In the never-ending battle to get from Monday to Friday, here are some adventures I hit along the way.
Tuesday, Hubris and I saw a play, which is surprisingly rare for us despite the fact that we are in the playmaking business. We saw The Seafarer on Broadway, which was totally bad ass. While it is basically a standard issue Irish drinking and Demons play, it’s really cool, and featured really great performances, notably from Ciarán Hinds who offers a fabulous monologue on the nature of Hell. Of couse, this being an Irish drinking play, we walked out of the theater craving an unsafe amount of Irish Whiskey. Our original plan was to go to Scruffy Duffys and get the best wings in NYC, only to find that Scruffy Duffys was no longer there (Horror!). Hubris made a terrifying suggestion, Flahertys.
A word on Flahertys. It is a bar and restaurant right on Restaurant Row (for non locals, that’s a block in Hell’s Kitchen near Times Square, with a bunch of restaurants that specialize in pre or post show meals). Hubris and I first encountered it during the misery that was our 2006 Off Broadway season, where we were as close to functional alcoholics as we could be without a needed intervention. We went there one night for 2 beers after the show. We each woke up the next day not with hangovers, but each had horrendous headaches. We would go there a couple more times during the season, only having a couple of drinks, but waking up each time with horrendous headaches. We began to suspect that they were poisoning us but our tolerance was so good the strychnine just gave us a buzz.
Besides its consistent attempts to kill us, the bar itself kinda sucks; its tap is bad, the staff is rude (one time an old man yelled at Banker for having his legs up on a seat and for looking tired), and the food is mediocre. We had not been there in a while, so the novelty of hitting it off now seemed too good to pass up. We sat down in their cozy lounge section, found that they had replaced their former super hot Eastern European waitress with a slightly less hot Eastern European waitress, and orders some Powers. I guzzled that Powers down faster than I have ever drank any straight alcohol; powered by Irish theater I was. After a while a lady friend of Hubris’s came by, who would scowl at us for ‘being on a man-date’ as she claimed it (why can’t two friends go see then disuss theatre over booze without it being odd?). As we were drinking, I spy a man coming from the other end of the bar towards the exit. I take a moment to confirm my suspicion, and realize it is in fact Mr. Ciarán Hinds. I am dumbstruck and have no idea what to do. Normally in these situations I would anonymously buy the guy a drink (which I did for Josh Charles of Sports Night fame once), but he is clearly leaving, so that’s no go. I don’t want to annoy him, and screaming “You were the bomb in Rome” seems crass. All I can do is stare as he leaves, then grab Hubris and shake him for a minute. When I explain why I have been freaking out, he races out of the bar to confirm the man’s identity. After a successful recon, we hatched a plan to stake out the bar another night and buy him a drink. Hope it works.
Wednesday night, I had dinner plans with Rockstar at 7:30 at Gramercy Tavern. Gramercy Tavern is not the best restaurant in NYC, nor is it the most ‘hip’. It is however, possibly THE restaurant in NYC, with over a decade of excellence and well ranked among the locals. We have a very good, if not mind blowing meal, with what could be the best scallops and the best quail I have ever had. We washed the meal down with a very good bottle of Burgundy, and I followed up with a port and a really good desert wine. Of late I have gotten more into desert wines as a nice way to end a meal, usually too sweet to drink without food but if you have some cheese or dessert (I had both, good thing I do not care about my appearance), it is better than a scotch or cognac. I remained mostly sober though, but had an excellent tasting experience, and it is always great to hang out with Rockstar, as his crazy job keeps him out of circulation.
Thursday night, I carried on a ‘good all boys’ tradition. Once every 2 weeks or about, I go out and have some beers with Banker and Zorba (a friend of mine since we were 6) on the Upper East Side. We used to go to our high school and college haunt of Becky’s, but after a couple of trips we realized we were owed better. We now go to Jack Russells, which not only has the distinction of being a bar on the Upper East Side that doesn’t make it me want to swing a chair at someone, but is also one of the best sports bars I have ever been to. Each booth is fitted with a T.V. so you could watch any game you want. The food is standard pub fare, but god bless them they never even try to cook anything more fancy. We have a lovely time as always, but left pretty early, as Banker’s super shitty job requires him to wake up at 5:45 am.
Stupid jobs, limiting weekday boozing!
All travails that I went through in order to get to blessed Friday. Weekend is not looking too crazy, but I will see what I can come up with. Happy Leap day!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Great Bars in NYC: The Beer Garden, the Astoria Legend
There are other, supposed, ‘beer gardens’ in NYC, but nothing compares to Bohemian Hall in Queens, The Beer Garden. When you walk in the front door, it looks like a sketch bar populated by locals. But walk to the other side of the bar and go through the back door, and you hit pay dirt. You are now in a giant courtyard, filled with picnic tables, a little gazebo in the center, and two stands, one selling beer, the other selling kielbasas and fries. Now when I mean beer, I mean real beer; the place only serves the best beer Eastern Europe is willing to export to Americans, for 14 bucks a pitcher (again, out of towners are confused, but a high end German or Czech beer for that price is a steal). The first time I was even in Astoria, Teach took me there at 6 in the evening in the summer, and the place was packed with everyone from 20somethings to families with their kids. In a city with overprices Coors Lite and cramped loud backrooms, a sprawling yard with only quality beers to offer can mean a lot. That, and the Kielbasa is great.
The place is an interesting mix of locals, young artsy types from the area, and on prime nights in the summer hip young professionals from The Island. I have yelled at security once or twice for not letting me in the summer, enraged that a loyal year round costumer like myself would get turned away while the posers who took a town car from Manhattan crowded the courtyard. I prefer to come in the off season, where the crowds are less, and sometimes they set up a tent with some space heaters in the courtyard. I once hip checked one of those space heaters after a particularly rough night, waking with a bruised side that I could not explain until Teach regaled me with the story. They still let me back though.
The craziest I ever saw the Beer Garden was during the 2006 World Cup. The management, seeing an opportunity to cash in on being a vaguely German establishment in a multicultural neighborhood, procured half a dozen flat screens, set them up around the courtyard under some cover, and showed every game. I was only there one afternoon, but it was for the USA/Italy game, which fans will remember as the only game where Italy did not beat the other team (in truth, USA should have won, but for a dodgy off-sides call). The place was packed to capacity at lunch time, there was a line to get in, and people were going crazy. Seeing the US having a shot at one of the best teams in the world got the capacity crowd going. We got so hammered and swept up with world cup fever, that I went and bought the world cup Xbox game right after we left the bar, just so it would not end.
There are other great tales of the place. The time a drunk German man claiming to be the owner told me he liked me because my jacket made me look like Gestapo, or the time I was smoking in the courtyard but was too drunk to remember to put it out as I walking inside to leave the bar, and they banned me for life (it didn’t stick). If anyone has a beer garden story they want to share, please put one up on the comments section.
The Beer Garden, the only bar you can get your Manhattan friends to come to in Queens.
The place is an interesting mix of locals, young artsy types from the area, and on prime nights in the summer hip young professionals from The Island. I have yelled at security once or twice for not letting me in the summer, enraged that a loyal year round costumer like myself would get turned away while the posers who took a town car from Manhattan crowded the courtyard. I prefer to come in the off season, where the crowds are less, and sometimes they set up a tent with some space heaters in the courtyard. I once hip checked one of those space heaters after a particularly rough night, waking with a bruised side that I could not explain until Teach regaled me with the story. They still let me back though.
