March Madness and Musings courtesy of The David Xperience

I dated this woman who passionately believes I have multiple personalities, but only part of me agrees with her. I guess that means she's right.

While waiting to be seated this morning at brunch haven, Belcourt, my friend is telling a story about running into a girl whom she knew in high school, but hadn't seen in 10 years. "We weren't close friends, but we were friendly. She was a little older than me in high school." I replied, "Is she still older than you?" Luckily, my friend caught her grammatical error as the words were rattling off her tongue, so she laughed. Whew!

"I don't mean to beat a dead horse but -- " I hesitate, before continuing, "Ya know what? I just thought of something. Where did that statement come from? Was beating dead horses commonplace at some point?" My dashing friend replies, "I have no idea. It must be some Prohibition-era cliche." Does anyone know? Regardless, isn't it weird? Beating dead horses? I'm campaigning to supplant that cliche with, "I don't mean to rape a panda, but..." I know it's weird, but so is beating a dead horse for crissakes.

I'm not really sure if Jamie Foxx's Blame It, or Ne-Yo's Ms. Independent are worth purchasing from iTunes. Does anyone else have those moments where they're about to purchase a song from iTunes, but they quickly listen to it on YouTube and then can't seem to take the 99-cent-plunge?

My father is now a BlackBerry user and his text messaging skills are quite admirable. I'm proud of Dad, but I'm not sure he takes it as a compliment. Sure, to get someone to type a message on a keyboard isn't really praiseworthy, but you have to understand the context. Ya see, Dad has a penchant for leaving 2-minute voicemail messages that I never ever listen to. "Did you get my message," he'd ask upon returning his call. "Nope, but I saw you called," was my standard response for the past few years. Luckily, Dad and I no longer have such an exchange. Celebrate us! My voicemail box and "any time" minutes certainly appreciate Dad's text messaging prowess.

The NCAA men's basketball tournament (aka March Madness) is officially upon us. The 65-team tournament was seeded within the past few hours and millions -- yes, millions -- of people are filling out brackets in hopes of predicting winners and losers. Women don't seem to fully comprehend the magnitude of sex appeal that comes with completing a bracket. I swear, if only Cosmo writers articulated how attractive it is to know a female has taken the initiative of predicting the tournament's outcome. Goodness, is it hot in here? This year's tournament is more unpredictable than usual owing to tremendous parity along college basketball's landscape. With this in mind, I'm completing many brackets with different scenarios and grinning with glee imagining upsets, buzzer-beaters, and the trouncing that many schools are sure to endure. Much to my delight, NIKE released a new set of commercials relating to this year's tournament and they're outstanding as always. In my world, NIKE remains the benchmark for corporate coolness. Apple be damned!

Enjoy the madness,
TDX

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Wii Porn Courtesy of The David Xperience

Let's cut to the chase;

When Wii Porn comes out, I'm going to dominate. There are very few things I can guarantee. This, however, is one of them. The magnitude of gumption accompanying the aforementioned statement is scary. I'm serious. Going. To. Dominate. Will the Wii Porn equivalent of Rock Band be a gang bang? Before you scoff at the notion, think about it. The best part? Think of those people who host Wii-themed dinner parties. Wow, Americans are gonna learn a whole lot more about their friends and neighbors. Just imagine the exchanges;

Neighbor 1: "Your new girlfriend just jerked off six dudes in a minute. She has the new high score."
Neighbor 2: "Yeah, we play this game a lot."
Neighbor 1: "Do you guys have a...ummm...I don't know, like, an...ummm...open relationship?"
Neighbor 2: (Death stare)

Do people celebrate Lent, or is it simply observed? I'm technically Catholic, so I should know this, however, my religious acumen is, well, lacking. Regardless, I'm giving up Gilt Groupe for Lent. Well, not exactly. I'm just giving it up this week. Hey, I think it's a hell of an effort.

