Quantum Tales

Ode to Booting

2008-12-19T13:23:00.001-08:00

So I booted the other night

It was one of those insta-boots. You get handed a shot you know you shouldn’t do, you throw it back, and it wants to come back up. You fight and you gag, and you run to the bathroom, but you know you are screwed. And so did I boot last night. Nothing serious, but the damage was done.

Now a mature adult would be shamed and concerned that he is still vomiting from alcohol consumption this late in his live. That adult has a very boring blog. I, in turn, have decided to chronicle the top 10 funniest boots I have ever had the pleasure to be involved in. You will note most of these happened years ago, which is for the best.

10: Landmines: Any time you played landmines, you would probably boot. That was the deal, and you accepted it. You would also get pissed at Hubris, but this is not a post about the top 10 most hilarious times I was pissed at Hubris.

9: When I was a freshman in college, Sketchrock booted in this girlfriend’s sink during a party, and told everyone I did it. Sketchrock is a dick.

8: Sophomore year in college, Bourbon Samurai drank half a handle of SoCo, and was about to pass out on my roommate’s futon, but then booted into his hand. He very politely asked where he should put this boot, like it was a beer can and he needed to know if I recycled. A well mannered lad, that Bourbon.

7: I did an all you can eat wings night with Hubris and Hodgkins one summer night. We then went back to my place and played Quarters. It turns out that cheap beer and Jamaican Jerk wings are not good co-habitats. I have never seen three dudes boot at almost the exact same moment until this day.

6: At a cast party in college, Uber260 was sitting on a couch, nigh brain dead drunk, and felt the need to boot. He caught the boot in his arms, and then proceeded to cradle it like a wee babe. Nuff said.

5: Back in college, Brownsox was in an A cappella group. Being Brownsox’s friends, we would go see their shows. Being an A Cappella show, we would get hammered beforehand. On one such occasion, I went out with Hubris and Vanisher to a Thai place in town, which had this great So-Dee chicken and cheap sake. We had dinner, then went back to my place to down copious amounts of bourbon/congac/whatever was on my bar. When we left my house, I demanding that Hubris carry me to the show, and leapt on his back. He promptly threw me to the concrete, so I showed up at the show bleeding from the head. But at least I showed. Somehow Vanisher and Hubris got lost, and ended up wandering around campus. At this point, Vanisher goes down hard. As Hubris tried to get him home, Vanisher boots. All Hubris can say at this moment is “Not the Chick So-Dee!” This stands as the best thing ever said while watching a friend vomit in the bushes.

4: For my 21st birthday, my buddies bought me a bottle of Vodka shaped like a Tommy gun. I decried that the only way this vodka could be drank was straight from the bottle, and could not be drank until someone brought a camera over, and captured the moment. So after a party one night, Hubris grabbed his camera and we all went over to my place to break out the Tommy gun. I took the first swig, and shock of shock, it tasted terrible. Hubris claimed that the flash did not go off (he is full of lies, and took a picture of also lies), so I took another swig. This shot was the deal breaker, and I ran to the bathroom to let loose. Hubris not only got a shot of me hitting the gun, but one of me booting the vodka back up, then a shot of me flipping him the bird post boot. This is the only boot on the list captured for posterity.

3: Brownsox booted on a bar once. I mean that literally. He was sitting at a bar drinking, drank too much, and booted on the bar. He quickly left that bar. Brownsox is awesome.

2: Uber260 was hosting a party at his apartment in college. He drank several Irish car bombs, and then challenged me to a raspberry Margarita chugging contest. He won. So he got good and trashed, and needed to hit the head. He way his apartment is set up is that the bedrooms and bathroom are along a narrow hall. While waiting for the bathroom, Uber260 could hold it no more, and let loose. He booted on the wall so hard, some of the boot ricocheted off the wall, and hit the wall behind Uber260. This is the most physically impressive boot ever accomplished by man.

1: On the second Quantumas, Brownsox re-defined the booting rally. When the gang was kicked out of St. Andrews for use of illegal substances in the bathroom, Brownsox booted on their front stoop as he left. Take that establishment! Brownsox then went out and kept drinking long until the night, until he needed to go home. He took a cab back to Queens, but realized he did not have enough money. He asked the cabby to stop at the all night supermarket, which had an ATM. Brownsox went into the supermarket, and once again booted (He claims it was just on the floor, but I thing it was in the lettuce crisper). He did pay the cabbie though.

Thus is my ode to the body’s natural reaction when you put too much poison in it. Feel free to add your own tales of booting goodness in the comments section.

Never Underestimate My Ability to Mess Myself Up

2008-12-11T14:02:00.000-08:00

I may be the only person in the history of man to injure himself while using mouthwash.

On Tuesday morning, I was using said product, and my swishing method must have been bad, because I pulled something on the right side of my jaw. It did not hurt at first, but after getting to work, the point where the right side of my jaw met my skull started to swell up. It got so bad that I could not eat my lunch.

My first inclination was to take sweet sweet drugs. Normally I avoid Advil and the like, what with that whole ‘don’t take if you have three or more alcoholic drinks a day’ thing (Which is very sobering the first time you realize this danger). But the pain was pretty bad, so I popped some extra strength Tylenol. Holy Shit that stuff is amazing. I still had a hard time chewing, but all the pain went away in ten minutes. I am now convinced I could walk around with a ninja star stuck in my leg if I had enough Tylenol going through me.

The pain being dealt with, I tried to figure out what caused it. I had done nothing obvious to myself to cause said problem (ie got into a bar fight or fall down some stairs), and the idea of doing this while using mouthwash seemed silly (I mean, it still does). I decide to consult the internet. Now dear readers(s?), if you ever take my advice on anything, take my advice on this; never consult the internet regarding medical treatment. As far as the internet knows, all human discomfort is caused by either working out too hard or cancerous tumors. Short of breath, sore elbow, limp, all caused by lifting something funny or tumors eating away at you says the Intertron. The funniest part here is that when the possibility of cancer crept into my mind, my concern wasn’t death, the horrors of Chemo, or the realization that I had wasted my young life. No, my major concern was, “Great, now I have to go see a doctor. I hate seeing doctors.” I am a big picture guy.

Now with all this jaw pain and concern about well being, you would think that our hero would maybe go home early from work and get some rest. But by now, you know better. I had already promised a friend I would go see his reading, which was at a bar. I had missed a friend’s workshop a month ago for personal reasons, and felt shitty about it, so I decided to buck up, throw back some more Tylenol Extra Strength (serious, this shit could get me through a defenestrating) and suck it up.

This reading was in the basement of the Zipper Tavern. The Zipper Tavern is a spot that bears some discussion. It is a bar/restaurant attached to The Zipper Factory, a performance space. On a pure physical level, the whole set up is beautiful. The theatre has it’s own bar, and is pretty decent space in an off-off Broadway sense. Next door (which is connected in the back) you have a restaurant with a bar up front, and a lounge space with it’s own bar upstairs overlooking the dining room, and even a roof space to go smoke. The tap is even good. The problem is that it is located in the garment district, which is south of Times Square, and kind of dead. So Last Call is at Midnight (which is a crime in New York) and the place can be less than inviting in its feel. The reading I was going to did not open its doors until 7:30, and I got off work at 6:15. Now it had been a rough day, what with the pain when eating and the fear of tumors, so I really wanted to throw back some beers. I had a couple of pints, and chatted up the bartender, a nice young lad by the name of Tim, and talked about the pros and cons of this establishment. The reading itself was very interesting, and was perfect in the venue. I did not hag out and talk to my friend about it, due to said jaw pain (also, the one side of my face had swollen up a bit, and I felt mildly self conscious).

At this point, I should have gone home and addressed this injury. But just as I arrived back in Astoria, Hubris called me, asking if I wanted to get a drink. At this point in the night, I had had enough beers where my brain decides beers equal joy and I always should be drinking them, and I was still stressed out about my jaw. So I head over to McCann’s and get a harp. Now at this point it is 10 o’clock, and all I have had to eat all day was some mashed potatoes, but I was working on Beer four. I grab some soup, and found that the Chicken Rice soup is the one thing on the McCann’s menu that would not make me fell sick the next day. Hubris came by, and we began slamming beers. After a while, Hubris’s girlfriend joined us, and more beers were slammed. I ended up getting home around 1:30am, put an ice pack on my face, and went to bed.

The next day, my face was still a little swollen, but it had gone down noticeably, and the pain was gone. So I declared myself cancer free, and went to work.

Serious, I defy all medical understanding.

Quarters, letters, and other excuses to drink on a weekday

2008-12-08T13:43:00.000-08:00

Interesting week last week.

Tuesday night, I had to stay late at work decorating a Christmas tree (no joke), so when I got off; my plan was to just go home, hit the gym (ya, that’s right, I go to a gym. That Just Happened) and call it a night. On my way home though, I spot Brownsox and Kraut at the local sushi place. Now I thinks to myself “Well lad, ya have to eat, and do you want to eat alone” so I pop in and sit down. We have a lovely meal and a couple of beers, as Kraut tells us how her dentist caused her nerve damage. Fun times. After dinner, Kraut heads home (she has a real-people job), and I talk Brownsox into having another round at McCann’s (for he has a fake-person job).

We strolled over, and sat down at the end of the bar. Next to us was this couple who appeared to be a little older than us. The woman was a red head. Brownsox loves redheads (really, all men do, Brownsox just targets them). After staring at the woman for a while, Brownsox notices that they are playing some sort of game with a quarter. Brownsox, always the forward kind of chap, asked what they were doing. They explained the game as follows; A player spins the coin and calls the side. If when the coin falls that side is up, they make another player drink a shot of Spinning Player’s choosing. If the coin falls other side up, Spinning player does a shot of another player’s choosing. Brownsox, on the couple’s urging, decided to give the game a go. He spins the coin, calls heads, and it lands tales. The couple tells me I am to choose the shot. I choose my favorite shot, Wild Turkey. This scares the couple a little, but we are unfazed. Brownsox shoots, and then spins again. He wins the spin. I must drink a shot of Jim Bean. The couple is scared, we remain stoic. We then pass the quarter along the four of us, playing the game and splitting the cost of the shots. In the span of twenty minutes, I do a shot of Jim Bean, Jose Quevo, and SoCo Lime. We leave after about 45 minutes of this, not because I wasn’t having fun, but because I had work the next day and did not want to vomit on my boss during the staff meeting.

Thursday was another late work day. We were doing an end of year mailing, which meant we had to stuff, seal, and stamp literally thousands of envelopes. I agree to help, and stay late on Thursday. Now, 7 pm comes and goes, and it’s just down to this one guy and me in the conference room doing this mailing, everyone else going home for the day. I decide that I do not need to be sober to do this, and head to my desk. A playwright had giving me a half bottle of Vodka for an opening night gift, and I decided it would best be served as ‘work booze’. I looked around the office for something to mix it with; I wanted Orange Juice, but the closest thing I could come up with was Sunkist. So Sunkist it was. Now I did not plan to drain that entire bottle, but we had a lot of letters to get out, and anyone who has done a mass mailing knows it is real boring. So I and this work buddy drink several vodkas and Sunkists (a drink we dub the “Philips Head”) and get a ton of letters ready. When the stack ends, and the bottle is dry, we decide we need a little more booze. So we head to the defacto work bar, The Irish Rouge, and grab a couple of beers. As I am finishing my second beer, I get a call from Teach, telling me he is at O’Hanlin’s (that bar under the train at 31st and Ditmars) and that I should come by. Realizing that a change in venue is the only way I am not going to get super-blasted, my buddy and I decide to head our separate ways. I meet Teach at the bar, chat up the bartender (the Irish lass who works at Stout, this whole bar is there the cool people from Stout end up at) and tag a couple of Harps. Around Midnight, I stumble home and eat leftover chicken.

I start tech in a couple of days, so not sure if anything exciting will come up. But January is around the corner…

Self-realization, violence, and Bond. That's a good weekend.

2008-11-21T12:40:00.001-08:00

Okay, so one week into the one drink rule, and here is what we learned.

It’s a stupid rule.

After about a week, I realized that while it was very necessary to call myself out on my drinking of late, this was not the way to deal with the problem. I did indeed need to stop getting drunk, but that did not mean I could not have a second beer at the bar.

The trick was I had lost respect for booze. I had forgotten that booze is in fact a scary thing which can ruin lives. I treated it lightly, and it was taking its toll on me. So after a few days of using it sparingly, I remembered its power, and how to respect it.

I am still riding this out until Thanksgiving, but if I am at a bar having a good time, I will get a second beer, maybe even a third. I just won’t slam the damn thing and follow it up with a chaser of JD.

Alright, enough navel-gazing, onto the goofy.

Not surprising, the week was kinda slow, what with no show and said drinking ban. I did take the opportunity to go to a real cool speak-easy with Brownsox. I had forgotten that there is an art to mixology, and a good bartender can make you a crazy tasty drink filled with booze. I think I may try drinking more cocktails, if I am in the right bar. The problem of course is that I am usually at the wrong type of bars to get a cocktail, as I mostly go to Irish sports bars.

The weekend was far more interesting. After a rough morning at Nevada’s (see other blog) I dog-sat for my parent’s most of the day. That evening, I saw a play that a friend of mine was in. The play, on Broadway, was kinda bad, but not terrible, and my friend was pretty good in it. So there ya go. After the show, I ended up at Playwright’s tavern, to watch the UFC PPV. Both Bourbon Samurai and Slaggard were in town, and they were both pumped for the fight. The overall card was very good, with a lot of technically impressive matches. The main fight did not disappoint as well. During the fight, Teach arrived, and talked us into going out afterwards. We hit off the Bull Moose, where Teach and I shot some pool, we discussed how hilarious the remake of Bengi would be if directed by Chris Nolan (as a dog, I could be run over or neutered, but as an ideal…) and drank several Bud Lights. It was at this moment that I saw the limitations of the One drink rule, and had a couple of beers. Not enough to get drunk mind you, just a couple. We left around 3:45, and I went to bed around 5am. Been awhile since that happened.

I woke up Sunday at 12:30pm, and found no one else close to stirring. I went to the gym, came back, showered, and was still the only one up. I left my barely conscious roomates in their stupor to go see Me of Solace with Teach, his lady, and Arsenal. Honestly, I was in the minority of the group but I was not a fan. The set pieces blew, and in an attempt to update Bond they are losing some of the things that make him a unique character. We do not need a Jason Bourne with an English Accent, we need Bond, James Bond.

After the movie, Teach took us to this new bar, Blackbirds. One of Teach’s co-workers was working the bar, a cool dude named Ely. This bar was pretty sweet, had a great tap, a dart board, and really good barfood (the standout was this Chorizo and Mushroom stuffed pastry). It also turned out that this was a ‘training bar’ meaning that the students from the bartending school that Teach teaches at come and can tend the bar for a half an hour, getting real world experience. This is great, as you can harass them by demanding obscure drinks you made up (you can’t make an explosive badger? How about a crying unicorn? What kind of bartender are you). Bourbon and Hubris came by, and we watched a lot of football, demanded goofy shots be made by neophyte bartenders, and drank mini Michelob Ultras given to us in a bucket. Ely turned out to be a cool guy, and we chatted about how awesome Citizen Cope is. All and all, a good addition to the Astoria drinking holes.

So a good weekend, with a little self-realization thrown in. What more can you ask.

Alright, let's try something new

2008-11-14T13:41:00.000-08:00

Okay so a lot has gone down recently

1: America elected a black guy.

How Q spent the event

Went over to Arsenal’s house, spilt a bottle of Wild Turkey with Hubris, left a apologetic message on Uber260’s cell, don’t remember how I got home.

2: Arsenal beat Man United

How Q spent the event

Went to work, went drinking after work, went back to Nevada’s after drinking after work, don’t remember how I got home.

3: The show I have been working on for the last three months closed

How Q spent the event

Split a Heineken from a mini-keg with my boss, had dinner at a famous stage directors house, drank in lower east side, don’t remember how I got home.

You seeing a pattern?

So while the last couple of weeks have been extremely awesome, I have been losing a little too much time and sense. Thus I am engaging in a social experiment. For the next two or so weeks, I will be ‘One Drink Q’.

What does that mean, you ask dear reader(s?)? What it means is I can only have one drink. No more infinite beers or glass after glass of Whiskey. Now when I go out, I can only have a single drink. There are some tiny exceptions.

1: Nevada Smiths acts as a ‘safe zone’ where I can only have one beer, but it will not count for the beer of the day. This way, I can go to the game in the morning, and still go out for a drink that evening.

2: At meals I may have one drink, and again it will not count for the daily total

3: If several hours have passed since my last drink, (like 4-6) I can leave it up to good judgment as to whether or not I can have another single drink.

So what is the real point of this, you ask? I have gone on several enforced ‘dry spells’ before, and while it is good for my health, there is a desire to avoid everyone, and that one inevitable evening when you are swilling seltzer and decide that you hate everyone you know. My hope is that allowing myself a single drink; I will still be sociable and not erupt in rage.

Also, I might start acting like an adult.

I will do some sort of post mortem about the experience when it is done. Right now the deadline is Thanksgiving (no one should have to be sober for a family holiday) which is followed by a two Derby Sunday at Nevada’s (Stanford Bridge is falling down!). After these events, the ruling may be extended or altered (2 drink Q? No Beer Q? Only high end cocktails Q?) depending on how I am feeling and what I have learned from the process. I am excited to see how this goes. It is a chance to chill out, loose a little weight, and rethink some stuff, all while not going crazy denying myself something I enjoy.

This is the kind of shit that happens when you get too old to die young.

State of the Boozin

2008-10-31T12:21:00.000-07:00

So here as what has been going on since I stopped blogging.

1: I have been doing a lot of ‘work drinking’ i.e. drinking with my co-workers after the show, as appose to drinking with the same group of lunatics I have been drinking with for the better part of this decade. While it is fun drinking with a new group of people, there are concerns. Namely, since I work with them, I am less inclined to, say, down half a bottle of Jameson, set fire to a tablecloth, and steal a street sign. I work with these people, and need them to have the illusion that I am a sane competent person (how that has been maintained is nothing short of a miracle). Thus, a noticeable decrease in idiocy. Some mild exceptions.

A: Rocking out a sweet karaoke renditions of “Sweet Caroline” on a Sunday Night (God Bless the Theatre Schedule). By the by, Irish Rogue has Sunday Night Karaoke.

B: Hanging out at the bar one night, one of the actors was having dinner with his wife and some friends. I decide to mess with him, and tell the bartender to send over the girliest drink he could come up with. The bartender rose to the challenge in ways I could not have imagined. The result was some neon blue martinit thing with whip cream and sugar. My teeth rotted just looking at it.

C: I got a free steak by accident.