The craziest I ever saw the Beer Garden was during the 2006 World Cup. The management, seeing an opportunity to cash in on being a vaguely German establishment in a multicultural neighborhood, procured half a dozen flat screens, set them up around the courtyard under some cover, and showed every game. I was only there one afternoon, but it was for the USA/Italy game, which fans will remember as the only game where Italy did not beat the other team (in truth, USA should have won, but for a dodgy off-sides call). The place was packed to capacity at lunch time, there was a line to get in, and people were going crazy. Seeing the US having a shot at one of the best teams in the world got the capacity crowd going. We got so hammered and swept up with world cup fever, that I went and bought the world cup Xbox game right after we left the bar, just so it would not end.
There are other great tales of the place. The time a drunk German man claiming to be the owner told me he liked me because my jacket made me look like Gestapo, or the time I was smoking in the courtyard but was too drunk to remember to put it out as I walking inside to leave the bar, and they banned me for life (it didn’t stick). If anyone has a beer garden story they want to share, please put one up on the comments section.
The Beer Garden, the only bar you can get your Manhattan friends to come to in Queens.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Soccer woes, scared children, and Bulgarian drinks
Saturday was another great battle in the war of stupid v. health, with the old favorite taking another victory in the war of my life.
My day began at 7am, with a quick shower and cab ride to Nevada’s. For what might be a first, Hubris was already there when I arrived and gotten me a seat. The game was nothing short of a heartbreaker. Least importantly, we drew to a crap team because of a dodgy penalty call in stoppage time which led to a penalty kick. More importantly, one of our players, someone we picked up over the summer and had recently earned his spot on the starting 11, suffered what could be a career ending injury. He was tackled by an opposing player and had his leg broken so bad the foot turned the wrong way. In all seriousness, it is always horrible to watch a young athlete carried off the field in a stretcher, reminding us fans that while they are basically paid millions to play a game, they do put their bodies and thus the livelihoods of them and their families on the line to entertain. I can not help but think of that Buffalo player who was paralyzed at the beginning of this year, and how it can all go to hell in a second in professional sports. My prayers to a fallen gooner, and hope to see him back on the pitch as soon as he is fit.
So, a fairly emotional morning. Even beloved bartender Jack seemed surlier than normal. Not surprising that more beer than normal was consumed, and that we stayed later then the end of the game. So by the time we left the bar, we were slammed, and it was 10:30. We could have done several appropriate things, like sleep, but we chose to do one of the worst things that two drunks could do on a Saturday morning, go see a children’s show!
Earlier in the week, I had promised a friend of mine I would see the children’s show she directed, not knowing how rough a morning I was in for. After some life saving Wendys, we headed to midtown, sat in a theater filled with small kids and their parents, and watched some children’s theater, fighting off the depressants in our blood. I am shocked we came and went without incident. I mean, I did trip on some stairs, but that’s not out of character for me sober, and that theater is poorly constructed. Luckily my friend is awesome, and was just happy that we came.
Now surely, you the reader say to yourself, our hero will go home now. He would not dare continue to wander the city drunk at midday. Fools! The next step was to meet Teach at his new job, the bar Stout (which might merit its own bar post later). A drunken subway ride later, I met Teach in Stout’s basement. The plan was to have lunch and some pints at his bar, but he was on his lunch break, and then was working in the cover section. So instead I just hung out with him at his lunch break, which was good because any more beer may have led to disaster.
Finally, at 2:45 pm, over seven hours after I left it, I returned to bed. I slept till about 7pm, woken by my brother asking if I wanted dinner. I of course was completely out if it, not really sure what day it was, and wondering if the whole morning had been a dream. This futbol addiction is dangerous to a man’s sanity. I hung out for a couple of hours, walked my parent’s dogs, and then headed downtown.
I went down to the Lower East Side to a Bulgarian bar for BFG’s birthday. The place ranks as one of the strangest bars I have been to in the LES. It’s a 2 level bar, the basement level is the standard too-loud hipster filled bar one expects from the area, while the top levels seemed to serve more to local middle-aged patrons. The leader of that pack was a man with the receding hairline and DKNY shirt who was getting down to the crazy Bulgarian Euro pop music no matter what people thought of him. He truly is the hero of the day. This bar served its own creepy fruit punch (which some spoke well of but I was too afraid to try), and had Bulgarian TV playing. Apparently, Bulgaria’s favorite show is one where a dude walks down the street groping strangers to see how they will react (I kid you not); a wondrous nation to be sure. I hung out with Brownsox (who I chastised for missing the game), LaMama, and Jersey. Its always a treat hanging out with Jersey, as not only is he the prototype of the ‘one of us’ debate, he shares my general dislike for people, as well as similar nerdy interests. We hung out discussing drug use and comic book movies for a while, but I was fading fast. Enter Hubris, using his superpower to arrive right when you want to leave. Hubris did order a hookah for the team, which I referred to as ‘candy in gas form’. It has been awhile since I smoked a hookah, the last time was in college where the hookah place formed a hookah out of a watermelon. It really is a delightful experience, even if you hate smoking. As the night went on, the place filled up and the Bulgarian music gave way to ‘80s pop (which is what they are probably currently listening to in Bulgaria). After a couple of beers, I called it a night and took a cab home.
Sunday was uneventful, with a standard Oscar viewing. The Oscars is a great pop culture cock-tease, as every year I really don’t want to watch it, but do anyway because every one else does and I fear I am going to be missing out on something awesome that everyone else is going to be talking about tomorrow, something that never comes (unless Crash winning best picture and making my roommate scream “Kahnnnnn!!!!” counts). Jon Stewart is The Man though, let the record show.
That’s that for now. Might try to do another bar post over the week. Peace.
My day began at 7am, with a quick shower and cab ride to Nevada’s. For what might be a first, Hubris was already there when I arrived and gotten me a seat. The game was nothing short of a heartbreaker. Least importantly, we drew to a crap team because of a dodgy penalty call in stoppage time which led to a penalty kick. More importantly, one of our players, someone we picked up over the summer and had recently earned his spot on the starting 11, suffered what could be a career ending injury. He was tackled by an opposing player and had his leg broken so bad the foot turned the wrong way. In all seriousness, it is always horrible to watch a young athlete carried off the field in a stretcher, reminding us fans that while they are basically paid millions to play a game, they do put their bodies and thus the livelihoods of them and their families on the line to entertain. I can not help but think of that Buffalo player who was paralyzed at the beginning of this year, and how it can all go to hell in a second in professional sports. My prayers to a fallen gooner, and hope to see him back on the pitch as soon as he is fit.
So, a fairly emotional morning. Even beloved bartender Jack seemed surlier than normal. Not surprising that more beer than normal was consumed, and that we stayed later then the end of the game. So by the time we left the bar, we were slammed, and it was 10:30. We could have done several appropriate things, like sleep, but we chose to do one of the worst things that two drunks could do on a Saturday morning, go see a children’s show!
Earlier in the week, I had promised a friend of mine I would see the children’s show she directed, not knowing how rough a morning I was in for. After some life saving Wendys, we headed to midtown, sat in a theater filled with small kids and their parents, and watched some children’s theater, fighting off the depressants in our blood. I am shocked we came and went without incident. I mean, I did trip on some stairs, but that’s not out of character for me sober, and that theater is poorly constructed. Luckily my friend is awesome, and was just happy that we came.