My obsession with hand moisturizer is cultivating odd behavior. Ya see, once I put on a few dollops, I'm then reluctant to touch anything that may soil my hands, thus warranting a rinse. As a result, touching door knobs and the occasional hand shake are met with a more discerning eye. It's a damn good thing I'm a hugger.

The upcoming NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament is nearly upon us and I'm giddy like a schoolboy. I'm lucky to have scored tickets to eight (8) games. It's like an orgy for basketball junkies and I've yet to make peace with myself. The fact is, I know I'm going to be that guy in the orgy that's having way too much fun and everyone's gonna catch a peripheral glimpse of me going apeshit for a helpless underdog like Morehead State. I should probably rock the Eyes Wide Shut mask, eh?

What better way to conclude this orgy-themed entry than with a reflection on my childhood (WTF?!?)...

As a child, I had an extremely difficult time suppressing the excitement leading up to a visit to a fast food restaurant. My nutritious-conscious parents precluded visits to McDonald's, or Burger King, or Roy Rogers (whimper). Only occasions that Mom and Dad warranted as 'special' led to unquenchable, taste-bud bliss that one can only enjoy from a Whopper, or Big Mac. The fascinating thing is I'm completely in control of what I choose to eat these days, yet I cannot fathom fast food. In fact, even considering a visit to a fast food restaurant gives me a complex. Hmmmm...

Super size me,

TDX
P.S. -- If you haven't used the Yapta flight finder things on my blog, check it out. It's awesome. I use it. Rinse and repeat.

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The Best of Edition by The David Xperience

As a high school freshman I learned it is grammatically incorrect to label anything as the "first annual". If something has not occurred more than once, then it cannot be considered an annual occurrence. Very logical, eh? Every time I see something called the "first annual", I want to choke pandas. For further grammatical verification and explanation, may I suggest obtaining a copy of Strunk & White's The Elements of Style. With that said, today's entry offers delightful suggestions for those wishing to savor Gotham's most glorious and debaucherous havens.

Category: Brunch Whores
Description: For those who would rather skip dinner, go get wasted, sleep until noon, wake up on the brink of death, and put the pieces of their life back together among friends.
1. Belcourt -- This East Village oasis offers astoundingly tasty brunch served among a gorgeous, hipster-heavy crowd that makes a remarkable effort to look fashionable without trying too hard. I have considered taking another human's life just for a bite of Salt Cod Hash with poached eggs, harissa and grilled flat bread ($9) or the Vanilla And Bourbon French Toast with fresh ricotta and cook's maple syrup ($9). Good coffee is a plus too.
2. Landmarc -- It won't be bustling aside from a few newborns in strollers being looked after by nannies. The menu isn't all that unique, but its version of Eggs Benedict/Florentine kicks everyone else's ass. A super-sized Bloody Mary helps ease the pain of the previous night's battle with Patron.
3. Blue Water Grill -- It's all about the Benedicts at this Union Square staple. Wait. Why the hell do I sound like Zagats right now? Aaaaand we're walking...Bring the folks here for the New Yorker Benedict -- applewood smoked bacon, cheddar cheese, toasted mini bagel ($13), or Crab Cake Benedict -- spinach, hollandaise sauce ($18). The venue is way better when the weather's warm and the windows are opened, thus allowing the rhythms of Union Square's Greenmarket to permeate the place.

Category: Meat Eaters
Description: Recession? What recession? For those carnivores whose price elasticity is immune to currency depreciation, economic tsunamis, and would rather sever a testicle than be caught dead at STK.