2: Hubris and I have taken the 'no beer in the house' rule to strange new places. We decided that the rule should be amended to ‘keep no beer in the house’. The idea is that we do not buy beer as groceries, but if you come home from a long day at work and want a cold one, you can grab a beer at the deli, but you have to drink it that night, so beer does not linger. So, as you guessed, this just leads to Hubris and I each drinking a six back each Monday Night in the comfort of our home. At one point, there were enough empty tall boys that we could have built a pyramid (not a beer-amid, an actual building where I could be entombed).

3: Most of my team has been lost to the Election. This means I am either drinking with my roommate of people I work with. Either way, I am drinking with people I see 6 days a week. I may stab someone soon, hilariously.

3: Catching up on the new TV season. I think I have written about this in other posts, so I will not go into too much detail here. Lets just say that Showtime has way surpassed HBO in terms of quality; I will miss “The Shield” greatly when it ends next month, Every asshole who tells you “Mad Men” is brilliant is right; “Chuck” is so much more fun to watch than “Heroes”, and Thank God “30 Rock” is back.

This covers a lot of ground. Life should change to a more standard form in about a week and a half, and I may go back to some of the old stuff. Also, expect another video game post, as we adopted a baby Xbox.

Cheers.

Just another manic Monday

2008-10-08T13:41:00.000-07:00

I had a day off this Monday. Days off are rare occurrences for me. Here is what I did.

9am: Alarm goes off. Forgot to turn it off. Damn.

10:20am wake up.

10:22am, check work email. Do productive work stuff via intertron.

10:30am without leaving bed, fire up the Civilization Revolutions. This game is like crack to me.

12:15: Take over the world. Have not left bed yet today.

12:30 Shower. No need for a shave, cause who I gonna see.

1pm Go to Barber.

1:15pm My barber is not in.

1:20 Decide I should join a gym.

1:30 Go to Hubris’s gym, which is in a strip mall three blocks from our house. A appropriately perky cute girl shows me around, trying to sell me on something I already was going to buy. Fill out all the paperwork and whatnot. Am now a gym member. Look forward to meaning to go but not.

1:45 Make use of the stripmall and buy shaving cream and paper towels.

2pm: Return home, drop off goods.

2:10 Return to barber. My barber, an Irish guy who used to be my landlord, is in. He cuts my hair, and we chat.

2:30pm: Leave Queens

3pm: Go to work. Yes it is my day off, but something comes up that is time sensitive, and I left my sneakers at the theatre anyway. Need those for ‘meaning to work out but not’.

3:30pm: Leave work, finishing various tasks and earning brownie points. Return to Queens.

4pm: Hit off deli on 23rd Ave and buy Bomb sandwich, which may be the greatest sandwich ever made. The deli is not open late, so this is a rare treat to be treasured.

4:20pm: Return home. Eat amazing sandwich while watching Sons of Anarchy on Tivo. Should watch Mad Men but in no mood for anything that good. Episode watched better than expected. Hope for show continues.

5pm: Hubris returns home, confused why he is the guy coming back from work and I am the guy on the couch. I also am confused

5:15pm: Hubris plays Assassins Creed in living room. I play The Force Unleashed in my room. All is well.

6:30pm: Hubris and I watch On Demand. Declare that Dexter is great, Entourage may have redeemed itself, Californication has been saved by the addition of Leobin, and True Blood does not merit viewing.

8:45pm: Hubris has crazy plan. Get hammered and watch Speed Racer. I raise concern, but am swayed.

8:55pm. Deli for beers.

9:20pm: Speed Racer begins

9:23pm: I am scared

9:42pm: I am convinced that I am having an acid trip. Hubris will back me up on this.

9:55pm: We finish the beers

959pm: We get more beers. Movie paused.

10:27pm: This movie is a special kind of bad. A magic kind of bad.

10:50pm: We finish the beer again. Debate on to where or not we need more beers

10:52pm: Hubris gets more beers.

11:30pm the movie is finally over. I have no idea what just happened, but I am afraid of it.

Midnight: Bed, with the possibility of going to the gym tomorrow.

Thus was my first Monday off. The perfect mix of relaxation, accomplishment, and stupid.

Wedding Weekend Number 2: The Tri-State Edition

2008-09-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was a big weekend. Lives changed, old friends returned, milestones celebrated.

Our tale begins Thursday night. Bourbon Samurai and I were seeing a play in the East Village. That meant a pre show drink at good old Grassroots Tavern. The pitcher of Bud light was accompanied by food from a new chicken place next door, a place that fry chickens in olive oil. All the joy of fried chicken, less of the fat! The end result, delicious and less gross than expected.

After checking out the show (which was not quite great, and not really worth discussing much) we wandered north. We had been told that Uber260 was in town for the weekend, and he was seeing a stand up comedy show near by. We called Brownsox, but he was at a political fundraiser at Rudy’s. Now, the idea of a politician who sees Rudy’s as a place to spread his message and raise funds scares the shit out of me, but I am told Rudy’s does this very often, so I guess I know little about our government (or I know too much). We eventually found where the show was, and waited for the show to let out.

Next door to the venue was a bar. It looked like a standard Irish bar, so we went inside for a beer. It was not a standard Irish Bar. It was a NYU hangout, but not where the legal kids go. I would guess the average age was 19 and a half. So young that checking the ladies out made you feel a little dirty, and all the other guys in the bar made you want to kick the shit out of them. The worst was the bouncer, who tried to stop some 18 year old kids from coming in, but eventually gave up after their whining about ‘being in earlier’. It’s gotta suck being a bouncer in the east village.

Shortly, the show got out, and we found Uber260, Groucho, and Kodez inside. We joined them at the reception afterwards for some free red wine. Now I have come to learn that ‘free red wine’ is code for ‘horrible headache’ so I did not partake. After a while, Brownsox joined us. He was talking to Uber260 and Bourbon, and Bourbon gestured in such a way that he knocked over Brownsox glass, spilling the entire contents of the glass over the entirety of Brownsox’s white button-down shirt. The area coverage was amazing and somewhat unprecedented in bar room spills (an area where I hold a doctorate).

After the free booze was done, we went looking for a place that would sell booze. We traveled back down to Revival, but found it so full that people were literally spilling out the front door. We then hit up the next door bar, Shades of Green, which I had also heard good things about. The bar lived up, thanks mostly to its cool Irish bartender, who happened to be the coolest Tottenham fan I had ever met (which is an uncomfortable thing to write). After several rounds, I broke down and started a conversation about politics, mostly because Uber260 is one of the few religious conservatives I know and I wanted to hear what the other half of America has to say for themselves. Sadly, the number of drinks it took to make me harass Uber260 about politics made me unable to speak intelligently on the subject. Not surprisingly, Bourbon and Brownsox took the opportunity to rant about the Right, which they can do with much more passion and information than I can. Around 2am, Bourbon and I realized we had jobs, and bid the rest of the drunkards a fond good night.

After less sleep than normal, I completed the work day and spent the evening at my parents’ place. I opted to say in this night, and went with my father up to Westchester. I did take the opportunity to have my favorite Chinese food (First Wok on the UES, a staple), finally catch Juno (which was good, but overhyped) and caught up on “Mad Men” (see this show. The true Heir of “The Sopranos”. I want to be Don Draper when I grow up). The one night off in a super-weekend.

Saturday was the big day, Jersey and Zoroastrian’s wedding. I woke up around 10 and hung out waiting for the crew to arrive in Westchester. For reasons still lost to me, Uber260 and Brownsox decided to rent a car. A key difference between Uber260 and myself (which makes sense considering our geography) is that Uber260 is uncomfortable being without a car and I am uncomfortable with having to deal with one. The boys did arrive, with Kodez, LaMama, and LadyGunner, around noon. I grabbed Kodez and Uber260, and headed to the beverage barn, a local Beer Depot whose selection is second to none. Stocked up for the end of the night, we met up with Bourbon, and headed to the wedding.

The wedding was in Warren CT, a middle of nowhere town about an hour fifteen away from my place. Basically, Zoroastrian’s dad bought a ton of forest land, cleared it, and built a house, some grounds, and a greenhouse. He has a pimp view of the river as well. Good eye for the land, this one.

The ceremony was really cool, using pieces of Indian ceremony with vows written by the couple and a brief sermon by Friar Teach (seriously, Teach got ordained online and married them. We want him to do this professionally). Teach’s speech was really great, but Jersey’s statement was the real tear jerker of the show. I getting a little misty eyed just thinking about it.

The business concluded we got down to partying. I had agreed to drive home, so I only had a beer or two, and kept things cool. Everyone else drank with sane gusto. Sadly, the couple did not have a wedding party, so no emotional bridesmaids to hit on. In general, not a ton of young people present more of a family affair. We did meet Zoroastrian’s oldest friend, who joined our team of miscreants for most of the wedding. The reception featured a burrito bar, amazing short ribs, and dancing via Jersey’s Ipod connected to the sound system (Jersey has real good taste in music, the occasional ‘elf rock’ non-withstanding). Eventually we rocked the dance floor, and I remembered that dancing sober is a rough thing for a white man. Brownsox made up for my sober white man dance with his crunched Indian jam, so it all evened out. The night wore on, the temperature dropped, and we eventually packed it in.

The wedding was in the afternoon, so by the time we got back it was only 10:30, so we decided to keep drinking. We went through the Coors Lite we had bough earlier, and drained a bottle of Jameson and another bottle of Whiskey. Teach and I especially attacked the Jameson with shot after shot once we got back. The evening started sedate, with all of us drinking and discussing important topics in the kitchen. The conversation did end up with the idea that if society should have capital punishment, executions should be public instead of hidden away. I countered that my commute was hard enough without having to deal with the crowds in Times Square for the five o’clock beheading. We went on like this until the ladies went to bed, then it got messy.

We went down to the game room to get more beer. Uber260 and I played some pool, and Teach got the rest of the guys into a game of Spades. I played pool until I realized I was too drunk to use math. At this point, the emotional weight of the evening began to hit us. I laid a quarter-life crisis rant on Uber260, which he countered with an intense round of the ‘you are so money and you don’t even know it’s. The Spades game fell into the boy’s club sex conversation, which often dipped into hilarity. Around 3am, I hit the wall and called it a night. The rest of the guys did not follow suit until 5:30, and they were all up before me. Rough.

Sunday was a day of rest and relaxation right? Nope. Sunday was Kodez’s birthday. Fate even gave Kodez the gift of the Dolphins kicking the crap out of the Patriots (really a gift for all mandkind). That evening, after we drove back into town and all took naps, we all met up for dinner at Mezzo Mezzo. It may have been the first time that the gang made it to Mezzo, and we only needed one bottle of wine. After dinner, instead of the usual bar partying enjoyed on a birthday, we all retired to my place to watch the Academy Award Winning film* Talladega Nights, The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. A great low-key way to top a high key weekend.

*Best Film Ever Made, beating out Highlander

Thoughts on the Summer '08 Movie Season

2008-09-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

I saw a lot of movies this summer. Much more than I ever see, ever. It was sort of a symptom of my new job, where I would have random hours to kill and should not be sitting in a bar. So now that the summer movie season has closed, I thought I would share some thoughts on what I saw. Feel free to disregard as intellectual indulgence, or to agree/insult my intelligence on the comments section.

Film of The Summer: Tie, The Dark Knight and Iron Man
Ya, D.K. was brilliant, took the genre to new places, Heath Ledger is the greatest villain, blah blah blah. Its true, it was amazing and changed was can be accomplished both for comic book movies and summer blockbusters. I still contest that there is no way to separate the worth of the film from the tragedy around it, and so one must accept a level of over-hype, even if the movie was spectacular. I would rather focus on the other great movie of the summer that was not marred in ghoulish promotion.

Iron Man, in its own way, also marked an evolution in the genre. It created a more adult protagonist in its hero, focused more on character than action, and created a new producing power in Marvel Films. Yes it lacked the scope of Dark Knight, but it also had the burden of being the origin story, and played that role in the most interesting and engaging way since, well since another emotionally troubled millionaire donned a wacky suit to make the world a better place. Also, it sets the stage for an interacting universe of these movies, which would have any fanboy stoked.

Granted, I am giving Iron Man some bonus points, because it was not a sequel and did not have the creepy ‘honor the dead’ vibe. In all honestly, it’s an interesting time to be a comic book fan, as the rest of the world just saw the potential you always knew was there.

Comedy of the Summer: Tropic Thunder
It seemed that there was way more comedies than action films this summer. While some sucked, and some underperformed, one rose well above the ranks. Featuring a cool premise and over packed with acting talent, this is both the funniest and most enjoyable comedy of the summer by far. It is true that it could have been sharper on its lampoons, and Stiller tried to give himself the best material to little avail, but that ‘never go full retard’ scene is just damn funny anyway you slice it. Also important is…

Actor of the Summer: Robert Downey Jr.
Sorry Heath, but with a one-two punch, its all Rob’s summer. He found the right amount of glee and pathos to make Tony Stark a great character (It was pitch perfect casting), and he knocked it out of the park with his role in Tropic Thunder stealing every scene he was in with a role that could have been both offensive and annoying in a lesser actor’s hands. He has been doing great work for years, never phoning in a role no matter the situation, and he has hit his stride in ’08.

Letdown of the Summer: Step Brothers
Either you love Anchorman and hate Talladega Nights or vise versa (which is the correct way), most people enjoy Ferrell and McKay. Sadly, their latest outing was less a movie and more a series of skits with Ferrell and Reilly acting like morons. The secret to these films seems to be to surround Ferrell with people far more talented than him (Sacha Baron Cohen, Steve Carrell, etc.) so when Ferrell falls flat, there is always someone to pick it up. This film lacked those players, so a lot of Ferrell’s and Reilly’s stuff just fizzled in this weak plotted work.

Best Movie I didn’t see: Wall E
I am getting to a point where there is no need to see Pixar movies anymore. I just assume they are wonderful and save myself the emotional journey. It is far more efficient.

Best ‘trying to save a mediocre movie’ performance: Tim Roth in The Incredible Hulk
While a vast improvement from the original in many ways, this film was not that great. Incredible Hulk’s secret weapon was Roth’s performance as a special ops agent juicing on low grade super soldier serum. There is one scene where he literally (as Hubris and I hoped Sam Eliot would some day do) tries to hunt the Hulk with a bowie knife. Oddly enough, the original film’s biggest problem was a lack of a good villain, and in this film, that was the one thing they got spot on.

Best Showtime at 2am find: You Don’t Mess with the Zohan
Very dumb movie. No shock there. Yet is Adam Sandler movie is funnier than you would think. It has some inspired casting (John Turturro got paid!) and a couple of hilarious moments. Granted, I would not recommend paying money to see it, but if come across it during some late night channel surfing, a good find.

That’s my take on this summer’s film fare. I may do more of these movie posts if I have something to say, and keep seeing so many movies. Don’t worry, we will soon return you to your regularly scheduled programming (Coming up next week, Q and Teach split a bottle of Jameson and get banned from Jersey City).

Peace.

Cultural exchanges comes to a drunken end.

2008-09-08T12:17:00.000-07:00

I have been holding out on you reader(s?)

I hit a drunken minefield from you all summer, one that just recently was cleared.

I did not mention the Sicilian.

This summer, Bourbon Samurai went to New Hampshire to do some plays (more on that later). So he needed a sub letter for his room. The last time he did this, he found a very cool ex-professional golfer from Florida. This time, Bourbon went in a different direction.

The Sicilian hails from where you think he hails. He is a grad student of sorts, a sociologist studying the internet. This means his job is to screw around online. He is actually a very nice guy, and while his English is spotty it is very serviceable. It was his lifestyle and his entourage that was the concern.

The entourage was his brother, Shirtless Fredo, or S.F. who came to New York for a month, and ended up spending the whole month on our couch (The Sicilian springs the news of this visit on me a week into his sublet, the first night I hang out with him). Being his first time in the big city, S.F. wanted to take in the town. Take in the town is still code for get shit-housed every night of the week.

The best way I have found explaining the two was that for two months, I lived with two monkeys addicted to crystal meth. At first, they are cute and friendly. Then they become comical and weird. Then you look around and see that they have laid waste to your home with their antics. But you can never get angry at the monkeys, cause what are they gonna do, they are monkeys who need meth. So Hubris and I just laughed, ceded the living room, and waited for September.

The Saga of the Sicilian came to a close last Thursday. It was the last night he was staying with us, and for all his craziness, he was still a good guy, so Hubris and I wanted to send him off in style. So we pre-party with some Whiskey, a bottle of white wine, and some Coronas. After that ran out, we wandered over to the beer garden. As we walked over we realized that The Sicilian had been drinking before we got home, and that he was ripshit. When we get to the garden, he tells Hubris that he wants a woman tonight. Hubris, who is alittle lit but not drunk at all, decides to wingman him. Three attempts were made.

Attempt 1: A couple of girls sit down next to us. Hubris tries to introduce The Sicilian to the girls. At this point in his drunkenness, The Sicilian is having a hard time with English. Hubris keeps trying to set him up, but The Sicilian can only mutter, raking his ravaged brain for The Queen’s English. The girls flee as soon as they can.

Attempt 2: We get mobile. 4 attractive girls are sitting by themselves nearby. Hubris walks over to them and introduces The Sicilian. The girls’ expressions range from intrigued to annoyed. By now, the Sicilian has hit the hilarious stage of drunkenness, and is basically giggling to himself, speaking in half English. It looks like Hubris and I have brought a crazy man we kidnapped from a homeless shelter out for a beer. After making some attempts to talk to the girls, we admit defeat, and look for someone else.

Attempt 3: We start walking around, trying to find someone else, when The Sicilian stopped and asked a girl for a light. She was attractive, and was sitting with her huskier friend by themselves. Bullseye. We come over and explain our friend, and how it’s his last night in America and so on. The attractive one is into it; the huskier one is going along, as is her curse. All seems well, until a switch gets hit in the Sicilian’s brain. He goes crazy drunk in ways I have never seen. His muttering is louder and stranger. He starts shouting obscenities declaring Hubris “This guy, is the fucking shit guy” over and over. He gets alittle too grabby with the one girl, and then starts making pac-man motions with his hands, loudly yarping as he does it. I was so entranced; I couldn’t even wingman and hit on the fat girl. I also had to occasionally restrain him from groping the other girl, which kept me busy too. Oddly enough, all this pushed the other girl to Hubris, who looked quiet charming next to the lunatic on the other side of her. I eventually declare The Sicilian to drunk to function, so we take him back to our place, where he boots and falls asleep in a chair while Hubris and I drank Hieneken and watched Ghost Rider.

I will miss him, in his own special way.

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

2008-08-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

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.

The Top 10 Cops in the History of TV

2008-08-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

In preparation for the beginning of the new TV season, here is my list of the ten greatest characters to wear the badge in TV land. As is the way with most top 10 lists, it’s more about raising discussion than definitive ranking, so feel free to comment or add your own list.

10: Sergeant Kay Howard (Melissa Leo) on Homicide, Life on the Streets.
It’s rare for ‘real’ women to appear on TV, and Howard was a rare example of that. She looked and sounded like what a female Baltimore homicide detective probably looked and sounded like. Homicide began to decline when they replaced Kay with good looking women detectives, wiping some of the grit and realism off the show. Howard was one of a kind.