Now surely, you the reader say to yourself, our hero will go home now. He would not dare continue to wander the city drunk at midday. Fools! The next step was to meet Teach at his new job, the bar Stout (which might merit its own bar post later). A drunken subway ride later, I met Teach in Stout’s basement. The plan was to have lunch and some pints at his bar, but he was on his lunch break, and then was working in the cover section. So instead I just hung out with him at his lunch break, which was good because any more beer may have led to disaster.
Finally, at 2:45 pm, over seven hours after I left it, I returned to bed. I slept till about 7pm, woken by my brother asking if I wanted dinner. I of course was completely out if it, not really sure what day it was, and wondering if the whole morning had been a dream. This futbol addiction is dangerous to a man’s sanity. I hung out for a couple of hours, walked my parent’s dogs, and then headed downtown.
I went down to the Lower East Side to a Bulgarian bar for BFG’s birthday. The place ranks as one of the strangest bars I have been to in the LES. It’s a 2 level bar, the basement level is the standard too-loud hipster filled bar one expects from the area, while the top levels seemed to serve more to local middle-aged patrons. The leader of that pack was a man with the receding hairline and DKNY shirt who was getting down to the crazy Bulgarian Euro pop music no matter what people thought of him. He truly is the hero of the day. This bar served its own creepy fruit punch (which some spoke well of but I was too afraid to try), and had Bulgarian TV playing. Apparently, Bulgaria’s favorite show is one where a dude walks down the street groping strangers to see how they will react (I kid you not); a wondrous nation to be sure. I hung out with Brownsox (who I chastised for missing the game), LaMama, and Jersey. Its always a treat hanging out with Jersey, as not only is he the prototype of the ‘one of us’ debate, he shares my general dislike for people, as well as similar nerdy interests. We hung out discussing drug use and comic book movies for a while, but I was fading fast. Enter Hubris, using his superpower to arrive right when you want to leave. Hubris did order a hookah for the team, which I referred to as ‘candy in gas form’. It has been awhile since I smoked a hookah, the last time was in college where the hookah place formed a hookah out of a watermelon. It really is a delightful experience, even if you hate smoking. As the night went on, the place filled up and the Bulgarian music gave way to ‘80s pop (which is what they are probably currently listening to in Bulgaria). After a couple of beers, I called it a night and took a cab home.
Sunday was uneventful, with a standard Oscar viewing. The Oscars is a great pop culture cock-tease, as every year I really don’t want to watch it, but do anyway because every one else does and I fear I am going to be missing out on something awesome that everyone else is going to be talking about tomorrow, something that never comes (unless Crash winning best picture and making my roommate scream “Kahnnnnn!!!!” counts). Jon Stewart is The Man though, let the record show.
That’s that for now. Might try to do another bar post over the week. Peace.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Checking in
Huzzah more blogging! Huzzah more readers! Huzzah more use of Huzzah!
Things have been pretty quiet since DC. This is due mostly to an increased video game addiction (the one-two punch of Mass Effect and Assassin’s Creed is brutal), made more virulent by the purchase of Dynasty Warriors 6 (which serves its purpose of letting me kill hundreds of Chinese soldiers very well). Hubris and I are basically two virtual junkies, leaving our drug (and the house) only for work and futbol, with the occasional trip to a bar to keep up appearances.
Had a bit of a time last night though. I met up with Kodez at Triple Crown for a couple of beers, then saw Uber260’s sketch show around the corner, then immediately returned to Triple Crown for more drinking. I would like to take this moment to bitch about how after a show, large crowds form in front of the theater and don’t leave, even after the cast has come out. It annoyed me in college, and it annoys me know. Either go home or see your friends at the bar next store, its goddamn cold out and people are trying to shut down the theater!
Nothing too exciting happened, but I did get to catch up with a bunch of friends I had not talked to in a while, including Kodez, Groucho, Dreamfaker, and Sanchez. It also reminded me that Bud Light from a tap is not as bad as you think, but its super light nature will lead to you drinking way too many.
I am dog-sitting this weekend and next week, which means I crash at my parent’s place in Manhattan. Unclear if this will increase or decrease my drinking, but it does free me from the grip of my Xbox 360, so that’s a positive. This weekend is looking promising for foolishness, with an early Saturday morning game beginning the charge. More as it develops.
Things have been pretty quiet since DC. This is due mostly to an increased video game addiction (the one-two punch of Mass Effect and Assassin’s Creed is brutal), made more virulent by the purchase of Dynasty Warriors 6 (which serves its purpose of letting me kill hundreds of Chinese soldiers very well). Hubris and I are basically two virtual junkies, leaving our drug (and the house) only for work and futbol, with the occasional trip to a bar to keep up appearances.
Had a bit of a time last night though. I met up with Kodez at Triple Crown for a couple of beers, then saw Uber260’s sketch show around the corner, then immediately returned to Triple Crown for more drinking. I would like to take this moment to bitch about how after a show, large crowds form in front of the theater and don’t leave, even after the cast has come out. It annoyed me in college, and it annoys me know. Either go home or see your friends at the bar next store, its goddamn cold out and people are trying to shut down the theater!
Nothing too exciting happened, but I did get to catch up with a bunch of friends I had not talked to in a while, including Kodez, Groucho, Dreamfaker, and Sanchez. It also reminded me that Bud Light from a tap is not as bad as you think, but its super light nature will lead to you drinking way too many.
I am dog-sitting this weekend and next week, which means I crash at my parent’s place in Manhattan. Unclear if this will increase or decrease my drinking, but it does free me from the grip of my Xbox 360, so that’s a positive. This weekend is looking promising for foolishness, with an early Saturday morning game beginning the charge. More as it develops.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
DC trip
Somewhat appropriately, I spend this president’s weekend in our nation’s capital. Alas, instead of pissing on the National Mall or Stoop drinking at the Lincoln Memorial, I spent the weekend engages in activities theatric, not patriotic, occasionally alcoholic.
I left work and hit Penn Station for a 7pm train. I feasted on Roy Rogers, a treat that one can only seem to find on the trip between NYC and DC (if anyone knows the location of a Roy Rogers not between these two cities, let me know). A quick train ride and a successful navigation of the DC Metro, (which feels like you are traveling in an underground world lost in an earthquake or something), and I met up with the long absent Bourbon Samurai. Bourbon, who had been on a three month pilgrimage working at the Shakespeare Theatre of DC, had prepared for company by purchasing a 30 pack of beer and a bottle of Whiskey that was distilled three blocks down the road at a local liquor store. The whiskey in question was uniquely gross, as it had no bite or aftertaste per se, but still tasted like bad whiskey. It was like if someone had watered JD down on a molecular level. Bourbon and I drank, caught up, and watched two movies perfect for having on in the background while drinking, Serenity and Tombstone. The movies were occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the upstairs neighbor nailing the hell out of someone/something, which according to Bourbon is a big chance from the neighbor’s constant playing of Guitar Hero. Around 2 am, Teach and the Gymnast arrived and had a drink. Now, when the night was over, the 30 pack was gone, but Teach and Gymnast had two beers each. Yes, the Dream Team was back in action! Around 4 am, Teach, who was my roommate for the weekend, and I had a fierce rocks, paper, succors battle as to who got to sleep in Bourbon’s parents’ huge comfortable bed, and who got to sleep on the blow-up mattress on the floor using a towel as a blanket. I won, go me.
