Dubsgiving; or, One Man's Journey into the Abyss (Part I)

Over spring break, I discovered the single most terrifying thing on the face of the planet: the New York cab driver. These men (and women, I suppose, though all of ours were men) race about with reckless abandon, ferrying merry bands of drunks (and others) to and fro. They don't seem to work strictly in the world itself. They certainly don't obey the laws of God or man. Lane markings? Pshaw! Street signs? Scoff. "Oh my God, you can't possibly fit between those two cars!"? A wry glance and a stomp on the accelerator. While I was very grateful for these brave souls (particularly that first night, as you shall read), I was kind of scared witless when I actually looked where we were going and how we were getting there. People say the subway's dangerous; clearly they've never taken a cab at 2am from the Village to Astoria.

This slight diatribe is my long way of introducing my trip to New York, which my merry band of reprobate friends named "Dubsgiving" in my honor. Dubsgiving has sacraments (mostly drinking-related), various feast days (Let's Go to a Bar Night 2), and a theme song, which they gleefully improvised my first night there. I'll attempt to chronicle these days as best I remember, but my memory is rather uncertain in places, so I invite commentary from my fellow celebrants.

Day 1
To begin, I got into La Guardia around 5:00pm, Friday. I was at Quantum's apartment by about 5:20. By 5:30, we were on our way to a bar.

The weekend was starting off so very right.

Along the way, we picked up one Hubris, fellow rapscallian and committed Dubsgiving celebrant, although he was not in fact drinking during our time there. This above all you must remember, dear reader, lest nothing else appear strange and wonderous. The three of us went to a place called "The Irish Rogue" several blocks away from Times Square, which is supposedly the bar from which one cannot be kicked out. Apparently my compatriots had, at various times, crashed private parties, started fistfights, and generally raised all manner of havoc, without ever being asked not to come back. So naturally this was as good a place as any to kick off our holiday.

En route, the lads sereneded me with an imprompteu version of "New York, New York," which they believed would foretell my week's sojourn in the Big Apple. I don't remember all the lyrics, but I believe it ended with me lying dead in a gutter, with someone running away, having stolen my teeth.

So at the bar, we began by ordering their traditional drink, the Beer Boat (or Beer Bone, or Beer Bong, depending on who you ask). Basically, the BB is a 74 oz glass tube, with a spigot on the bottom. You fill said tube with beer (St. Pauly Girl), and let gravity do it's work. This of course serves as a wonderful conversation piece; all manner of people will come up to your table and ask what that giant tube of beer is for, and then look both bemused and disgusted at your reply. This does not in any way make up for the fact that you're drinking cheap beer out of what is probably an unwashed glass tube, which slowly gets warmer and warmer as the night goes on. But then again, you're talking to men who used to combine tabasco sauce with various alcohols, and who once put gin and soy sauce in a glass together. We are not to be daunted by trifles like that.

Throughout the course of the evening, the cast of characters would grow and shrink, as various friends came and went. We three were originally met by Bourbon Samurai and his parents, who were going to the theatre. They left, and we were in turn met by Uber260. Later, Bourbon came back sans parents, to aid in our drinking. So, over the course of the night, note that the drinkers consisted of Quantum, myself, Uber260, and Bourbon, and that Bourbon was only really drinking during the later portion of the eve. Hubris, as noted, did not drink, but instead pounded diet coke and egged us on.

The result: 5 tubes consumed. 370 oz of beer, split between about 3.5 men. Over a tube a piece. Plus the shots, and Uber260's Irish car bomb.

Why did we drink five tubes, you ask? Why not stop after two, as I originally suggested? Quite simply, because our waitress told us that the bar record was four. Four tubes. I believe she told us this on our third tube, and by that point, we'd already drunk three tubes of beer. We were drunk with power (and St. Pauly Girl), and decided to go all the way. I don't remember if we finished the last tube. I don't remember actually leaving the bar. I do remember the drunken rendition of the St. Crispen's Day speech from Henry V that we all gave, huddled around our beer boat, glasses raised in the air (with photographic evidence taken by Hubris). I don't remember Uber260 falling into the table of frat guys, though I'm told it was quite hilarious. I remember getting into the cab home with Uber260 and Quantum, and Bourbon telling 260 to go ahead and sleep in his (Bourbon's) bed, as I was sleeping on their couch (Quantum and Bourbon live together, for all you non-NY folk). And of course, I remember thinking what a good idea it was that I had eaten dinner at the bar.

In hindsight, this last takes on special meaning, as we all concluded that food was the only reason a dire fate was not a shared dire fate. I ate dinner, and a large one at that. Quantum did as well. Uber260, sadly, did not. Therefore, it is only slightly surprising, in hindsight, that Uber260 ended up vomiting all over the cab floor. Luckily, for us, it was a mini-van-esque cab, rather than a traditional, and so we did not end up with vomit on our shoes. Even luckier, the cabbie was cool, so that when Quantum did what he does best and threw money at him, he was willing to wait and take us the rest of the way to Astoria. I barely hesitated when Quantum asked me for more money to pay the cab driver. Yes, I was on a tight budget. Yes, I had hoped to make my money last, and not blow it all the first night. And yes, I ended up adding about $80 onto Quantum's $120, to appease the cabbie.