9: Officer Carl Winslow (Reginald VelJohnson) on Family Matters.
One of the few beat cops on the list, Carl was less about the war on crime, and more about the family life. A great example that not all cops are tormented justice-seekers, but normal working class joes with a loving family, occasionally having to deal with disappearing daughters and having to act as father figures to the freaky mad scientist who lives next door. And he helped both Balky and John McClane on separate occasions.

8: Sergeant Joe Friday (Jack Webb) on Dragnet
He was the first, and he got the job done with style. And a catchy beat.

7: Det. Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) on NYPD Blue
As many high school kids who have had their weed ‘confiscated’ know, lots of cops are dicks. Good old Andy was a prick with the best of them. Drunk, racist, and generally angry, Sipowicz was only really good at one thing, being a cop. He would be higher on this list, but near the end of the run the show got ridiculous with putting Sipowicz through hell (by the end, I think anyone remotely related to him had been horribly murdered). But Dennis Franz’s ballsy portrayal of shitty dude trying to be a good cop deserves note.

6: Detective Lennie Brisco (Jerry Orbach) on Law and Order
On a show designed around a revolving door cast, Brisco is one of the benchmarks. He nailed a sense of world-weary optimism that endeared him to the audience year after year. Always charming, but never overwhelming. It’s hard to believe the show worked before him, and it lost something when he left.

5: Detective John Munch (Richard Belzer) on Any Show That Will Have Him.
No single character has been on more different TV shows (9 in total, check out IMDB) then Munch. That’s not an accident. Munch is Gallows Humor personified, a wisecracking imp making witty observations about the worst of mankind. He is the new icon for TV detective.

4: Det. James McNulty (Dominic West) on The Wire
I am not a huge Wire guy, but you can’t talk about cops shows without admitting that The Wire changes everything about what the genre could do. As the face of the show (if it has a face, but he is the most recognizable character) McNulty is both a symptom and a victim of the decay of Baltimore. Whether he is peeing on a railtrack as the train approaches, or inventing fake serial killers in order to get funding, McNulty is a dark side of the American legal system.

3: Detective Bobby Simone (Jimmy Smits) on NYPD Blue.
Now this was a cop. Bobby was the neighborhood guy who done good, doing the Job when the kids he grew up with were playing the other side. Jimmy Smits played him as the calm ying to Sipowicz’s batshit crazy yang, but Bobby always felt like the cop you wanted to be out there. His years on Blue were hands down the show’s strongest.

2: Detective Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) from The Shield
Good Cop and Bad Cop have gone home for the day; he is a different type of cop. One of the first antiheros of modern cable, Vic is one half righteous vigilante, one half criminal mastermind. The most unique cop on our list, Vic puts self preservation first, justice second, and the law somewhere in the back. Just never ask what’s in the bag.

1: Detective Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher) on Homicide, Life on the Streets
Arrogant, uncompromising, brilliant. Frank was a speaker of the dead, avenging any loss of life with the power of the Truth. Andre Braugher’s career making performance was a powerhouse portrayal of a man who believed his job was a calling. Highlights include his crisis of faith throughout season 3 (from the White Glove Murders to his own brush with mortality) to his incredible stroke scene. And there might not be a better hour of television than “Three Men and Adena.” Frank Pembleton is in a class all his own.

There ya go. You will note that three cops come from the same show. That is not an accident.

Here real quick is the top ten Movie Cops

1: John McClane

2-9: Eight cops not as cool as John McClane.

10: Robocop.

Dubsgiving 2, Dubs harder

2008-08-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

Last week saw the return of Dubsgiving, one of our floating holidays, where Dubs comes into town and we use it as an excuse to drink like we are back in college.

We are not in college anymore.

This Dubsgiving was a much quieter affair than the previous one, with a 70% increase in video games and food quality, and 100% decrease in cab vomiting, cockblocking, and ear-directed assault. Fun was still had in spite of statistics.

Dubs arrived early afternoon on Sunday. I was unprepared to entertain (i.e. put on pants) so Dubs went off with Snorlax and Brownsox to get lunch. I bummed around the house (my apartment still needs a name) for a couple of hours, until Hubris talked me into Sushi Kin.

A word on Sushi Kin. As many of you (if there are still multiple readers) know, Hubris works at one of the best sushi restaurants in NYC. One of their chefs, a bloke by the name Tanaka, decided to start his own place. So he takes up shop in a small restaurant on Ditmar’s Blvd. not far from where we live. The place is BYOB, and rarely busy. The food, however, is amazing, some of the best sushi I ever had. I go there often with Hubris, and Hubris just asks Tanaka to put some stuff together, we eat like kings, and the bill is usually pretty decent. The BYOB helps keep the price down, as we just grab a sixer or two from the supermarket across the street. I worry that the place will close soon for lack of business, but damn is it good.

After some sushi lunch, we meet up with the guys over at the Irish Rover, half to show Dubs the local watering hole, half because I did not want to hang out in my filthy home. After a pint or two, it is decided we should go back to Brownsox’s place and play some Xbox. This would prove to be the turning point for the week.

Dubs is really good at video games. Naturally good. So when we get back to Brownsox’s place and decide the game of the day (soon to be week) is Fifa Euro ’08, he picks it up very quickly. By the end of the day, he is just as good as me (although by the end of the week, I am much better than I was in the beginning of the summer). We play the first on many games, and then head out to go see a play.

As fate would have it, GuruTeve is in town directing a show in the fringe. The show is in the Lower East Side, at CSV, which is a cool venue. We shlep down, grab a beer at the venue, and check out the show. After the show, we take GuruTeve out for a drink at The Magician, which is a cool spot around the corner. It was cool catching up with GuruTeve, meeting his girlfriend, and listening to the random horn players who were jamming in the bar. Also on site was Moth, who I had not seen in a while, and it was cool getting to talk to her as well. A bit of a surreal grouping of old college friend in a LES bar on a Sunday night.

Monday night was much tamer. The lot of us had dinner at Bistro 33, which is an amazing Japanese/French fusion restaurant around the corner from my old apartment near Astoria Park. Again, a diamond in the rough along Ditmars Blvd. After a crazy good meal, we grabbed a couple of sixers and camped out at Brownsox’s place for some more Euro ’08. Often when I am at Brownsox’s place, I will pour 2 Coors Lite tall boys into the glass boot I bought Brownsox in Munich, and get myself nice and tight. I continued this trend, arriving back at my place good and lit before going to bed.

Tuesday Dubs went out with a high school friend, so I rested both my thumbs and liver. Wednesday night was the last night of Dubsgiving, and I had plans of showing the boy the town. However, when I got off work I found the team too entranced in heated games of Euro to fathom going out. I came over to Brownsox’s and had some beers while the boys played (I was too stressed from work to jump into the game. Euro ’08 is a fun game but can drive a man to violence). Eventually, we headed over to McCann’s for some shots and beers. I got to that lovely point of drunk where I stop caring about the little things (i.e. sleep) but still remember the big things (i.e. violence is not condoned in public eateries) and Dubs, Hubris, Brownsox and I drank into the night and had a good laugh.

Not quite the bender we expected, but we are getting older, and there is always next year.

Saturday Night's alright for fightin'

2008-08-14T10:46:00.000-07:00

I spent my Saturday evening at Brownsox’s place watching the UFC PPV. It is as good an excuse as any to talk about the MMA phenom going on right now.

I got into mixed martial arts in college, through Pride Championship Fighting, a Japanese MMA group. The appeal is fairly obvious (dudes try to mess up other dudes), but I found more to like besides the bloodlust. One of the first fights I ever watched was the Royce Gracie/Kazushi Sakuraba 90 minute super match, which was a huge event in the fighting world. The Gracie family is a dynasty in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with Royce being one of the best fighters in the world. Sakuraba was a professional wrestler in Japan who when he went into MMA, beat every Gracie he could fight. This match was highly anticipated, and was set to go until a victor was crowned (usually, a fight will only go three or five rounds). After 90 minutes, Gracie had to throw in the towel. What was interesting about this fight was it was not about knocking the other guy out (‘striking’ in the MMA terms) but more about wrestling and trying to get a submission. That’s what is really great about MMA, not just the striking, but the ground game, a competition of wills where the goal is to put someone is a position where if they do not ‘tap out’ they will get a limb broken or be choked unconscious. The combination of a good ground game with the ability to throw a hail maker punch is what makes someone a MMA star.

The obvious comparison MMA gets in the world of sports in boxing. I prefer MMA for a variety of reasons. MMA matches are shorter; they have more elements then just footwork and punching prowess, and are less likely to go to a decision. Also, there is a huge amount of sportsmanship in MMA, something that has been generally lacking in Boxing for some time. The level of respect that most fighters show their opponents helps elevate MMA from sanctioned violence into respectable sports.

In college, we would often get a couple guys over to my place, order up some pizzas or a platter from Buffalo Joe’s (god I miss that place), grab some booze, and watch some MMA goodness. We have recently re-instated this policy in New York, with hanging out at someone’s house and watching the fight is a healthy alternative to hitting the bars until the mind had been washed clean with Jack Daniels. I have recently discovered that the Irish Rouge shows PPVs in their upstairs lounge, but they charge a cover, which makes is a rare treat.

A couple of years ago, Pride folded due to troubles with the Yakuza (no joke) but was bought out by the UFC. That purchase, along with their foray into reality TV has made UFC the dominant brand in MMA, bar none. Kimbo Slice be damned, UFC has the best collection of fighters and have been putting out a consistently good program for several years under the leadership of President Dana White. While I miss the likes of great fighters Feder and Crocop, UFC is the destination for great Mixed Martial Arts.

The PPV on Saturday was not the best, but not bad. To do a great PPV, you want to see a strong mix of knockouts and tapouts, with one fight going to decision, just for the drama. This bill had too many knockouts and decisions, with very few submission victories. The two main events saw a successful title defense for George St. Pierre (one of the best fighters fighting right now), and a victory for former WWE star Brock Lesnar, who punched the shit out of Heath Herring, but could not get the victory before going to decision. Lesnar, who was pretty good in the WWE, could be a great MMA star but he needs time to work on his submission skills.

I am really sad to hear the Quinton ‘Rampage’ Jackson went insane. He was a great champion, and the best success story of making the jump from Pride to UFC. His hard hitting, chain wearing, dog barking, scary as hell self will be missed in the Octagon.

Much as the beloved blog “Gooners in Exile” is more about being an American Arsenal fan than about analysis of the game, this blog too shall occasionally examine MMA as a spectator sport, not so much about fight analysis (since if I ever tried MMA, I would die).

In closing, why is Randy Couture making movies? He should go back to going what he does best, hitting dudes so hard you see their skulls.

You can sleep when you are dead

2008-08-08T10:20:00.000-07:00

I had such glorious plans for this weekend. Plans involving rest, relaxation, a rejuvenation of spirit after a weekend in the South and a busy week at work. Well, the best laid plans of mice….

Friday was Teach’s birthday, so that was strike one against sober judgment. The plan was to meet at a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks around 10. I got off work around 8:30, and headed to the village to kill time. After some typical Village adventures (screwing around Virgin Megastore, pizza at 2 Boots, pint at Grassroots) I headed over to the restaurant. Teach was their with his girlfriend (blog name forthcoming) Smither’s, a friend of Smithers I had met before but did not remember, and Pesto. I said my hellos and ordered up a margarita. I have this problem with Mexican restaurants, where I do not particularly care for Mexican food, but love Margaritias (the math is easy to finish). We eat, I catch up with Pesto, Teach discusses his impending kayak trip, and birth was celebrated in the style of our times (shots!). Eventually Kodez, Arsenal, and Gymnast arrive. As dinner finishes, we head over to Nevada’s for a nightcap. My memory at this point is vague at best, as lots of sugar tequila and not a lot of food has left me a functional wreck. After a drink at Nevada’s (where I could not find the bathroom, despite spending every weekend there for about 18 months) I declared I should go home (work the next day and all that). Gymnast came back with me, concerned about my well being (that fact that I can neither confirm nor disconfirm the need for said chaperone leans towards needing said chaperone). He makes sure I get to bed without breaking anything, and fills up a plastic mug with water and leaves it in the kitchen for me. Sweet guy.

Waking up the next day, I feel both exhausted, and a bit of the drunkard’s remorse. I also realize I am missing my credit card. I call Nevada’s to see if I left it there, and sure enough, I did. Crap, back to the village at some point. I decide that I need a calming influence for the evening. Family dinner sounds same. Maybe a nightcap with the Banker, as he is an adult with adult stuff. Good plan right?

Dinner in the family turns out to be fun, but does involve large tumblers of Grey Goose and Brandy, partly out of desire for booze, partly because my siblings are bat shit insane. After some tumblers and some really good chicken, I headed over to Banker’s place. My hope was to have a couple of cold ones and a sane, civil discussion. I arrive, his apartment is a furnace, and he wants to meet Spring Roll in Alphabet City. Screw it, it’s on, we’re doing it.

We head down to a place on 13th and A. I realize my License is missing, and have to talk my way into the bar using my work ID. Smooth criminal. We hang out with Spring Roll and her new man for a bit. As the energy begins to fade, I mention that I need to go to Nevada’s and pick up my card. Spring Roll and her man head home, and Banker, ever the loyal friend, heads out with me.

When we arrive, the bartender Guzo is very amused to see me (clearly I was in quite the state last night) and returns my card. I quickly hand it back to him, and get a round of beers (I am debating just leaving a card at Nevada’s from now on and just starting a permanent tab). The original plan was to have a pint then head home, but as we get out drinks, both Banker and I get texts from buddies. At this point, it is after Midnight, and a relaxing restful night at home is dead and buried, so what the hell, come on over to Nevada’s. So Hubris and Banker’s buddy come down, and we spend the night discussion religion over beers and Vodka tonics (nothing that new or interesting was discusses, mostly old roads revisited).

I had planned to wake up early and watch the soccer game with Arsenal, but I also planned to go home after work Saturday night, so it is what it is. Now Arsenal tries calling my cell, and I do not pick up (I think I unconsciously turned the phone off, in an attempt to avoid his call), so he calls Hubris, and instructs him to wake me up. In Hubris’s mind, this is an excuse to throw something at me while I sleep, so he grabs the first thing he sees and lobs it at my sleeping form. That item he grabs, non other than the plastic mug full of water Gymnast left me Friday Night. I am awoken not by blunt trauma to the head, as Hubris planned, by lukewarm water soaking my back and sheets. Hubris was extremely apologetic (so hitting me with a mug while I sleep is cool, but pouring water on me is the height of ‘not cool’), and I took it as a sign that I needed to get up.

So any attempt at rest and quiet reflection was thwarted this weekend. Lets see how the next one goes.

Sergio gets married, I get hammered, everyone wins

2008-08-05T14:20:00.000-07:00

My big trip of the summer was to attend Sergio’s wedding at Chattanooga TN. It was a great vacation, an emotional moment, and a mid-level bender all rolled into one.

Brownsox and I departed from Queens on Friday morning to do the airplane dance. Brownsox is running late of course, but at least this time he has a good excuse (NSFW, if you catch me). With minimal drama (we had about 5 minutes to make our connecting flight, but Regan is tiny) and only a drink or two in our bellies, we arrived in Chattanooga. We met up with Dubs and Irish McJew at the airport, then headed into town. The four of us were staying together at a Day’s Inn with Uber260, and of course Uber260 was the last one showing up. We check into the hotel, and instead of waiting for Uber260 to show up, we head out into town. Brownsox, who has to shower and blog (a state in which he spends his life, forever cursed to having to shower and blog, but never seeming to get it done. He is like Sisyphus with a crappy laptop instead of a boulder) will wait at the hotel for Uber260 while we find a place to eat and drink.

We head into downtown Chattanooga and get a lay of the land. There seems to be 2 central roads that most everything is on and we just walk down one of them. Eventually, we find a joint called Sticky Fingers, which our cabbie had recommended to us as great BBQ. We check it out. The décor is that of an Applebee’s if they took all the crap off of the wall, family dining and whatnot. We settled up to the ¾ island bar in the back, and checked out the tap. One of the great aspects of heading west of New York is the beers get better, and American Microbrews are in play. This bar has three different Microbrews from Atlanta on tap, and we go a’tasting. The bartender cards the three of us. This is important for two of reasons; one, because every single place in town would card us, no matter the situation; two, it quickly revealed us as ‘not from around here’. The bartender, luckily enough, was more amused what a guy from New York, Wisconsin, and Michigan were all doing drinking at a bar in Chattanooga. We all replied with a phrase we would break out repeatedly over the trip “friend’s wedding”. After a beer or two, we ordered up some grub. The place had potato skins that replaced bacon with pulled pork. I nearly cried. They did not disappoint. Eventually, Uber260 and Brownsox showed up. We all got some food (great ribs and pulled pork sandwiches) and more beers (Brownsox opted for Sam Adams, reveling his ‘ugly Yankee’ heritage). After gorging ourselves on the local goodies, we headed out to meet with Sergio.

Sergio was at the rehearsal dinner, which was happening at a nearby restaurant/brewery. When we arrived, the dinner was still going (they had been delayed, the reasons therein Sergio’s soon to be wife, TinRoof, would explain later). As Sergio was still hip deep in family, we sauntered over to the bar room, and played some pool. We did have a small problem with the bar where they would only give us the number of drinks as related to the number of IDs we showed at the bar, putting a cramp in sending one or two men to get drinks for the table. More importantly, it put a cramp in my ‘drink both a microbrew and a glass of bourbon at the same time’ plan, but I am crafty and would not be denied. We shot a couple games of pool (Dubs is very good, and I am not so good, so this led to me focusing more on drinking than playing), we caught up, and ended up into a oddly heated argument about The Dark Knight (I originally banned the topic from discussion, as what is there to say besides its great and we are pissed Heath died, but with big movie buffs Dubs and Uber260 around, I was lost). After a while, the dinner broke up and we hung out with Sergio, his best man Apostle (an old friend from Chicago, also recently married) and Tinroof. Tinroof tried to introduce us to her maids of honor, but there was a bit of a culture clash (Brownsox to girl: What do you do? Girl to B.S.: I work for the Bush administration. You? B.S. to girl: I write for the biggest liberal blog in the country. We ani’t getting any at this wedding). After a while Sergio went off with his family, but TinRoof hung out, and we all swapped stories about the groom to be (apparently the rehearsal was delayed as Sergio needed to get the right brand of hair gel, a fact I may never let him forget). Needless to say, I stand by my claim made in D.C., Sergio found a keeper. We had a couple of shots then wandered back to the hotel.