The next morning, I was awoken by Teach jamming out on one of Papa Bourbon’s civil war era bugles. I would be more annoyed if it wasn’t 11am, and kinda hilarious. After procuring lunch, we got down to business, which was working on the details of our new theater company, and namely the script of the first show. We did this for 6 hours straight, taking the occasional 10 minute break to pee and make sure no one threw a book at anyone. While intense and ending in the giant idea-explosion that seemed more awesome then helpful, we accomplished a lot. As Teach said of the 6 hour session, “This was thrilling and fulfilling, like sleeping with the headmaster's daughter”.
When it became clear no more work of worth was to be done, we all took a break from each other to nap/work on something else. I took a walk, and bought more beer for the evening. A little time later, we all met up, and began drinking and watching a movie I am ashamed to say I had never seen before, The Blues Brothers. It is a testimony to the brilliance of Akroyd and Belusi, as it is less of a film but more a 2 and a half hour adventure in things that the two love (Blues music, car chases, how freaking funny they are in any situation) yet it is still one of the greatest comedies ever. As the movie drew to a close, we met up with some people I had not seen in a long time.
First up was The Persian, who had been living in Virginia since the fall. He looked a lot better than he usually does, and I am not saying that because he came in with a bottle of Jameson, because in all honesty he usually had a bottle a Jameson with him. He is working at a gym from 5:30 am to 1pm, which is weird considering I didn’t think he went to bed until 5:30 am, ever. Next up was Sergio, who came into town because I was around, and his fiancé Tinroof. I had not seen Sergio in a while, and it was a treat. His fiancé was really cool, and any woman who can be in the same room with me, Teach, and Bourbon Samurai while we were on a guys night out bender is quality people. Finalizing the evening was an appearance of Mini-Roma, who is from Virginia and as it turns out is involved in the same theatre company as the Persian. We spend the evening catching up with old buddies, cooking up burgers at Midnight, and listening to Teach and the Persian argue over nothing and slam on the table. I tried to tell Tinroof every embarrassing story I could about Sergio, but she seemed to know many of them. Around 3:30, I admitted defeat to The Creature, lose the rocks, paper, scissors match to Teach, and went to bed.
Again arising at 11 am (and finding my new overcoat makes a better blanket than a towel), I began helping Bourbon clean up the dozens and dozens of beer cans that littered his parent’s home. After a first silo, we headed into town to see the show that Bourbon was an understudy for. The show was actually really good, and a great example of using theatricality to create magic onstage. Ironically, the biggest problem with the show is that the lead, who Bourbon was understudying under, sucked a nut. We ate at this great Thai place after the show, I helped Bourbon clean up the rest of his house, and then I headed to meet my train. I returned to my house in Queens around 3 am, filled to the brim with theatricality, patriotism, and beer.
I left work and hit Penn Station for a 7pm train. I feasted on Roy Rogers, a treat that one can only seem to find on the trip between NYC and DC (if anyone knows the location of a Roy Rogers not between these two cities, let me know). A quick train ride and a successful navigation of the DC Metro, (which feels like you are traveling in an underground world lost in an earthquake or something), and I met up with the long absent Bourbon Samurai. Bourbon, who had been on a three month pilgrimage working at the Shakespeare Theatre of DC, had prepared for company by purchasing a 30 pack of beer and a bottle of Whiskey that was distilled three blocks down the road at a local liquor store. The whiskey in question was uniquely gross, as it had no bite or aftertaste per se, but still tasted like bad whiskey. It was like if someone had watered JD down on a molecular level. Bourbon and I drank, caught up, and watched two movies perfect for having on in the background while drinking, Serenity and Tombstone. The movies were occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the upstairs neighbor nailing the hell out of someone/something, which according to Bourbon is a big chance from the neighbor’s constant playing of Guitar Hero. Around 2 am, Teach and the Gymnast arrived and had a drink. Now, when the night was over, the 30 pack was gone, but Teach and Gymnast had two beers each. Yes, the Dream Team was back in action! Around 4 am, Teach, who was my roommate for the weekend, and I had a fierce rocks, paper, succors battle as to who got to sleep in Bourbon’s parents’ huge comfortable bed, and who got to sleep on the blow-up mattress on the floor using a towel as a blanket. I won, go me.
The next morning, I was awoken by Teach jamming out on one of Papa Bourbon’s civil war era bugles. I would be more annoyed if it wasn’t 11am, and kinda hilarious. After procuring lunch, we got down to business, which was working on the details of our new theater company, and namely the script of the first show. We did this for 6 hours straight, taking the occasional 10 minute break to pee and make sure no one threw a book at anyone. While intense and ending in the giant idea-explosion that seemed more awesome then helpful, we accomplished a lot. As Teach said of the 6 hour session, “This was thrilling and fulfilling, like sleeping with the headmaster's daughter”.
When it became clear no more work of worth was to be done, we all took a break from each other to nap/work on something else. I took a walk, and bought more beer for the evening. A little time later, we all met up, and began drinking and watching a movie I am ashamed to say I had never seen before, The Blues Brothers. It is a testimony to the brilliance of Akroyd and Belusi, as it is less of a film but more a 2 and a half hour adventure in things that the two love (Blues music, car chases, how freaking funny they are in any situation) yet it is still one of the greatest comedies ever. As the movie drew to a close, we met up with some people I had not seen in a long time.
First up was The Persian, who had been living in Virginia since the fall. He looked a lot better than he usually does, and I am not saying that because he came in with a bottle of Jameson, because in all honesty he usually had a bottle a Jameson with him. He is working at a gym from 5:30 am to 1pm, which is weird considering I didn’t think he went to bed until 5:30 am, ever. Next up was Sergio, who came into town because I was around, and his fiancé Tinroof. I had not seen Sergio in a while, and it was a treat. His fiancé was really cool, and any woman who can be in the same room with me, Teach, and Bourbon Samurai while we were on a guys night out bender is quality people. Finalizing the evening was an appearance of Mini-Roma, who is from Virginia and as it turns out is involved in the same theatre company as the Persian. We spend the evening catching up with old buddies, cooking up burgers at Midnight, and listening to Teach and the Persian argue over nothing and slam on the table. I tried to tell Tinroof every embarrassing story I could about Sergio, but she seemed to know many of them. Around 3:30, I admitted defeat to The Creature, lose the rocks, paper, scissors match to Teach, and went to bed.
Again arising at 11 am (and finding my new overcoat makes a better blanket than a towel), I began helping Bourbon clean up the dozens and dozens of beer cans that littered his parent’s home. After a first silo, we headed into town to see the show that Bourbon was an understudy for. The show was actually really good, and a great example of using theatricality to create magic onstage. Ironically, the biggest problem with the show is that the lead, who Bourbon was understudying under, sucked a nut. We ate at this great Thai place after the show, I helped Bourbon clean up the rest of his house, and then I headed to meet my train. I returned to my house in Queens around 3 am, filled to the brim with theatricality, patriotism, and beer.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Great Bars in NYC continued: Blue Smoke, cause ya gotta eat sometime
Technically, Blue Smoke is not a bar, it is a BBQ restaurant with a bar, but since every time I have been there I drank a lot, it counts. Blue Smoke is locates in Gramercy, a neighborhood with many fine restaurants (some of the best in the city) and few great bars, a fact that wins it extra points as a drinking establishment. Unlike many NYC BBQ places, Blue Smoke does not attempt to overwhelm you with its ‘southern-ness’ in an attempt to feel more legitimate. It is just a great place to get great BBQ. The bar itself wins points for its acceptance of people who just want to drink. Its tap has both standard fare and several microbrews. Best of all, it possibly the most extensive bourbon list I have ever seen in this city. It also offers a flight of bourbon for tasting.
