Ode to Booting

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.