I have only recently become a sports fan, and have learned that being a sports fan means you can have random conversations at bars much easier. Now being a fan of a sport not popular in these United States means that I can talk to the random-est of people.
I was having a couple of drinks with Brownsox at Nevada Smith’s, our beloved futbol bar. We were talking to the manager (a woman, which I did not think was allowed there) when a crusty looking Englishman came up to the bar. He started talking to the manager, and clearly was another futbol regular. When this bloke, whose name was Martin, asked the manager what she thought of the game last night (The UEFA Champions League final), she claimed to not be much of a sports fan, which makes no sense given her employment. Mildly dismayed, Martin turned to us to discuss the footer. He was from Liverpool (which I could tell by his Beatles-like accent), an Everton fan (which is basically like growing up in Chicago and being a White Sox fan pre 2005) and really chill. He, like many people, pointed out that Arsenal plays the beautiful game and began talking trash about Chelsea and Cashly Cole. To top it off, his son is a Mets fan. Cool dude.
After talking to this bloke for a while, we headed downstairs for a couple more drinks. One of our favorite bartenders, Guzo, was working and he chatted us up for a while. He was showing a couple of B movies on the TVs, which I thought was a nice touch. Brownsox and I began work on a pitcher of Bud Light (it was cheap) and other people began trickling in. I don’t remember how, but Brownsox started up a conversation with a dude down the bar who was a fan of Barcelona. He was a cool dude, and we shared laments about both our team’s woes from this just completed season. At one point, Brownsox went to have a smoke, which I used as an excuse to get another pitcher.
Around Midnight we headed back home. I grabbed a 40 of Coors light at the bodega next to my home; hoping one of my roommates would split it with me. When I returned home, one roommate was out and the other ‘didn’t want to drink’. So I drank half the 40, and passed out.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
When work drinking goes south
On Monday, a show at the theatre company I work at had its press Opening. That means Opening Night party. That means free booze. That means trouble.
While the show was running, I went to Dalton’s, a local bar around the corner from the Theatre, with a bunch of co-workers, to have a drink before reporting to work at the party. Dalton's is a bar new to me, but is marked with really good food and a strong tap. Now if they just dropped the prices down, it would be a staple.
I had to work the coat check at the beginning of the party, which was fine and slowed (not stopped, mind you) the flow off free Bud Lights (we are a not-for-profit, so our booze ain’t top shelf) keeping me from leaving friendly buzzed and entering fire-able drunk (at least in front of the higher-ups). After I clocked out, I had a shot to tequila with my boss and a co-worker whose last day it was, which uped the emotional ‘I love you guys’ quotient of the evening.
The party began to wind down around 11:30, and some of the actors from the other show were heading to Brooklyn. I have one more drink, grabbed some co-workers who live in said borough, and hailed a cab.
We meet the actors at a place called Barcade, which is a dive bar filled with old arcade games. The first thing I do as a way to announce myself was order shots. JD was chosen, and off we went. I believe a co-worker described my facial expression post shot as “horrible pain”. Hey, it’s Jack, what ya gonna do?
The exact details of the bar are a tad fuzzy, as the many free beers and now two shots (tequila and Whiskey are not great bedmates) caught up to me. I did enjoy myself a lot, and have yet to be told I did something messed up. I did head out eventually, jumping a cab back to Astoria. My plan was to sleep it off and attempt to get to work near on time. When I enter my living room, I found Hubris and Brownsox drinking bourbon. Crap!
You see, Hubris’s waiter lifestyle allows for such late weeknight wackiness. Brownsox recently got a job that pays him to blog about politics (making him the only person I know who can do their job on the crapper), so he does not care about 2am house parties on a Monday. If I was a stronger or wiser man, I would have gone to bed, but I am what I am. I sat down and had some Knob Creek and attempted to explain my evening, but mostly made fun of Brownsox for wearing a black turtleneck sweater in May. Soon after I arrived, Bourbon Samurai gave up his attempt to be a mature adult (i.e. get a good sober night’s sleep before work in the morning), came out of his room, and drank with us. At some point I went to bed, slept, and got to work 90 minutes late.
My job rules.
While the show was running, I went to Dalton’s, a local bar around the corner from the Theatre, with a bunch of co-workers, to have a drink before reporting to work at the party. Dalton's is a bar new to me, but is marked with really good food and a strong tap. Now if they just dropped the prices down, it would be a staple.