Blue Smoke’s moment of glory came at New Years a couple of years ago. Hubris and I had gone out last night in our yearly December 30th binge (our way of waiving the middle finger to New Years, an over-rated holiday in my opinion), and were feeling it the next day. We had plans to meet up with Bourbon Samurai and some old friends from college that were in town, so we soldiered up and headed down to Blue Smoke. Now a normal person who is both A) hung over and B) planning on going out hard core would have a sensible, restrained dinner. Normal people suck; we had bourbon flights with our meal. These multiple glasses of bourbon, however, did fuel us for a particularly wacky evening, one where we invaded The Banker’s apartment with a dozen people he had never met, got hammered off The Gymnast’s home made beer, and ended the evening with me walking around Williamsburg, screaming how much I hated Williamsburg. This is a testament to how much people who live in Williamsburg suck, as they would let some drunken asshole wander around their neighborhood badmouthing it. A guy tried to pull that in Astoria, a couple of large Greek men would introduce him to a baseball bat and the East River.
In closing, anyone who likes bourbon and BBQ owes themselves a trip to Blue Smoke. It is far more fun than a restaurant in Gramercy should be.
Blue Smoke’s moment of glory came at New Years a couple of years ago. Hubris and I had gone out last night in our yearly December 30th binge (our way of waiving the middle finger to New Years, an over-rated holiday in my opinion), and were feeling it the next day. We had plans to meet up with Bourbon Samurai and some old friends from college that were in town, so we soldiered up and headed down to Blue Smoke. Now a normal person who is both A) hung over and B) planning on going out hard core would have a sensible, restrained dinner. Normal people suck; we had bourbon flights with our meal. These multiple glasses of bourbon, however, did fuel us for a particularly wacky evening, one where we invaded The Banker’s apartment with a dozen people he had never met, got hammered off The Gymnast’s home made beer, and ended the evening with me walking around Williamsburg, screaming how much I hated Williamsburg. This is a testament to how much people who live in Williamsburg suck, as they would let some drunken asshole wander around their neighborhood badmouthing it. A guy tried to pull that in Astoria, a couple of large Greek men would introduce him to a baseball bat and the East River.
In closing, anyone who likes bourbon and BBQ owes themselves a trip to Blue Smoke. It is far more fun than a restaurant in Gramercy should be.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Quantumas goes for a hat trick
Its time again for the highest of the High Holy Days, right behind the mass birthday and December 30th (where Hubris and I get drunk in spite of New Years). The day when I look Death in the eyes, and Death boots. Its Quantumas!. I will not go into details about the history or odd nature of this great holiday, but will just tell you, the reader(s?) how the third annual Quantumas went down.
The evening began at Teach’s place for some pre-partying. The cast of mourners included Teach, Arsenal, Hubris, Sketchrock, Uber260, Rockstar, Slaggard, Kodez, and Jersey. We downed a bunch of beers, some Pitu (thanks Slaggard) and some bourbon. We then had the presenting of gifts that I will take into the afterlife. The highlights were a tiara from Rockstar, a young adult novel about a boy who can not die, an absentee Ballot for Mass., and Sketchrock’s grading pen. Hubris again told the story of “living without limits.” God bless him, every year he works on the story to make me sound more hardcore and less like a freak show in the story; thanks buddy! A new part to the Quantumas mythos came when Teach asked if we could submit a great historic drunkard to be chosen as a profit (Oliver Reed will now and forever be the Patron Saint of Quantumas). Teach offered Norman Mailer, citing such great feats as biting off a piece of Rip Torn’s ear among others. After a vote, Mailer was chosen as the first profit of Quantumas, with new profits to be voted on each year.
After some more drinking, we headed out to dinner. We were going to Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem, so we opted for the bus. Right in front of the bus stop, there were cops directing traffic, as it seemed a tire had come off a car. Uber260, ever the soul of aid, offered to help the police remove the tire from the road. The policeman declined, and was kind enough to ignore the large group of drunken fools next to him. As we waited for the bus, we laughed, drained a flask, and made fun of the Vantage Point poster at the bus stop. Our ire of the poster grew so intense, that Teach began running into the poster over and over, in an attempt to destroy it. Yes, the policemen are no more than 3 yards away. We are very lucky the NYC buses are frequent in arrival.
After a jovial bus ride to Harlem, we stumbled over to the West Side Highway, and our dinner destination. We waited at the bar and continued our drinking as they set up our table. At this point, the Banker arrived, leaving his Upper East Side bubble to celebrate Quantumas. Eventually we sat down, and ordered up a whole hunk of BBQ. I must say, the place did not disappoint. The standouts in my mind were the spicy peel and eat shrimp and the pulled pork. Also, the dozen of us ate like kings and drank like Irishmen for under $350. I would have to say that Blue Smoke is still my personal favorite BBQ place, but for sheer fun and value Dino BBQ is off the charts.
After dinner, we decide Hell’s Kitchen is the place to continue the idiocy. At this point, Rockstar and Arsenal disappear into the night without saying goodbye, causing tension in the ranks. Upon hitting the kitchen, Bull Moose seems the best place to continue. Upon arriving, we find, for maybe the first time ever, the upstairs in packed. This shock took the remainder of our momentum away, and then after a few pints, we packed it in, singing AFC songs all the way back to Queens.
And thus was Quantumas 08. While on paper it seems the tamest Quantumas (not a single establishment threatened to ban us) the basic tenets of the holiday, living without limits, remained in tact. Hey, any Quantumas above ground is a good one.
The evening began at Teach’s place for some pre-partying. The cast of mourners included Teach, Arsenal, Hubris, Sketchrock, Uber260, Rockstar, Slaggard, Kodez, and Jersey. We downed a bunch of beers, some Pitu (thanks Slaggard) and some bourbon. We then had the presenting of gifts that I will take into the afterlife. The highlights were a tiara from Rockstar, a young adult novel about a boy who can not die, an absentee Ballot for Mass., and Sketchrock’s grading pen. Hubris again told the story of “living without limits.” God bless him, every year he works on the story to make me sound more hardcore and less like a freak show in the story; thanks buddy! A new part to the Quantumas mythos came when Teach asked if we could submit a great historic drunkard to be chosen as a profit (Oliver Reed will now and forever be the Patron Saint of Quantumas). Teach offered Norman Mailer, citing such great feats as biting off a piece of Rip Torn’s ear among others. After a vote, Mailer was chosen as the first profit of Quantumas, with new profits to be voted on each year.
After some more drinking, we headed out to dinner. We were going to Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem, so we opted for the bus. Right in front of the bus stop, there were cops directing traffic, as it seemed a tire had come off a car. Uber260, ever the soul of aid, offered to help the police remove the tire from the road. The policeman declined, and was kind enough to ignore the large group of drunken fools next to him. As we waited for the bus, we laughed, drained a flask, and made fun of the Vantage Point poster at the bus stop. Our ire of the poster grew so intense, that Teach began running into the poster over and over, in an attempt to destroy it. Yes, the policemen are no more than 3 yards away. We are very lucky the NYC buses are frequent in arrival.
After a jovial bus ride to Harlem, we stumbled over to the West Side Highway, and our dinner destination. We waited at the bar and continued our drinking as they set up our table. At this point, the Banker arrived, leaving his Upper East Side bubble to celebrate Quantumas. Eventually we sat down, and ordered up a whole hunk of BBQ. I must say, the place did not disappoint. The standouts in my mind were the spicy peel and eat shrimp and the pulled pork. Also, the dozen of us ate like kings and drank like Irishmen for under $350. I would have to say that Blue Smoke is still my personal favorite BBQ place, but for sheer fun and value Dino BBQ is off the charts.
