Q wanders the town, in search of ways to make him sleepy

In a strange turn of events, my weekend somehow resembled that of an average twenty something New Yorker (i.e. I was downtown drinking a lot).

Friday night I went to see Gymnast in a play at the New York Fringe. The fringe, for people who do not know, is a giant performing arts festival that takes place in Lower Manhattan every August. There are over 200 different shows available at tons of different venues. Some are cool. Most suck. This one was somewhere in between.

Gymnast’s show has the honor of playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre, the oldest continuously running Off Broadway theatre in New York. What is striking about a visit to the Cherry Lane is its history and its geography. It is nestled at the end of a quiet side street in the heart of the west village. It is as prime as New York City real estate can get. I get apartment envy every time I go to this place and see the houses next to it. We even found a great bakery next door that has milk and cookies. Milk and Cookies!

But I digress. After the show, Brownsox, Gymnast, and I hit off Kettle of Fish. We found a table in back and I began attacking the place’s Budweiser keg. My plan was to have a couple of drinks and get home at a reasonable hour, since I had work the next day. So I drank quickly, sprint drinking if you will instead of marathon work that soon would be required. Around midnight, Hubris called and said he would be by soon. Then JamBand called, saying she was at a bar on the Lower East Side with Gymnast’s college roommate. Who wants to go home early on a Friday Night anyway?

A cab ride later, we are in party central. The bar is a standard non-descript trashy lower east side bar. No tap, no credit cards, no space to breath. We start pounding the PBRs and mingling with JamBand and her crew. The PBRs and the noise hit me bad, and I am a mess. Some girl tries to talk to me, but I am so tired, wasted, and deaf that I am no use to her. I use all the concentration I can muster to meet and talk to Gymnast’s college buddy, as anyone who could room with The Gymnast for four years needs to be documented. Not surprisingly, he seemed like a chill fellow. It always fun hanging out with JamBand though, as she acts as a party infusion anytime she is out. That gets me further out in the evening than I otherwise could make it. I eventually talk Brownsox into sharing a cab with me back home, where I eat a third a block of Cracker Barrel cheese with some wheat thins, hoping (and failing) to stave off a hangover.

Next day, work. Ouch. In between shows, I hug out with Teach up by Columbia. Teach and his girl were coming off a successful run of dog sitting at a place on Central Park South with a dog sitting gig for a Columbia professor. So they got to camp out half a block from the Hudson right by the Columbia campus for two weeks. That whole neighborhood is kinda wacky, as Columbia tries to build a college campus, with a college town outskirt, in the middle of Upper Manhattan. It’s a strange place, but the house Teach was staying in was huge. Both the husband and wife had their own studies, with an extra room for a TV den. I could possibly live there when they get back and get away with it for a month. After getting over this case of apartment envy, Teach and I had a pint at a local joint, a non-descript college-town-esque bar. I then went and had a slice of pizza next door (to see how these Columbia kids live). Teach sat with me, attempting to drink his pre-purchased six pack of Sam Adams, but was thwarted by a lack of an opener.

After the final show, I headed to Park Slope. I usually avoid Brooklyn like the plague, but I am trying (not very well, lets be honest) to be open to new things. I met Groucho at a BBQ place on 5th ave (not real Fifth Ave. obviously). They had great pulled pork, wings so spicy I cried, beer named after Barack Obama, and a bourbon list. I took this opportunity to teach Groucho about Bourbon, so we split a flight of small batch, which Groucho had to fight through. Groucho, to his credit, picked Booker’s as the best bourbon. The class reminded me how good Knob Creek is, and how rough it can be going down. All and all, a quality meal.

At the end of it, Groucho headed home, and I returned to the island. I headed to the East Village for a friend from High School’s birthday party. It was at a club-like place on 9th street. I drank vodka, which is something I only drink at places like those. I hung out with the Banker for a while, and had the added treat of seeing Duke. He arrived with his crew Cleveland and M&M, neither of whom I had not seen since Christmas. We caught up over by the bar (I am always hesitant to give up such real estate at a place like this) and downed Vodka. I had forgotten two things about Vodka. 1: Vodka Tonic taste like nothing, which can be dangerous, 2: Vodka Sodas are very popular because of their low sugar, and conversely taste like ass. I have also found I no longer like dancing at all, a realization I am not happy with. I believe the problem is that I am having a harder and harder time reaching that level of drunk where an uptight white boy will get down. It’s like every time I try to hit that target, I overshoot and become a mess. It’s the drunkard’s equivalent to curling (if I understand the game properly, which no one this side of the border does anyway). This means that drinking in a club is never going to be as fun as it should. Despite that limitation, it turns out to be a fun evening, where I get to drink with a bunch of people I do not see enough. Eventually Banker and I grabbed a cab uptown. The plan was to grab a final brew at Banker’s pad, but I was tired and just took the cab back to Queens.

Lots of drinking at cool places in cool neighborhoods. This activity will be a lot more fun when I don’t have to work every weekend (and thus, can wander around my apartment hung over in bathrobe after each night).

Looking into the future, I have finished my summer assignment at work, and Bourbon Samurai has returned from his New Hampshire exile. This 30% decrease in work hours multiplied by a 100% increase in drunken roommate should lead to some blog worthy stuff. Will let ya know.