Whipping up the same tired pitchers of Sex on the Beach every soiree and then not expecting to wake up on the bathroom floor, crusted in vomit and peach schnapps, is the definition of batshit crazy. Luckily, the seasonal sages at Back Forty are looking to help a drunk out, offering professional guidance on three weekends in November. Starting this Saturday, November 7, Michael Cecconi, the cocktail ace at both Back Forty and its landed gentry cuz Savoy, will lead classes on DIY-ing his fancy fresh creations at home. Students will learn to shake that thing, muddle like it’s hot. Not one to acknowledge boundaries between liquor store and Whole Foods, Cecconi will also help participants face their fears of squash plus vodka.

● Piccola Cucina Focacceria (Greenwich Village) - Killing any legit Pizza Hut excuse, artisanal stuffed crust pie 'til 3am.

● Tipsy Parson (Chelsea) - Haute Dixie puts the andouille in pig in a poke. Call up Tinsley Mortimer, ask her what that is.

Here in the land of women it is a time-honored truth that Halloween is merely an excuse to wear our naughties outdoors. One only needs to throw on her favorite corset, wig, fake eyelashes, tranny heels, and garter belt, and voodoo costume magic, she is good to go. When that creepy guy in the Jon Gosselin bald pate sidles up at the punch bowl and asks who she’s supposed to be, she can simply roll her eyes, be all like, “Sarah Palin, obviously. Don’t you see the glasses?” Unfortunately, a disturbing spike in pantlessness and underwear as outerwear is threatening to render national skivvies night obsolete. Every day can’t be hooker day, can it?

My first thought upon hearing that OxyContin “Hollywood connect” and former ER med student Sam Jones III had been arrested was: what is Lindsay Lohan going to do? Hot on the heels of her pasty-ful yet soulless Ungaro debut, recall to court over that pesky probation, possible restraining order against Papa Lohan, and spit-swapping with married man and Sienna Miller reject Balthazar Getty, this is just another setback that LiLo so does not need right now. Poor thing has taken to bathing in body glitter and allowing a small animal to gnaw at her fingernails. But don’t fret, I have the solution to everything, even these ugly leggings. It’s called pumpkin liqueur.

I used to think ABC was good for only one thing -- the mesmerizing Mormon hips of Dancing with the Stars’ Lacey Schwimmer. Now, however, there is Modern Family. Perhaps targeted to the same hysterical white woman demographic as its Wednesday-night chaser, Courtney Cox’s shrieky Cougar Town, I must be a h.w.w. after all because I LOVE it. This week’s episode, “The Incident,” featured a flashback to Al Bundy and hot foreigner Gloria’s nuptials, when Shelley Long’s starter wife got smashed on “Horny Colombians” with Gloria’s cousins, started hurling Charo ethnic slurs, and body-slammed the wedding cake. Which got me thinking -- how exactly can I whip up these Horny Colombians at home? Further bolstered by CNN’s muckraking three-part look at the treasures of Colombia -- coke, guns, and hos -- I determined the ingredients of a Horny Colombian are in fact two parts blow, two parts gunpowder, and one part silicone. Lime wheel to garnish.

Unbelievably, this past weekend marked New York City’s first-ever cocktail festival. The Manhattan Cocktail Classic -- like a golf tournament for drunks -- is the fetal alcohol baby of Astor Center honcho Lesley Townsend. Yet how was this boozy fete to distinguish itself from other days ending in y? Educational seminars, naturally: “The Agave Session: The Magical Elixirs of Mexico,” “The Many Faces of Cognac and Armagnac,” “Call of the Rye.” Milk and Honey man Sasha Petraske even proffed the inventive “Cocktails for Your Home Cocktail Party.” Unfortunately, I don’t do school. What I can report on is the fest’s capping gala -- the Sunday Night Spectacular. Because, hence glitter, hence faux cheetah fur, I do spectacular.

Khloe Kardashian is a person too. I was never a believer before, but with all the negative press swirling like so much sad organza around KK’s Sunday marriage to Laker Lamar Odom, I have come to realize it’s true. Here’s how: sisterhood sucks. It’s hard enough feigning a non-competitive, entirely supportive “friendship” with another female. But if you two share DNA? Girl please. It’s like looking in her face and seeing your every flaw. Or worse, a constant reminder of what you could have been and she is, every day. Kim obviously made out like a bandit with the genetic goodies in this family. And in soap opera wet dream fashion, Kourtney’s managed to get herself knocked up with some greaseball’s unwanted bundle of joy. Poor, unfortunate Khloe. What’s a baby sis to do but prey on unsuspecting Lakers with promises of reality TV nuptials within 30 days? She had no choice. Also, Lamar: gotcha!

I had high hopes: a boyflesh-eating Megan Fox, high school carnage, plus experiments in Bic tongue-scalding, and all named after a truly awesome Hole song about being kept in a box beside a man’s bed -- alive, but just barely! Alas, like Kirsten Dunst in full Marie Antoinette kit shuffling down a very long hallway to “Age of Consent," Diablo Cody and company should have just stuck with the three-minute trailer and let the imagination take it from there. Because, really, it was so much better in my head. The reality being a theater full of 15-year-old boys screaming every time Meg-meg appeared on screen, “Show us the thumb!” And though the early reviews may have been mixed as to Foxy’s acting acumen, let me assure you: girlfriend’s flatter than her bio boobs.

In his book Eat Me, notable flapjack flipper Kenny Shopsin writes of pancakes: “They are flour and milk drowned in butter and some form of sugar. They’re crap.” We love crap!

● Clinton Street Baking Company (Lower East Side) - Even fashion x-rays throw carb-rexia to the wind for these scrumptious slapjacks. Blueberry buttermilk ‘cakes are the fairest of them all. Fluffy pillows of the nutritionally void. Unlike socks-n-sandals or back hair, it is totally acceptable to order a supper stack.
● Tom’s Restaurant (Prospect Heights) - Born back in ’36 and still rolling with the whippersnappers. Harvest pancakes studded with tryptophan BFFs cranberries and sweet corn -- b.y.o. turkey gristle. Lemon ricotta with lime butter, famous banana walnut, boy. Free coffee, cookies, and lollipops while you wait. Old but spry.
● Public (Nolita) - Nerdy library gimmick can’t obfuscate simple beauty of coconut plus ricotta plus mango plus pancake. Pour out some ginger lime sizzurp. Books are for wussies and tropical fruit is for men. Save some room for kangaroo too.