After dinner, we decide Hell’s Kitchen is the place to continue the idiocy. At this point, Rockstar and Arsenal disappear into the night without saying goodbye, causing tension in the ranks. Upon hitting the kitchen, Bull Moose seems the best place to continue. Upon arriving, we find, for maybe the first time ever, the upstairs in packed. This shock took the remainder of our momentum away, and then after a few pints, we packed it in, singing AFC songs all the way back to Queens.
And thus was Quantumas 08. While on paper it seems the tamest Quantumas (not a single establishment threatened to ban us) the basic tenets of the holiday, living without limits, remained in tact. Hey, any Quantumas above ground is a good one.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Archive tale: Shipping out to Boston
So last summer, Brownsox invited me to come crash at his mother’s place with him in Boston. I, unemployed at the time, accepted. What followed was an epic journey through both the cultural heart of both Beantown and the clan Brownsox.
Now the week before, I was with my family in Cape Cod. This meant that instead of having to suffer through flight, train, or bus to get to Boston, I could take a ferry over there Friday night. Let me tell you, sitting on the stern deck of a ferry watching the sun set as we motor over to Boston Harbor beats the Chinatown bus’s multiple delays any day (and the Chinatown bus does not have a bar in it).
I arrived at the south harbor about 2 hours before Brownsox was getting into town from NYC (on the before-mentioned-and-insulted bus), so I looked around for a place to grab a bite. Wandering down the harbor, I see a little sign saying “No Name Seafood”, with an arrow pointing down an alley by the dock. Normally, this would sketch me out, but Rockstar, another Boston Native, had recommended it to me, so I counted my blessings and headed down the alley. I gotta say, No Name delivered. For under 50 bucks I got beer, fried scallops and shrimp, fries, and Lobster. The place seems to cut cost by using large picnic tables and paper everything, but screw it, who needs décor with this much cheap good seafood.
My belly full of the sea’s bounty, I decided it was time to head over to the bus station and meet Brownsox. To do this, I needed to use the T. For anyone who has never been to Boston, the T is the local mass transit system, akin to the subway or the L. The T trains however, only have to cars to a train, and sometimes run on the streets, forcing them to obey traffic lights and Boston traffic. It makes the L look like efficiency perfected. Now to get to the bus station, I had to take the Silver line. On the Silver line, instead of a train, it is a bus that runs on electric lines that travels down an underground tunnel. Budget 1950s sci-fi is alive and well in the Boston transit system. Despite its goofiness, it got me where I needed to go, and I met up with Bownsox at the station.
After dropping our stuff off at Mama Brownsox’s lovely Cambridge pad, we decided to hit a local watering hole. It was here that the main cast of characters were introduced. There was Brownsox, who introduced me to his cousin, Mr. Chelsea. Mr. Chelsea is from India, is studying to be a priest, and is taking a coast to coast trip of America visiting family before going back to school. He was a Futbol fan, backing Chelsea (not everyone is perfect), and was a lovely chap. Also in tow was Brownsox’s big brother, Nilus. A word about Nilus; he is clearly a good brother and son, and evidently quite the intellect. Watching him interact with society however, is akin to watching a man try to hammer a nail with the crowbar end of the hammer. He is close right, but it just ain’t working no matter how hard he swings. Nilus lived in Evanston for a couple of months, and he was fired from a job where he, Harvard grad, had to wrap sandwiches, after the first day (Hubris did this job every Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, hung over, for a year). Some men were not meant to leave the ivy covered campus. It is hard to fully explain Nilus, so I will try to point out some Nilus ‘magic moments’ which happened over the weekend.
We headed out to the local grad student bar, the Thirsty Scholar. This place won me over with wood paneling, great tap, and futbol on the telly. We discussed the beginning of the EPL season, and I had a fairly intelligent conversation about religion with Mr. Chelsea. After a couple of beers and shots, we headed back to Casa Brownsox, where we watched the Die Hard music video on Youtube 7 times in a row (worth every minute).
Saturday started much more civilized than expected. Mama Brownsox had gotten us tickets to this hot art exhibit at a local museum (I am sure that both the featured artist and the ‘local’ museum are both very famous, I just don’t remember the names of either). It was actually pretty cool, and it featured the famous painting “Nighthawks” or as I had previously knew it, ‘that really well known painting with the sad people in the diner’. This was followed with some sightseeing in Boston, mostly for the benefit of Mr. Chelsea as I have been to Boston many times. After a nice walk, some lunch in the historic cobblestone-y district, and some tea at the harbor, Mama Brownsox left us to our own devices.
A note on Boston as a city. In the summer, it is as great a city as you can find in America. It has the right mix of new buildings to historic sights, it has tons of stuff to do, better parks than I remember, and sitting by the harbor having a drink outside is just beautiful. This ignores all the many problems of Boston, such as the goofy mass transit, horrible drivers, freeze-you-to-death-and-I-know-cold-I-lived-in-Chicago winters, and of course, Patriot fans. Those factors make living in Boston dubious, but for a summer weekend, it is perfect.
After Mama Brownsox left us, we decided to meet up with an old friend of Brownsox at the Cask and Flagon, over by Fenway. I was impressed with how easily the T could get us within 5 blocks of Fenway Park. Being a Mets fan, I am always shocked when in other cities ballparks are both easy to get to and surrounded by things other than empty lots. The Cask and Flagon, or anyone unfamiliar, is THE Redsox bar, as it is literally across the street from Fenway. It is the closest thing I have seen to Nevada Smiths for Baseball, as far as atmosphere and excitement, all it needs is some singing. It also was one of the biggest bars I have ever been it, and there still was a line to get in. I have to say if you are ever in Boston, it is a must visit. Nilus had a magic moment, where he, the Boston native, stood in this famous sports bar next to one of the most beloved ballparks in this country, holding a beer that I believed had a redsox logo on it, turned to me and said “There sure are a lot of redsox fans here.” That comment does a pretty good job of describing Nilus and his grasp of the world around him.
After a couple of rounds, the need to eat struck us, and we headed out into the night. After more wandering around Boston (we would do that a lot that weekend, partially to soak in the atmosphere, partially because Brownsox and Nilus are not good at making decisions and we had to wander around until they did). We did meet up with another friend of Brownsox, a very lovely lady who was a groupie of Brownsox’s old A Cappella group (I hope reading that hurt you as much as it hurt me to type it). After a while we stumbled on a restaurant called Whiskeys, best described as a Brother Jimmies that didn’t suck, and ate there. Our new female companion quickly impressed me with both her love of Bourbon and his discussion of blowjob etiquette. Nilus had another magic moment when he ordered a vermouth on the rocks, and then turned it back when it was the wrong type of Vermouth. This experience was a frequent occurrence over the weekend. He also enjoyed a vermouth and tonic with a cherry in it, and turned the drink back when it came sans cherry. Nilus is never odder than when he is at a bar.
