I’ve joined THE READER.

Might possibly be available to those who are interested, have iPhones/touches, and are nearby enough to physically connect their phones to my comp.

So it’s been a while since I chronicled the first day of NYC misadventures, but this time I bring you tales of the second day of that weekend. Selections from a recent trip will be forthcoming.

We rewind to that evening, when, after several beers at the King’s lovely home in New Jersey, Mr. Cleveland, Mr. Illegal, Mr. Toddler, Mr. Premier League and Mr. First Name decide it would be a wise play to kill 90% of a handle of vodka in about an hour at the Penthouse.  It would prove to be less wise than they had imagined.

After venturing the 20 blocks or so to the bar they had planned to visit, they discovered it had a 45 minute line.  They slid in behind a lady who would bear the brunt of Mr. First Name’s open-mouthed and giggly amorous advances for about half an hour. These pursuits were, to say the least, unsuccessful. Three of the crew picked a sufficiently dark spot around the corner to relieve themselves in public, and it was generally agreed upon that this was acceptable, as much of New York smells of urine anyway.

As they were approaching the entrance to the bar, another inebriated friend summoned them southward.  Wisely and drunkenly ignoring the fact that they had progressed through 80 percent of the line—and against the protestations of Mr. First Name, who was still trying with the lady—they bolted to the supposed promised land of the Lower East Side.

Needless to say, it did not live up to its billing. As they penetrated further and further South, members of the group were easily distracted.  Mr. Illegal’s ID was denied at the entrance to one bar (“How do they know so quickly?” he wondered aloud).  A few made a bathroom stop in a mediterranean Chipotle clone, and ducked into Katz’s deli to try to get some pastrami.  After immediately surmising that the sandwich would require more time and money than they had to spend, they left within seconds.  Finally, they reached the conclusion of their arduous journey—a tacky western bar with a mechanical bull.

At this point, the vodka made standing still an adventure, and watching people fall off of the bull was plenty of entertainment.  Mr. Cleveland continually emphasized to anyone who would listen that he would “totally be able to ride the bull” better than most, but failed to follow through on his promise to try.  Mr. Premier League decided it would be a good idea to get a few glasses of whiskey at the bar for the group, and when Mr. Illegal tried to force one on Mr. Toddler, he bolted from the bar at the sight and smell of it.  The rest of the group came out onto the sidewalk, and Mr. Illegal had (intentionally?) snuck his glass past security.  He drank it over the course of a few blocks walking, and when he neared completion, a dilemma presented itself.  It played out thusly:

Mr. Illegal: “What do I do with the glass when I finish?”

Mr. First Name: “Just down the rest in one and break it on the sidewalk.”

**Mr. Illegal proceeded to take his final sip and throw the glass down on the sidewalk in the manner of a flash grenade, breaking it into countless pieces.**

The rest of the group heard the shatter from a block ahead.  Thankfully, no law enforcement officials were present, or Mr. Illegal might have truly lived up to his name. (Mr. First Name later claimed he had not meant to be taken literally.)

On the way back, four of the five men decided, as a group, to reenter the same ten-square-foot falafel Chipotle bathroom from earlier.  Space was tight, awkwardness ensued.

To wrap up the night, the group revisited the infamous McDonald’s of the night before. Mr. First Name ordered two apple pies.  Mr. Illegal picked them up with his McFlurry, despite not having ordered them, or knowing they belonged to a member of his group. When Mr. First Name returned to the counter and requested his pies, he was told, “oh…I gave them to someone else.” The sheepish employee was required to provide two new pies due to Mr. I’s theft.

At the table, it was decided that it was only right for Mr. First Name to eat all four pies.  He conquered them valiantly, and decided to sum up the nutritional value of his meal to most of the customers of McDonald’s at a 100-plus decibel level (an extremely amusing youtube video of this experience might possibly be available to the first few people who get in touch with me).

Mr. First Name: “I just had 1000 CALORIES, 8 grams OF FAT, 56 grams FROM FAT…WAIT, NO, 52.”

Mr. Cleveland, sloppily: “You are not reading that correctly…you are not reading that correctly at allll…”

Mr. FN: “I just LITERALLY added 1000 CALORIES TO MY NIGHT.”

Mr. Cleveland, to his own great amusement: “No worries, if you run 10 miles, you’re all set!”

So I don’t really check my Crimson voicemail, partly because of laze, and partly because 90% of the messages are from a crazy guy somewhere.  How crazy, you say? Quite.  I get a good number of hang-ups during the day when I answer (that’s how I know it’s him), and when I don’t, I get a gift like today’s 13-message mailbox.  He often asks about Clifford, Malcom, and Kristina’s views on topics of importance from national news to Harvard Dining Services.

