Well we sent Uber260 off in style with a weekend full of crazy.
Friday was an early sketch show, Uber260’s last with his group. I raced over to Triple Crown from work to have a pre-show shot and brew with Kodez and Brownsox. We finished our drinks, saw the show, and were back in the bar 75 minutes after we left (that’s what I can a night at the theatre). The whole sketch gang came by for a pint, as well as Uber260’s siblings. One of the uber260 sibs was the youngest uber, or as some of you remember him, the one Dubs beat up in order to feel big, and the one we made run around his grandparent’s house until he threw up (I can see why Uber is leaving our company for the left coast).
Now at some point in the night, the issue of speed came up, and a long ago boast that I can outrun Brownsox any day of the week. Brownsox was quite indignant to this charge, and I, powered by alcohol and the fact that Brownsox is one of the slowest people I have ever met, decided to settle it once and for all with a race. The terms were set at first one around the block wins.
A note in self defense. It is no secret that I am in shit shape. But as many people who know me can recount, I can move at nigh-superhuman speeds if needed (mostly to catch trains and whatnot). Of course, my genetically inferior lungs give way quickly, so I can only do this for short distances. Brownsox, it should also be noted, has much longer legs and much less body fat than me (he also does not have low grade asthma, I’m just saying). However, the man’s life speed is constantly set at molasses. I still contest that I can get to point A faster than him anytime; I just may not be able to run for as long or as fast as him.
This fact became clear about an eighth of the way through the race. As I trailed behind him it became clear that this was not going in my favor. So I did the more sensible/less sportsmanlike thing; I turned the hell around, went back to the bar, and had another beer. You have to know when to hold them, know when to fold then, know when to walk away, know when to not run.
We left Triple Crown relatively early (we had been there since 8) and went home to rest up for Tomorrow. Around Seven am, I woke with a horrendous pain in my left calf. Apparently that little race took more out of me than I thought. The pain subsided, and I went back to bed. I woke up to my alarm a couple of hours later, and as I got up, realized my left leg could not support much weight. I limped to the bathroom, cleaned up a bit, and with much difficulty, limped to Nevada’s.
This game was one of my all time favorites. We were playing a shit team, but needed to win if we had any shots at the title this year. By the end of the first half, we were down 2 nil and one of our players had been sent off (on a tackle not too different from the one that crippled our player a couple of weeks ago, so I can’t get too self righteous). Halftime was spent commiserating with fellow gunners and debating rounds of shots. But the second half was a revelation, as we scored three goals to come back and win the game. An amazing sight to behold.
My injured leg caused me to take a nap instead of playing football with the boys later. After some zees and a shower, we headed down to Uber260’s goodbye dinner. The restaurant was Philoxenia, an old neighborhood place that has closed down but recently reopened further away. Sadly, something had been lost in the move, but the food was decent. I was told I have the tendency to “Act like a mob boss” when I go out for large party dinners, mostly because I drink a lot of wine and talk very loudly about inappropriate things. My volume and discard for swearing in front of children is common knowledge, and let me add that I honestly normally do not enjoy large group dinners at restaurants, as I find them a hassle. As an example, Uber260 was 20 minutes late to his own goodbye dinner (I am sure you are shocked), which lest us sitting at the table like morons. Stuff like this make the normally serene and pleasant act of eating out into a mountain of bullshit. This dinner was nice, though.
Dinner finished, we hit the train to go to the Irish Rogue for the final blowout, and blowout it was. People who I have not seen in literally a year showed up to send Uber260 off. I wish I could go into more detail, but alas the combination of Greek Table Wine and American lager seemed to have washed my memory clean of details. The point was we had a grand old time.
The only way to recover from such a weekend was a Lazy Sunday, one where horrible movies were enjoyed (A Clive Owen double bill of Shoot’em Up and King Arthur) and pants were not put on till 11pm, when I went out to have one more drink with Uber before he bid this town adieu. We are all poorer for his leaving, but at least we sent him off well.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
One of those days...
You know those days. The days where the alarm goes off, and you say “really?” But you get up and go through the motions, knowing that no matter what happens, the day is gonna suck.