The next day, we met up with another college buddy, my old roommate, Columns O. Numbers. We all had lunch and wandered around town (drinking less than expected, hey, we had to go to wedding), forr a while until we needed to get ready. The wedding was in the next door town called Signal Mountain, which was on top of a mountain (this fact confused Dubs, who as a native Midwesterner, was confused about the idea of elevation). After a terrifying drive up a mountain country road to the church, (I debated its status of a mountain versus a hill, until I saw clouds below me and shut my mouth) we arrived at the location. We were hailed at the church as a kind of mini-celebrities, known as “Sergio’s college friends who came from all over.” It was a tad surprising having so many people I have never met both so happy to see me and so quick to figure out who I am without me saying so (I suspect that Brownsox’s appearance had a factor in IDing us, or just my yankee strut, whose to say) but everyone was very nice. The service was lovely, and featured two ministers, one guy who did most of everything, and one ‘ringer’ minister who gave the personal prayer part of the wedding (which was both sweet and funny). My booya at the end of the service was not backed, but not as frowned upon as it could have been. Now with the formalities done, time to party.

The reception is literally stumbling distance from our hotel, so as soon as we parked we set up shop. The reception consisted of an appetizer and dinner buffet, as well as wine and a keg of Leinenkugel's Sunset Wheat. I would drink the latter like a man in the dessert finding a mountain stream. Highlights of the reception includes
1: Getting drinks for the wedding party as they waited in the lobby for the bride and groom to show up (they more than most, deserve some Leines).
2: Watching some old boomshaka buddies perform as the wedding party arrived at the reception, then getting to catch up with them later.
3: Getting to hang out with two of Segio’s grad school friends, who were really cool people and seemed to find our crazy asses hilarious.
4: Accidentally walking down the aisle to the just married car before Segio and TinRoof came out (morale of that story, any act goes from disrespectful to funny if you raise the drink in your hand, and I was just trying to find my friends at the end of the row).
Once the happy couple was off, we all headed out to a nearby bar, which a really cool band playing. I stayed for a couple of drinks, but the overall weight of the evening got the best of me, and I packed it in early (also as number 4 suggests, I was drunk).

While getting home was a hassle (We were re-routed to Boston for Sunday night, and I had a bitch of a time getting to New York the next morning) it was a great experience. The town was very cool and friendly (although I have never been carded as often before in my life), I got a chance to catch up with a lot of people, some of which I have not seen in years, and the wedding itself was wonderful. Although when Mr. and Mrs. Sergio think back on their special day I will no doubt take the roll as inappropriately drunk guy, at least I handled my office with style and class.

Stout: A Bar in NYC Worth Knowing

2008-07-08T14:46:00.000-07:00

Stout is one of those bars that you may like, but everyone else thinks sucks. It is a block away from Penn Station and Madison Square Garden, so its clientele is high in douchbagery. Never the less, the bar is HUGE, with 3 floors and a grand total of five separate bar areas. It has the main bar, a dining room upstairs, a backroom for private parties, a downstairs dining room, and a ‘dart alley’ bar downstairs. Even with its high commuter crowd, there is always room here. The food is pretty tasty and the tap list is impressive at the main bar. They often have cool bands play on a small stage above the bar, and host tons of special events. I busy bar of nothing else.

My history with this bar is not lengthy but mildly complex. I found out about it when an actress I used to work with worked there. She recommended that we rent the back room out for a huge 4-way birthday party we were planning. That party, known as the ‘Quad Birthday’ featured 20 year old Irish whiskey and karaoke; it was a huge success. We threw two more parties there (another birthday and a Theatre fundraiser) both blowouts even without a group sing along to “The Weight”.

The only other times we would go there was for a beer after going to the Garden. Rockstar can sometimes access his corporate seats, which are amazing. We went to a Ranger’s game and were 2 rows from the ice. In club seats, they have waiters who get you beer and food, and use wacky computers to have your food brought to you by the time you finished paying the guy who took your order (what an age we live in). After such a decadent sporting event, we would head to Stout for a post game beer, the only time such a trip was made.

Then around February, something dangerous happened. Teach got a job there as a bartender.

The last time Teach tended bar, it was at an upscale Midtown restaurant called Mix. He bartended there for around a month, then the place went out of business (the two events are unrelated, trust me). The closing was a mixed blessing, as it was fun to get apple martinis comped in a fancy restaurant bar, but if he had kept working there, I would be dead broke. I went there so often, the staff would get angry at me if I went more than three days without stopping by. This job did culminate in a Saturday night where we took over the whole restaurant after the bar closed, the entire staff heralded my extravagant tab, and Bourbon Samurai stole a bottle of Jack Daniels. Mix was also the spot where the nickname ‘Uber260’ was forged.

Needless to say, Teach working at a bar equals a good time.

So I have found myself spending many evenings after work chatting up Teach in Dart Alley, drinking a beer and munching on some bar food. Having a bar near the office where I know the bartender means the option of a happy hour pint is always on the table, even if all my friends are lame. This does not lead to a ton of drunkenness, just more time away from home.

So Stout holds a special place in the annals of NY drinking spots. Not the best, but much too good to ignore.

Ode to Drinking Games

2008-07-03T10:43:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I played flip-cup for the first time. For those unfamiliar, Flip-cup is a drinking game, a team relay race where two teams race to have everyone drink a shot of beer, flip their cup exactly 180 degrees, and move down the line. It is a rare drinking game where in general women are better than men (due, I suspect to the high skill quotient and low drinking quotient). While it will not get you wasted (or get me wasted, at least) it is a lot of fun.

In honor of learning said socially acceptable drinking game, I thought I would muse on the various drinking games I have played. Here they are, in order of awesome

4: Kings: I like playing cards. I like drinking tons of beer. Yet I have never gotten that much of a kick out of card drinking games. I would much rather have a couple of beers and play a card game than marry the two. It breeds annoying rule quoting and is generally too tense for my taste. Card drinking games are best served at all-guy weekends in the woods, where just drinking or just playing cards has become too boring, and a new form of entertainment is needed.

My favorite cards and beer story (besides many wonderful poker nights, but that is a different beast) is when Teach brought a deck of cards to the Continental, and we played Spades at the booth as we drank cheap beer. Again drinking + cards = good, drinking * cards = too much work.

3: Beirut: Also know as Beer Pong (but purists will tell you Beer Pong is technically a different game, a variation of Ping Pong including beer), Beirut is the frat boy standard. Two teams of 2, one long table, some Dixie cups and ping pong balls and off you go. While it gets a bad rap for its high douchbage following, Beirut can actually be a blast. It has a great balance of social interaction, physical activity, and inebriation. The average person can play the game, and drink the amount of beer required without getting blasted (for a game or two at least). Oddly enough, I never played this game in college. The only places I have played Beirut are in dive bars in New York, and with my siblings at my parent’s home in Westchester (my little sister needs to work on her game). Sadly, one such dive bar, Time Out, closed down (probably due to numerous health code violations), so if I ever get the urge, I will need to go hunting for a new dive.

2: Quarters: I have played two types of Quarters. In High School, I played Speed Quarters (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quarters) which did a number on 16 year old Quantum, especially since I usually played with Lacrosse players, who beat me both in coordination and size. In college, I played a more relaxed variation, using only one glass and requiring everyone to take a single shot at the glass, and the person who sank it made the person next to him drink the glass (that person had one chance to make the shot, if he did, more beer was poured into the glass. Once we had a pot of 2 full glasses). I like both games very much (Speed is a little too intense though), but I find my stomach can no longer take the quick chugging required to play this game often. Hubris, Irish McJew, and I tried to play this game stoned once, and it was the saddest sight ever seen by men (McJew, it should be noted, is notably bad at this game).

1: Land Mines: This is the D-day of drinking games. Here are the official rules
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_mine_%28drinking_game%29. Make no mistake, this is the big one. My roommate Gangsta taught it to me at the end of junior year, basically shaving five years off my life. Playing it guaranteed someone was doing a porcelain prayer before the game was over (I would occasionally pull a booting rally, ah college). Playing this game required about 2 cases of beer and five or six of the craziest sonabitches you could find. The danger of the game is that its high consumption rate and nature of play (using the empties at Land Mines is the secret of the game) would often leave the game ending with threats of fistfights. On one of the earlier games played, Hubris was sitting on my right, and Gangsta was sitting on his right. Hubris was getting pretty drunk (one nice thing about Land Mines, it encourages casual drinking while playing a drinking game, hence getting really messed up) and was earning his namesake. He eventually got up the gall to land mine Gangsta. Now Gangsta was already better at the game than all of us, but since he was sitting on Hubris’s right, controlled how much beer Hubris had to drink on his turn. This act of pride resulted in Hubris being punished mercilessly the rest of the game, leaving him utterly wasted and enraged. We later than coined the phrase “Never go to war with the man on your right” in honor of that massacre.

Alas, I am reaching the age where drinking games are both immature and somewhat life-threatening, but I will always look back at the good old days, where flinging a ball or coin could cause another man to vomit. Salad days indeed.

Video game ruminations

2008-07-02T12:55:00.000-07:00

It is a busy season for Video Games, and here are my thoughts on some big recent releases.

1: Grand Theft Auto IV: Honestly, not a huge fan. I appreciate the graphics and the scope of the Sandbox world it created, and the story is top notch but the actual game mechanics I do not enjoy at all. Driving is awkward and fighting is clunky. A problem with the series too is that is simulates stuff I could be doing myself. Virtual Bowling is not for me, I could just go freaking bowling!

A dangerous side effect of playing GTA is that after awhile, you start thinking the real world works the same way. You will be walking down the street, get tired of walking, and contemplate going over to a car in the street, yanking the driver out, and driving away, running any red light that slows you down. This is very bad.

There was an article in the Times a couple of weeks ago about how the actor who did the voice and body work for Nico was screwed out of tons on money. I feel little pity for the guy, as he still was very well paid for the work. I am interested by the idea that Video Games are making enough money that royalties are now an issue. This should be a cool discussion to track.

2: UEFA EURO CUP 2008: I have been playing this a lot with the boys, and it has been fun. The nice thing about a soccer sports game is that it can be played by anybody (Get the ball by the net, then shoot it, not hard to understand), but is better enjoyed by fans of the game. Although, much like watching The Beautiful Game, playing Euro ’08 can be both really fun and really frustrating. The controls have some funky spots and the nature of the sport can induce fits of rage. I do not play it that much with others because of this aspect, as the last thing I need when I come home from my stress inducing job is a video game designed to create stress. That and everybody else is better at it than me.

3: Metal Gear Solid 4, Guns of the Patriots: OH MY FRAKKING GOD! It is rare that a game can live up to gamer’s hype, but here it is. The graphics are truly Next-Gen, and the story is huge and multi-layered, making a point to tie up every loose end from the entire series. The game-play is the best the series has ever had, eliminating some of the more annoying tweaks from previous games. Having a stealth game take place in war zones is an awesome idea that allows for great visuals and creative game-play. Finally a reason to own a Playstation 3 besides a blu-ray copy of Talladega Nights.

MGS 4 has very much been a factor as to why this blog as been so slow of late. I finally have a reson for a quiet night home. Lucky for you, dear reader(s?) I have beaten the game, and will return to my drunken antics shortly.

A Change in Format, My Dear Friends

2008-06-19T10:34:00.001-07:00

Hello Reader(s?)

You may have noticed a dramatic decrease in output in the last three months. This is due both to increase in work and a lack of storied party nights (ah, the curse of aging). However, I have found (mostly to my shock) that I really like having this blog, so I will be altering its mission statement a bit.

I still will chronicle the ridiculous drinking habits of myself and my associates, but will also post about other things. I may go on rants about tourists or the increased prices at Grey’s Popayas. I may occasionally critique art is some capacity. I may also go on long depressing tangents about the nature of life and being a mid twenties doof living in the big city.

I will admit in advance, occasionally I will post something that is of no interest to anyone but me. Feel free to skip these posts and wait for the posts where Hubris and I get drunk at 9 am and assault NYU students on the street (EPL season beginning is August, and since Hubris is blogging less and less, I may blog more on the subject). Just know that this site will be for great drinking stories as well as a soap box for my rants and my navel gazing.

I do ask that you please keep checking, as I am sure to do something hilarious at some point, and you may find me bitching about stuff hilarious as well.

Thanks

Q.

A Drinker's Journey

2008-06-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Some would call this poor time management

2008-06-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

Memorial day weekend, I had two days off work. I have not had a day off in a month, and now I had 2. Of those 48 hours, I spent 24 piss drunk.

On Sunday, Hubris and I hit up Costco for booze/groceries. Costco has a little liquor store attached to it, with the standard Costco good prices and high quantity. We grabbed a couple cases of beer, lots of food, 4 bottles of wine, and a giant handle of both Seagram’s and Finlandia. Lock and Load!

We get back home and Hubris makes some drinks. Now Hubris’s idea of a Vodka Tonic is to take a pint glass, pour it a third full of Vodka, and throw in some Tonic and ice. After 2 of these, the world becomes a hilarious place. We then proceeded to break out my new game, Fifa Euro 08. We had been in withdrawal from the Beautiful Game, and it was great to get a little virtual Methadone. Eventually Kodez and Arsenal came by, and Bourbon Samurai returned home from being in a play. We pretty much sat there and played the game a lot while drinking giant mixed drinks. At one point, I was so bombed that I had to go to my room and listen to music for an hour so I could continue drinking/playing. Kodez at some point went to the bathroom and fell into the tub. A day in as only we can do it.

The next day was our supposed ‘house-warming’ party. It was an interesting all day affair, with the entire feel of the party constantly shifting. First it was just a couple of dudes hanging out, then a friend of Bourbon brought a dozen people over, who literally stayed for as long as it took to eat Bourbon’s delicious hamburgers. We did challenge them to a football game, so not a total loss. After that mild blow to morale, we fired up the X-box for another couple of Fifa games. Eventually more people showed up, and the game was banished. Bourbon hit the high point of the evening with a day long marinated set of ribs that literally fell off the bone. The last memory I have was the remaining 10 people at the party huddling together singing “The Weight”. The full day of drinking caught up to me around 10pm, and with an early day at work coming up, I went to pass out as the party began to die down.

We still have not come up for a name for our new home. We have now been there a month and such things must be addressed. Alas, it is rare that the three of us are ever all there and conscious at the same time, so a meeting seems unlikely. I continue to work like a maniac, but should see a decrease in that in 2 weeks or so.

So until then, take the load off Quantum, take the load for free….

Off Season laments

2008-05-24T13:25:00.000-07:00

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.

When work drinking goes south

2008-05-22T14:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Catching up with the fan(s?)

2008-05-16T11:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Out of Towners mean I am allowed to drink extra!

2008-05-08T14:32:00.000-07:00

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.

A mini revalation

2008-04-28T13:57:00.001-07:00

Bourbon Samurai once wrote about how a drunk loves a dog, because they now have the same intellectual capacity and can now interact in an exciting new way that was previously unavailable. I have found a similar connection; one between a drunkard and someone else’s baby.

I was out to dinner at a new sushi restaurant in Queens with Hubris and a bunch of his work friends. I had gone out drinking with Hubris beforehand, and was downing sake and beers pretty quickly, so the buzz was a-forming. Now, one of the guys at the table invited his brother, and said brother came to the sushi place with his wife and baby. The wife and baby sat right behind me, and I was entranced. I looked into those large brown eyes and saw an instant kinship. For we both were filled with a curious awe at the confusing sights and sounds that bombarded us. Now, the baby’s mother was there to hold and take care of the child, who made the baby safe, but I just stared at the creature like its giggles held the answers to all of life’s questions. Seriously, go get bombed and stare at someone’s else’s baby, and see how you feel.

In other news, I have begun the process of moving, with is both a huge pain in the ass and an exciting adventure into change. This does suggest a lack in blogging and blog-inspiring activity (ie. Drinking until I am a jackass) but we shall see. I also now know how to play darts, and desire to improve at it. More as that develops.

The guys go to a classy event. Stupidity ensues.

2008-04-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

A word about young Wall Street types. They spend so much time working, that they have a hard time meeting people outside of their office (aka, people they don’t hate). So, in order to meet people, they join charity groups that on the weekend help the community. The Banker is in one of these groups. His particular charity is connected to a larger charity group, which last night had a huge fundraiser. It had free booze. Game on.

The actual event is called “Taste of the Lower East Side”. Basically, you buy a ticket, and all the best restaurants in that area set up stands in a ballroom and serve some food or drink from their restaurant. It is as awesome as it sounds. I grab two tickets (steep, but hey, it’s Charity) and brought Bourbon along (I considered bringing a date, but then the sad fact that I am me hit me).

When we get there, we waste no time going to work, eating everything in sight and drinking whatever is available. Its clear that all the liquor is donated, so the beer is not great (I am fairly sure that I could get a keg of Brooklyn Lager donated to me for a Its-Tuesday-and-I-am-bored party), but apparently one of the sponsors is Grey Goose, so we make do. The Grey Goose table is easy to find, as it has a giant ice sculpture of the Grey Goose seal. A couple of cocktails from them (including a great Tom Collins, which is not really at Tom Collins with vodka, but screw it, it was tasty) and I was ready to keep eating.

We eventually met up with Banker and his buddy Spring roll, who were working the room. We grabbed them and headed deeper into the maze of amazing food stands. As we go further, I see a large sign for Tequilla, so I head over. Now, next to the tequila stall, serving some anchovies is none other than Mark from this season of Top Chef. We bug the hell out. Normally, I am pretty cool when running into celebrities, but for some reason this sighting was freaking me out. I try his anchovies, and tell him “I am probably the 100th dude to tell you this, and there will be 100 more, but you were the bomb on Top Chef”. He was very touched and thanks me for the support. Later in the night, I gave him a beer and toasted his awesomeness. That kiwi is the man!

We ran into some other people we knew. The Banker’s parents were there, and we caught up with them. Banker’s parents are quality people who do a great job of turning their back on what an alcoholic retard I am. I have one fond memory of crashing at Banker’s parents place right after college, and having an hour long conversation with Banker’s dad, while I was hammered and Banker was showering off his own vomit. Good Times. Eventually I ran into my old buddy Duke, who was there with a date. We caught up over a couple of drinks, and compared notes on the food/ Top Chef sightings. Duke is a great guy who I see too rarely.

We continued to eat anything in sight, and drink whatever was available. The highlights was a margarita, Tequila aged 18 months in whiskey barrels, a mushroom tart thing, Shrimp in a shot of mango juice, cupcakes, and a bunch of other things that I forget because I was eating and drinking too much. By the time the event began to wind down, I would just take a bite of something, and throw the rest of it away, not because it wasn’t good but because space in my stomach had become a precious commodity.

The evening got to the point where the lights came up and the music stopped playing. However, we are still buzzing on about a dozen different sugars, so didn’t want to go home. While Banker said goodbye to people, I decided the most logical thing to do is lick the Grey Goose ice sculpture. Bourbon captures the event on my IPhone, but is unable to get a good shot, so I have to lick the damn thing three times before an acceptable shot was taken (Good thing, because at shot three, people started to get wise to me).

