Chelsea and Ed
You know, the weirdest things happen when you go on a pub crawl in this city. In fact I think I’m going to start making pub crawls a fairly regular occurrence. I went out with some friends last Friday...hard.
We met up at Sutton Place around 3 PM to get the weekend started off with some happy hour cocktails. A few drinks and about two hours later we headed out to Peter Luger’s for some fat steaks and California wine. Yeah, I do it up right from time to time. Luger’s is just over the Williamsburgh Bridge and is the oldest and one of the best steak house’s in the city. Picture a
German beer hall crossed with a place you might see some guys from Johnny Sack’s New York crew. Ironically enough the best part about Peter Luger’s isn’t the steak, it’s their homemade whipped cream they serve with dessert...which they affectionately call “Shlag” (pictured left). Seriously, I couldn’t make this up. It’s actually great stuff, although I couldn’t seem to shake the fact that I was eating something called Shlag. Does that make me a homo?
After Luger’s we headed back into the city to get serious about our Friday night shenanigans. I have a buddy that just moved into town from the west coast, so I decided to introduce him to NYC the right way, with a pub crawl through some of my favorite places in the West Village.
We started our little trip through The Village at this Mexican place with a great little bar and a shit load of tequila. After a couple of drinks, we realized that we were in the presence of greatness. None other than Chelsea Clinton was eating dinner with a few of her friends at that very Mexican restaurant. You remember Chelsea. That awkward girl with the frizzy hair, floral dress and braces standing next to the soon-to-be most powerful man in the world (who just happened to be her father) at the 1992 Democratic National Convention. Well, guess what? She’s grown up...and the last 14 years have been very kind to her. Granted I had been drinking for the past six hours at this point, but nonetheless, I used to be the first person to speak up when the “Chelsea is a dog” conversations started up back in college, but I have to admit, the Chelsea Clinton that I saw last week was very “dateable.” Let’s be honest, she’s smart (went to Stanford), rich, her parents are very progressive (well at least her adulterous father) and now she’s pretty good looking. Sign me up. The icing on the cake, of course, would be that you could tell all of your friends that you are banging the first daughter. Hell, that would completely destroy the NYC Summer Hook Up Fantasy Game as I would be given the coveted Golden Penis trophy and crowned Hook-Up King for life.
When Chelsea walked past me to go to the restroom, I briefly thought about getting the camera phone out and trying to snap a shot when she came back out. Then I thought about the twelve secret service dudes that would immediately jump on top of me and completely destroy my cell phone if I tried such a feat. I also remembered that I don’t subscribe to the phone insurance plan (which is the second biggest legalized scam in the country behind those grifters that try to sell you the extra insurance every time you rent a car. I’m covered you asshole...I already have insurance) and really didn’t want to go through the hassle of purchasing another cell phone over the weekend. Alas, there would be no blog picture of Ms. Clinton this time around. I choose my battles and that was not one I was willing to get into on a Friday night. There was booze to be drank and I was on a mission to drink it.
Then something really interesting happened. I met my own personal Blue. You know, the really old guy that dies from a heart attack K-Y Jelly wrestling with a couple of coeds in the movie Old School? Well last Friday night I met a guy named Ed that reminded me of him. I’m not going to name the bar I met him at, but if you look hard enough between Boxers and The Four-Faced liar on West 4th Street you’ll probably find Ed bellied up to a bar with a stiff cocktail in his hand.
Ed is this old, thin guy with a beard that’s as white as the winter snow in Central Park. A curious guy really, with a monotone and somewhat
nasally voice. I sat next to him as the bartender poured my Jack and Coke and he immediately struck up a conversation with me.
Ed: Want to save my seat while I go outside for a smoke?
NYC Drunk Guy: Sure.
OK, so it wasn’t exactly like we were long lost friends, but when he returned from his smoke, he found a chair for me before taking his back. Nice guy.
Keep in mind that I was only sitting by Ed for one drink as we were on a pub crawl, so we had other places to go and other random people to meet. That said, in that one drink time frame, Ed proceeded to tell me all about his married life as well as his financial and credit history. Turns out that Ed is married to a woman who’s 20 years his junior and they have what he described as an “open relationship.” My interpretation of this was that she bangs whoever the fuck she wants and he puts up with it. I actually tried to get him to give me her cell phone number (half jokingly), but he wouldn’t. Shocker.
He then proceeds to tell me how hard he’s worked to get out of the $30,000 debt he was in ten years ago and how he now owns five houses in the New York area. Evidently the money is in buying lower income housing and selling them off when they appreciate...otherwise known as the Wal-Mart approach to real estate (yes, I did make that last part up). Nonetheless, Ed wasn’t shy about telling me about how important the idea of “net worth” is as opposed to what your salary is (I had him beat in that regard...I know you’re shocked). For those you dying to know, Ed is rapidly approaching a net worth of $1 million. Ladies, don’t all flock to West 4th Street at once. Ed is very faithful to his whore of a wife. You see “there’s a difference between love and sex.”
God I love old drunks...and pub crawls
Cheers,
NYCDG
P.S. Like my blog? If you want to be notified every time I update the site with a new post, enter your email address in the field to the right. No SPAM, just update notifications...I promise. If you can’t trust a drunk, who can you trust, right?