I am having one of those days. I woke up, and was automatically in a shit mood. No real reason, but everything seemed to suck. Got to work, and everything still sucked. Everything continued to suck, until while screwing around on line, I found this bit of information.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt is playing Cobra Commander in the G.I. Joe movie
Despite my crappy mood, this put a smile on my face. The idea that the kid from 3rd rock was playing one of the great villains from my childhood was just too hilarious not to enjoy. And thus, my mood changed. Things seemed un-shitty.
This went on, until I started reading an article in the Times about teenage drinking. The article talked about how drinking is very hazardous to the teenage brain, and that the part of the brain in charge of judgment is not fully formed until 25.
This got me thinking about my college years, where I drank a lot, and I realized that I probably stunted the growth of my brain, or literally drank myself dumber.
And that just sucks.
I am having one of those days. I woke up, and was automatically in a shit mood. No real reason, but everything seemed to suck. Got to work, and everything still sucked. Everything continued to suck, until while screwing around on line, I found this bit of information.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt is playing Cobra Commander in the G.I. Joe movie
Despite my crappy mood, this put a smile on my face. The idea that the kid from 3rd rock was playing one of the great villains from my childhood was just too hilarious not to enjoy. And thus, my mood changed. Things seemed un-shitty.
This went on, until I started reading an article in the Times about teenage drinking. The article talked about how drinking is very hazardous to the teenage brain, and that the part of the brain in charge of judgment is not fully formed until 25.
This got me thinking about my college years, where I drank a lot, and I realized that I probably stunted the growth of my brain, or literally drank myself dumber.
And that just sucks.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Great bars in NYC: St Andrews, for the Scotch lover
It is rare to find a bar/restaurant around Times Square that a local New Yorker would enter to use the bathroom, let alone go to for a meal and a drink. St. Andrews proves the exception. It calls itself ‘the only authentic Scottish restaurant in New York,” so the waiters wear kilts and there is Haggis on the menu, which is all the average American knows of Scotland. If they had a picture of Mel Gibson in blue face paint, they would have the trifecta.
The secret to St. Andrews is its drink menu. Menu is the key word, as when you sit at the bar, there is a tiny pub food menu, and a normal menu sized one page beer menu. They have a decent tap, but have dozens of imported bottled beers, mostly from the British Isles, many having pictures of Vikings or Viking-like men on the label. Past favorites include Okney Skullsplitter (Viking on the label) and Red McGregor (Scottish Highland warrior on label, 16.9 oz), both Scottish beers, both more alcoholic then American beers. Then there is the Scotch menu (ya, it’s a whole different menu, like a wine list), which has about as many different Scotches as you could hope for. They also have a weekly Scotch tasting order, where you can get a taste of a different Scottish, Irish, and Welsh Scotch each week (will it surprise anyone to learn that usually the Welsh one is the weakest).
There are not a lot of great stories about St. Andrew’s, I’m afraid. The bar’s high prices, limited space, and tourist friendly location makes it more of a stopping off or winding down bar. Many great nights have started there (Hubris’s epic return to intoxication after a dry lent) or came to a close there (The night the Mets lost the ’06 pennant, when I threatened to raze St. Louis to the ground), but it rarely serves as the nerve center of the evening.
It should be noted that the kilt wearing staff are far cooler then they need to be, often giving us discount cards, turning us on to limited edition Scotches, and discussing theatre. They also introduced us to the phrase “Blowing rails of Jack” (We only recently decoded exactly what that means).
Still the bar should be noted in this pantheon, serving a neighborhood desperately in need of a good bar, and offering a drinking experience unlike one is likely to find in this sprawling metropolis.
Also, yes we tried the Haggis, and you know what, it’s delicious.
