A Drinker's Journey

The other Saturday I was the NY drunkard Odysseus, wandering the Adriatic Sea of Manhattan attempting to return to my beloved wife, A Good Drunken Time.

The Trojan War that had taken me away, work, required me to be at the theatre from 1 to 2pm. As soon as I was out, I headed down to Nevada Smiths to some of the Euro Cup. It was a true mini-homecoming, returning to this dark crowded bar as the sun burned brightly outside, the noble bartender Jack the Irish offering me a warm hello and a cold ale. Hubris and I drank up and watched Cristiano Ronaldo possibly break the diving record, taking a pratfall about 7 seconds into the match. Much lamentable, Hubris had to face his own war (being a waiter), and we departed after the first half.

Wandering without friends, and with 3 hours to kill before returning to battle (work) I decided to take in a show. The best available option fitting my journey was You Don’t Mess with the Zohan. The picture was about has good as to be expected, with moments of inspired brilliance (Michael Buffer as a bad guy!) and many a flat falling dick joke. When the film concluded, I journeyed back to the Upper West Side, for another round of battle (work).

Once battle (work) was concluded, I needed to find a safe harbor to plan my next move. Beloved Stout, where noble Teach tends bar, proved to be the perfect option. I rode the 2 line, Quick of Wheel and Heavy of Smell, down to the Garment District, and traveled deep into the bowels of Stout, to famed Dart Alley, where Teach and this adorable young lass, “Yank”, tended bar. I feasted upon much ale and dined upon an acceptable tuna salad. I send various missives out to comrades in arms, hoping to unite in revelry. As I waited, a bachelor party came down to dart alley and demanded a plethora of car bombs. Teach and I did mock them via text message as they chugged. In time the Valiant Bourbon Samurai took up the call and arrived at Dart Alley, craving ale and entertainment. We stayed and laid waste to the Smithwick keg until the Bachelor party made use of the karaoke machine. Their wails shall sound in the darkest pits of Tatarus. We needed a new quest, and decided to join The Banker at a bar on the Upper East Side.

Bourbon Samurai and I hailed a noble yellow traveling steed (cab) and went to the address the Banker had texted me. Alas, the bar was not there, only mass construction for the mythical 2nd Ave. line. There was fear we had been set up for an ambush! I texted Banker again, and a new address arose, leading us around the corner. We traveled about, again no bar. I finally use the phone part of my phone to call the crafty Banker and find where the battlefield lay. A final address was offered, and a bar located.

Banker, his comrade in arms Espny, and Espny’s woman Mrs. Espny, were in attendance of a friend’s birthday. We joined them for festivities, myself knowing the birthday boy in question. As an added bonus, our friend Chipmunk happened to work at said bar, and we were able to catch up with her. The Birthday boy and his colleagues were impressed with our company (despite her nickname, Chipmunk is well above average in appearance). As time passed, Bourbon and I craved new adventures, and send missives to our comrades. The Gymnast hailed to us from a gathering on the Upper West Side, and requested our presence. This seemed like the path to travel, so we made plans to head west. We, being men of honor, bought a round of shots for the birthday boy and our friends, then journeyed westward.

We arrived on the Upper West Side, a tad buzzed and without bearings. We buzzed on the wrong door, and walked by the some disreputable groups of man, fearing our journey would end in ruin. But after much wanderings, we found the castle at which Gymnast and his twin were revealing. We drank of ales and met many of Gymnast’s comrades, and had a grand conversation with two brave lads who plowed the trade of Stage Combat. This quite delighted Bourbon, and they shared stories of (staged) combat. Gymnast and I went in search of herbal sustenance, but found ourselves too late. Time passed and we became weary, deciding time had come to take a yellow steed (cab) back to the home fort.

Thus ended a night filled with travel, where I was to drank in many harbors, and raised toasts with many a good friend across with isle we call Manhattan. Good cheer.