Full of food and booze, we headed back to Cambridge to drink there. As luck would have it, Arsenal and his girlfriend (now known as C.C.) were in town, attending some family event with C.C.’s mother. We met them up at a Starbucks in Cambridge (I was again shocked with the T’s ability to get us to where we needed to go), and then headed to a bar. The place we headed was a micro-brewery, one I had been at years ago, when the Vanisher and I had visited Brownsox right after we graduated college. I am not sure if my tastes had increased or decreased, or if levels of inebriation played a part, but I found the place less pleasing to the palate than I had three years earlier. We did have a lovely time, the mass of us. Mama C.C. not only bought me a beer, but told me how much she loved a show I produced a couple of years ago. I need to meet more people like her. Arsenal, in a fashion typical of him, bolted early, and we needed to find a new bar.
We wandered around Cambridge for a while, looking for a place still open at Midnight on a Saturday (college town my ass). As we wondered, I witnessed a brutal cockblocking barrage, as Nilus totally attempted to hit on this girl who was with us, despite the fact she had come into town to most likely hook up with Brownsox. Later conference with Brownsox confirmed that he had hooked up with her earlier this summer, and a repeat was all but guaranteed in a better situation. This barrage continued all night, after we found some shady backroom bar where the booths were run down vinyl and the staff seemed pissed we showed up and dared to ask for booze in exchange for currency. I chatted with Mr. Chelsea and some of Brownsox’s old friends, while out of the corner of my eye saw this crime of brother against brother, laughing to myself. Eventually, it was time to go, and the girl in question decided to crash with other friends, not surprising after suffering a two brother attack (if you couldn’t guess, Nilus’s game makes me look like Warren Betty in prime). Brownsox, distraught by the fraternal betrayal he had suffered, went to bed.
The next day, we woke up earlier than desired (9 am), and headed out into the world. Brownsox went to meet some old friends for breakfast, and Mr. Chelsea and I headed back to the Thirsty Scholar for some futbol goodness. I am a huge fan of any bar that will open its doors to me and offer both the Beautiful Game and pre-noon beer, and found this local joint lovely, if a little quiet compared to my normal game day haunt. The bartender was an old Englishman who was thrilled to see our fandom, and went on a rant saying how Cricket is better than Baseball (Mr. Chelsea agreed, I just nodded). We watched the Chelsea-Liverpool game, which ended in a 1-1 draw with little excitement on either side. On our way out, the bartender shook my hand and told me Arsenal would suck for at least the next two years. I look forward to returning to this bar soon and having a laugh (cause we’re the top of the league).
Now came the real point of the weekend, Brownsox and I were heading to a redsox game. We debated drive vs. T, but found we were short on time and drove down. We parked about a mile away from the park (Yay Boston) and walked over. Now I have not been to that many ballparks, but I have been to a few, and Fenway is an experience all itself. Besides being surrounded by sports bars, walking into Fenway is like walking into a walled-up baseball town. The whole building has its own streets with shops and vendors and all sorts of crap. Our first round of beers were usual overpriced ballpark fair, but when we came to round 2, Brownsox demanded better. In our quest, we walked all the way to the other side of the park to find a special bar that served Harp, Bass, and Guiness. Now of course on our way back, we found a similar bar much closer, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was at a ball park drinking Harp instead of Old Style or worse. It was a good game, we had pimped out seats behind third base, but the sox lost to the Angels (I hate the Angels, mostly because if I do not, my roommate will beat me to death with a chair. There is nothing funny about that sentence). After the game, we hit up the Cask and Flagon for another metal encased brew, then headed back to Casa de Brownsox. The car ride and mile long walk to find the car was key in sobering me up for the family Brownsox.
The rest of the evening was spent having cocktails and dinner with Brownsox and his extended family. This included Brownsox’s very cool cousin, his WASP wife, and Brownsox’s grandparents. I drank far too much wine on top of the many beers I had had that day, and ended a fabulous dinner debating with Grandpa Brownsox if Barry Bonds should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. Luckily for me and my drinking problem, Brownsox’s Indian family has a New England sensibility to it, so my buzz went unnoticed by the fun-loving family.
The plan for Monday morning was as follows. Brownsox was going to help Nilus pack up his car, and then drive with him to Michigan State, where Nilus is in grad school. When that was complete, Mama Brownsox was going to drop me off at the train station, and I was going to train back to NYC. Now to say that Brownsox and Nilus were inefficient in their packing and timetable would miss the magic of their foolishness. At one point, I just starting packing the car myself, as the two were bumbling about trying to get out of the house. The entire clan Brownsox watched as their young bucks were barely able to pack a car and leave in a timely matter. But eventually the car got loaded, the boys headed west, and I caught a train heading home.
Now the week before, I was with my family in Cape Cod. This meant that instead of having to suffer through flight, train, or bus to get to Boston, I could take a ferry over there Friday night. Let me tell you, sitting on the stern deck of a ferry watching the sun set as we motor over to Boston Harbor beats the Chinatown bus’s multiple delays any day (and the Chinatown bus does not have a bar in it).
I arrived at the south harbor about 2 hours before Brownsox was getting into town from NYC (on the before-mentioned-and-insulted bus), so I looked around for a place to grab a bite. Wandering down the harbor, I see a little sign saying “No Name Seafood”, with an arrow pointing down an alley by the dock. Normally, this would sketch me out, but Rockstar, another Boston Native, had recommended it to me, so I counted my blessings and headed down the alley. I gotta say, No Name delivered. For under 50 bucks I got beer, fried scallops and shrimp, fries, and Lobster. The place seems to cut cost by using large picnic tables and paper everything, but screw it, who needs décor with this much cheap good seafood.
My belly full of the sea’s bounty, I decided it was time to head over to the bus station and meet Brownsox. To do this, I needed to use the T. For anyone who has never been to Boston, the T is the local mass transit system, akin to the subway or the L. The T trains however, only have to cars to a train, and sometimes run on the streets, forcing them to obey traffic lights and Boston traffic. It makes the L look like efficiency perfected. Now to get to the bus station, I had to take the Silver line. On the Silver line, instead of a train, it is a bus that runs on electric lines that travels down an underground tunnel. Budget 1950s sci-fi is alive and well in the Boston transit system. Despite its goofiness, it got me where I needed to go, and I met up with Bownsox at the station.
After dropping our stuff off at Mama Brownsox’s lovely Cambridge pad, we decided to hit a local watering hole. It was here that the main cast of characters were introduced. There was Brownsox, who introduced me to his cousin, Mr. Chelsea. Mr. Chelsea is from India, is studying to be a priest, and is taking a coast to coast trip of America visiting family before going back to school. He was a Futbol fan, backing Chelsea (not everyone is perfect), and was a lovely chap. Also in tow was Brownsox’s big brother, Nilus. A word about Nilus; he is clearly a good brother and son, and evidently quite the intellect. Watching him interact with society however, is akin to watching a man try to hammer a nail with the crowbar end of the hammer. He is close right, but it just ain’t working no matter how hard he swings. Nilus lived in Evanston for a couple of months, and he was fired from a job where he, Harvard grad, had to wrap sandwiches, after the first day (Hubris did this job every Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, hung over, for a year). Some men were not meant to leave the ivy covered campus. It is hard to fully explain Nilus, so I will try to point out some Nilus ‘magic moments’ which happened over the weekend.
We headed out to the local grad student bar, the Thirsty Scholar. This place won me over with wood paneling, great tap, and futbol on the telly. We discussed the beginning of the EPL season, and I had a fairly intelligent conversation about religion with Mr. Chelsea. After a couple of beers and shots, we headed back to Casa Brownsox, where we watched the Die Hard music video on Youtube 7 times in a row (worth every minute).