The secret to St. Andrews is its drink menu. Menu is the key word, as when you sit at the bar, there is a tiny pub food menu, and a normal menu sized one page beer menu. They have a decent tap, but have dozens of imported bottled beers, mostly from the British Isles, many having pictures of Vikings or Viking-like men on the label. Past favorites include Okney Skullsplitter (Viking on the label) and Red McGregor (Scottish Highland warrior on label, 16.9 oz), both Scottish beers, both more alcoholic then American beers. Then there is the Scotch menu (ya, it’s a whole different menu, like a wine list), which has about as many different Scotches as you could hope for. They also have a weekly Scotch tasting order, where you can get a taste of a different Scottish, Irish, and Welsh Scotch each week (will it surprise anyone to learn that usually the Welsh one is the weakest).
There are not a lot of great stories about St. Andrew’s, I’m afraid. The bar’s high prices, limited space, and tourist friendly location makes it more of a stopping off or winding down bar. Many great nights have started there (Hubris’s epic return to intoxication after a dry lent) or came to a close there (The night the Mets lost the ’06 pennant, when I threatened to raze St. Louis to the ground), but it rarely serves as the nerve center of the evening.
It should be noted that the kilt wearing staff are far cooler then they need to be, often giving us discount cards, turning us on to limited edition Scotches, and discussing theatre. They also introduced us to the phrase “Blowing rails of Jack” (We only recently decoded exactly what that means).
Still the bar should be noted in this pantheon, serving a neighborhood desperately in need of a good bar, and offering a drinking experience unlike one is likely to find in this sprawling metropolis.
Also, yes we tried the Haggis, and you know what, it’s delicious.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Wipe a golden tear from your mother dear, and raise what's left of the flag for me!
Top O’ the afternoon to ya! Yes, its St. Patty’s day, the only day a year where being Irish and drunk makes you cool.
Now I must admit I am not a huge fan of St. Patrick’s Day. I view it, same as New Years, as an ‘amateur night’, where you are surrounded by assholes overdoing it, and are expected to have tons on fun and feel like shit unless you have the best night ever. It also does not help that I have lived in two cities, New York and Chicago, where the crazy goes overboard very quickly on this day of days. This is why I like to invent my own holidays.
I do have one fond memory of St. Patrick’s. Last year, my friends invented a little thing called an ‘Irish Alarm”. The I.A. consists of a person being woken up by his dear friends barging into his room and pouring beer and Irish whiskey all over his sleeping form. Hell of a way to start a day. The original plan was to use this to start up Quantumus, but I woke up too early, so it was moved to St. Patrick’s. The scariest thing was about 30 seconds before they burst in, I heard them outside my door and quickly gathered what was about to happen. Alas, I had no time to do anything but hug the covers and await my fate.
I probably will be too busy to go out this year, but I did spend most of Saturday (the church sanctioned St. Patrick’s day, if anyone cares) completely hammered, so much so that at one point Bourbon Samurai said to me “Everything you just said, you said to me four hours ago before you passed out at 7pm.” I got to re-evaluate some life choices.
I do not intend to bash a fine Irish holiday, just point out that I have little personal affection for it, as I have had very few great St. Patty’s Day experiences. If anyone has a disagreeing voice, or would like to share a beloved St. Patty’s day memory, please leave a comment.
Not much else to report. Arsenal keeps drawing which sucks, work is really cool which is cool, and I am moving out of my apartment in May, which combines cool and suck into one confusing ball of life change. Oh, Bourbon Samurai is back in town, and Hubris is still living in our house, so this should lead to something crazy at some point.
Erin Go Bragh!
UPDATE: I just went outside for my lunch break, and saw several policemen drinking beer as they walked around Midtown. I may have been too harsh on this holiday.
Now I must admit I am not a huge fan of St. Patrick’s Day. I view it, same as New Years, as an ‘amateur night’, where you are surrounded by assholes overdoing it, and are expected to have tons on fun and feel like shit unless you have the best night ever. It also does not help that I have lived in two cities, New York and Chicago, where the crazy goes overboard very quickly on this day of days. This is why I like to invent my own holidays.
