Of course, that's not true. In fact, if anyone ever tells you that the reason they haven't called in awhile is because they've been really busy at work, then they're probably lying to your face. They've actually found cooler people than you to hang out with. Sure, they may go on and on about spreadsheets and endless meetings, but in their head they're thinking about how the hell to get off the phone with you so they can go meet up with people they actually like.
Or in my case, my real reason for being so scarce the past few weeks is that I've had an almost full DVR jam-packed with old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 and The O.C. that were just begging to be watched. I've also pondered the question of how much time one man can spend in front of a mirror trying to get his hair to look as perfect as Ryan Atwood's without finally giving up and putting a hat on.
The answer? 1 hour, 17 minutes, 42 seconds.
And I wonder why my friends have all been so busy at work lately.
But I digress. I also realize that most of the vibrant memories that were so fresh in my mind concerning that night in New York have faded into a clump of characters, stories and inside jokes that I can't possibly recall truthfully. But I've been looking at it in a more positive way. Over time, in my mind, that night has gone from a memorable night of drinking to an epic, 13-hour marathon of decadence and debauchery that I will one day tell my grandchildren about (assuming that the extraordinary events of that night didn't somehow render me infertile, of course).
With that being said, I give you the third entry in my NYC Chronicles. To the best of my knowledge, everything that follows actually happened. Either that, or my subconscious completely made it up in an effort to make me seem cooler than I actually am. Which, I hate to tell you Brain, is a pretty easy task.
It was around 2:45 in the afternoon on Friday when we decided we were done sightseeing. While most people were still busy at work (or making plans with their cool friends and blowing off the rest), we made up our minds that the city had more to offer than just architecturally significant buildings and world-famous landmarks. The city also had bars. Tons and tons of bars. Our day had started out sightseeing, so why not end it by blinding ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol. In a way, it's poetic.
Rhodes suggested Rudy’s, where we could find a good jukebox (I’m intrigued), cheap pitchers of beer (Just point me in the right direction) and free hot dogs (Sweet holy mother of all that is delicious, we must leave right now). So with mouths salivating and livers praying to the internal organ gods, we were on our way.
You can’t miss Rudy’s because it has a giant pink pig standing outside the entrance. To my knowledge, it has nothing to do with the bar. Either it’s just there to serve as a landmark or they want to be prepared in case an impromptu Pink Floyd concert breaks out on the sidewalk. For comedic purposes, I’d like to think it’s the latter.
As soon as we walked in the door, we knew this was our kind of place. A few old-timers were slouched over their drinks, Frank Sinatra was blaring louder than he ever intended his music to be played and the booths consisted of more red duct tape than actual leather. From behind the bar, a slightly grey-haired woman greeted us and asked what we wanted to drink. She was probably in her 50’s, but she had a youthful quality about her that kept her attractive. As Rhodes would find out, this quality was magnified by approximately 500% with each beer he drank.It was a sunny, crisp day, so we decided to start off on the back patio outside. This consisted of a porch the size of Post-It, a small, rickety table and four mismatched chairs. The small area was enclosed by four tall buildings around us and random, discolored water trickled down the wall beside us. They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen because there’s valet parking and a bidet in the bathrooms. In fact, there wasn’t even a lock on the bathroom door. If you wanted to piss, you had to balance on one leg with your other foot pressed against the door to keep other people from barging in. I imagine the end result looked something like a cherubic fountain, only with the liquid coming from somewhere other than his water bucket.
If all of that doesn’t make up an ideal setting to drink in New York, I don’t know what does.
We drank a few pitchers and were talking about the events of the day, when a man came out on the patio. He was dressed much like a clichéd college professor, right down to the leather patches on his tweed jacket. Under his arm was a New York Times and on the tip of his nose were antique looking glasses he had to contort his face to see out of. For all we knew, he had just stepped out of a 1980’s undergrad sex-romp comedy about a fraternity of underdogs that just wanted to party. He, of course, played Professor Dingleberry, the foil to all their collegiate antics.
But Professor Dingleberry was actually a pretty nice guy once you got past the tweed-covered exterior. He asked if he could sit down near us and inquired about why we were in the city as he sipped his Boddington’s. I remember thinking what a distinguished gentleman he seemed to be as a glimmer of sun hit the catholic cross around his neck.
Fast forward three hours later and Professor Dingleberry is sitting in our booth, telling me about how his wife sucks and that he hates his job. The distinguished gentleman’s hot breath envelops my face with each slur as I stare at his cross. This is partly to avoid eye contact and partly because I’m praying to God that he leaves to go bust up a frat party at the Kappa Kappa Chugga house.
Meanwhile, a literally decrepit old man was singing Ole Blue Eyes loudly at the bar. Actually, singing isn’t really the correct term, since he mostly just turned around and shouted the lyrics at either me or Rhodes.
“Now here is the best part…” He swiveled around his barstool, almost falling over in the process, stared directly at Rhodes and pointed, “YOU’LL HAVE A HEAD START!” He swiveled back around while mumbling, “If you are among the very young….at heart.”
We didn’t know whether to laugh, cower in fear or call the number on his Medic Alert bracelet.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a few beers outside, we decided to grab a booth before people start getting off work and out of class. This proved to be a good idea, as the place filled up pretty quickly.
The beer was really flowing and hot dogs were being served left and right to the widest variety of people I’d ever seen in one room. As the natural light began to trickle out the front door and give way to the dingy bar lights inside, we ordered another round and settled into a booth.
Sightseeing was fun, but I had a feeling that places like this were what New York City was really about.
I had a swig of beer, a bite of my hot dog and relaxed as the red duct tape creaked underneath me.