I had to work the coat check at the beginning of the party, which was fine and slowed (not stopped, mind you) the flow off free Bud Lights (we are a not-for-profit, so our booze ain’t top shelf) keeping me from leaving friendly buzzed and entering fire-able drunk (at least in front of the higher-ups). After I clocked out, I had a shot to tequila with my boss and a co-worker whose last day it was, which uped the emotional ‘I love you guys’ quotient of the evening.
The party began to wind down around 11:30, and some of the actors from the other show were heading to Brooklyn. I have one more drink, grabbed some co-workers who live in said borough, and hailed a cab.
We meet the actors at a place called Barcade, which is a dive bar filled with old arcade games. The first thing I do as a way to announce myself was order shots. JD was chosen, and off we went. I believe a co-worker described my facial expression post shot as “horrible pain”. Hey, it’s Jack, what ya gonna do?
The exact details of the bar are a tad fuzzy, as the many free beers and now two shots (tequila and Whiskey are not great bedmates) caught up to me. I did enjoy myself a lot, and have yet to be told I did something messed up. I did head out eventually, jumping a cab back to Astoria. My plan was to sleep it off and attempt to get to work near on time. When I enter my living room, I found Hubris and Brownsox drinking bourbon. Crap!
You see, Hubris’s waiter lifestyle allows for such late weeknight wackiness. Brownsox recently got a job that pays him to blog about politics (making him the only person I know who can do their job on the crapper), so he does not care about 2am house parties on a Monday. If I was a stronger or wiser man, I would have gone to bed, but I am what I am. I sat down and had some Knob Creek and attempted to explain my evening, but mostly made fun of Brownsox for wearing a black turtleneck sweater in May. Soon after I arrived, Bourbon Samurai gave up his attempt to be a mature adult (i.e. get a good sober night’s sleep before work in the morning), came out of his room, and drank with us. At some point I went to bed, slept, and got to work 90 minutes late.
My job rules.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Catching up with the fan(s?)
So what have I been up to since the blogging stopped?
1: I moved in with Hubris and Bourbon Samurai into a sweet new place in Astoria. Its awesome features include a HUGE living room, a really nice kitchen, and wacky but super-nice Croatian landlords. These features far outweigh the negatives (which include a temperamental toilet and being balls far away from the train).
In an attempt to make it to 30, we instituted some new house rules. Rule 1: No videogames in the living room, which helps Hubris with his addiction and eliminates the likelihood of the Dynasty Warriros time / baseball time knife fight between Bourbon and me. Rule 2, no more than 1 beer at a time in the house, an attempt to lose a little weight and not be drunk every night for no reason. This indirectly led to Hubris and I getting sloshed off Vodka Tonics and watching “Big Trouble in Little China” one lazy Sunday night. The only concern there was after I went to bed, Hubris kept drinking V & Ts, and convinced Bourbon to break into my room and startle me. When they did this, I instinctually grabbed the saber by my bed (our house is weird) and defended myself, which led to Hubris and I struggling over the sword and me getting a nice scrape on my back. The more I think about it, making it to 30 may just not be in the cards.
2: I got a semi-promotion at work, and now act as a company manager. This means that I need to be at every show, at least until Curtain and sometimes after. Basically I do not clock out until 8:30pm or so, but still have to be in the office during the day. Interestingly enough, this seems to be leading to a ton of casual weekday drinking, nothing crazy but lots of spending money on booze. As example, last night after I left the theatre I went down to Grassroots Tavern and split a pitcher with Brownsox, and then we went over to a nearby wine bar where Brownsox’s friend was working. Nothing crazy happened, save I am the only asshole who drinks beer at a wine bar (but Peroni is so delicious). Bourbon came by; we drank until 12:30; then headed home. We will see if this schedule shift leads to anything blog-worthy, or just me drinking a lot and never being home.
3: I have cut down on my morning drinking, part because of work/moving, but mostly because the EPL season has ended, so there is no credible excuse. I do plan to follow the EURO 2008 cup, but those games are later in the day. I need to find a futbol bar on the Upper West Side.
That’s the most of it. As summer comes in, expect more adventures.
1: I moved in with Hubris and Bourbon Samurai into a sweet new place in Astoria. Its awesome features include a HUGE living room, a really nice kitchen, and wacky but super-nice Croatian landlords. These features far outweigh the negatives (which include a temperamental toilet and being balls far away from the train).