I do have one fond memory of St. Patrick’s. Last year, my friends invented a little thing called an ‘Irish Alarm”. The I.A. consists of a person being woken up by his dear friends barging into his room and pouring beer and Irish whiskey all over his sleeping form. Hell of a way to start a day. The original plan was to use this to start up Quantumus, but I woke up too early, so it was moved to St. Patrick’s. The scariest thing was about 30 seconds before they burst in, I heard them outside my door and quickly gathered what was about to happen. Alas, I had no time to do anything but hug the covers and await my fate.
I probably will be too busy to go out this year, but I did spend most of Saturday (the church sanctioned St. Patrick’s day, if anyone cares) completely hammered, so much so that at one point Bourbon Samurai said to me “Everything you just said, you said to me four hours ago before you passed out at 7pm.” I got to re-evaluate some life choices.
I do not intend to bash a fine Irish holiday, just point out that I have little personal affection for it, as I have had very few great St. Patty’s Day experiences. If anyone has a disagreeing voice, or would like to share a beloved St. Patty’s day memory, please leave a comment.
Not much else to report. Arsenal keeps drawing which sucks, work is really cool which is cool, and I am moving out of my apartment in May, which combines cool and suck into one confusing ball of life change. Oh, Bourbon Samurai is back in town, and Hubris is still living in our house, so this should lead to something crazy at some point.
Erin Go Bragh!
UPDATE: I just went outside for my lunch break, and saw several policemen drinking beer as they walked around Midtown. I may have been too harsh on this holiday.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Top 5 Drunkenings
Since everyone else has done it, here are my top five.
This list is different then most. It marks the 5 most messed up boozed soaked moments in my life, starting with the first time I got drunk and ending at the biggest bender ever. Here they are, in chronological order.
1: Ganbei Night
The first time I got completely wasted. Junior year of High School, I had a couple of friends over, and we drank beer. A lot. We may have done other things, but mostly we just sat there and drank beer. This was the night where my friend, who had spent the summer in China, taught us about the Chinese tradition of Ganbei, where you basically just toast, then drain your glass. The Evening ended with me hugging my toilet (Truly, the beginning of a beautiful friendship), but still clinging to my beer, not wanting to leave a man behind. Photographic evidence of this exists. The next day was my first hangover, and I had to go to my High school for a play rehearsal. Did I boot at my High School? If you are asking, you were never 17 and hung over.
2: M4M Cast party
The most destructive single drinking experience I have ever had. I began the night drinking Bush Mills by the glass, and it went downhill from there. This is the famous night where we invented Backyard fencing, and Bourbon Samurai broke 2 bones in his hand and then proceeded to sleep with his friend’s ex. I ended the night in the alley next to the Wudan, and possibly could have stayed there until graduation had not Uber260 found me, then dragged me to the front lawn, where everyone leaving the party could see me in all my broken glory. There was a Taoist aspect to this evening, as earlier in the night Uber260 repeatedly stabbed me with a fencing sword, and later he possibly saved my life (I am not sure if that is Taoist, but it is something). I woke up the next day with blood on my pants, but no visible wounds. I may have killed a man, knee drops to the head Mark Colemen style.
3: Second Post-grad Chicago Trip
I have been on benders before and will go on benders again, but this was a unique experience, one where I am fairly sure I spent 72 hours straight with a BAC that would keep me away from the wheel of a car. This trip has been well chronicled in other blogs, so I will not go into detail, but it was so epic I had to give up the sauce for 2 weeks afterwards. It did include many of my favorite things about my college experience
-Eating Papa Romeo’s pizza at 4 in the morning
-Getting into a drunken pissing contests with a beloved professor
-Smoking in a downtown bar as an awesome jazz trio played
-drinking weird whiskey from the bottle, following it with good Midwestern beer
-Seeing theatre artists who never let the fact that their reach exceeds their grasps stop them
I would never go back to college, but it is fun to revisit for a weekend.
4: Spring 2006
The only time in my life where AA may have been the way to go. I was producing three shows Off-Broadway, and running two arts in education programs, will a skeleton staff and even less money. Saying I was stressed is like saying Spitzer was unfaithful (when all is said and done, the price tag on both counts might be too close for comfort).I went out pretty much every night, and got to a point when I was almost immune to beer. The only saving grace of this debacle was that Bourbon, Hubris, Rockstar, and occasionally Brownsox were also in the pits with me, along with several other good friends who were in better places of mind. The silver lining was I followed this up with three weeks of complete sobriety (my longest stretch since becoming legal), proving I am not an alcoholic, just a jack-ass.