1. Strip House -- Skip slightly south of Union Square and enjoy delectable cuts with sides like Black Truffle Creamed Spinach. It's so good when it hits your lips! The menu is classic steakhouse fare, but they simply do everything better than everyone else. It's kinda like Google. A bone-in filet mignon has brought Chuck Norris to tears. I've seen it.
2. Dylan Prime -- It's very "Tribeca" -- located on a sleepy street, boasting hip, well-heeled clientele and a wine selection that's pricey because it can be dammit. The sluttiest "meaters" enjoy a Carpetbagger Steak ($46) which is stuffed with Blue Pointe oysters and a side of Lobster & White Truffle Mac N' Cheese. Do yourself a favor and start with Pork belly tater tots ($14) and a cheese fondue appetizer ($19) that even the most severe bulimic wouldn't dare barf up. Yummy.
3. Kobe Club -- This is easily the most grossly overpriced joint in the world and the fucked up thing is...I dig it. You will too. Tap your parent's home equity line and enjoy a Wagyu tasting that culminates in an orgasm (or your money back!). There's a bacon and truffle appetizer ($12) that's worth a heart attack, but nothing tops a side of hash browns with lobster, chorizo and creme fraiche ($13). Exiting Kobe Club with the "meat sweats" should be your goal.

Category: Imbibing the best
Description: Everyone has always hated bottle service. Luckily, even an economic Apocalypse can't deter patrons from sipping a cocktail (or a dozen) at these establishments.

1. Elizabeth -- has quietly supplanted all other cocktail-centric venues. Order a delicious concoction sprinkled with Pop Rocks, or the Elizabeth II, Queen Bee, or Midnight Tea. Hell, order all of 'em. I do. Nothing makes a wicked hangover more enjoyable than remembering an evening of taste-bud bliss. Oh, and no restraining orders. That's always a pleasant surprise too.
2. Little Branch is better than its sister spot -- Milk and Honey. I know, that may be blasphemous, but it's true. The unmarked, W. Village oasis is equipped with mixologists in Prohibition-era garb serving drinks with oddly shaped ice-cubes that amuse one's inner-child. Get wasted among friends sequestered in comfy booths and minimal lighting. "Hey, is that your hand?"
3. Tailor -- serves tasty culinary treats, but a cornucopia of cocktails makes it worth a visit. The Waylon ($12) is a bourbon and smoked Coke concoction that goes down waaaaay too easy. Crumble ($13) is brown butter rum, clove, and poire which is impossible to drink without ordering at least another round. Don't argue with me. It's science.

Suggestions are welcomed. Upper East Side recommendations will not be tolerated and may result in mandatory car pooling with Chris Brown. Ohhh...too soon?

Children trust me,
TDX

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The Wikipedia of The David Xperience

When a man is 30 years old society's expectations change. He is supposed to be demonstrating love for a significant other, usually a wife, and younger, malleable human beings like children, typically his own. The wisdom accumulated from parents, co-workers, and his own education should begin to come forth and replace youthful, unsavory proclivities such as excessive alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity. Yes, American culture expects a lot from its men and I don't necessarily take umbrage with these assumptions. I don't blame Hollywood for perpetuating them, nor do I dismiss them as manifestations of past generations. Nope, I just simply nod my head, flash a short-circuited smile and acknowledge I'm likely living on borrowed time thanks to a steady diet of poor decisions that may one day fill the annals of Wikipedia under "Immature Sexual Deviants". Last night serves as a marvelous example. Let's take a gander...

For the past few weeks I've developed a ritual of imbibing 5-Hour Energy shots before exiting my apartment for evenings of bliss. I cannot imagine the product's developers intended for it to be used in a such a manner, but I had found it kept me sober longer and suffocated the severity of hangovers. At 30, one's motor just ain't what it used to be and regaining a sober state takes a great deal more time and effort. So, I guzzle a shot before hailing a cab uptown to a buddy's crib where a few of us meet for a drink. "I've been drinking since 1," announces my buddy we'll refer to as Gavin as he welcomes me into his apartment for a pre-dinner glass of scotch. "Why," I ask. "Because I got a call from a bartender at this local pub," he answers with an innocent smirk. I guess in a recession, New York City bartenders are manning the phones soliciting alcoholics. Seems like a wise move, eh? We're joined by two distinguished gentlemen for a round of scotch before the four horsemen head to Quality Meats, a steakhouse offering a downtown feel to a generally uptown kinda crowd. We enjoy the usual steakhouse fare; a seafood tower of lobster, crab, oysters, shrimp and tuna tartare precedes a main course of filet mignon, porterhouse, and bone-in ribeye with accouterments like corn creme brulee, creamed spinach, and crispy mashed potatoes. In life, timing is everything. It's responsible for memorable observations like, "Oh my God! That chick just lost her bikini from that wave!", or in the case of a well-dressed gent being escorted to a nearby table who just-so-happened to glance over as I spit a piece of filet onto my plate. Whoops. I mouth, "sorry", to the dapper fella. He flashes a grin acknowledging my apology. His night of perfection is ruined thanks to yours truly's inability to slice a piece of meat small enough to chew and swallow. One day, I hope to acquire better table manners.