In an attempt to make it to 30, we instituted some new house rules. Rule 1: No videogames in the living room, which helps Hubris with his addiction and eliminates the likelihood of the Dynasty Warriros time / baseball time knife fight between Bourbon and me. Rule 2, no more than 1 beer at a time in the house, an attempt to lose a little weight and not be drunk every night for no reason. This indirectly led to Hubris and I getting sloshed off Vodka Tonics and watching “Big Trouble in Little China” one lazy Sunday night. The only concern there was after I went to bed, Hubris kept drinking V & Ts, and convinced Bourbon to break into my room and startle me. When they did this, I instinctually grabbed the saber by my bed (our house is weird) and defended myself, which led to Hubris and I struggling over the sword and me getting a nice scrape on my back. The more I think about it, making it to 30 may just not be in the cards.
2: I got a semi-promotion at work, and now act as a company manager. This means that I need to be at every show, at least until Curtain and sometimes after. Basically I do not clock out until 8:30pm or so, but still have to be in the office during the day. Interestingly enough, this seems to be leading to a ton of casual weekday drinking, nothing crazy but lots of spending money on booze. As example, last night after I left the theatre I went down to Grassroots Tavern and split a pitcher with Brownsox, and then we went over to a nearby wine bar where Brownsox’s friend was working. Nothing crazy happened, save I am the only asshole who drinks beer at a wine bar (but Peroni is so delicious). Bourbon came by; we drank until 12:30; then headed home. We will see if this schedule shift leads to anything blog-worthy, or just me drinking a lot and never being home.
3: I have cut down on my morning drinking, part because of work/moving, but mostly because the EPL season has ended, so there is no credible excuse. I do plan to follow the EURO 2008 cup, but those games are later in the day. I need to find a futbol bar on the Upper West Side.
That’s the most of it. As summer comes in, expect more adventures.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Out of Towners mean I am allowed to drink extra!
Banker’s old college buddy Perfect Gentleman was in town this weekend. Banker, being a man of character, arranged a fancy dinner for P.G. and friends at Wolfgang’s Steakhouse. Banker, being a sentimental fool who should know better by now, invited me to attend.
Now, Banker was kind enough to move the reservation back a half an hour to accommodate my work schedule. He did however threaten excommunication if I was late, the evening being altered solely to fit my needs. Taking Banker very seriously, I arrive 15 minutes early. I was alone for the next 20 minutes.
This being a classy steakhouse, I grabbed a glass of Bourbon, a good aperitif for a steak dinner. When Banker and Perfect Gentleman arrive, Perfect Gentleman talks me (rather easily, to be honest) into having a Dirty Martini. I had forgotten that Martinis are both delicious and a rip off. I was charged 12 bucks for what was basically Stoli and olive juice. Tasty, but still, 12 bucks?
Spring Roll, Espny and the future Mrs. Espny all arrived in the next ten minutes, and we checked in with the lady at the desk. We were told to wait. We waited for a while. P.G. and I refreshed our martinis. We keep waiting. Banker does not take kindly to this blatant rudeness. I try to calm him down, but Banker has a history of handling dining related incompetence poorly. He goes outside to see if we can get a table at a nearby steakhouse. As he books us a table elsewhere, we are told our table is ready. It is 9:30; our reservation was for 8:30. This is going to go poorly.
Now I have been accused of having an odd air when I go out to eat with a large group of friends. The exact line, I believe, is I “act like a mafia don”. While I admit to a light gregariousness, I think that is a tad much. Yet again here I was put, accidentally I hope, at the head of the table, and charged with ordering the wine. Despite my palate for the Sauce, I am not much of a wine expert. I can bullshit my way pretty well, thanks to wonderful parents whose sense of the grape far outclasses my own, but that’s it. I did happen to stumble on a Magnum of a good bottle I knew about, and kept our inebriated crew going. Around the time of the appetizers, the three ‘cocktails’ (one bourbon and two vodkas-in-a-goofy-glass) caught up to me, so I kept quiet. When the steaks finally came (the service at the table was about as bad as the service to get to the table, although our waiter was very apologetic) I ate up and came back to play. I began egging on Perfect Gentleman, who is a lot of fun to get going once he has a couple of drinks in him. The rest of the table did a good job of pretending to find this amusing. I have good friends.