Saturday started much more civilized than expected. Mama Brownsox had gotten us tickets to this hot art exhibit at a local museum (I am sure that both the featured artist and the ‘local’ museum are both very famous, I just don’t remember the names of either). It was actually pretty cool, and it featured the famous painting “Nighthawks” or as I had previously knew it, ‘that really well known painting with the sad people in the diner’. This was followed with some sightseeing in Boston, mostly for the benefit of Mr. Chelsea as I have been to Boston many times. After a nice walk, some lunch in the historic cobblestone-y district, and some tea at the harbor, Mama Brownsox left us to our own devices.
A note on Boston as a city. In the summer, it is as great a city as you can find in America. It has the right mix of new buildings to historic sights, it has tons of stuff to do, better parks than I remember, and sitting by the harbor having a drink outside is just beautiful. This ignores all the many problems of Boston, such as the goofy mass transit, horrible drivers, freeze-you-to-death-and-I-know-cold-I-lived-in-Chicago winters, and of course, Patriot fans. Those factors make living in Boston dubious, but for a summer weekend, it is perfect.
After Mama Brownsox left us, we decided to meet up with an old friend of Brownsox at the Cask and Flagon, over by Fenway. I was impressed with how easily the T could get us within 5 blocks of Fenway Park. Being a Mets fan, I am always shocked when in other cities ballparks are both easy to get to and surrounded by things other than empty lots. The Cask and Flagon, or anyone unfamiliar, is THE Redsox bar, as it is literally across the street from Fenway. It is the closest thing I have seen to Nevada Smiths for Baseball, as far as atmosphere and excitement, all it needs is some singing. It also was one of the biggest bars I have ever been it, and there still was a line to get in. I have to say if you are ever in Boston, it is a must visit. Nilus had a magic moment, where he, the Boston native, stood in this famous sports bar next to one of the most beloved ballparks in this country, holding a beer that I believed had a redsox logo on it, turned to me and said “There sure are a lot of redsox fans here.” That comment does a pretty good job of describing Nilus and his grasp of the world around him.
After a couple of rounds, the need to eat struck us, and we headed out into the night. After more wandering around Boston (we would do that a lot that weekend, partially to soak in the atmosphere, partially because Brownsox and Nilus are not good at making decisions and we had to wander around until they did). We did meet up with another friend of Brownsox, a very lovely lady who was a groupie of Brownsox’s old A Cappella group (I hope reading that hurt you as much as it hurt me to type it). After a while we stumbled on a restaurant called Whiskeys, best described as a Brother Jimmies that didn’t suck, and ate there. Our new female companion quickly impressed me with both her love of Bourbon and his discussion of blowjob etiquette. Nilus had another magic moment when he ordered a vermouth on the rocks, and then turned it back when it was the wrong type of Vermouth. This experience was a frequent occurrence over the weekend. He also enjoyed a vermouth and tonic with a cherry in it, and turned the drink back when it came sans cherry. Nilus is never odder than when he is at a bar.
Full of food and booze, we headed back to Cambridge to drink there. As luck would have it, Arsenal and his girlfriend (now known as C.C.) were in town, attending some family event with C.C.’s mother. We met them up at a Starbucks in Cambridge (I was again shocked with the T’s ability to get us to where we needed to go), and then headed to a bar. The place we headed was a micro-brewery, one I had been at years ago, when the Vanisher and I had visited Brownsox right after we graduated college. I am not sure if my tastes had increased or decreased, or if levels of inebriation played a part, but I found the place less pleasing to the palate than I had three years earlier. We did have a lovely time, the mass of us. Mama C.C. not only bought me a beer, but told me how much she loved a show I produced a couple of years ago. I need to meet more people like her. Arsenal, in a fashion typical of him, bolted early, and we needed to find a new bar.
We wandered around Cambridge for a while, looking for a place still open at Midnight on a Saturday (college town my ass). As we wondered, I witnessed a brutal cockblocking barrage, as Nilus totally attempted to hit on this girl who was with us, despite the fact she had come into town to most likely hook up with Brownsox. Later conference with Brownsox confirmed that he had hooked up with her earlier this summer, and a repeat was all but guaranteed in a better situation. This barrage continued all night, after we found some shady backroom bar where the booths were run down vinyl and the staff seemed pissed we showed up and dared to ask for booze in exchange for currency. I chatted with Mr. Chelsea and some of Brownsox’s old friends, while out of the corner of my eye saw this crime of brother against brother, laughing to myself. Eventually, it was time to go, and the girl in question decided to crash with other friends, not surprising after suffering a two brother attack (if you couldn’t guess, Nilus’s game makes me look like Warren Betty in prime). Brownsox, distraught by the fraternal betrayal he had suffered, went to bed.
The next day, we woke up earlier than desired (9 am), and headed out into the world. Brownsox went to meet some old friends for breakfast, and Mr. Chelsea and I headed back to the Thirsty Scholar for some futbol goodness. I am a huge fan of any bar that will open its doors to me and offer both the Beautiful Game and pre-noon beer, and found this local joint lovely, if a little quiet compared to my normal game day haunt. The bartender was an old Englishman who was thrilled to see our fandom, and went on a rant saying how Cricket is better than Baseball (Mr. Chelsea agreed, I just nodded). We watched the Chelsea-Liverpool game, which ended in a 1-1 draw with little excitement on either side. On our way out, the bartender shook my hand and told me Arsenal would suck for at least the next two years. I look forward to returning to this bar soon and having a laugh (cause we’re the top of the league).
Now came the real point of the weekend, Brownsox and I were heading to a redsox game. We debated drive vs. T, but found we were short on time and drove down. We parked about a mile away from the park (Yay Boston) and walked over. Now I have not been to that many ballparks, but I have been to a few, and Fenway is an experience all itself. Besides being surrounded by sports bars, walking into Fenway is like walking into a walled-up baseball town. The whole building has its own streets with shops and vendors and all sorts of crap. Our first round of beers were usual overpriced ballpark fair, but when we came to round 2, Brownsox demanded better. In our quest, we walked all the way to the other side of the park to find a special bar that served Harp, Bass, and Guiness. Now of course on our way back, we found a similar bar much closer, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was at a ball park drinking Harp instead of Old Style or worse. It was a good game, we had pimped out seats behind third base, but the sox lost to the Angels (I hate the Angels, mostly because if I do not, my roommate will beat me to death with a chair. There is nothing funny about that sentence). After the game, we hit up the Cask and Flagon for another metal encased brew, then headed back to Casa de Brownsox. The car ride and mile long walk to find the car was key in sobering me up for the family Brownsox.
The rest of the evening was spent having cocktails and dinner with Brownsox and his extended family. This included Brownsox’s very cool cousin, his WASP wife, and Brownsox’s grandparents. I drank far too much wine on top of the many beers I had had that day, and ended a fabulous dinner debating with Grandpa Brownsox if Barry Bonds should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. Luckily for me and my drinking problem, Brownsox’s Indian family has a New England sensibility to it, so my buzz went unnoticed by the fun-loving family.
The plan for Monday morning was as follows. Brownsox was going to help Nilus pack up his car, and then drive with him to Michigan State, where Nilus is in grad school. When that was complete, Mama Brownsox was going to drop me off at the train station, and I was going to train back to NYC. Now to say that Brownsox and Nilus were inefficient in their packing and timetable would miss the magic of their foolishness. At one point, I just starting packing the car myself, as the two were bumbling about trying to get out of the house. The entire clan Brownsox watched as their young bucks were barely able to pack a car and leave in a timely matter. But eventually the car got loaded, the boys headed west, and I caught a train heading home.
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