Epic: The penetration of the veil separating material and immaterial existences allowing for a greater intimacy between gods and men.
Thank you high school humanities teacher, Mr. O’Connor, for your wise definition which will be forever imprinted upon my mind.
Prepare thyself for a tale of debauchery and depravity capable of scalding the ears of Chaucer’s Miller and causing a flush on the cheeks of the Wife of Bath. I call on thee, Jim, Jameson, and Jack, the amber muses, to aid in the retelling of events dutifully inspired by your wisdom and influence.
Where it all began…
Irish Exit, a place held in infamy, infested with the lewd, crass youth of Midtown East, scattered with professionals too old to be partying and and the bizarre you hope to never encounter. Little Kitten won a happy hour – half priced drinks from 9-11pm. Despite the despicable crowd, this is our favorite dive and discount drinks cannot be ignored. Arriving to a packed bar and a small crowd of invited friends pushed back against a wall by the impeding crowd, Little Kitten, Minxy (visiting from her new home of Boston), and I started off strong with our good friend Jack.
It was not long until Little Kitten and I found ourselves invited onto the bar by convivial bartenders seeking pretty girls to dance and open mouths for shots. Gaining the attention from a group of Irish football players in for a game, we won ourselves a few more drinks and a certain Little Kitten took a short trip to the wild side.
Mingling with the strange and catching up with old college friends, the hours flew by and the drinks continued to pour. Irish Exit drew to a close when somehow I managed to finagle all three of our coat check tickets and retrieve jackets and scarves, tossing them to Minxy before scurrying off to locate Little Kitten. Astray for a bit too long, Minxy sought to locate us, finding Little Kitten sitting on the floor of the bar, the little lush, and me enjoying “tea time” (tea time: intoxicated, catachresis articulation about tweedle dee and tweedle dum, Russian Literature, all relevant and irrelevant subjects) with strangers outside the ladies room.
We make it about ten blocks (estimating) in a cab before I get out at a red light simply stating, “I need to get out.” With both Minxy and the cab driver telling me to get my ass back in the cab, Little Kitten comes to my defense stating with drunken wisdom, “She needs to do what she needs to do,” as if this were some life mission. Light turns green and they’re off.
Little Kitten and Minxy shared an emotional moment on the car ride back. Or many I should say. Tears poured down and the cab driver begged them to stop crying. As I was not present for this, I did miss any possible reason for their emotional downpour, but according to them it was a general “life” moment. Upon arrival back at the apartment, Little Kitten rid her body of some unnecessary alcohol. She won’t be the only one this weekend.
It takes me a few blocks of walking to realize I am still on the east side with the vast Central Park between me and my destination. Drunk decisions are never good ones, but let’s bypass my stupidity. I continue my trek, not really sure of where I am going, but I seem to find it essential to stop at a bar along the way. No more drinks of course, but a quick bathroom break and conversation with a bubbly blonde and her friends. After a phone call with my worry crazed boyfriend in Afghanistan, a few moments of complete disorientation, and probably an hour and a half of walking, some aimless wandering, I make it back to Little Kitten’s apartment on the Upper West. How I made it back alive, no fucking clue. Woke up the next morning to a lecture from my boyfriend about how I am in more danger than he is in Kabul and I need to straighten up. I fully agree with him.
No hangover! Perfect! And a lovely brunch at the Cuban Calle Ocho on 81st. Besides the food being satisfyingly succulent, this place offers complimentary sangria (as many glasses as your heart desires) with the purchase of an entree.
Though sangria truly belongs to red wine, I cannot deny the sensational bliss that is Tropical and Havana Banana, especially after a night of chugging whiskey when the body craves something crisp and refreshing.
Conversation ensued, travel at the forefront. With Miami as our intended destination, Minxy, Little Kitten and I discussed possible dates for a definite trip in the fall to relive our adventures from March 2011. South Beach is a beautiful place.
Still hangover free (excluding Little Kitten), between the wine and tasty food we were a little sleepy and decided to head back for a nap and cuddle fest in Little Kitten’s purple queen. It quickly turned into laughing maniacally for no reason, or high of the reunion and wine at all before eventually drifting off to sleep.
Feeling rejuvenated, we headed over to Gabriela’s, a tequila bar and Mexican restaurant for a round of quesadillas with a spicy chipotle sauce and bright colored strawberry and mango margaritas. Dinner at 9pm. This is how we do. Minxy’s last night in NYC had to end with a bit more fun than just a dinner outing, so we decided to head down to 84th and Amsterdam to hit up a few bars all packed with twenty-somethings. This is of course after stopping back at the apartment for a few quick drinks, mainly Minxy finishing off about a third of a bottle of Jameson. She even beat me out. Not the norm I promise you.
Our first stop is an old classic- Jake’s Dilemma. Starting off with straight Jack, Minxy and I were applauded by the two largest black men I have ever seen for our taste in beverage, offering to treat us next time around. We sauntered off quite please with our level of intensity to join Little Kitten. Drinks in hand, we were abruptly approached by an attractive young blonde woman trying to give us a Kettle and vodka. “Please, I am not trying to roofie you.” We took the drink. Held it for a few minutes, then Minxy gingerly placed it on the floor behind us half tucked away under a booth.
“You cannot call yourself a truse geisha until you can stop a man in his tracks with a single look”(Memoir’s of a Geisha). How about three looks? While they were exiting the bar, two very attractive men, architect and a marine, stopped dead in their tracks as their eyes feasted upon Little Kitten, Minxy and I. Modern geisha’s perhaps? I prefer to refer to us as 21st century Aphrodites, who undoubtedly share the talent.
We eventually made our way to the next bar, not before Little Kitten and Architect exchanged numbers and Minxy, after being chased out of the bar by Marine, provided him with the wrong number. Little bit cruel? Perhaps. Next stop, George Keely. A bar very big on its beer. Minxy and Little Kitten were a bit spent, but I happily sipped on a beer courtesy of a very kind doorman attempting to chat me up. The highlight of this quick stop, the Polish bouncer who insisted Minxy’s last name was not in fact her last name. I think he even asked her to spell it out for him. Quite amusing.
The evening drew to a close with me giving the incorrect number to the kind doorman with the utmost confidence in its integrity and the three of us heading back up to that luxurious purple queen for bed. But the night is not over until Minxy gets sick which comes to pass soon after our arrival at home. Minxy shunned to the sofa for the evening, Little Kitten and I curl up in the queen for a night of deep drunken sleep.