"Where to now," asks the evening's elder statesman we'll call BJ. The drunken, well-fed crew oscillates between neighborhoods -- SoHo, Tribeca, or Midtown? -- before BJ executes an executive decision leading the group to The Hudson Hotel. "Do you guys wanna buy a bottle," offers a thing dressed like an Olsen twin. Distinguishing this thing's sex is an endeavor best suited for scientists. "Not a chance," replies my buddy, Marc. Soliciting bottle service for the hotel's nightclub that is nearly empty and jumped the shark in 2002 is mystifying. We saunter to our intended destination -- the hotel's library-themed bar -- where, apparently, a cougar convention is in full swing. "I'm dying for a cougar. I really want one. Or two," I passionately declare. "You had one," quips Marc. "Vegas doesn't count," I counter though no explanation for such a retort exists. We slurp two rounds of cocktails before gallivanting to a fairly depressing Midtown establishment for two more rounds and then zoom downtown to Elizabeth. The 20-minute taxi ride is highlighted by BJ's steady refrain, "You gotta fight the power. You gotta fight the power that be!" to nobody in general. It's amazing how much funnier things are when one's BAC is approaching death.

A quick stopover at Elizabeth snowballs into shots and cocktails where a big-breasted brunette announces, "You have to be at least 6-foot-2 to ride this ride," effectively ending our conversation. An abundance of women frolicking about Elizabeth takes the sting out of the comment, plus, it's nearly 4am. Emotional sensitivity dies at 2am. I'd like to thank the Lord for programming me this way. A dozen phone calls to all-nite Korean salons is a fruitless endeavor courtesy of my sudden penchant for frugality, though coincidentally, my BlackBerry buzzes thanks to an incoming call. "Where are you," giggles a vivacious vixen. "I'm heading to my place. I'll see you there." The presumptuous remark strikes gold as this diva, whose recent appearance in The Wrestler elevates my intrigue, redirects her cab driver downtown.

By Noon, we stumble to brunch dead-set on successfully executing a Herculean effort to cleanse the system of alcohol. "Coffee, please. And chocolate chip pancakes. Oh, and a water. And, ya know, a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich too, please. With fries," I mumble with a degree of desperation to our waiter. As I take stock of my 30 years on Earth I ask the actress, "We should both name three things we're gonna do this year to improve the world. Not like donate money. I mean, like serious things that will make the world a better place when we leave it. What will you do?" She finishes sipping warm tea, rests the mug on the table and just as she has completed pondering forthcoming humanitarian efforts I cut her off, "Ah fuck it. The food's here."

It's the thought that counts,
TDX

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Big Night Out by The David Xperience

I'm greeted Saturday morning by the weekly publication, Barron's, whose cover story describes the oncoming slaughter of New York City's residential and commercial real estate markets. Awesome. It's not the best Saturday morning theme, but I guess it'd be more troubling if my Saturday morning's still revolved around Kids Incorporated. I nestle up to the kitchen table for a delightful bowl of Rice Krispies and dive into Barron's analysis which champions financial prudence especially amid gloomy economic times. Never one to honor authority, I snap-crackle-and-pop my way through a fistful of articles before checking the evening's invitation to the Big Brothers Big Sisters "Big Night Out" event at Cipriani Wall Street. The black-tie affair is the impetus behind a recent visit to Barney's semi-annual sample sale, so I'm giddy to rock the new duds. Oh, and to participate in the nurturing of America's youth. Yeah, that's what I meant. Details.

