To me, March 17th is just another day, I don’t roll St. Patty style with all the green and shit. It does not compliment my complexion. So Wednesday was just another day – woke up with no real agenda, just clearing up some option positions, maybe heading to the West Side Highway for a little bike-dodging run. It got real all too quick – the G1 started blowing up just as I sat my ass down on the couch.
Text from I Require 42 pt Font: “Yo, homie, let’s hook it up tonight. 6:30, Ace Hotel?”
Email from Crank Daddy: “In town for a few hours, Euro lunch?”
A chance to meet up with two ex-TARP II buddies, who both now work outside the city. Hell yeah. Given that I woke up at the crack of 11:30 that day, my schedule was pretty tight. Had to get that Ibsen post off my chest, and that shit didn’t just write itself. 42 minutes later, I was done. All I had to do was shower up and go grab some booze/food. Given that it was St. Patrick’s Day, avoiding the besotted 17 year olds that annually litter the sidewalks with their previous couple of meals while screaming “bro” and “dude” was of paramount importance.
< Aside > About a year ago, 42 pt and Cranky D were in my neighborhood having a “business” dinner. I met them at whatever swankhole they were eating at, then they asked me to take them to whatever local bar was cool. I started sweating a bit – I only ever go to one bar in the ‘hood, and it is widely acknowledged as being mega-lame. I live in Chelsea – the chance of a horrific error and ridicule was high. One thing in my favor – 42 pt is 48% ghey, so he is Chelsea-friendly. CD is not. A dicey proposition indeed.
I opted for this sports-bar looking spot with a purple sign. Clearly most of the customers were more appreciate of male anatomy than female – in Chelsea that’s the norm- but we were not sticking out like sore thumbs. The bar was decent and it looked like the bartender knew how to mix up a solid martini. Slightly upscale for a sports-oriented bar. Huge images of Eli Manning, Tiki Barber, maybe even Jeremy Shockey on the walls. (Updating the posters to reflect recent trades was not a high priority there.) We ordered some drinks, settled in – not bad at all, almost appeared I had been to more than one bar in the neighborhood.
Then I noticed the eight foot mural on the back wall of a guy wheelbarrowing another guy. (Either that or it was a really intense low five. In the naked.) Abject horror struck at the abuse I was about to take for my choice in watering holes. I kept situating myself so that Cranky D would be looking forward, but also so his large head would block the mural from my sightline. Ultimately, 42 pt got a glimpse of the image and it was all over. (He also discretely checked to see who the artist was so he could get something similar for his apartment). I was subjected to some scrutiny for my life choices, as expected.
I always thought that was the end of that story, it was a simple “guy takes friends to a bar he thought was just a little gay and it turns out to be really gay, gets made fun of” story. But apparently my man Crank Daddy’s night was just beginning when he got his first look at the mural. Taking the Amtrak back to his little slice of suburbia, CD fainted as he exited the train. Just a little faint, no big whoop. He got back up and went to exit. Apparently the Amtrak folks can’t have fainting fuckers wandering all over the train station, so he had to sit tight and wait for some medics to come check him out. Apparently the medics have a strict policy that they must call an ambulance for any fainting fuckers they come across. So even though he’s perfectly fine, he has to take an ambulance to the hospital – the ambulance guys are like “we realize you are fine, but our policy is that we have to take you to the hospital, you can just leave immediately, you don’t even have to go in.” So he enjoys a ride to the hospital, a cab back to the train station and then drives home and forgets about the whole ordeal. His wife was traveling so he was spared any embarassment and wrote it off.
Until the bill for the $450 ambulance ride comes in the mail and his wife is vehemently disputing it with the city. Cranky is forced to come clean to wifey, hilarity does not ensue. Chilly enjoys this alternate ending to the story. < /Aside>
Anyhoo, after firing up the legendary Ibsen post, I was in a festive mood. We met Crank Daddy at Los Dos Molinos for a margarita-strewn lunch – that place was fucking rocking. (Either that or it was darker than a serial killer’s basement and we were the only three people there.) After a solid three or four margarita lunch, we decided to move to a venue that was less albino-friendly, given that it was like the nicest day of the year by a mile. We went to the Gramercy Park Hotel, which I will heretofore recall as the Fucking Ripoff Hotel. We hit the rooftop bar, which isn’t open air, but does allow you to experience drinking expensive booze in a terrarium.
The situation at the Fucking Ripoff Hotel spiraled out of control quickly, with more special guest star appearances than a month of Will & Grace reruns. Xmashangover and Red 0100111010110001010 showed up for a spell. 42 pt Font made it over and invited some of his friends. We were admonished several times for being too loud and using language that Tiger would be too ashamed to type into a text message. We had a modest amount of “food” there – they don’t have pizza because that’s too common. They have “flatbreads” – just in case you are in the mood for fig juice instead of tomato sauce on your baked dough and meat topping. (Seriously. Fig juice.)
When the bill arrived, 42 pt Font caromed that thing my direction without hesitation. We’d been there forever, so I was expecting a big number. In my drunken state, that number was $350. The actual number? $588, before tip. Fuck. Dropping $700 at a bar is not a genius move for an unemployed jackass.
We luckily made it to Dos Toros Taqueria before they closed and ordered an insane amount of food. After walking 97% of the six miles from Dos Toros to our apartment, I tripped over something and did one of those things where you try to accelerate a little bit, recover your balance and then pull up before the fall. It didn’t work, I accelerated into the fall, absorbing 75% of the impact with my left knee and 25% with my left hand. I broke some of that left hand impact by landing on the bag of delicious food. My burrito was spared, but SO’s ended up looking like some kind of mexican pancake thing. And the chips were pulverized beyond recognition. I writhed around on the sidewalk for a good five minutes, comforted by the fact that there is a guy with a hose who routinely washes the feces and vomit off that patch of the sidewalk. At least every six months he does this.
There will definitely be some scars from the day. I could barely move my left leg the next morning – not good when you have a 15k in two weeks. $700 bar tab – at $0.48 per two weeks, it’s going to take me over 56 years of writing this blog to pay for that bill. (Assuming no inflation during that period.) But, in the end it was all worth it because of that delicious fig juice flatbread. And we avoided the St. Patty’s day amateurs.
Chilly17, wasted potential