It's amazing how things like this can instantly sober you. There we were, nursing our friend home, I cursing myself for spending so much money already, but figuring that this was how my friends rolled in the big NY. In my small-town mindset, I could see Quantum routinely paying cab drivers over $150 a ride. In my mind, Quantum's finances are akin to those of a decent-sized nation state. So we got Uber260 back to Astoria, where he promptly vomited on Bourbon's jacket (which, to be fair, was on the floor). This kicked off a streak of destruction, as Uber basically managed to vomit on everything Bourbon owned, including his bed during the middle of the night. Quantum's possessions, remarkably, remained entirely untouched, as did anything communally owned. Even the floor was spotless, said jacket having absorbed all regurgitation. It was as if there was a vendetta of vomit against Bourbon Samurai, and he was not there to fight against the tide, so to speak. We put Uber260 to bed, I crashed on the couch, and Quantum retired to his room.

Thus ended the first day.

Day 2

Day two is more of a sea of images than anything else. The most joy came from awakening and realizing I wasn't at all hungover. Again, dealing with a friend's breakdown really picks you up. The rest of the joy came from the absurdity of what had transpired the night before. This was where we realized the truth about Bourbon's possessions and their magnetic vomit properties. This was where Uber260, in the most shamefacedly way possible, laundered all of the despoiled goods. This was where Bourbon finally came home, to change to go see another play with his family, and Quantum's first words were "Don't be mad." Which prompted a look of brief caution, and then outright laughter. Bourbon was too amused to be mad, though I think the lingering smell of vomit on his bed was slightly 0ff-putting. Throughout the day, we took stock of the situation, rehashed the night before, ate delivery food, and watched a lot of Battlestar Galactica, as they had it and I needed to catch up on the season.

That night was rather more mellow. I met up with my high school friend The Baker and his new girlfriend (new in the sense I hadn't met her before), who took me out to a delightful Thai dinner in Hell's Kitchen. Supposedly one of the best Thai places in town, a claim I won't dispute. We then went to another bar (Divine, I think it was called) and, in a snobby way, drank flights of wine (rather than cheap beer, a nice contrast to every other night). We chatted, and they had to leave around 11:30, so I basically hung out in Times Square until my drunken friends were done with their late dinner. We met up in the Village (prompting once again my small town fears of riding the subway after dark), threw back a drink or two, then once again returned to Astoria. Here was where I first encountered my supernatural dread of cab drivers, as described above. Seriously. I thought we were all going to die.

Day 3

Day 3 was Sunday, and I sadly could not continue our streak of sleeping in until roughly 1:00. As it was Palm Sunday, I needed to find myself a Catholic sanctuary and holy myself up. Seeing how Astoria contains the second largest Greek Orthodox population in the world (after Greece), naturally there was a Catholic Church about five blocks down the road. After attending mass, I bummed around Astoria, as both of my hosts were out of the house. I got some reading done, explored their local coffee houses, wandered the streets, and ate a spectacular corned beef sandwich from the local deli. Quantum, returning from the children's theatre show he had just seen because a friend was directing it, encountered me outside a local coffee shop reading a book, drinking an italian soda and eating a scone. He quite rightly mocked me for being a pretentious academic, and we retired to their apartment to conclude the BSG season, which was 90 different kinds of awesome. It reaffirmed my faith in television, myth, Bob Dylan, the electric sitar, and the Easter Bunny. Seriously, if you like good tv, excellent stories, great acting, and kickass moments of transcendent brilliance (not to mention awesome lawyers who wear sunglasses and are Irish in space), please check this series out.

Following the viewings, Bourbon made meatloaf and a soup out of what appeared to be a pteradactyl bone, three kinds of bacon, and various other animal parts. I won't describe it further, but I invite him to do so in the comments section. Needless to say, it was all excellent, and we were joined by Rockstar and girl whose nickname I don't know, to feast and watch the opening game of baseball season. The Mets shellacked my poor Cardinals, and Quantum threatened that they also planned to burn my city to the ground. I'm not sure why, other than New Yorkers are apparently full of rage and like burning cities to the ground. Luckily, St. Louis still stands. I think the Mets' bloodlust was sated by stomping the Cards in every game of the series. (Oh, and Sergio, Quantum wanted me to give him your cell phone number so he could call and gloat. I rightly refused, so you owe me.)

I believe we watched the last four minutes of BSG twice more at the end of the night. This would be a recurring practice for the rest of the week.

(Ok, this is already unwieldy and long, and I'm not even to day four yet. I'll add more tomorrow, when I chronicle the events surrounding "Let's Go to a Bar Night 2: Return of the Revenge of the Blood".)