We met up at Sutton Place around 3 PM to get the weekend started off with some happy hour cocktails. A few drinks and about two hours later we headed out to Peter Luger’s for some fat steaks and California wine. Yeah, I do it up right from time to time. Luger’s is just over the Williamsburgh Bridge and is the oldest and one of the best steak house’s in the city. Picture a
German beer hall crossed with a place you might see some guys from Johnny Sack’s New York crew. Ironically enough the best part about Peter Luger’s isn’t the steak, it’s their homemade whipped cream they serve with dessert...which they affectionately call “Shlag” (pictured left). Seriously, I couldn’t make this up. It’s actually great stuff, although I couldn’t seem to shake the fact that I was eating something called Shlag. Does that make me a homo?After Luger’s we headed back into the city to get serious about our Friday night shenanigans. I have a buddy that just moved into town from the west coast, so I decided to introduce him to NYC the right way, with a pub crawl through some of my favorite places in the West Village.
We started our little trip through The Village at this Mexican place with a great little bar and a shit load of tequila. After a couple of drinks, we realized that we were in the presence of greatness. None other than Chelsea Clinton was eating dinner with a few of her friends at that very Mexican restaurant. You remember Chelsea. That awkward girl with the frizzy hair, floral dress and braces standing next to the soon-to-be most powerful man in the world (who just happened to be her father) at the 1992 Democratic National Convention. Well, guess what? She’s grown up...and the last 14 years have been very kind to her. Granted I had been drinking for the past six hours at this point, but nonetheless, I used to be the first person to speak up when the “Chelsea is a dog” conversations started up back in college, but I have to admit, the Chelsea Clinton that I saw last week was very “dateable.” Let’s be honest, she’s smart (went to Stanford), rich, her parents are very progressive (well at least her adulterous father) and now she’s pretty good looking. Sign me up. The icing on the cake, of course, would be that you could tell all of your friends that you are banging the first daughter. Hell, that would completely destroy the NYC Summer Hook Up Fantasy Game as I would be given the coveted Golden Penis trophy and crowned Hook-Up King for life.
When Chelsea walked past me to go to the restroom, I briefly thought about getting the camera phone out and trying to snap a shot when she came back out. Then I thought about the twelve secret service dudes that would immediately jump on top of me and completely destroy my cell phone if I tried such a feat. I also remembered that I don’t subscribe to the phone insurance plan (which is the second biggest legalized scam in the country behind those grifters that try to sell you the extra insurance every time you rent a car. I’m covered you asshole...I already have insurance) and really didn’t want to go through the hassle of purchasing another cell phone over the weekend. Alas, there would be no blog picture of Ms. Clinton this time around. I choose my battles and that was not one I was willing to get into on a Friday night. There was booze to be drank and I was on a mission to drink it.
Then something really interesting happened. I met my own personal Blue. You know, the really old guy that dies from a heart attack K-Y Jelly wrestling with a couple of coeds in the movie Old School? Well last Friday night I met a guy named Ed that reminded me of him. I’m not going to name the bar I met him at, but if you look hard enough between Boxers and The Four-Faced liar on West 4th Street you’ll probably find Ed bellied up to a bar with a stiff cocktail in his hand.
Ed is this old, thin guy with a beard that’s as white as the winter snow in Central Park. A curious guy really, with a monotone and somewhat
nasally voice. I sat next to him as the bartender poured my Jack and Coke and he immediately struck up a conversation with me.Ed: Want to save my seat while I go outside for a smoke?
NYC Drunk Guy: Sure.
OK, so it wasn’t exactly like we were long lost friends, but when he returned from his smoke, he found a chair for me before taking his back. Nice guy.
Keep in mind that I was only sitting by Ed for one drink as we were on a pub crawl, so we had other places to go and other random people to meet. That said, in that one drink time frame, Ed proceeded to tell me all about his married life as well as his financial and credit history. Turns out that Ed is married to a woman who’s 20 years his junior and they have what he described as an “open relationship.” My interpretation of this was that she bangs whoever the fuck she wants and he puts up with it. I actually tried to get him to give me her cell phone number (half jokingly), but he wouldn’t. Shocker.
He then proceeds to tell me how hard he’s worked to get out of the $30,000 debt he was in ten years ago and how he now owns five houses in the New York area. Evidently the money is in buying lower income housing and selling them off when they appreciate...otherwise known as the Wal-Mart approach to real estate (yes, I did make that last part up). Nonetheless, Ed wasn’t shy about telling me about how important the idea of “net worth” is as opposed to what your salary is (I had him beat in that regard...I know you’re shocked). For those you dying to know, Ed is rapidly approaching a net worth of $1 million. Ladies, don’t all flock to West 4th Street at once. Ed is very faithful to his whore of a wife. You see “there’s a difference between love and sex.”
God I love old drunks...and pub crawls
Cheers,
NYCDG
P.S. Like my blog? If you want to be notified every time I update the site with a new post, enter your email address in the field to the right. No SPAM, just update notifications...I promise. If you can’t trust a drunk, who can you trust, right?
posted by NYC Drunk Guy at 10:39 PM
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