We pop into a bar across the street, which appears to be slammed. I walk towards the back looking for a table, but find a staircase that leads to a basement bar about the size of my living room. Weird, but it was quiet, so we hunkered down and drank some Stellas. Eventually Hubris poped up, right around the time Banker and Spring roll remembered its Thursday, and should attempt sleep before work tomorrow. We finish our drinks, and debate a similar course of action. Then Teach called me, and said he would be out of work in ten minutes and wanted to grab a drink. At this point the night has gone pear shaped, so why not?

Teach works at Stout, which is a very nice midtown bar. We met him at the super generic Blarney Rock bar next store, which is not so nice. We order some drinks and I kindly grab a Sam Adams so the moment Teach arrives he will have a cold one. Teach does come by, but about at the end of the beer, I realize I need to get some sleep this night, and Bourbon looks like he has been stepped on by a giant. Hubris and Teach, who had not tried to eat and the drink the LES dry, opted to stay out, as we cabbed it back home in a stupor.

The next morning at work, I was unable to think about anything for more than 5 minutes. It was worth it though, and I am buying my tickets for next year tomorrow.

Grear bars in NYC: Campbell Apartments, when you need to class it up.

2008-04-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

Campbell Apartments is the nicest bar I have ever frequented. This bar/lounge was originally Robber Barron John Campell’s office and prohibition era salon, and the décor has stayed the same since those Roaring Twenties. It’s a large cozy room with dark lighting, comfortable seating, and even a mock fireplace. Its location, inside Grand Central, makes it a hot spot of well off commuters. The drink menu specializes in Martinis and Prohibition era cocktails. The Flapper’s Delight, a mix of Amaretto, Champagne, and Papayas juice, is a personal favorite. Their Chocolate Martini is also well ranked.

I was introduced to the spot by my old college roommate Kingpin, whose taste this bar served perfectly. He loved the class of the joint, and the fact that they would serve minors if the minors dressed the part and did not balk at the bill (average drink price, $16). When I lived in Westchester, the bar served as a lovely spot for a drink before catching a train. I was having a drink there one time, waiting for a train and in a particularly depressed mood, when a woman, not a girl or a lady but very much a woman, started hitting on me. It became clear that her advances was more to do with getting rid of the sketchy dude hitting on her than any interest in me, but I am a man of manners and played along. After the other guy took the hint and moved on, the woman began telling me about her divorce and her concerns about finding another great love in her life. Heavy stuff for a 23 year old kind who just wanted a drink before catching a train. Still it was a neat moment when two random people can have a brief connection in a dark bar.

Clearly this is not a bar for crazy stories, but I have a great history with the joint. Its cocktails are amazing and its atmosphere is fabulous; its just not a bar I will go to more than once a quarter.

P.S. my other favorite bar in Grand Central, the beer stalls that see 2 dollar Coors Lite tall boys. Because no one should take a train sober. Hell, Brownsox and I are known to just go to Grand Central and walk around drinking Coors Lite killing time. It’s a nice change of pace from Campbell’s, to say the least.

Great bars in NYC: The Frying Pan, or 'The Boat'

2008-04-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

Bourbon Samurai like going to plays. He had heard of a production of Pericles that was being done in an old boat, which is cool if you know the play. He convinced me to come check it out with him. What we didn’t know was besides enjoying an evening of Shakespeare, we would find arguably the coolest bar in Manhattan.

The boat in question was The Frying Pan, a decommissioned lightship docked at the Chelsea pier. When one arrives at this particular dock, one finds the boat, ample seating at the dock, and an outdoor bar and grille. We arrived early for the show, so we each grabbed a drink and sat on the dock, watched the dusk and drank beer/whiskey. After the show, we returned to the dock/bar, and had a slew of other drinks, as the dock erupted into a full out party. We had found the spot for the summer.

We would return several times that and next summer. While the best time to hit the place up was around sunset, its evening scene is great, with lots of seating and dancing and sometimes live music. The drinks are pricey, but not maddeningly so (at least to New Yorkers). The food is surprisingly good, and I remember one great lunch there where Hubris, Bourbon, and I celebrated ending the ’06 season with fried fish and beer at lunch, debating whether we should steal a water taxi, and how far we could go before we were caught.

The craziest memory I have of the spot was 2 summers ago. A group of us had two tables near the beginning of the dock, including Jersey and Jersey’s half-brother, who was visiting from out of town. We looked down the dock towards the bar and noticed some commotion. After a moment, we realized that a fist fight had broken out. A large clearly drunk man was throwing punches at another slightly less drunk man who was defending himself. The first guy’s buddies tried to pull him off. They finally calm the guy down, and he starts to head down towards us back to dry land. He gets within spitting distance of us, and then turns around and charges back towards the bar. One of his friends stands in his way, and gets a shot to the face for his trouble. Once again, the guy had to be cooled down, and dragged off the dock. I am glad Jersey’s half brother got a story out of his trip to the big city.

This place with its chill vibe and beautiful view makes it one of my favorite all time bars. It’s a little pricey and a pain to get to, but for a chance to sit on a dock with a cold one and some decent food while hanging with the crew, you do what you gotta do.

A New York State of Mind

2008-04-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

I like New York City in the summer. I may be the only one who does. Everyone else hates the sticky heat and the egg-boiling sidewalks. I focus on the positives. The crowds decrease, the sun stays out longer, the women wear less clothing. My favorite part of a NYC summer is sitting outside at a bar or café and having a cool beer of Vodka Tonic as the sun recedes from view. There are a whole series of bars (Beer Garden, Riveria) that take on new meaning because of their outdoor seating, and some very beloved bars (The Frying Pan) that only operate in the summer. Yes, an AC is necessary and brownouts are not infrequent in the outer Boroughs, but the pros in my mind outweigh the cons.

I will talk about summer more, probably when it is actually summer. I mentioned all this because this weekend was the first time the weather got nice. I took a drive upstate to drop some stuff off in storage, which was beautiful. After getting back and returning the car to its Upper East Side garage, I declared the evening too beautiful to spend at home. I tracked down the Banker, and we wandered the UES looking for a pub with some available outdoor seating. We found a place on 85th, grabbed some beers, and took in the night. We discussed, among other things, various neighborhoods on the Island. I have long bitched to Banker about his own turf, the UES, where he now lives and we both grew up. We then began talking about how one defines a neighborhood, and how often it is a shallow attempt to re-brand a neighborhood to make it cool. Here are some examples.

1: Nolita: the rape of Little Italy by the Lower East Side. A great historic neighborhood dying out, and being renamed something goofy. A mini-tragedy.

2: Noho: Again, the rise of the Lower East Side causes areas to get stupid names. It’s part of the goddamn East Village, just call it that. The whole remodeling of that entire part of Lower Manhattan pisses me off.

3: Clinton: This one pisses me off the most. Why would you change arguably the coolest name any neighborhood has ever had, Hell’s Kitchen, and change it to something so boring?

This goes to Outer Boroughs as well. Anyone who went to look at an apartment in East Williamsburg knows what I am talking about.

Yes I know bitching about gentrification is old hat, but as someone who recently was looking for a new apartment, the tricks people use to rename and re-shape neighborhoods piss me off. I actually love all those neighborhoods, but hate the way they are being misrepresented.

This will probably come up more as we move into summer, and take more full advantage of the city (I hope). I will be spending much of my time this summer on the Upper West Side, so expect some commentary on that neighborhood. More hilarity as it develops!

Tales from the Archives: Barfest

2008-04-14T08:16:00.001-07:00

Remember the movie Beerfest? Well, I barely do

Hubris, through a friend, acquired 2 free tickets to an advance screening of said film. He was under the impression that it was an industry showing, and brought me, the closest thing to an in the industry guy he knew at the time. When we arrived though, it clearly was just some promotional advance screening, so no hobb-nobbing for us.

We enjoyed the movie, but believed that if we had gotten 5 of our friends together and decided to make a similar themed movie, it would be just as good if not better. This indignation, fueled more by the broken promise of getting the chance to pretend to be ‘kind of a big deal’, as well as the film’s booze-heavy content, made us try something crazy; 15 bars in one night.

Now there were several obstacles in our path. It was summer, so most people were out of town. We were on the Upper West Side, so we did not know the terrain well. It was 9pm on a Tuesday, so we did not have a lot of time to cover a large amount of ground. We accepted our limitations, and decided the best course of action was to get some food at a Northern point, send out some texts, and drink our way south.

We chose Parlour Bar as our starting ground. The last time I was at this place, I ran into a child I had taught at an Arts in Education class eating dinner with his mother, who picked up a round of drinks for us as she left (The mother, not the child). We ordered some Pilsner Urquells and some food, to prepare for the trials ahead. Now after seeing this movie, we were under the false assumption that chugging good beer was an effortless task, so we down 3 Pilsners in a half an hour in rapid form. Bad idea, as we walked out of the bar with bad indigestion, weary of our chances to complete the task at hand.

Fate would smile on us though. On our way to a stretch of bars on Amsterdam, we passed by a Mexican place I had been to with the Gymnast and his brother. We stopped in and had a Margarita. This proved to be a clutch move, as the sugar gave us energy, and the change up from beer did not over-fill our stomachs. New verve hit us, and after that drink, we headed out to continue our journey.

Amsterdam Avenue from about 84th Street to 72nd is basically just a long line of bars; many suck, many are cool. First we hit up a bar known for diverse designer beers. Good bar, bad choice as designer beers are often heavy. Next up, we got Vodka tonics at a bar across the street. After that, we hit a neighborhood joint, where we met a local who talked to us about how the neighborhood had changed, and his career as a photographer. We left that bar, and Hubris booted on the street. I responded by singing Arsenal songs. We then found a bar where some people were playing Beirut. I stopped Hubris from signing us up, then booted in their bathroom. Next we went to a bar that was popular with my high school back in the day, which I talked about with the bartender. We went on till until we heard from both Sketchrock and Teach, who said they would meet us at Irish Rogue. We decide to grab a cab, and finish the count in Hell’s kitchen with friends at our side.

When we arrive at Irish Rogue, we grab the super-comfortable couches, and order a beer bone for the table. Our friends meet up with us, and we start training the bone. This takes us longer than it should, and when we are done, Teach declares he is hungry. Rogue’s kitchen long closed, we headed out for more booze and food.

We hit the Westway diner, but order beer so we can count it as a bar. Now, it’s about 3 in the morning, and we all are hammered. At one point, Teach and Hubris start arguing about something. I don’t remember what it was, or who was saying what, but both Teach and Hubris are men who do not back down from their opinion, especially when hammered. The conversation kept going with them screaming at each other, until Teach could take no more, slammed his fists on the table, and got up to go. A woman at another booth, who was passed out up until this moment, yelled at Teach, who Teach then called a bitch and stormed out of the diner. Concerned that he might cause a bar fight, I ran out after him, with Sketchrock in charge of getting Hubris home without incident. I found Teach on the street corner fuming, and took him back into the Irish Rogue for a final drink, hoping to cool him down. When we got back to the bar, Teach had regained his composure, and began flirting with a woman at the bar. I had a final beer, and we headed to my parent’s place to sleep. We would have gone back to Queens, but Teach had a doctor’s appointment early in the morning.

We never made the full count of 15, only making it to 12 bars that night. It was the first time I woke up drunk the next day, which was fun until the grueling mid afternoon hangover. I will never look at either Broken Lizard or the Upper West Side the same again.

I've made a huge mistake

2008-04-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

So it has been decided that Hubris, Bourbon Samurai, and myself will get an apartment together in May. This may be the single worst decision in my life, as any attempts to evolve towards adulthood will be smashed by a wave of liquor fueled, video-game powered, bad movie coated, fist-fights-at-1am tapered tomfoolery. Think I am exaggerating; well here are some recent examples I submit to the jury.

1: Last Saturday the three of us hung out with Brownsox at Kettle of Fish in the West Village. Brownsox was on a mission, so that left the three of us to hang out. After a while, a random woman came up to Bourbon and told us that Bourbon looked exactly like her brother, and offered photographic evidence to back up her claim (which was accurate). The woman went on to talk to Hubris about her marriage, while Bourbon struck up a conversation with the woman’s two (mix-gendered and unattractive) friends. Now I had reached a booze powered point in the evening where both my anti-social nature and mildly damaged hearing made talking to new people (especially unattractive ones) un-enjoyable, so I just starting playing pinball, and then played a perfect round of Pac-man (this was my high point of the evening, and I am okay with that), until everyone wanted to go home. This scene will probably repeat much over time, as Bourbon and Hubris like talking to new people more than me, and I like sleep more than them.

2: The next morning, I was awoken by Hubris barging into my room chanting “Kahn”. At first I was confused, but then remembered a promise to watch Star Trek II with them that morning. Star Trek was a nerd fascination that never hit with me, but Hubris loves it and Bourbon would probably kill me and Hubris if he could ride the U.S.S. Enterprise. I did find the movie enjoyable (I had never seen it before), and we followed it up with an evening of baseball watching. This was all well and good, until Bourbon and Hubris started wrestling, and the two of them landed on my leg. No serious damage done, but damn that hurt.

3: Wednesday, we re-installed a tradition of watching Top Chef, which is a great show and this season, set in Chicago, looks very promising. After the show, Hurbis was sent to get more beers (besides the six pack we had consumed), and we found a crazy show, Step it up and Dance! The show follows the basic Bravo reality competition form, this one about professional dancers competing for some money (there seems to be no contract or article or anything, which kinda makes it more hilarious). The brilliance of this show is that it is the semi-classy professionals show that Bravo has mastered, but the professionals are among the most emotional, bitchy, whacked out, and atractive people around, dancers. We dubbed this show and instant classic (I kind of understand the whole reality appeal now) and watched the whole episode until The Ultimate Fighter replay came on, which also is starting a new season (With Rampage as the most hilarious coach ever), and had the most brutal knockout punch I had ever seen in MMA. While I didn’t do anything crazy, I did stay up late drinking a lot of beer and watching a lot of reality TV. That can’t be good for me on any level.

4: Last Night was a good old-fashioned shitstorm. When I got back from work, both my roommates were in their familiar positions; Hubris playing video games, Bourbon screwing around on his computer. However, an urge to go out had arisen, so we ventured out to Los Amigos for some food and Margaritas. We were doing fine until Brownsox arrived and we hit our third pitcher of Margaritas, when everything went pear shaped. Hubris uped the belig, and demanded the Brownsox eat a whole place of guacamole, I began bitching about drinking too much, and Bourbon just giggled. We fled to our home, where the new episode of Step it up and Dance was about to begin. I set the TV auto timer for the show, and put on Beerfest until it was time for the show to start. Now right before Hubris’s favorite joke came up (the Das Boot inside joke when they are in the sub), the timer went off and changed channels. Hubris decided I had wronged him, and proceeded to pummel me with all his fury. Bourbon was perturbed, crying out “Stop it, he will spill beer on my computer.” I am actually a little sore (more physically than emotionally) today because of it.

So the best case scenario of this home is I just get fatter by drinking beer all day and dumber by watching a lot of reality TV and bad movies. The worst case scenario is an all out drunken brawl. Either way, I ain’t coming out of this any prettier.

Am I getting smarter or drunker?

2008-04-03T14:40:00.000-07:00

The last three nights were both heavily intoxicating and intelligent

Monday night, I was stuck at work and missed most of the Met’s opening game. I did catch the tail end of it with Brownsox and Hubris at McCanns in Astoria. We stayed after the game for some pints, partially to mourn the loss of Uber260, which weighs heavily on Brownsox. After a while, the subject of woman came up, and for whatever reason, that sent Hubris off on a rant about the nature of the human spirit, which would over time flow out into a condemnation of Organized Religion and the responsibilities of the Fourth Estate. While I am not a very religious man, I do have spiritual beliefs as well as ties to the Church of Rome (I stole that from Tombstone), and argued on the roots and merit of religion both as an institution and a philosophical concept. I did agree with Hubris’s other rant on that in our information-heavy world we need to find a way to separate journalism from some dude wanking off.

We also drank a lot of Harps.

I won’t go into massive details about the discussion, but basically Hubris went off on his super-humanist, semi-Hobbesian “We do what makes us feel good” rant he sometimes does, which I do not totally disagree with, but find too limiting to the complexity of the human psyche and the creation of the world. However, it was a good discussion, mostly being a dialogue of ideas as opposed to two guys telling at the other that they are wrong (as these things often become), with Brownsox occasionally interjecting and rocking the jubebox.

We also drank a lot of Harps.

Tuesday I had a couple of drinks with Gymnast’s brother, AlsoGymnast (will probably change that name later, but now I find it funny) and discussed the business side of Theatre, and of a project we may work on together. Again, Harp consumed in mass, but the dialogue was of a higher quality than the usual stuff I say and later forget when drinking.

Wednesday was the biggest blowout. I met up with Bourbon Samurai, Gymnast and Teach to discuss theatre stuff at Gymnast’s new Astoria pad (the army grows!). After a good meeting, we all needed some food, and I needed a beer. We headed over to Fatty’s Café, a place near my house with solid food and a crappy bar. When we sat down, the waitress explained to us that if we ordered Tecate, we got a free shot of Tequila with it. This turned a sedate dinner into a passionate debate on playwriting, fueled by Mexicans intoxicants. We stayed out far too late (closed the place down, in fact) but had a great dialogue about the nature of dramatic structure, and collaboration.

So obviously not my wildest week, but still tons of boozing with a higher level of conversation than one would expect. It kind of harkened back to my college days, where often I would sit in a room with 5 other dudes draining a bottle of Whiskey and talking about plays (it actually was very fun, despite how depressing it sounds). Tonight I am having dinner with Banker, Rockstar and Bourbon Samurai, so pretty sedate there, followed by a weekend filled with Battlestar Galactica, a balls early futbol fixture, and packing up for my move in May.

will still probably drink a lot of Harps.

A farewell to Uber260

2008-03-31T12:56:00.000-07:00

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.

One of those days...

2008-03-26T15:05:00.001-07:00

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.

Great bars in NYC: St Andrews, for the Scotch lover

2008-03-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Wipe a golden tear from your mother dear, and raise what's left of the flag for me!

2008-03-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Top 5 Drunkenings

2008-03-14T14:07:00.000-07:00

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 sort of thing usually happens to Bourbon Samurai

2008-03-11T08:54:00.001-07:00

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.

Great Bars in NYC: No Idea, cause I can't afford to drink at Gramercy Tavern

2008-03-10T14:13:00.000-07:00

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!

Everybody's drinking for the weekend!

2008-02-29T13:15:00.000-08:00

In the never-ending battle to get from Monday to Friday, here are some adventures I hit along the way.

Tuesday, Hubris and I saw a play, which is surprisingly rare for us despite the fact that we are in the playmaking business. We saw The Seafarer on Broadway, which was totally bad ass. While it is basically a standard issue Irish drinking and Demons play, it’s really cool, and featured really great performances, notably from Ciarán Hinds who offers a fabulous monologue on the nature of Hell. Of couse, this being an Irish drinking play, we walked out of the theater craving an unsafe amount of Irish Whiskey. Our original plan was to go to Scruffy Duffys and get the best wings in NYC, only to find that Scruffy Duffys was no longer there (Horror!). Hubris made a terrifying suggestion, Flahertys.