He always opens with the time and day of the week, as in, “Hi, it’s 5:30 on Saturday and…”

After the “and” in today’s batch (direct quotes):

“What does Clifford think of tollhouse cookie dough? How about the changes at Citigroup?
“I was referring to Chris Dodd and Ted Kennedy. The price of pork is down.
“What does Clifford think of Howie carr’s column on national searches? Pandit is indian-born.
“How did he get the job, is he a pig farmer?
“The ranger cookies keep coming back.  How about solar panels in fun cars?
“How about liquor and package stores?
“I’m not saying the meals tax will change student habits.
“Is this the end?  Richard Bradley’s blog has gotten pretty good.
“What I meant was, what’s on tap this weekend? Drew Faust could do a Civil War reenactment.
“Next time they arrest a Harvard Crimson editor it will be called Dan Howell.”



This is either pretty creepy or extremely hilarious, take your pick.  I’ll take the latter.

In recounting a few choice tales of D-town debauchery from last weekend, I have decided to provide nicknames to protect the guilty.  The cast of characters will heretofore be referred to thusly: Mr. Illegal, Mr. Toddler, Mr. First Name, Mr. Premier League, Mr. Cleveland and The King.

Mr. Toddler and The King grabbed a double-decker megabus down to the city after work on Friday.  After a few hours of sleep, they “prepared” for the evening for a half hour on the bus.  Upon arrival, they slogged the 15 minute walk to the penthouse suite of the high-value summer contributors to the financial services industry—Mr. Illegal, Mr. Premier League, and Mr. First Name.  The first two were not present on arrival, as they had spent several hours “preparing” amongst New York’s finest drinking establishments.  When they finally did return, Mr. Illegal appeared to have done the best job of preparation, running into most stationary objects in his path, and claiming “I’ve had 16 to 20, dude…those dollar beers were so good…so good…” Mr. Illegal frequently makes such outrageous claims, but his inability to function normally would become a theme of the night, so he got a pass. In the room, he also asked for the first three times how the bus ride down was.

After a few hours in the penthouse talking it up and seeing a revolving cast of characters, the crew decided to get food at the diner one block away.  After sitting down at the diner for a few minutes and perusing the menu, it was drunkenly decided that there was no reason to not just go to McDonald’s.  The group promptly got up from their assigned table without notifying any restaurant staff and left.  Mr. First Name knew of a Mickey D’s a paltry 20ish blocks away, and he and Mr. Toddler proceeded to run the entire way at full tilt so as to close the gap more quickly.  Mr. Illegal was not in the state of mind or body to move fast, and The King helpfully shepherded him along.  It was later discovered that another McDonald’s existed about 19 blocks closer, but no one thought to check.  No matter.

After unnecessary gorging and another question about how the bus ride was, Mr. Illegal began to loudly proclaim, “I NEED to get out of here,” most likely because he was feeling the effects of his alcohol consumption.  One woman heard this just as she came into the restaurant, assumed he was criticizing her presence, and began to yell to her friend that she wasn’t going to take this from this “c***s***ing f****t.”  His reply was, “Okay, now I really need to get out of here.”  She did not take this well either, but the group left quickly.

Getting back to the building, they entered the elevator with a few girls who lived there, one of whom had a half-eaten slice of pizza in her hand.  Mr. Illegal, remembering all he had learned about “the game” from his roommates, dropped his opener:

Mr. I: “So…is that your slice of pizza?”

**3 seconds of silence as everyone looks on in bewilderment**

Girl: “Ummm…yes?”

**5 more seconds of silence as everyone realizes that Mr. I has prepared no follow-up**

Mr. Toddler, trying to help out: “Where did you get it?”

Girl: “Down the street.”

**10 more seconds pass as the elevator ride comes to a close. The awkwardness could be cut with a knife.**

Mr. I later claimed he was planning to ask for a bite, but forgot to do so.

The night wrapped up with a few more amusing comments.  After Mr. Illegal asked for the sixth time or so how the bus ride was and was widely criticized, he apologized and instead asked how Nationals Stadium was. As no one had been in DC, and if they had, probably would not have made a trip to the Anacostia, this caused great merriment.

The question that drew the most laughter was asked seriously and straightforwardly by Mr. First Name. Regarding the double-decker Boston-to-New York bus, he wanted to know—”Was it open-air?”