5: January 2007
A four week bender, starting with “Screw You” new years, and culminating with a super bowl of pain. Highlights include
-Hubris and I getting wasted and almost having a fist fight outside the Irish Rogue ON A TUESDAY
-Having to hunt down Bourbon Samurai in the freezing cold on a Friday night, as he had wandered off, gotten lost, and possibly broke his foot.
-Me almost trashing a bodega as I tried to work the ATM
-Being at a strip club so hammered at 3 in the morning that I was barely aware of the two chicks dry humping each other on my lap (okay, I was very aware of it, but still I was really drunk)
-Teach and Jersey getting the gang kicked out of a bar, only to have Brownsox boot on their stoop as they left.
Saying much more (I shit you not) could land me in jail. Easily the most debauched time of my life. The fact that we all made it through that month is a testament to either our might, or that mighty Shiva (or the ghost of Oliver Reed) thinks we are too funny to die.
That is a good bullet point presentation of my life as a drunkard. Here’s to five more!
This list is different then most. It marks the 5 most messed up boozed soaked moments in my life, starting with the first time I got drunk and ending at the biggest bender ever. Here they are, in chronological order.
1: Ganbei Night
The first time I got completely wasted. Junior year of High School, I had a couple of friends over, and we drank beer. A lot. We may have done other things, but mostly we just sat there and drank beer. This was the night where my friend, who had spent the summer in China, taught us about the Chinese tradition of Ganbei, where you basically just toast, then drain your glass. The Evening ended with me hugging my toilet (Truly, the beginning of a beautiful friendship), but still clinging to my beer, not wanting to leave a man behind. Photographic evidence of this exists. The next day was my first hangover, and I had to go to my High school for a play rehearsal. Did I boot at my High School? If you are asking, you were never 17 and hung over.
2: M4M Cast party
The most destructive single drinking experience I have ever had. I began the night drinking Bush Mills by the glass, and it went downhill from there. This is the famous night where we invented Backyard fencing, and Bourbon Samurai broke 2 bones in his hand and then proceeded to sleep with his friend’s ex. I ended the night in the alley next to the Wudan, and possibly could have stayed there until graduation had not Uber260 found me, then dragged me to the front lawn, where everyone leaving the party could see me in all my broken glory. There was a Taoist aspect to this evening, as earlier in the night Uber260 repeatedly stabbed me with a fencing sword, and later he possibly saved my life (I am not sure if that is Taoist, but it is something). I woke up the next day with blood on my pants, but no visible wounds. I may have killed a man, knee drops to the head Mark Colemen style.
3: Second Post-grad Chicago Trip
I have been on benders before and will go on benders again, but this was a unique experience, one where I am fairly sure I spent 72 hours straight with a BAC that would keep me away from the wheel of a car. This trip has been well chronicled in other blogs, so I will not go into detail, but it was so epic I had to give up the sauce for 2 weeks afterwards. It did include many of my favorite things about my college experience
-Eating Papa Romeo’s pizza at 4 in the morning
-Getting into a drunken pissing contests with a beloved professor
-Smoking in a downtown bar as an awesome jazz trio played
-drinking weird whiskey from the bottle, following it with good Midwestern beer
-Seeing theatre artists who never let the fact that their reach exceeds their grasps stop them
I would never go back to college, but it is fun to revisit for a weekend.
4: Spring 2006
The only time in my life where AA may have been the way to go. I was producing three shows Off-Broadway, and running two arts in education programs, will a skeleton staff and even less money. Saying I was stressed is like saying Spitzer was unfaithful (when all is said and done, the price tag on both counts might be too close for comfort).I went out pretty much every night, and got to a point when I was almost immune to beer. The only saving grace of this debacle was that Bourbon, Hubris, Rockstar, and occasionally Brownsox were also in the pits with me, along with several other good friends who were in better places of mind. The silver lining was I followed this up with three weeks of complete sobriety (my longest stretch since becoming legal), proving I am not an alcoholic, just a jack-ass.