A word on Flahertys. It is a bar and restaurant right on Restaurant Row (for non locals, that’s a block in Hell’s Kitchen near Times Square, with a bunch of restaurants that specialize in pre or post show meals). Hubris and I first encountered it during the misery that was our 2006 Off Broadway season, where we were as close to functional alcoholics as we could be without a needed intervention. We went there one night for 2 beers after the show. We each woke up the next day not with hangovers, but each had horrendous headaches. We would go there a couple more times during the season, only having a couple of drinks, but waking up each time with horrendous headaches. We began to suspect that they were poisoning us but our tolerance was so good the strychnine just gave us a buzz.

Besides its consistent attempts to kill us, the bar itself kinda sucks; its tap is bad, the staff is rude (one time an old man yelled at Banker for having his legs up on a seat and for looking tired), and the food is mediocre. We had not been there in a while, so the novelty of hitting it off now seemed too good to pass up. We sat down in their cozy lounge section, found that they had replaced their former super hot Eastern European waitress with a slightly less hot Eastern European waitress, and orders some Powers. I guzzled that Powers down faster than I have ever drank any straight alcohol; powered by Irish theater I was. After a while a lady friend of Hubris’s came by, who would scowl at us for ‘being on a man-date’ as she claimed it (why can’t two friends go see then disuss theatre over booze without it being odd?). As we were drinking, I spy a man coming from the other end of the bar towards the exit. I take a moment to confirm my suspicion, and realize it is in fact Mr. Ciarán Hinds. I am dumbstruck and have no idea what to do. Normally in these situations I would anonymously buy the guy a drink (which I did for Josh Charles of Sports Night fame once), but he is clearly leaving, so that’s no go. I don’t want to annoy him, and screaming “You were the bomb in Rome” seems crass. All I can do is stare as he leaves, then grab Hubris and shake him for a minute. When I explain why I have been freaking out, he races out of the bar to confirm the man’s identity. After a successful recon, we hatched a plan to stake out the bar another night and buy him a drink. Hope it works.

Wednesday night, I had dinner plans with Rockstar at 7:30 at Gramercy Tavern. Gramercy Tavern is not the best restaurant in NYC, nor is it the most ‘hip’. It is however, possibly THE restaurant in NYC, with over a decade of excellence and well ranked among the locals. We have a very good, if not mind blowing meal, with what could be the best scallops and the best quail I have ever had. We washed the meal down with a very good bottle of Burgundy, and I followed up with a port and a really good desert wine. Of late I have gotten more into desert wines as a nice way to end a meal, usually too sweet to drink without food but if you have some cheese or dessert (I had both, good thing I do not care about my appearance), it is better than a scotch or cognac. I remained mostly sober though, but had an excellent tasting experience, and it is always great to hang out with Rockstar, as his crazy job keeps him out of circulation.

Thursday night, I carried on a ‘good all boys’ tradition. Once every 2 weeks or about, I go out and have some beers with Banker and Zorba (a friend of mine since we were 6) on the Upper East Side. We used to go to our high school and college haunt of Becky’s, but after a couple of trips we realized we were owed better. We now go to Jack Russells, which not only has the distinction of being a bar on the Upper East Side that doesn’t make it me want to swing a chair at someone, but is also one of the best sports bars I have ever been to. Each booth is fitted with a T.V. so you could watch any game you want. The food is standard pub fare, but god bless them they never even try to cook anything more fancy. We have a lovely time as always, but left pretty early, as Banker’s super shitty job requires him to wake up at 5:45 am.

Stupid jobs, limiting weekday boozing!

All travails that I went through in order to get to blessed Friday. Weekend is not looking too crazy, but I will see what I can come up with. Happy Leap day!

Great Bars in NYC: The Beer Garden, the Astoria Legend

2008-02-26T12:12:00.001-08:00

There are other, supposed, ‘beer gardens’ in NYC, but nothing compares to Bohemian Hall in Queens, The Beer Garden. When you walk in the front door, it looks like a sketch bar populated by locals. But walk to the other side of the bar and go through the back door, and you hit pay dirt. You are now in a giant courtyard, filled with picnic tables, a little gazebo in the center, and two stands, one selling beer, the other selling kielbasas and fries. Now when I mean beer, I mean real beer; the place only serves the best beer Eastern Europe is willing to export to Americans, for 14 bucks a pitcher (again, out of towners are confused, but a high end German or Czech beer for that price is a steal). The first time I was even in Astoria, Teach took me there at 6 in the evening in the summer, and the place was packed with everyone from 20somethings to families with their kids. In a city with overprices Coors Lite and cramped loud backrooms, a sprawling yard with only quality beers to offer can mean a lot. That, and the Kielbasa is great.

The place is an interesting mix of locals, young artsy types from the area, and on prime nights in the summer hip young professionals from The Island. I have yelled at security once or twice for not letting me in the summer, enraged that a loyal year round costumer like myself would get turned away while the posers who took a town car from Manhattan crowded the courtyard. I prefer to come in the off season, where the crowds are less, and sometimes they set up a tent with some space heaters in the courtyard. I once hip checked one of those space heaters after a particularly rough night, waking with a bruised side that I could not explain until Teach regaled me with the story. They still let me back though.

The craziest I ever saw the Beer Garden was during the 2006 World Cup. The management, seeing an opportunity to cash in on being a vaguely German establishment in a multicultural neighborhood, procured half a dozen flat screens, set them up around the courtyard under some cover, and showed every game. I was only there one afternoon, but it was for the USA/Italy game, which fans will remember as the only game where Italy did not beat the other team (in truth, USA should have won, but for a dodgy off-sides call). The place was packed to capacity at lunch time, there was a line to get in, and people were going crazy. Seeing the US having a shot at one of the best teams in the world got the capacity crowd going. We got so hammered and swept up with world cup fever, that I went and bought the world cup Xbox game right after we left the bar, just so it would not end.

There are other great tales of the place. The time a drunk German man claiming to be the owner told me he liked me because my jacket made me look like Gestapo, or the time I was smoking in the courtyard but was too drunk to remember to put it out as I walking inside to leave the bar, and they banned me for life (it didn’t stick). If anyone has a beer garden story they want to share, please put one up on the comments section.

The Beer Garden, the only bar you can get your Manhattan friends to come to in Queens.

Soccer woes, scared children, and Bulgarian drinks

2008-02-25T13:36:00.000-08:00

Saturday was another great battle in the war of stupid v. health, with the old favorite taking another victory in the war of my life.

My day began at 7am, with a quick shower and cab ride to Nevada’s. For what might be a first, Hubris was already there when I arrived and gotten me a seat. The game was nothing short of a heartbreaker. Least importantly, we drew to a crap team because of a dodgy penalty call in stoppage time which led to a penalty kick. More importantly, one of our players, someone we picked up over the summer and had recently earned his spot on the starting 11, suffered what could be a career ending injury. He was tackled by an opposing player and had his leg broken so bad the foot turned the wrong way. In all seriousness, it is always horrible to watch a young athlete carried off the field in a stretcher, reminding us fans that while they are basically paid millions to play a game, they do put their bodies and thus the livelihoods of them and their families on the line to entertain. I can not help but think of that Buffalo player who was paralyzed at the beginning of this year, and how it can all go to hell in a second in professional sports. My prayers to a fallen gooner, and hope to see him back on the pitch as soon as he is fit.

So, a fairly emotional morning. Even beloved bartender Jack seemed surlier than normal. Not surprising that more beer than normal was consumed, and that we stayed later then the end of the game. So by the time we left the bar, we were slammed, and it was 10:30. We could have done several appropriate things, like sleep, but we chose to do one of the worst things that two drunks could do on a Saturday morning, go see a children’s show!

Earlier in the week, I had promised a friend of mine I would see the children’s show she directed, not knowing how rough a morning I was in for. After some life saving Wendys, we headed to midtown, sat in a theater filled with small kids and their parents, and watched some children’s theater, fighting off the depressants in our blood. I am shocked we came and went without incident. I mean, I did trip on some stairs, but that’s not out of character for me sober, and that theater is poorly constructed. Luckily my friend is awesome, and was just happy that we came.

Now surely, you the reader say to yourself, our hero will go home now. He would not dare continue to wander the city drunk at midday. Fools! The next step was to meet Teach at his new job, the bar Stout (which might merit its own bar post later). A drunken subway ride later, I met Teach in Stout’s basement. The plan was to have lunch and some pints at his bar, but he was on his lunch break, and then was working in the cover section. So instead I just hung out with him at his lunch break, which was good because any more beer may have led to disaster.

Finally, at 2:45 pm, over seven hours after I left it, I returned to bed. I slept till about 7pm, woken by my brother asking if I wanted dinner. I of course was completely out if it, not really sure what day it was, and wondering if the whole morning had been a dream. This futbol addiction is dangerous to a man’s sanity. I hung out for a couple of hours, walked my parent’s dogs, and then headed downtown.

I went down to the Lower East Side to a Bulgarian bar for BFG’s birthday. The place ranks as one of the strangest bars I have been to in the LES. It’s a 2 level bar, the basement level is the standard too-loud hipster filled bar one expects from the area, while the top levels seemed to serve more to local middle-aged patrons. The leader of that pack was a man with the receding hairline and DKNY shirt who was getting down to the crazy Bulgarian Euro pop music no matter what people thought of him. He truly is the hero of the day. This bar served its own creepy fruit punch (which some spoke well of but I was too afraid to try), and had Bulgarian TV playing. Apparently, Bulgaria’s favorite show is one where a dude walks down the street groping strangers to see how they will react (I kid you not); a wondrous nation to be sure. I hung out with Brownsox (who I chastised for missing the game), LaMama, and Jersey. Its always a treat hanging out with Jersey, as not only is he the prototype of the ‘one of us’ debate, he shares my general dislike for people, as well as similar nerdy interests. We hung out discussing drug use and comic book movies for a while, but I was fading fast. Enter Hubris, using his superpower to arrive right when you want to leave. Hubris did order a hookah for the team, which I referred to as ‘candy in gas form’. It has been awhile since I smoked a hookah, the last time was in college where the hookah place formed a hookah out of a watermelon. It really is a delightful experience, even if you hate smoking. As the night went on, the place filled up and the Bulgarian music gave way to ‘80s pop (which is what they are probably currently listening to in Bulgaria). After a couple of beers, I called it a night and took a cab home.

Sunday was uneventful, with a standard Oscar viewing. The Oscars is a great pop culture cock-tease, as every year I really don’t want to watch it, but do anyway because every one else does and I fear I am going to be missing out on something awesome that everyone else is going to be talking about tomorrow, something that never comes (unless Crash winning best picture and making my roommate scream “Kahnnnnn!!!!” counts). Jon Stewart is The Man though, let the record show.

That’s that for now. Might try to do another bar post over the week. Peace.

Checking in

2008-02-22T12:27:00.000-08:00

Huzzah more blogging! Huzzah more readers! Huzzah more use of Huzzah!

Things have been pretty quiet since DC. This is due mostly to an increased video game addiction (the one-two punch of Mass Effect and Assassin’s Creed is brutal), made more virulent by the purchase of Dynasty Warriors 6 (which serves its purpose of letting me kill hundreds of Chinese soldiers very well). Hubris and I are basically two virtual junkies, leaving our drug (and the house) only for work and futbol, with the occasional trip to a bar to keep up appearances.

Had a bit of a time last night though. I met up with Kodez at Triple Crown for a couple of beers, then saw Uber260’s sketch show around the corner, then immediately returned to Triple Crown for more drinking. I would like to take this moment to bitch about how after a show, large crowds form in front of the theater and don’t leave, even after the cast has come out. It annoyed me in college, and it annoys me know. Either go home or see your friends at the bar next store, its goddamn cold out and people are trying to shut down the theater!
Nothing too exciting happened, but I did get to catch up with a bunch of friends I had not talked to in a while, including Kodez, Groucho, Dreamfaker, and Sanchez. It also reminded me that Bud Light from a tap is not as bad as you think, but its super light nature will lead to you drinking way too many.

I am dog-sitting this weekend and next week, which means I crash at my parent’s place in Manhattan. Unclear if this will increase or decrease my drinking, but it does free me from the grip of my Xbox 360, so that’s a positive. This weekend is looking promising for foolishness, with an early Saturday morning game beginning the charge. More as it develops.

DC trip

2008-02-21T14:26:00.001-08:00

Somewhat appropriately, I spend this president’s weekend in our nation’s capital. Alas, instead of pissing on the National Mall or Stoop drinking at the Lincoln Memorial, I spent the weekend engages in activities theatric, not patriotic, occasionally alcoholic.

I left work and hit Penn Station for a 7pm train. I feasted on Roy Rogers, a treat that one can only seem to find on the trip between NYC and DC (if anyone knows the location of a Roy Rogers not between these two cities, let me know). A quick train ride and a successful navigation of the DC Metro, (which feels like you are traveling in an underground world lost in an earthquake or something), and I met up with the long absent Bourbon Samurai. Bourbon, who had been on a three month pilgrimage working at the Shakespeare Theatre of DC, had prepared for company by purchasing a 30 pack of beer and a bottle of Whiskey that was distilled three blocks down the road at a local liquor store. The whiskey in question was uniquely gross, as it had no bite or aftertaste per se, but still tasted like bad whiskey. It was like if someone had watered JD down on a molecular level. Bourbon and I drank, caught up, and watched two movies perfect for having on in the background while drinking, Serenity and Tombstone. The movies were occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the upstairs neighbor nailing the hell out of someone/something, which according to Bourbon is a big chance from the neighbor’s constant playing of Guitar Hero. Around 2 am, Teach and the Gymnast arrived and had a drink. Now, when the night was over, the 30 pack was gone, but Teach and Gymnast had two beers each. Yes, the Dream Team was back in action! Around 4 am, Teach, who was my roommate for the weekend, and I had a fierce rocks, paper, succors battle as to who got to sleep in Bourbon’s parents’ huge comfortable bed, and who got to sleep on the blow-up mattress on the floor using a towel as a blanket. I won, go me.

The next morning, I was awoken by Teach jamming out on one of Papa Bourbon’s civil war era bugles. I would be more annoyed if it wasn’t 11am, and kinda hilarious. After procuring lunch, we got down to business, which was working on the details of our new theater company, and namely the script of the first show. We did this for 6 hours straight, taking the occasional 10 minute break to pee and make sure no one threw a book at anyone. While intense and ending in the giant idea-explosion that seemed more awesome then helpful, we accomplished a lot. As Teach said of the 6 hour session, “This was thrilling and fulfilling, like sleeping with the headmaster's daughter”.

When it became clear no more work of worth was to be done, we all took a break from each other to nap/work on something else. I took a walk, and bought more beer for the evening. A little time later, we all met up, and began drinking and watching a movie I am ashamed to say I had never seen before, The Blues Brothers. It is a testimony to the brilliance of Akroyd and Belusi, as it is less of a film but more a 2 and a half hour adventure in things that the two love (Blues music, car chases, how freaking funny they are in any situation) yet it is still one of the greatest comedies ever. As the movie drew to a close, we met up with some people I had not seen in a long time.

First up was The Persian, who had been living in Virginia since the fall. He looked a lot better than he usually does, and I am not saying that because he came in with a bottle of Jameson, because in all honesty he usually had a bottle a Jameson with him. He is working at a gym from 5:30 am to 1pm, which is weird considering I didn’t think he went to bed until 5:30 am, ever. Next up was Sergio, who came into town because I was around, and his fiancé Tinroof. I had not seen Sergio in a while, and it was a treat. His fiancé was really cool, and any woman who can be in the same room with me, Teach, and Bourbon Samurai while we were on a guys night out bender is quality people. Finalizing the evening was an appearance of Mini-Roma, who is from Virginia and as it turns out is involved in the same theatre company as the Persian. We spend the evening catching up with old buddies, cooking up burgers at Midnight, and listening to Teach and the Persian argue over nothing and slam on the table. I tried to tell Tinroof every embarrassing story I could about Sergio, but she seemed to know many of them. Around 3:30, I admitted defeat to The Creature, lose the rocks, paper, scissors match to Teach, and went to bed.

Again arising at 11 am (and finding my new overcoat makes a better blanket than a towel), I began helping Bourbon clean up the dozens and dozens of beer cans that littered his parent’s home. After a first silo, we headed into town to see the show that Bourbon was an understudy for. The show was actually really good, and a great example of using theatricality to create magic onstage. Ironically, the biggest problem with the show is that the lead, who Bourbon was understudying under, sucked a nut. We ate at this great Thai place after the show, I helped Bourbon clean up the rest of his house, and then I headed to meet my train. I returned to my house in Queens around 3 am, filled to the brim with theatricality, patriotism, and beer.

Great Bars in NYC continued: Blue Smoke, cause ya gotta eat sometime

2008-02-19T09:03:00.001-08:00

Technically, Blue Smoke is not a bar, it is a BBQ restaurant with a bar, but since every time I have been there I drank a lot, it counts. Blue Smoke is locates in Gramercy, a neighborhood with many fine restaurants (some of the best in the city) and few great bars, a fact that wins it extra points as a drinking establishment. Unlike many NYC BBQ places, Blue Smoke does not attempt to overwhelm you with its ‘southern-ness’ in an attempt to feel more legitimate. It is just a great place to get great BBQ. The bar itself wins points for its acceptance of people who just want to drink. Its tap has both standard fare and several microbrews. Best of all, it possibly the most extensive bourbon list I have ever seen in this city. It also offers a flight of bourbon for tasting.

Blue Smoke’s moment of glory came at New Years a couple of years ago. Hubris and I had gone out last night in our yearly December 30th binge (our way of waiving the middle finger to New Years, an over-rated holiday in my opinion), and were feeling it the next day. We had plans to meet up with Bourbon Samurai and some old friends from college that were in town, so we soldiered up and headed down to Blue Smoke. Now a normal person who is both A) hung over and B) planning on going out hard core would have a sensible, restrained dinner. Normal people suck; we had bourbon flights with our meal. These multiple glasses of bourbon, however, did fuel us for a particularly wacky evening, one where we invaded The Banker’s apartment with a dozen people he had never met, got hammered off The Gymnast’s home made beer, and ended the evening with me walking around Williamsburg, screaming how much I hated Williamsburg. This is a testament to how much people who live in Williamsburg suck, as they would let some drunken asshole wander around their neighborhood badmouthing it. A guy tried to pull that in Astoria, a couple of large Greek men would introduce him to a baseball bat and the East River.

In closing, anyone who likes bourbon and BBQ owes themselves a trip to Blue Smoke. It is far more fun than a restaurant in Gramercy should be.

Quantumas goes for a hat trick

2008-02-15T13:13:00.000-08:00

Its time again for the highest of the High Holy Days, right behind the mass birthday and December 30th (where Hubris and I get drunk in spite of New Years). The day when I look Death in the eyes, and Death boots. Its Quantumas!. I will not go into details about the history or odd nature of this great holiday, but will just tell you, the reader(s?) how the third annual Quantumas went down.

