I wouldn't be the first person to say that Ireland has a mystic quality to it. Misty emerald isles jutting from the ocean with steep-cliffed shores, ringed with menhirs, crumbling castles, and barren rocky outcrops; abandoned homes dating to the Famine outside town, and sometimes right smack in the middle; every road seeming to have a goat track leading to a ring fort or some other ancient marker of eld; it's an easy place to believe in things that go bump in the night. Tana French's first novel, In the Woods, plays on this haunting quality of the country's history and landscape. It begins with a childhood tragedy; Adam Ryan's two best friends, Jamie and Peter, disappear one day when all three of them are playing in the woods outside their little town of Knocknaree. Adam is found later, clutching a tree so hard that his fingernails scar the bark. He remembers nothing.
20 years later he is a Detective in Dublin; a child has been killed, in those same woods, which are now part of an archaeological dig. Adam must confront the nightmare of his past, as he and his partners Cassie and Sam investigate the murder, and what links it may have with the past. The young victim is found on an altar that dates to the Bronze Age, slated for destruction as a roadway cuts through. There are constant allusions to Ireland's rich and bloody past, and it's sudden upheaval from a depressed nation to the silicon isle it is becoming today. But the story is rooted in reality, and while French may play with our desires for it to be a boogeyman from Irish legend, we have enough monsters in the houses or cubicles next door to choose from. I've never been a huge fan of police procedurals; they often fail to be character-driven, unlike detective novels. In the Woods is most certainly driven by its rich characters, told in the first person by Adam Ryan. He's very close with his partner Cassie, who deserves (and gets) a novel of her own; she's that smart and self-sufficient policewoman, who defies the stereotypes you expect; their relationship is one of the most enjoyable parts of the story, but as they delve into the town's past to ferret out the killer, the darkness takes its toll. Adam is a college boy with a nose for books, and French's prose is appropriately rich. This is no page-a-minute thriller, though the gripping story drew me into its cozy Irish world. I traveled there last year, to my grandfather's hometown of Bray, and to many nameless castles in the woods along the roads that might have been where Adam, Peter and Jamie played. It felt like being there again, and admittedly that's part of the appeal for me. Some have found the ending disappointing, but it's bittersweet. The plot takes twists and turns that you may not expect but will never find ridiculous; this is a masterfully crafted story that pulls no punches, from a narrator who may not always be the best witness.
I'm looking forward to Cassie's own novel, The Likeness, which comes out in a few days.
Oh, what a card. After visiting Firecracker in Harlem (cough, Hamilton Heights, sorry) for a year, I remembered that the tomb of Ulysses S. Grant is not far away. After our earlier trip to MoGridder's Barbecue, we drove crosstown and down lovely Riverside Drive to see what we could see. Despite being the largest tomb on American soil, you can miss it as you drive alongside; shrouded by trees and set back from the road, it overlooks the Hudson from its shady perch. Surrounded by garish and out of place murals, it looks like urban renewal attacked its spartan grandeur in a fit of pique. The site fell into disrepair by the squalid 70's and was restored in the 90's, so I imagine the mural is from that era. The front of the building is a popular spot for wedding photos, and that section of the park is well manicured.
Still waiting.
The building rises up on huge columns to a rotunda which proclaims, "Let Us Have Peace." Within, two marble coffins entomb President Grant and his wife Julia in the center of the edifice. If you walk downstairs, the tomb is circled with busts of Civil War generals. As in all tombs, there is a sense of quiet solemnity in the soft echoes your footsteps make on the smooth granite and marble, and how the immense maroon caskets draw your eyes to the center of the room where they rest. Mr. & Mrs. Grant were beloved by the country; he was entombed in New York to be close to his widow. The funeral was attended by former Civil War generals, President Grover Cleveland, the entire Supreme Court, and most of Congress. The procession was seven miles long. Nowadays Grant is probably best remembered as Mr. $50 bill, and his Presidency and generalship are commemorated by this beanie baby.