5: January 2007
A four week bender, starting with “Screw You” new years, and culminating with a super bowl of pain. Highlights include
-Hubris and I getting wasted and almost having a fist fight outside the Irish Rogue ON A TUESDAY
-Having to hunt down Bourbon Samurai in the freezing cold on a Friday night, as he had wandered off, gotten lost, and possibly broke his foot.
-Me almost trashing a bodega as I tried to work the ATM
-Being at a strip club so hammered at 3 in the morning that I was barely aware of the two chicks dry humping each other on my lap (okay, I was very aware of it, but still I was really drunk)
-Teach and Jersey getting the gang kicked out of a bar, only to have Brownsox boot on their stoop as they left.
Saying much more (I shit you not) could land me in jail. Easily the most debauched time of my life. The fact that we all made it through that month is a testament to either our might, or that mighty Shiva (or the ghost of Oliver Reed) thinks we are too funny to die.
That is a good bullet point presentation of my life as a drunkard. Here’s to five more!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
This sort of thing usually happens to Bourbon Samurai
One way to tell if last night was a lot of fun; when you wake up, check you body for horrible scars that you can’t explain.
Last Friday, Arsenal invited me and some of the boys out for some happy hour drinks with him, his lady, and his lady’s co-workers. Uber260, Kodez, and I met them at Rodeo, a sort of dive bar with free peanuts and cheap Mexican beer. We gorge on both. Around 8, Uber260 leaves to go do a show, and we decide a meal is needed. Some co-workers of Lady Gunner recommend a Mexican place on Houston. While I was leaning more towards Blue Smoke, we went with the 2 co-workers, a married couple, mostly because they kept saying “We have to have fun, because we got a sitter for the kid tonight.” Now, hearing that, a red alert should have gone off in my head and I should have ran, but the wackiness of tying one on with some little girl’s parents was too amusing to me at the time, so I went with them.
Now this ‘Mexican place’ they wanted to go to was really a giant faux Mexican club that served food before all the tables are cleared away to make a dance floor. Again, a red alert ignored. We grab some space at the back of the bar and order more cheap Mexican beer, and some empanadas. My plan was to share the food, but by the time it came out, I was so hungry I ate it all myself. After a while Uber260 met up with us, bringing Slaggard. I talked to the husband who brought us here, as he spoke of how he would come to this place all the time when he was ‘single’. I think I shivered just writing that. No surprise, he went on and on how smart his kid was, because everyone’s kid is goddamn genius. I want to know what happened to these kids between all the great things they do to wow Mom and Dad and to when I meet them, and they can’t figure out how to work the Chipotle menu (my new pet peeve; come on people it ain’t Le Cirque, Black beans or Pinto). We drank for a while, until I hit that point where my lizard brain starts to take over, and my lizard brain demands that I return home and get away from these annoying mammals (My lizard brain really hates people, but has a great sense of direction).
I collect Kodez and Slaggard, and we go looking for a cab. Sadly we are on Houston on a Friday night and it begins to snow, so the cabs are not to be found. We almost grab one, but some lame dude on a date starts screaming at me that it is his cab and he has been waiting for hours for it, and keeps yelling at me even after I give up the cab (while he is screaming at me, someone else gets the cab, which means lame dude on a date 0, Me 1).
We begin walking to Union Square, deciding that if we can’t get a cab by then we would take the train. As we are walking, I spot what I think is an open cab. I run to catch it, but the street is wet and I am wearing my work shoes (and yes, I had been drinking, but again I fall down a lot sober, so unfair to blame that). I go down; right on a subway grate, but I catch myself with my left hand and right knee, so no major damage. We head over to Union Square in defeat, but I notice that my knee and hand still hurt. When we get into the subway, I notice my pants are stained with red, but not ripped in any way. I pull up my pants, and see two huge deep gashes on my knee gushing blood. I also check my hand and see the butt of my palm also has a hideous cut on it. I spend the entire train ride home screaming about my injury, not because it hurt but more because I was bleeding all over my work kakis. Slaggard, a man who often busts himself wide open, tended to my wounds when we get to my place. He does somewhat over-wrap my wounds, so when I went to bed I looked like I was going to a kickboxing match.