The evening began at Teach’s place for some pre-partying. The cast of mourners included Teach, Arsenal, Hubris, Sketchrock, Uber260, Rockstar, Slaggard, Kodez, and Jersey. We downed a bunch of beers, some Pitu (thanks Slaggard) and some bourbon. We then had the presenting of gifts that I will take into the afterlife. The highlights were a tiara from Rockstar, a young adult novel about a boy who can not die, an absentee Ballot for Mass., and Sketchrock’s grading pen. Hubris again told the story of “living without limits.” God bless him, every year he works on the story to make me sound more hardcore and less like a freak show in the story; thanks buddy! A new part to the Quantumas mythos came when Teach asked if we could submit a great historic drunkard to be chosen as a profit (Oliver Reed will now and forever be the Patron Saint of Quantumas). Teach offered Norman Mailer, citing such great feats as biting off a piece of Rip Torn’s ear among others. After a vote, Mailer was chosen as the first profit of Quantumas, with new profits to be voted on each year.

After some more drinking, we headed out to dinner. We were going to Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem, so we opted for the bus. Right in front of the bus stop, there were cops directing traffic, as it seemed a tire had come off a car. Uber260, ever the soul of aid, offered to help the police remove the tire from the road. The policeman declined, and was kind enough to ignore the large group of drunken fools next to him. As we waited for the bus, we laughed, drained a flask, and made fun of the Vantage Point poster at the bus stop. Our ire of the poster grew so intense, that Teach began running into the poster over and over, in an attempt to destroy it. Yes, the policemen are no more than 3 yards away. We are very lucky the NYC buses are frequent in arrival.

After a jovial bus ride to Harlem, we stumbled over to the West Side Highway, and our dinner destination. We waited at the bar and continued our drinking as they set up our table. At this point, the Banker arrived, leaving his Upper East Side bubble to celebrate Quantumas. Eventually we sat down, and ordered up a whole hunk of BBQ. I must say, the place did not disappoint. The standouts in my mind were the spicy peel and eat shrimp and the pulled pork. Also, the dozen of us ate like kings and drank like Irishmen for under $350. I would have to say that Blue Smoke is still my personal favorite BBQ place, but for sheer fun and value Dino BBQ is off the charts.

After dinner, we decide Hell’s Kitchen is the place to continue the idiocy. At this point, Rockstar and Arsenal disappear into the night without saying goodbye, causing tension in the ranks. Upon hitting the kitchen, Bull Moose seems the best place to continue. Upon arriving, we find, for maybe the first time ever, the upstairs in packed. This shock took the remainder of our momentum away, and then after a few pints, we packed it in, singing AFC songs all the way back to Queens.

And thus was Quantumas 08. While on paper it seems the tamest Quantumas (not a single establishment threatened to ban us) the basic tenets of the holiday, living without limits, remained in tact. Hey, any Quantumas above ground is a good one.

Archive tale: Shipping out to Boston

2008-02-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

So last summer, Brownsox invited me to come crash at his mother’s place with him in Boston. I, unemployed at the time, accepted. What followed was an epic journey through both the cultural heart of both Beantown and the clan Brownsox.

Now the week before, I was with my family in Cape Cod. This meant that instead of having to suffer through flight, train, or bus to get to Boston, I could take a ferry over there Friday night. Let me tell you, sitting on the stern deck of a ferry watching the sun set as we motor over to Boston Harbor beats the Chinatown bus’s multiple delays any day (and the Chinatown bus does not have a bar in it).

I arrived at the south harbor about 2 hours before Brownsox was getting into town from NYC (on the before-mentioned-and-insulted bus), so I looked around for a place to grab a bite. Wandering down the harbor, I see a little sign saying “No Name Seafood”, with an arrow pointing down an alley by the dock. Normally, this would sketch me out, but Rockstar, another Boston Native, had recommended it to me, so I counted my blessings and headed down the alley. I gotta say, No Name delivered. For under 50 bucks I got beer, fried scallops and shrimp, fries, and Lobster. The place seems to cut cost by using large picnic tables and paper everything, but screw it, who needs décor with this much cheap good seafood.

My belly full of the sea’s bounty, I decided it was time to head over to the bus station and meet Brownsox. To do this, I needed to use the T. For anyone who has never been to Boston, the T is the local mass transit system, akin to the subway or the L. The T trains however, only have to cars to a train, and sometimes run on the streets, forcing them to obey traffic lights and Boston traffic. It makes the L look like efficiency perfected. Now to get to the bus station, I had to take the Silver line. On the Silver line, instead of a train, it is a bus that runs on electric lines that travels down an underground tunnel. Budget 1950s sci-fi is alive and well in the Boston transit system. Despite its goofiness, it got me where I needed to go, and I met up with Bownsox at the station.

After dropping our stuff off at Mama Brownsox’s lovely Cambridge pad, we decided to hit a local watering hole. It was here that the main cast of characters were introduced. There was Brownsox, who introduced me to his cousin, Mr. Chelsea. Mr. Chelsea is from India, is studying to be a priest, and is taking a coast to coast trip of America visiting family before going back to school. He was a Futbol fan, backing Chelsea (not everyone is perfect), and was a lovely chap. Also in tow was Brownsox’s big brother, Nilus. A word about Nilus; he is clearly a good brother and son, and evidently quite the intellect. Watching him interact with society however, is akin to watching a man try to hammer a nail with the crowbar end of the hammer. He is close right, but it just ain’t working no matter how hard he swings. Nilus lived in Evanston for a couple of months, and he was fired from a job where he, Harvard grad, had to wrap sandwiches, after the first day (Hubris did this job every Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, hung over, for a year). Some men were not meant to leave the ivy covered campus. It is hard to fully explain Nilus, so I will try to point out some Nilus ‘magic moments’ which happened over the weekend.

We headed out to the local grad student bar, the Thirsty Scholar. This place won me over with wood paneling, great tap, and futbol on the telly. We discussed the beginning of the EPL season, and I had a fairly intelligent conversation about religion with Mr. Chelsea. After a couple of beers and shots, we headed back to Casa Brownsox, where we watched the Die Hard music video on Youtube 7 times in a row (worth every minute).

Saturday started much more civilized than expected. Mama Brownsox had gotten us tickets to this hot art exhibit at a local museum (I am sure that both the featured artist and the ‘local’ museum are both very famous, I just don’t remember the names of either). It was actually pretty cool, and it featured the famous painting “Nighthawks” or as I had previously knew it, ‘that really well known painting with the sad people in the diner’. This was followed with some sightseeing in Boston, mostly for the benefit of Mr. Chelsea as I have been to Boston many times. After a nice walk, some lunch in the historic cobblestone-y district, and some tea at the harbor, Mama Brownsox left us to our own devices.

A note on Boston as a city. In the summer, it is as great a city as you can find in America. It has the right mix of new buildings to historic sights, it has tons of stuff to do, better parks than I remember, and sitting by the harbor having a drink outside is just beautiful. This ignores all the many problems of Boston, such as the goofy mass transit, horrible drivers, freeze-you-to-death-and-I-know-cold-I-lived-in-Chicago winters, and of course, Patriot fans. Those factors make living in Boston dubious, but for a summer weekend, it is perfect.

After Mama Brownsox left us, we decided to meet up with an old friend of Brownsox at the Cask and Flagon, over by Fenway. I was impressed with how easily the T could get us within 5 blocks of Fenway Park. Being a Mets fan, I am always shocked when in other cities ballparks are both easy to get to and surrounded by things other than empty lots. The Cask and Flagon, or anyone unfamiliar, is THE Redsox bar, as it is literally across the street from Fenway. It is the closest thing I have seen to Nevada Smiths for Baseball, as far as atmosphere and excitement, all it needs is some singing. It also was one of the biggest bars I have ever been it, and there still was a line to get in. I have to say if you are ever in Boston, it is a must visit. Nilus had a magic moment, where he, the Boston native, stood in this famous sports bar next to one of the most beloved ballparks in this country, holding a beer that I believed had a redsox logo on it, turned to me and said “There sure are a lot of redsox fans here.” That comment does a pretty good job of describing Nilus and his grasp of the world around him.

After a couple of rounds, the need to eat struck us, and we headed out into the night. After more wandering around Boston (we would do that a lot that weekend, partially to soak in the atmosphere, partially because Brownsox and Nilus are not good at making decisions and we had to wander around until they did). We did meet up with another friend of Brownsox, a very lovely lady who was a groupie of Brownsox’s old A Cappella group (I hope reading that hurt you as much as it hurt me to type it). After a while we stumbled on a restaurant called Whiskeys, best described as a Brother Jimmies that didn’t suck, and ate there. Our new female companion quickly impressed me with both her love of Bourbon and his discussion of blowjob etiquette. Nilus had another magic moment when he ordered a vermouth on the rocks, and then turned it back when it was the wrong type of Vermouth. This experience was a frequent occurrence over the weekend. He also enjoyed a vermouth and tonic with a cherry in it, and turned the drink back when it came sans cherry. Nilus is never odder than when he is at a bar.

Full of food and booze, we headed back to Cambridge to drink there. As luck would have it, Arsenal and his girlfriend (now known as C.C.) were in town, attending some family event with C.C.’s mother. We met them up at a Starbucks in Cambridge (I was again shocked with the T’s ability to get us to where we needed to go), and then headed to a bar. The place we headed was a micro-brewery, one I had been at years ago, when the Vanisher and I had visited Brownsox right after we graduated college. I am not sure if my tastes had increased or decreased, or if levels of inebriation played a part, but I found the place less pleasing to the palate than I had three years earlier. We did have a lovely time, the mass of us. Mama C.C. not only bought me a beer, but told me how much she loved a show I produced a couple of years ago. I need to meet more people like her. Arsenal, in a fashion typical of him, bolted early, and we needed to find a new bar.

We wandered around Cambridge for a while, looking for a place still open at Midnight on a Saturday (college town my ass). As we wondered, I witnessed a brutal cockblocking barrage, as Nilus totally attempted to hit on this girl who was with us, despite the fact she had come into town to most likely hook up with Brownsox. Later conference with Brownsox confirmed that he had hooked up with her earlier this summer, and a repeat was all but guaranteed in a better situation. This barrage continued all night, after we found some shady backroom bar where the booths were run down vinyl and the staff seemed pissed we showed up and dared to ask for booze in exchange for currency. I chatted with Mr. Chelsea and some of Brownsox’s old friends, while out of the corner of my eye saw this crime of brother against brother, laughing to myself. Eventually, it was time to go, and the girl in question decided to crash with other friends, not surprising after suffering a two brother attack (if you couldn’t guess, Nilus’s game makes me look like Warren Betty in prime). Brownsox, distraught by the fraternal betrayal he had suffered, went to bed.

The next day, we woke up earlier than desired (9 am), and headed out into the world. Brownsox went to meet some old friends for breakfast, and Mr. Chelsea and I headed back to the Thirsty Scholar for some futbol goodness. I am a huge fan of any bar that will open its doors to me and offer both the Beautiful Game and pre-noon beer, and found this local joint lovely, if a little quiet compared to my normal game day haunt. The bartender was an old Englishman who was thrilled to see our fandom, and went on a rant saying how Cricket is better than Baseball (Mr. Chelsea agreed, I just nodded). We watched the Chelsea-Liverpool game, which ended in a 1-1 draw with little excitement on either side. On our way out, the bartender shook my hand and told me Arsenal would suck for at least the next two years. I look forward to returning to this bar soon and having a laugh (cause we’re the top of the league).

Now came the real point of the weekend, Brownsox and I were heading to a redsox game. We debated drive vs. T, but found we were short on time and drove down. We parked about a mile away from the park (Yay Boston) and walked over. Now I have not been to that many ballparks, but I have been to a few, and Fenway is an experience all itself. Besides being surrounded by sports bars, walking into Fenway is like walking into a walled-up baseball town. The whole building has its own streets with shops and vendors and all sorts of crap. Our first round of beers were usual overpriced ballpark fair, but when we came to round 2, Brownsox demanded better. In our quest, we walked all the way to the other side of the park to find a special bar that served Harp, Bass, and Guiness. Now of course on our way back, we found a similar bar much closer, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was at a ball park drinking Harp instead of Old Style or worse. It was a good game, we had pimped out seats behind third base, but the sox lost to the Angels (I hate the Angels, mostly because if I do not, my roommate will beat me to death with a chair. There is nothing funny about that sentence). After the game, we hit up the Cask and Flagon for another metal encased brew, then headed back to Casa de Brownsox. The car ride and mile long walk to find the car was key in sobering me up for the family Brownsox.

The rest of the evening was spent having cocktails and dinner with Brownsox and his extended family. This included Brownsox’s very cool cousin, his WASP wife, and Brownsox’s grandparents. I drank far too much wine on top of the many beers I had had that day, and ended a fabulous dinner debating with Grandpa Brownsox if Barry Bonds should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. Luckily for me and my drinking problem, Brownsox’s Indian family has a New England sensibility to it, so my buzz went unnoticed by the fun-loving family.

The plan for Monday morning was as follows. Brownsox was going to help Nilus pack up his car, and then drive with him to Michigan State, where Nilus is in grad school. When that was complete, Mama Brownsox was going to drop me off at the train station, and I was going to train back to NYC. Now to say that Brownsox and Nilus were inefficient in their packing and timetable would miss the magic of their foolishness. At one point, I just starting packing the car myself, as the two were bumbling about trying to get out of the house. The entire clan Brownsox watched as their young bucks were barely able to pack a car and leave in a timely matter. But eventually the car got loaded, the boys headed west, and I caught a train heading home.

New job, first hangover.

2008-01-30T19:39:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday, I was feeling the need to blow off some work tension. I called Uber260 to see if he wanted to grab a drink. He said he could grab a beer (single) round 6:30. Best deal I had so far, so I met him at Irish Rouge for a happy hour round. We grab a cold one and shot the shit. Uber260 tells me that he is heading down to Williamsburg to see Oatmeal and Dreamfaker do some sketch comedy. Normally, I would avoid Brooklyn with all fiber of my being, but I was still a tad off from this steady job thing, and had been tame in my partying (as this blog can show) so I throw caution to the wind and agreed to tag along.

A quicker than expected subway ride later, we are in a bar in Williamsburg. We are greeted by Brownsox and and Groucho, who alert us to this bar's special deal; 3 buck Stellas.

A word on Stellas as a beverage. it has 2 key properties
1: It tastes like a cheap American beer
2: It has far more alcohol in it than American beers

Now one could see how such a beverage, offered at such a discount (for NYC standards) price could lead to disaster. I , however, a man of standards, could maintain respectability for most of the evening. We watches some sketch comedy, tricked Groucho into downing some shots and lament the passing of time, and finally when words become a trial, we grabbed a cab back to Queens.

When I headed home, I was much more messed up than expected. I was able to get some sleep eventually, after a prayer or two to the Drainage Deity, but woke up the next day feeling like Roy Jones Jr. used me to spar. I could exist in the world, but alot of energy was needed not to dry heave. Good thing I am a pro, so I sucked it up and did my job.

Thus I popped my cherry on being hung over at the job. It was bound to happen, I was just surprised Brooklyn was involved.

A return to form

2008-01-25T18:08:00.000-08:00

So sorry about the lack of posts. My new job has been keeping me real busy and real sober. However I had two events within the last week that harkened back to the old days

Last Saturday, Hubris and I woke at 8am and headed down to Nevada Smiths for the 10am soccer match. We arrive at the bar with empty stomachs, a box of popums, and a desire for drunken sports. About a beer in, Brownsox and Arsenal joined us, and we got down to some futball goodness as only Nevada's can offer. I will not bore you with the details of the match (see Hubris's blog for that), but it was a great game,we won 3-nil, and we drank lots of beer and sung many songs. After the game, my buddies wanted to head home, but I wanted to stay for the next game. Kodez's team was playing next, and it was a big game for them and an excuse to keep slamming Carsberg for me. I hung out and met up with Kodez, but I remained at the bar as he headed towards the other fans. I hung out for about half the game, but the slowness of their game and the many pre-meal beers I had consumed made it clear this morning at Nevadas should end. So around 1pm, I left the bar.

Now what happened to me next is a fairly common experience to many young new yorkers. You head home after a couple of drinks, hit the subway, but fall asleep and find yourself several stops past yours. This is a common sight in this town to see young people have this happen to them. It is not a common sight at 1 in the afternoon, however. Yet there I was, waking up at 125th Street in the early afternoon. Now after heading back downtown, barely awake, I could either go home and sleep, or run errands. I choose errands.

After a haircut and some new shaving cream, I need sleep. really badly. My plan was to get a couple of hours, then head out into the city for some Saturday night fun. Sadly, a couple of hours became 7 hours, and I woke up at 9:30 pm, confused and hung over. Feeling that the evening is lost, I just play Mass Effect until returning to sleep.

This is how my weekend got consumed by a morning at Nevadas. Next up, learn the story about my first work hangover. Coming soon!

Disclamer

2008-01-07T09:37:00.000-08:00

So today, I started my new job, working in managment for a theater company in New York. As per the big scary packet they gave me that tells me I have to dress nice and not get drunk on the job, I should tell you that all my views here do not represent anyone other than my silly self. I will only rarely mention my job, partally as this is a blog about being a crazy drunk and not a managment guy for the theater world, partally because there is a confinentiality agreement here and I don't want to get fired. So expect very little shop talk.

On a more relevant note, Hubris's birthday is tomorrow. To celebrate, we are all going to Nevada Smiths to play the Wii, as it is Wii night. Feel free to come on by and act the fool.

Arsenal Opening Day 07: part 2, the morning of the game

2008-01-04T13:42:00.000-08:00

So its 3am in the morning, 4 and a half hours before opening kickoff, and I need some food to make it. Along with Uber260, Arsenal, and his girl, I headed over to Soup n' Burger in the east village, which besides being open 24 hours serves one of the best burgers in the city. There we slammed some burgers and met up with Hubris and Bonnilass. Sadly, this only killed about an hour, but took us past last call in the village. So we went into the night looking to find some amusement for the next 3 hours.

With every place in the neighborhood closed, we decide to head over the Union Square park and hang out. We take a seat over in the south courtyard, and enjoy the semi-quiet sight of late night New York. Now around 5am, a man comes out of the subway, carrying a soccer ball. He then proceeds to juggle it hacky-sack style in the court yard. Juggle very well. For the next forty five minutes. We were voyeuring on this man's strange soccer workout. After about 45 minutes, the guy just went back into the subway, returning to whatever magic soccer land he came from. It was like fate knew our plan, and offered us a late night opening act to the game.

The park losing its charm, with still another hour and a half to go, we went to find a place to use the restrooms. An all-night Walgreens was willing to serve (14th and 3rd, for anyone needing a place to pee). With no other options left to us, we sneaked over to the last bastion of people looking to kill time, Starkbucks. We stop in for some coffee and water, and hang until about 6:30.