I do have to say, the steak was fantastic, but not worth the hassle we had to go through. We left the restaurant vowing not to return, Banker still riled with the treatment we had gotten. Mr. and Future Mrs. Espny headed uptown, while the remaining party headed downtown for more craziness. Spring Roll wanted to head to Alphabet City, because she lives there; Banker wanted to head to the LES, because there is a bar there he likes; Perfect Gentleman wanted to head to a nearby bar, because he is a crazy drunk. We got into a cab and headed south. I, who had to wake up early the next day in order to clean, move, then go to work, demanded that we stay as far uptown as possible. During the cab ride, I won P.G. to my cause, and we through sheer drunken belligerence, demand the cab stop so we can start drinking sooner. The cabbie complies, and we stop in the East Village. I not so much suggest that we go to Nevada’s as begin a march over, threatening any one who falls out of line. Once there, we hit the basement, and I grab a pitcher and drunkenly chat up the bartender (possibly hugging him, but its cool cause I am a regular). I attempt to drink my beer, but it becomes clear that if I want to wake up at 9 am tomorrow in any functioning shape, I had to go. So I bid my friends ado, apologized for leading them to a weird bar for no reason and leaving soon after (I hope) and jumped into a cab.
I should not be aloud at nice restaurants without proper supervision.
Now, Banker was kind enough to move the reservation back a half an hour to accommodate my work schedule. He did however threaten excommunication if I was late, the evening being altered solely to fit my needs. Taking Banker very seriously, I arrive 15 minutes early. I was alone for the next 20 minutes.
This being a classy steakhouse, I grabbed a glass of Bourbon, a good aperitif for a steak dinner. When Banker and Perfect Gentleman arrive, Perfect Gentleman talks me (rather easily, to be honest) into having a Dirty Martini. I had forgotten that Martinis are both delicious and a rip off. I was charged 12 bucks for what was basically Stoli and olive juice. Tasty, but still, 12 bucks?
Spring Roll, Espny and the future Mrs. Espny all arrived in the next ten minutes, and we checked in with the lady at the desk. We were told to wait. We waited for a while. P.G. and I refreshed our martinis. We keep waiting. Banker does not take kindly to this blatant rudeness. I try to calm him down, but Banker has a history of handling dining related incompetence poorly. He goes outside to see if we can get a table at a nearby steakhouse. As he books us a table elsewhere, we are told our table is ready. It is 9:30; our reservation was for 8:30. This is going to go poorly.
Now I have been accused of having an odd air when I go out to eat with a large group of friends. The exact line, I believe, is I “act like a mafia don”. While I admit to a light gregariousness, I think that is a tad much. Yet again here I was put, accidentally I hope, at the head of the table, and charged with ordering the wine. Despite my palate for the Sauce, I am not much of a wine expert. I can bullshit my way pretty well, thanks to wonderful parents whose sense of the grape far outclasses my own, but that’s it. I did happen to stumble on a Magnum of a good bottle I knew about, and kept our inebriated crew going. Around the time of the appetizers, the three ‘cocktails’ (one bourbon and two vodkas-in-a-goofy-glass) caught up to me, so I kept quiet. When the steaks finally came (the service at the table was about as bad as the service to get to the table, although our waiter was very apologetic) I ate up and came back to play. I began egging on Perfect Gentleman, who is a lot of fun to get going once he has a couple of drinks in him. The rest of the table did a good job of pretending to find this amusing. I have good friends.
I do have to say, the steak was fantastic, but not worth the hassle we had to go through. We left the restaurant vowing not to return, Banker still riled with the treatment we had gotten. Mr. and Future Mrs. Espny headed uptown, while the remaining party headed downtown for more craziness. Spring Roll wanted to head to Alphabet City, because she lives there; Banker wanted to head to the LES, because there is a bar there he likes; Perfect Gentleman wanted to head to a nearby bar, because he is a crazy drunk. We got into a cab and headed south. I, who had to wake up early the next day in order to clean, move, then go to work, demanded that we stay as far uptown as possible. During the cab ride, I won P.G. to my cause, and we through sheer drunken belligerence, demand the cab stop so we can start drinking sooner. The cabbie complies, and we stop in the East Village. I not so much suggest that we go to Nevada’s as begin a march over, threatening any one who falls out of line. Once there, we hit the basement, and I grab a pitcher and drunkenly chat up the bartender (possibly hugging him, but its cool cause I am a regular). I attempt to drink my beer, but it becomes clear that if I want to wake up at 9 am tomorrow in any functioning shape, I had to go. So I bid my friends ado, apologized for leading them to a weird bar for no reason and leaving soon after (I hope) and jumped into a cab.
I should not be aloud at nice restaurants without proper supervision.
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