I still woke up the next day at 8:30 am and went to Nevadas, bandaged and all.
Last Friday, Arsenal invited me and some of the boys out for some happy hour drinks with him, his lady, and his lady’s co-workers. Uber260, Kodez, and I met them at Rodeo, a sort of dive bar with free peanuts and cheap Mexican beer. We gorge on both. Around 8, Uber260 leaves to go do a show, and we decide a meal is needed. Some co-workers of Lady Gunner recommend a Mexican place on Houston. While I was leaning more towards Blue Smoke, we went with the 2 co-workers, a married couple, mostly because they kept saying “We have to have fun, because we got a sitter for the kid tonight.” Now, hearing that, a red alert should have gone off in my head and I should have ran, but the wackiness of tying one on with some little girl’s parents was too amusing to me at the time, so I went with them.
Now this ‘Mexican place’ they wanted to go to was really a giant faux Mexican club that served food before all the tables are cleared away to make a dance floor. Again, a red alert ignored. We grab some space at the back of the bar and order more cheap Mexican beer, and some empanadas. My plan was to share the food, but by the time it came out, I was so hungry I ate it all myself. After a while Uber260 met up with us, bringing Slaggard. I talked to the husband who brought us here, as he spoke of how he would come to this place all the time when he was ‘single’. I think I shivered just writing that. No surprise, he went on and on how smart his kid was, because everyone’s kid is goddamn genius. I want to know what happened to these kids between all the great things they do to wow Mom and Dad and to when I meet them, and they can’t figure out how to work the Chipotle menu (my new pet peeve; come on people it ain’t Le Cirque, Black beans or Pinto). We drank for a while, until I hit that point where my lizard brain starts to take over, and my lizard brain demands that I return home and get away from these annoying mammals (My lizard brain really hates people, but has a great sense of direction).
I collect Kodez and Slaggard, and we go looking for a cab. Sadly we are on Houston on a Friday night and it begins to snow, so the cabs are not to be found. We almost grab one, but some lame dude on a date starts screaming at me that it is his cab and he has been waiting for hours for it, and keeps yelling at me even after I give up the cab (while he is screaming at me, someone else gets the cab, which means lame dude on a date 0, Me 1).
We begin walking to Union Square, deciding that if we can’t get a cab by then we would take the train. As we are walking, I spot what I think is an open cab. I run to catch it, but the street is wet and I am wearing my work shoes (and yes, I had been drinking, but again I fall down a lot sober, so unfair to blame that). I go down; right on a subway grate, but I catch myself with my left hand and right knee, so no major damage. We head over to Union Square in defeat, but I notice that my knee and hand still hurt. When we get into the subway, I notice my pants are stained with red, but not ripped in any way. I pull up my pants, and see two huge deep gashes on my knee gushing blood. I also check my hand and see the butt of my palm also has a hideous cut on it. I spend the entire train ride home screaming about my injury, not because it hurt but more because I was bleeding all over my work kakis. Slaggard, a man who often busts himself wide open, tended to my wounds when we get to my place. He does somewhat over-wrap my wounds, so when I went to bed I looked like I was going to a kickboxing match.
I still woke up the next day at 8:30 am and went to Nevadas, bandaged and all.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Great Bars in NYC: No Idea, cause I can't afford to drink at Gramercy Tavern
Existing at the foot of Gramercy just north of Union Square, No Idea is an acquired taste. Its design, a long narrow hallway with a really long bar, makes large parties feel cramped and getting to the bathroom a battle. Its décor is simple, and often damp for some scary reason. That being said, the place does have a variety of charms. The beers ain’t too pricey, the mixed drinks come in pint glasses, and it claims to be the founder of the infamous ‘name night’ (every day, they choose a name, and anyone with that name drinks for free until 11pm). Anyone who watched late night cable in NYC probably has seen their ad. Do not judge the bar by it.