We head to the bar, hoping they had opened up. Alas, we still had to wait outside with the masses for another half an hour (ya there was a crowd to get into a bar at seven am. I love this town.) But finally, about fifteen minutes before kickoff, the doors opened on a new season.

It was everything we had missed all summer. The beer was flowing, the crowds were singing, and then, the game began. Joy of Joy the Gunners were back! EPL is back! Fulham vs. Arsenal is on! I am drinking at 7:30 am! Everyone is singing! Fulham just scored! Wait, What???

In the first minute, the first minute, of the game, Fulham slides the ball past our goalie on a shot I could have blocked. All joy is gone! Misery and exhaustion sets in! Why am I drinking this early in the morning? I spent the next 80 minutes of the game in this funk, barely able to consume my carsburg or even talk to anyone. I just stared at the TV like the laziest zombie ever.

But never give up on the boys in red and white, because as the song tells us, they are fucking dynamite (and someone's mother is a streetwalker). Van Persie gets one in the back of the net on a penalty shot at the 84th minute. A tie, live has meaning again! shame is over! I am not an idiot for staying up all night in order to go to a bar at 7:30am! But its not over yet. in stoppage time, Hleb nails one in the back of the net. A Victory on opening Game! Joy of Joys! Beer tastes good again! My Morning is saved!

It was an interesting train ride back home, mixed with ajulation and fatigue. But a journey worth taking.

And thus began the o7-08 season, a morning that tool my love of Nevadas and the Gunners to the next level. Who to be indeed!

Arsenal Opening Day 07: part 1, the night before

2008-01-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

At long last, the post about opening day. First, learn about the night long journey to get there.

The night before AFC's first league game of the new season, Uber260's sketch group was doing the 1 year anniversary show. Because of this, and the game's 7:30 start time, we decide to pull an all nighter.

The comedy show was at the Impact theatre, which is in fuck-far away Brooklyn, but right by where most the group live, so good for them. Myself, Kodez, Bourbon, and Brownsox head down around 6 pm, and get there around 7:30. The nice thing about a sketch show is that the whole event is more casual than going to see other types of shows, so we spent the half hour before curtain drinking malt liquor in the theater with the sketch group. The show itself is lovely, as this group's work always is, and was augmented by the fact that this time, the light worked in the bathroom at the theatre. After the show we headed over to Groucho's house for the afterparty.

Groucho happens to live in an abandoned school that someone bought and turned into a (probably illegal) apartment complex. The pros are that his place is huge and the rent is low. The cons are they live on the corner of Sketchy and Drive-by. However there are two great stores around the corner, a bodega with the single greatest beer selection I have ever seen, and the most hilarious liquor store ever. The place has bulletproof glass around the register, and often looks like someone came in ten minutes earlier and bought all the good booze. The guys running it are always trying to sell you homemade Armenian wine. The first time I went there, there were five children playing soccer in the back of the store. Needless to say, it says something about the neighborhood.

The party itself was a good time, as I spent most of it either catching up with the people in the comedy troupe, or protecting Brownsox from the undesired advances of a rather large female.
The party began to wind down around 1 am, so my associates and I realize we need to find another party in order to last through the night. We make some calls, and learn Corleone is having a birthday party at a bar in the West Village. We get the address, and head to the subway.

Once we get off the subway into the West Village, we walk around trying to find the bar. Now either due to the old layout of the neighborhood, or the amount we had to drink in Brooklyn, we are completely unable to find the right street. Eventually, laziness sets in, and we hail a cab. The cab takes us four blocks to the bar. We did not really pay for travel, just directions. The moment we get out of the cab, however, Brownsox loses his lunch all over ninth avenue. Our first casualty of the night. Needless to say, Brownsox did not make it to the game that morning. Undeterred by the loss, we head to the bar and meet up with Arsenal, Renaissance, and Corleone. Now after some time at this bar, the amount I have drunk and the many more hours I need to be awake all hit me, and I decide food is what I need. Bourbon, who loves sleep much more than he loves the beautiful game, decides to stay at the bar, while Arsenal, his girl, Uber260 and myself head out for some late night eating.

Next post, learn about the surreal morning, and the game itself.

Great Bars in NYC part 4: The Continental, the Dive

2008-01-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

New York City is filled with many bars that wish to be dives. They hire decorators to create the dive look, create fancy drinks that sound like crap dive drinks, but their clientelle and price quickly reveal them to be faux dives trying to charm the jaded new yorker out of their drinking coin (Brother Jimmies, I am looking at you). However, there is a little place on St. Mark and 3rd that keeps the dive alive. How do I know it is for real?
1: The Bathroom should be condemned: It takes alot to be the foulest bar bathroom in NYC, but the Continental bathrooms are horrible. I had a friend who said she nearly went in the street in order to avoid these bathrooms. The smell alone (when people are not getting high in the bathroom, mind you) is enough to win the award.
2: The patrons look sketch: While its proximity to NYU means a fair amount of students, about half of the bar look like they are cruising for a fight. One hopes one day, the sketch half challenges the NYU half to a fight. The winner is me, in the corner, drunk and amused
3: The Bar is huge, but never full: This place may have the most tables of any bar I have been to, but it never fills up. This adds to its creepy vibe.
and the most important part of its divi-ness
4: THE DRINKS ARE DIRT CHEAP: Yes sir, $1:50 and $3 beers are the norm at old Continental, and it is the proud home of 5 shots for 10 bucks. Now when I mean five shots, I mean just about anything you are willing to shoot, they will give you five shot glasses of it for ten bones. J.D., check, Soco and Lime, check, Stoli mixed with the blood of the damned, triple checked.
The defining Continental moment happened at a bar across the street (thats how badass this place is). I went to a hip wine bar around the corner to meet Arsenal and his girl, who were attending a party for a friend of Ms. Arsenal. I was hanging out with Arsenal and a buddy of his from out of town, lamenting the overpriced, wacky wine and beer only bar, when I began singing the praises of the Continental's shot policy. Arsenal, always one to save cash, suggest we head over to the Continental and grab a round of shots as opposed to buying a glass of overpriced wine. So we head over, slam five J.D. shots between the five of us, and return to the party at the wine bar, richer men for the journey. We repeat this move about three or four times before just moving to a cheaper bar. A victory not just for the Dive Bar, but for New York City itself.
Thus stands the Continental. Sure, the staff sucks and the bar smells. But if you want to go to war and save the wallet, no one else gives you as much bang for your buck.

Great Bars in NYC part 3: The Irish Rogue, a Theatre Bar

2007-12-20T15:19:00.000-08:00

About 2 years ago, I was producing a three play Off Broadway rep season in Hell's Kitchen. I was in way over my head, overworked, understaffed, and under-financed. So I needed a refuge from my plight, and a steady flow of booze to keep me from strangling someone. Luckily, one day before a show, Hubris (who was my right hand man through this whole debacle) and I discovered this little gem of a bar. We sat in the back of the bar, and ate dinner on what might be the most comfortable couch ever produced. That couch, along with a combination of chicken fingers and Harps, might have saved my life during that professional crisis.
Since then, we have spent many days and nights at the Rogue, slamming beers and woofing down their pretty decent food. The great thing about the Rogue is that they have stood by us despite us doing just about everything we can think of to get banned. We have had fistfights, burnt jackets, nearly knocked over tables, crashed private parties, abused chemicals in the restroom, and passed out by the john after praying to the porcelin god. The Rogue has never turned their back on us, only asking us once to leave (the passed out in the bathroom evening). Hell, we even rented their top lounge twice for theater parties. Any bar that would ignore our idiocy and keep serving us is a bar to note.
Trying to think of one event that represents the Irish Rogue is tricky, as we have pulled many a crazy night there. The best defining moment was probably a lunch. Bourbon, Hubris, Teach, and myself were running an arts in education program at Midtown West school, around the corner from the Rogue. We had just wrapped our final performance at the school on a Tuesday morning, which was the final act of a 5 month work bananza including the off Broadway season. We decided to celebrate with a liquid lunch at the Rogue. After some food and a couple of pints, we got a brilliantly stupid idea, A Beer Bone.
Now A beer bone is a 76 ounce plastic tube, ending in a spigot. The bar fills this tube with St. Pauli Girl beer, We empty said tube. The Rogue was at first hesitant to give us a beer bone at 1 in the afternoon, but we talked them into it. This leads us to being plastered before 4, with Hubris having to sleep in the park in order to sober up before work. A great work lunch. (For a even crazier story about beer bones, check out this story http://ivorynotes.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html)
So thus is the Irish Rogue. The consistently solid bar that forgives our madness, and offers a haven in the Times Square/Hells Kitchen area.
I am heading into winter holiday break, so no real crazy until 08, but I will try to throw in some posts about more top notch bar, or finally tell the tale of the Opening of this season's Premier League. Happy Holidays!

Peer Pressure, or Beer Pressure?

2007-12-17T08:32:00.000-08:00

Clever title right.

So this Friday, Bourbon Samurai returned from D.C. in order to see the show.
(Footnote, Bourbon had been directing the show I was producing, a comedy our friend Groucho had written, but was offered an acting gig at a major theater in D.C. so someone else had to fill in.)
Now Bourbon was in town for around 12 hours before returning home, so obviously he wanted to spend half of them wasted. Now, he was wiped, and I was getting sick, so the plan was to head to Grassroots Tavern and have a couple of pitchers before turning in. I can hear some of you laughing over the wireless.
Every time we tried to call it a night, someone new would show up. First it was my buddy Banker, who brought a friend of mine from High school who lives in Dubai, so we had to have a drink with them. The Hubris showed up (one of Hubris's superpowers is to show up or call just when everyone wants to go home. The waiter's life). Finally Uber260 made a 2 am appearance. At this point, Bourbon, Uber260, Hubris, and myself are the last men standing, and decide to finish the evening at the Continental.
Now the only reason people go to the Continental is to get 5 shots for 10 bucks. So thats what we did. 2 or 3 times. Again, right before we were about to go, Fate stuck its pint glass out for another toast. We saw a waitress wandering around the bar with a tray of 5 Amstel lights and 10 shots. We asked her what was wrong. Apparently, someone ordered the drinks then ran out. Now I am sympathetic to the men and women in the service industry, and and have excepted this evening has gone south a good hour and a half ago, offer to take the tray off her hands. Now, about another shot in, I realize I can shoot no more, and every time Hubris threw another shot at me, I would pour the shot onto the tray in defiance. Bourbon, not one to waste, would tip the trap and let the liquid pour back into the shot glass (with shocking grace) and do the shot himself. This happened about three times, if memory serves.
Now, the only way to top off this evening was with a monument to our foolishness. Hubris began constructing a 'shot-amid' with the empty shot glass. While I believe only one broke in construction, the final product was quite impressive. The management was, not surprisingly, unhappy with this construct, but this being the Continental, waited until we all had taken pictures of the creation before demanding its demolition. Last call come and gone, we returned home. Bourbon woke up to his 10:30 bus back to D.C., I woke up to prepare for my matinee. Smart men, no, but men of principal, well no. But entertaining men, hell ya.

Great Bars in NYC part 2: Nevada Smiths, where futball is religion

2007-12-14T08:56:00.000-08:00

Our next bar is the only other bar in NYC where I can be presently considered a regular. To tell the tale of Nevada Smiths is to explain a new obsession in my life. Around two and a half years ago, Arsenal brought me to the East Village bar one Wednesday afternoon to watch a soccer match, featuring Arsenal Football Club (or AFC, or the Gunners, as not to be confused with the person Arsenal). While I had watched soccer before, I had never watched it with people who cared about the outcome, or more importantly, drunk people who cared, or even more importantly, drunk English people who cared. The bar came alive with every goal attempt, every corner, every point. And then there was the singing. The fans would break out into various chants and songs about their team, laying insults on the other team or absent rival teams. I had never seem this in a sports bar (now I am sure down by Fenway or in Wrigleyville there is similar energy, but until I go to the Cask and Flagon and here a song about Manny Ramirez done to the tune of the proclaimer's "500 Miles", I still give it to our neighbors across the pond). This game also saw the first time I saw Thierry Henry score a goal. A Religious Experience.
This alone makes any bar fun, but a couple of weeks later, I came with Arsenal to another game. This game, however, was at 10 in the morning on a Saturday. The bar was packed near to capacity, and the singing and drinking was twice that of the earlier Wednesday afternoon. While the earliness of the morn was a shock, a couple of pre-noon Carlsbergs took that edge off real quick.
Over the last 2 years, I have spend many more weekend mornings and some weekend afternoon at Nevadas, cheering on the Gunners over a couple of pints. Hubris also came on board, as the football fandom played to many of his strengths (such as drinking heavily and being really loud), and eventually Brownsox signed up. Sasquach is also a fan, but his team is Newcastle, so we do not see him there that often. Teach and Uber260 make the rare appearance, but the early hours wear on all but the hardest fans. After a while, we made some friend with the other Gunner fans, with one recent transplant from England saying that we brought North London to the states. After that comment, Hubris, Arsenal, and myself declared that we were "Arsene Wenger's 3 Man Army" (Arsene Wenger, nicknamed 'the professor' is AFC's coach, the longest running one in the club's history). This season, I have been to so many games (yay not having a job and being able to be at a bar at 2:30 on a Tuesday), that the staff knows my name, which is no small feat considering the number of regulars this place pulls. I even go there at night when I need a chill bar in the East Village, (the place is surreal in that it does all its buisiness Saturday and Sunday day, and is deathly quiet most week nights)
Next up, more bars, or the epic tale of the all night drinking binge for the opening of this years Football season.

Great Bars of NYC Part One: The Irish Rover, the local

2007-12-14T08:31:00.000-08:00

Our series on the best bars in NYC (in my foolish opinion) start with this spot in Astoria, the Irish Rover. The Irish Rover is a basic Irish bar, good tap, lots of sports, Dart board, all the basics. It is located literally down the block from where both Teach as well as Arsenal and Sasquach live, so easy to get to (it is however, a good half hour walk for me, but I could use the exercise).
What makes this bar unique can be explained in the story of the first time I went there. After work, I went over there to meet up with Teach, who arrived there several hours earlier. The bartender was a cheery middle aged Irish guy, who quickly earned our love by comping our every third drink, like clockwork. Now for everywhere else in the world, a nice bartender in a local bar comping a couple of rounds is no thing, but this is New York City, where if they get your order right you are happy. This guy was happy to offer the extra rounds of Guinness or miller lite for Teach and Harp for me. Eventually, Bourbon and Brownsox came by, and we made a night of it, raising only a $40 bar tab between the 4 of us over the course of the entire evening. I was smitten.
Now the next evening, teach and I decide to return to the Rover for another couple of rounds. We are barely in the door, where the same bartender from last night smiles at us and ask if we want a Guinness and a Harp. This guy did not miss a beat before memorizing our drink orders. He even remembered when Teach dropped down from Guinness to Miller Lite (3 in, if u be curious). The most amazing thing was when I was standing at the bar, finished my Harp, turned around to talk to this girl who was convincing me to get a batman tattoo, and when I turned around all of a minute later, my empty pint glass had been replace by a full and beautiful Harp. I thought the bar was haunted by the greatest ghosts ever.
Since then we have spent many a fine night at the rover, drinking cheaply near where half of us live. A local bar perfected!
Up next, either a post about this weekend, or we move the best bar series along to the East Village, to the best bar to go to at 7 am.

The importance of food and rest to the funtional alcoholic

2007-12-12T12:22:00.000-08:00

This last week I learned some things about myself. The most amusing thing is that I am a beast of a drinker, but only when I prepare. I am presently producing and crewing a small show in the east village, which leads to many late nights at bars. I am also unemployed, so there is no reason to not get blotto every night. During this adventure, I have come across some truths about drinking. Come along with me.

Rule 1: Eat Something!
Wednesday night was the first and only dress of the show. Needless to say, nerves all around, and a combo of stress and art always give me the urge to drink. Finding that the cast and crew were all to tired (or sensible) to go out, I met up with Hubris at the Irish Rover in Astoria (I will probably dedicate a whole entry to this place later). Now the only thing in my stomach at this point is a slice of pizza consumed around noon, and roughly 5 liters of diet pepsi. A smart man would grab a late night meal, or just go to sleep hungry. I decide a liquid dinner is in order, and start pounding the Harp. Hubris and I have a lovely evening, I bitching about theater, he bitching about women and work, and us agreeing that Arsenal is, in fact, by far the greatest team the world has ever seen. At some point in the evening, he starts suggesting we call it, and as he does this, I down a full pint, not chugging just drinking, in about 7 minutes. I am not a fast drinker, but I threw that beer down like it was the missing part of my being. I only had about four beers that night, but I woke up with a buzzing head the next day, all because I didn't eat.

Rule 2: Shots are magic, but work like time bombs
The next night we opened the play, and about half the cast and crew went out to the Continental to celebrate. Now as a producer, I am always concerned about team morale, so I made it my mission to make sure everyone had a good time. I then begin to order shots for everyone; cast, crew, co-producers, people's friends, people's parents, everyone. This goes on for about an hour, and just as I begin to start thinking sensibly, the costume designer, Mr. Gunn, takes up the mantle and demands round after round of soco and lime. This goes on into the night until Hubris gets off work and comes over. He brings with him a girl he worked on a show with. Now he had previously mentioned that I would like this girl and should 'get on that' as the saying goes. Of course, the moment she arrives is the same moment that my brain finally catches up to the seven shots and numerous beers that I have been throwing around. So I spent the show remainder of the evening just trying to make sure I can still speak, let alone appear to be a charming human being. Sorry Hubris, I will catch you next time.

Rule 3: Burning the candle at both ends will catch up with you
Friday night nothing odd happened, but worth noting I once again was out late slamming round after round of JD shots and beers. Saturday, I head up to meet Uber260 at a fundraising party for a new theater company at the Irish Rouge. I do not drink heavily, but by 2 language becomes a theory and not a practice for me. I take this less that I went crazy that night, but this was the forth night in a row I got wasted (not drank mind you, but achieved massive, wake up the next day feeling like you got slammed around by half the UFC, drunkedness), and I think this was my body's way of saying "Stop, if you love me, you will stop". So I spent the next evening watching Iron Chef and eating take out.

there, some words of wisdom for the aspiring drunkard. Next up, a tally on some of the best bars in NYC.

Let the madness continue!

2007-12-12T12:13:00.000-08:00

Hello indifferent internet

As I character, my exploits in both theater and drinking have long been chronicled by superior writers, such as the Bourbon Samurai and Brownsox. However, since B.S. has slowed his writing and Brownsox sold out to the liberal media, the exploits of my friends and I are not being relayed. Alas! So I now am taking up the task.
I apologize if these early entries are filled with typos, poor grammar, and are just generally poorly written. I am making this up as I go.
Up next, a thesis on how to prepare for a night of crazy drinking. or "Eat some damn dinner".