A few hours toiling at work end around 5-ish before I sashay to Molton Brown in SoHo for much needed facial cream. Hey, I figure if God wants me to look 18 when I'm 30, I may as well keep the cheeks looking soft. "Megu won't take us at 8," my buddy, Marc, announces via text. Like most NY'ers and a swelling slice of society, text messaging supplants actual verbal communication. "Make something happen," he suggests. I ring MEGU Tribeca where a delightful hostess informs me that my party of 4 cannot be seated at 8, however, they'll hold a 7:30pm reservation for 30 minutes. "Perfect," I say and inform the rest of my party via text. One must cherish all Dumb and Dumber moments with a smile. I grin with glee thanks to this encounter.

The ubiquitous and always-on-point, DJ Mode, helms the turn tables as Gothams' "young professionals" imbibe Cipriani's famous Bellinis and participate in black jack and poker, the proceeds of which all go to Big Brothers Big Sisters. "How does this work," inquires a stunning brunette as she saddles up beside me at a black jack table. "You need 21 to win. Every time you lose, the hopes and dreams of a child vanish," I reply. She chuckles and flashes a confused smile. Perhaps the setting wasn't right for such a comment. Or maybe it was? Interest is heightened thanks to a silent auction. Along with my buddies, Marc and RJ, we weave our way through a sea of sequent gowns and tuxes as we find absurd products and "experiences" up for bid. "Hey, I hope you like The Hills 'cause you're the leading bidder on the collector's edition DVD set," Marc announces to RJ. I'm in a few hundred deep on a treadmill thanks to Marc too. Dozens of Bellinis and countless sarcastic remarks to strangers later and, "One minute 'til the auction ends," announces the event's MC. I scurry over to the auction table, cast villainous gazes upon those inching towards the woeful NJ Nets tickets, and pound out Marc's name and contact number just as the auction ceases. He wins. Luckily, some kind soul outbid me at the buzzer for the treadmill, much to the delight of my landlord and checking account. Ahhhh...good times.

The missing ingredient to the evening was the presence of Jessica Simpson...as my date. A black, pin-striped, well-tailored suit and brightly colored tie goes marvelously well with her blond, Pantene commercial-esque mane and cleavage. Perhaps "her people" may re-evaluate 2009's social calendar to accommodate upcoming formal affairs where yours truly is a participant. Or maybe the pending restraining order precludes such an evening of Ecstasy? We'll let the courts decide.

For the kids,
TDX

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A Bacchanalia of Ballyhoo by The David Xperience

Emergency rooms were fully staffed and EMTs were on high alert as a three-headed hydra of "haute"-ness celebrated their birthday at Elizabeth yesterday evening. The morally bankrupt, yet fashionably inclined, band of revelers packed the splendid SoHo joint where mixologists concocted an orgy of delicious cocktails and even managed to woo heterosexual males into imbibing a pink-colored one. DJ Mode, fresh off NBA All-Star Weekend in Phoenix, AZ, stirred the house into a frenzy courtesy of Rihanna, Jay-Z, Kanye, and a dollop of Guns N Roses.

Celebrated blogger and hooker-to-the-homeless, AntiKris, spent the evening elevating the level of debauchery until it was impossible to ignore. "It's like watching a train wreck," observed an astute, albeit drunken, patron. "You wanna look away, but you just CAN'T!" Nonetheless, her presence was dearly welcomed.

A cast of black, white, Asian, and Hispanic partygoers wielded sculpted cheekbones and unclogged pores reminiscent of United Colors of Benetton commercials. If only more casting directors were present. Oh, what could have been...