My defining story of No Idea revolves around the man who introduced it to me, Sketchrock. Sketchrock has made No Idea is Friday Happy hour spot for several years now. No surprise that when his last birthday rolled around, on a Friday night, he chose to spend it there. I rolled down to meet him there after a very nice meal with Banker and Zorba, where I was already working on a good buzz. Sketchrock was there with a bunch of teacher friends, and a girl who I would later find out was his 20 year old girlfriend (S.R. always has a way with the ladies). Sketchrock and I did what we always do, drink heavily and reminisce about past debauchery; usually the first time we got wasted together where we spilt 5 bottles of wine, he vomited in his girlfriend’s sink and blamed it on me, and everyone believed him because I was a freshman and he was a junior (Agist bastards). I chatted with Sketchrock’s new girlfriend, and had a lovely conversation with another teacher about the pros and cons of Infinite Crisis.
This is also the night I met the Stuntman. The Stuntman is in fact a working film and stage Stuntman, and is a regular at No Idea. He is a giant of a man, with long blonde hair and a matching beard. He and Sketchrock became friends at the bar through their shared love of boozing and Shakespeare. Now I also love those two things, so the Stuntman and I hit it off quite quickly. He told me the tale of the time he played Toby Belch, which is about as perfect casting as I have ever heard, assuming the giant can act. While the Stuntman at first seemed awesome, as the night and drinking went on, he became a tad overbearing. It is usually okay for someone to get more intense as they drink, but when and 6 and a half bulky dude who you just met keeps giving you bear hugs and talking about how much he loves your friend, it gets a little weird. All being said, the Stuntman is a cool cat, just not a man you need to drink with everyday. Luckily, some other friends showed up and extracted me before the Stuntman crushed me in a sign of drunken affection.
In a neighborhood lacking in solid bars, No Idea, while a little ghetto, serves a key purpose. One day, that little chalkboard behind the bar will read “Nick” and I will drink it out of business, but until then, enjoy!
My defining story of No Idea revolves around the man who introduced it to me, Sketchrock. Sketchrock has made No Idea is Friday Happy hour spot for several years now. No surprise that when his last birthday rolled around, on a Friday night, he chose to spend it there. I rolled down to meet him there after a very nice meal with Banker and Zorba, where I was already working on a good buzz. Sketchrock was there with a bunch of teacher friends, and a girl who I would later find out was his 20 year old girlfriend (S.R. always has a way with the ladies). Sketchrock and I did what we always do, drink heavily and reminisce about past debauchery; usually the first time we got wasted together where we spilt 5 bottles of wine, he vomited in his girlfriend’s sink and blamed it on me, and everyone believed him because I was a freshman and he was a junior (Agist bastards). I chatted with Sketchrock’s new girlfriend, and had a lovely conversation with another teacher about the pros and cons of Infinite Crisis.
This is also the night I met the Stuntman. The Stuntman is in fact a working film and stage Stuntman, and is a regular at No Idea. He is a giant of a man, with long blonde hair and a matching beard. He and Sketchrock became friends at the bar through their shared love of boozing and Shakespeare. Now I also love those two things, so the Stuntman and I hit it off quite quickly. He told me the tale of the time he played Toby Belch, which is about as perfect casting as I have ever heard, assuming the giant can act. While the Stuntman at first seemed awesome, as the night and drinking went on, he became a tad overbearing. It is usually okay for someone to get more intense as they drink, but when and 6 and a half bulky dude who you just met keeps giving you bear hugs and talking about how much he loves your friend, it gets a little weird. All being said, the Stuntman is a cool cat, just not a man you need to drink with everyday. Luckily, some other friends showed up and extracted me before the Stuntman crushed me in a sign of drunken affection.
In a neighborhood lacking in solid bars, No Idea, while a little ghetto, serves a key purpose. One day, that little chalkboard behind the bar will read “Nick” and I will drink it out of business, but until then, enjoy!
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