The Flying PuckWhat would otherwise be a perfectly serviceable midtown bar full of what could only be construed as the dregs of the pre and post-hangover scene surrounding MSG is somehow schmutzed up by a neon sign prosthetizing to hockey enthusiasts and brawlers (though who can tell the difference is beyond me) as well as some cheeseball Rangers stained glass and a somehow incongruent bank of giant flatscreen televisions. Transplant this joint to the Lower East Side with its low lighting, dark wood and funky multi-patterned tile floor and you’d most likely have a hit. Instead you have an overpriced sports bar with no use in this universe or any universe beyond. Let’s face it, a hockey bar is about as practical as South Dakotan haute cuisine. To imagine the crowd here on game night—the Ranger fans who couldn’t get into the Garden, mind you—is to imagine the very bowels of light-jeaned, white-sneakered hell. I guess you could say I don’t give a flying phuck about it. [MF]