Much to the dismay of Vegas odds-makers, few incidents of alcohol poisoning have been reported, however, an onslaught of restraining orders and newly synthesized STD's are expected to surface within the coming days and weeks.

The tomfoolery continues on Saturday, February 21st at Cipriani Wall Street where Big Brothers Big Sisters of NYC hosts an elegant gala. 'Til then...

Children trust me,
TDX

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Happy Endings and Ice Cream Bagels by The David Xperience

As many people can attest, a massage is a wonderful thing. I love massages. My love falls just short of maniacal. Yesterday, I visited a spa in my favorite 'hood -- Tribeca -- for a delightful 60-minute masterpiece. I'd been to Tribeca Spa of Tranquility previously. It's pleasant, though not over-the-top luxurious like Cornelia, or the Mandarin Oriental. Regardless, the army of over-50 Asian women running the joint do a wonderful job. As "Jane" -- the spa's quasi-manager -- introduces me to the non-English speaking masseuse, she utters, "No extra touch." A moment of disappointment flashes followed by a chuckle. I already know it's not a "happy ending" kinda place, so I find Jane's head's up (PUN!) amusing. The following 60-minutes are marvelous and nothing short of comedic. Ya see, whenever someone speaks to me in broken English I have a tendency to respond in broken English. So, as the masseuse occasionally asks, "Issa okay?" upon applying pressure to my joints, I respond with, "Yessa, issa okay." Why I do this is a question I've yet to answer. I wonder if the masseuse was offended? If only she spoke English, then I could explain my odd proclivity. Issa okaaay!

Following the massage I sashayed over to WD-50, a gastronomic temple headed by celebrity chef, Wylie Dufresne. This haven for foodies with progressive palates serves a veritable orgy of unique dishes. An everything bagel with lox is made of ice cream. Seriously. The bite-sized treat looks exactly as you'd expect and tastes delicious. As the 'rents and I devour 12-courses of bliss, Dad and I indulge in way too much wine and decide we should get a picture with the celeb chef. I saunter into the kitchen where Wylie is standing idle, introduce myself, and pose while Dad hops into the frame and Mom snaps a gem. "He's a really nice guy," I quip upon returning to the table. Dad confirms. Mom, the sober one, nods and smiles. Clearly, our drunken states damper our perception of reality. One can only imagine the extent to which two stuttering, drunken, male groupies have left Wylie searching for greater meaning in his craft, "Is this my reward for genius? Really?"

I'm searching for a friend to accompany me to a Jessica Simpson concert. As I broach the topic, I'm met with stares reeking of disgust and shame. Perhaps I should just go alone and start amending friendships. Sure, I'll look like a pedophile, but I've already made peace with it.

I'm fairly certain one of the top jobs in the word is the person responsible for sending Careerbuilder.com emails. I realize any jab at the topic of employment has become a sensitive one given the economy's tenuous state, however, I think a careful analysis of this Careerbuilder.com nuance is worth a laugh. Luckily, I've been gainfully employed since exiting the halls of higher learning in 2001. While matriculating, I -- like many others -- created a profile on Careerbuilder.com, posted a bullshit resume and attacked those companies seeking my limited skills. Upon embarking on my professional career on September 10th, 2001, I was no longer in need of a Careerbuilder.com account. So, I did a logical thing by canceling my account. Or so I thought. To this day I still receive email notifications of new job postings despite repeatedly canceling my account and receiving the "confirmation" email. Oh, those tricky bastards at Careerbuilder.com just love to toy with my emotions. As a BlackBerry addict, I sleep with the gadget by my side. Hey, it's better than a midget a Cabbage Patch Kid. However, this is a recipe for disaster since I HAVE NO DOUBT that whomever is responsible for reporting new job opportunities is simply an expert at drunk emailing. Sweet job! Why on Earth would I receive notification of an "exciting sales leader" position in "North Jersey" at 3:17am on a Tuesday?!? The lunacy is Madoff-esque. For the love of God, "issa notta okay!"

Sleep deprived,
TDX

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