear there's a secret bar around this area where you have to ring a phone in a hot dog diner to go in," Danker said.
"So I heard too."
"This might be it, then."

Then a line started to form in front of the phone booth. Obviously we had to give it a try. We went into the phone booth, dialed the phone, and some snooty waitress opened a crack at the door.

"Name?" she asked.
"The Baron," Danker said.
She arched an annoyed eyebrow, obviously not amused. "And reservation number?"
"None."
"Let's see... that will be an hour wait."
"Oh, screw that," my older bro said.
"Have a good night," she said and slammed the door.