The New York Chronicles, Vol. 2

After a long afternoon and night spent inside a cavernous Irish pub in Queens, I awoke with my upper body in a chair and my legs barely resting on a four-wheeled ottoman that had slid across the floor throughout the night. I looked around the room to see Jordo, who had wisely accepted Rhodes’ offer of a blow-up bed. He had two of them, which is a must for guys in order to avoid any “accidental night touching” incidents, but I chose the chair. Hey, if I’m going to truly pass out somewhere, I might as well go all out and make it the most uncomfortable spot in the apartment. I stretched and wondered if I could possibly find somewhere even worse to sleep the next night, like maybe lying on a pile of coat hangers in a closet or hanging out a window.

As planes from LaGuardia rumbled overhead, we began to stir and assess the damage from the night before. We had all our limbs and hadn’t woken up next to any women with Deflated Monster Faces (you know the type…they look like a monster whose head has been overly-filled with air and then deflated too quickly), so things were looking good. After a bit of discussion, it was decided that the night’s only real casualty was the ridiculous amount of money I had thrown into the jukebox in an effort to hear “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner.

In case you were wondering, it triumphantly played and we were the only ones who even noticed. Some people just don't appreciate culture.

After a few quick showers and a little Broken Social Scene playing through Rhodes’ iBook, we were more than ready to head to Manhattan and hang out. We planned on cramming the day full of sightseeing until it got dark, and then hitting up as many bars as possible for as long as possible. Here’s a quick rundown of the day.

Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center – As Jordo and I discussed how breathtaking the view was and how insignificant everyone looked on the streets below, Rhodes interjected to discuss how amazing it would be to lean a girl over the edge and do her from behind.

Central Park West – We grabbed some lunch at a local deli and stopped to eat it around a statue of Christopher Columbus. It was there where we noticed an older businessman talking to a young woman who was crying uncontrollably. Between her sobs, we came to the completely made-up conclusion that he was breaking off their affair because he “had a wife and kids. This thing…you and I…was just a fling, and dammit Debbie, you knew that. Now get your sweet little ass back to accounting before I fire you.” In our minds, he then smacked her on the butt, lit a big Cuban cigar with a $100 bill, cleaned his monocle and drove off in a roadster that looked suspiciously like a Monopoly piece.

We then decided to hit up a few more sights while we were in the area. The Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields, NYU. After exhausting all the entertaining possibilities in the area, we knew it was time to start drinking heavily. It had been a long day of walking, subway rides, pictures and intrusion into the personal lives of businessmen and their secretaries.

At Rhodes’ suggestion, we headed into Rudy’s, a dive bar in every sense of the word. We went in for cheap beer, but found a lot more. Drunken, serenading senior citizens, true love with a grey-haired bartender and a new friend named Michael. Michael C. Hall.

The time as we walked through the door to start our night? 3:41 p.m.

This could get ugly. Deflated Monster Face ugly.

To be continued…