We like extremes here in America. The biggest ball of twine (Cawker, KS). The most expensive hamburger (The Burger Royale at DB Bistro Moderne, NYC). The biggest asshole (goatse guy). So when we learned that the Southernest Bar in the United States was on the island of Hawai'i, we had to trek there when we visited.
The shaka sign
The bar is called Shaka's, named after the "hang loose" Hawaiian hand sign. It resides in the small town of Na'ahelu, which is between Volcanoes National Park and the southernmost tip of the island, which is occupied mostly by wind farms and a few ranches. If you take the drive down to Shaka's, there are a few things to see on the way. For one, Highway 11 passes through miles of old lava fields, so it looks like you're driving through a desolate wasteland. The a'a lava, sharp and unweathered, stretches on one side of the highway to the sea, and to the base of Mauna Loa on the other.
That's the shocker, not the shaka!
They use the terms mauka and makai to differentiate between "toward the mountains" and "toward the ocean." Especially on the big island, where there is a ring around the shore and only a few roads inland, like the infamous Saddle Road between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, north and south have little meaning. All the roads are toward one town or another. On the way down, we passed the Punalu'u Black Sand beach, so I swung a sharp left in the Jeep and drove on down. Past a windy golf course, and dotted with tents with local families chilling andd grilling, this is how you enjoy the beach on the windy side of the island.
Black sand beach
Another 20 minutes down the road or so and you reach Na'ahelu. Shaka's is past the gas station and the post office, with parking in front and out back. It's hard to miss the big blue building. We dropped in for some Kona brews and burgers. Firecracker had a burger smothered with mushroom gravy and sweet Maui onions, with some delicious fried potato wedges on the side. They call them hash browns, so get them instead of the fries. I had a South Seas fish sandwich with mahi and light tangy tartar sauce. It was fresh and delicious. The beer was good too- I had a few Kona Lavaman Red Ales. Service was a little slow, even for the islands- he apologized for being short on staff- but everything was tasty and we didn't wait too long.
No lighthouse, just a big reflecting sign
So they are worth a stop, even if you don't want to say that you've had a beer at the Southernmost Bar in the U.S., for their good food and selection. If you've come this far, you might as well drive another 12 miles to South Point, the wave-bashed rocky beach that is the most southerly spot on the isle. You can see the stark contrast between the calm, Kona side of the island and the windy Hilo side, as the waves crash nonstop to your left, and the seas stand still to your right.
LeftRight
The beaches were covered with locals fishing, but we didn't see anyone catch anything. A few miles down a 4x4 road, and there's a Green Sand beach, but we didn't have a lot of time or good directions to it. It gives us a reason to come back, other than the island's beauty and the friendliness of the people. Next time I want to stay in Kona, so Firecracker can go horseback riding with the paniolos, and I can drive to the top of Mauna Kea. Or sit at the Kona Brewing Company having some more of their excellent Wailua wheat and Pipeline porter.
51 years ago there was a tree here.
On the way back we stopped at the spot where Mark Twain planted a monkeypod tree in the 1860's. It stood until 1957, when a typhoon uprooted it. I'm still reading his Letters from Hawaii; it's good, but slow going. He was still young and hadn't gotten his steam yet. I imagine he'd have commented on the most Southerly Commode in the U.S., which Firecracker and I did make use of. We were most thankful that the heavy winds didn't knock it over.
When we visited the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial, I was reminded that tourists are ugly from all over. Not long after 9/11, I noticed people coming to take photos of Ground Zero. I can understand that, I like taking photos as well. What bothered me was how they posed in front of it, smiling. It just seems disrespectful. I saw the same oblivious ugliness as tourists posed in front of the list of those who died at Pearl Harbor.
The viewing platform.
The memorial is hallowed ground; the ship is below you. The platform crosses it just behind the front turret, which remains above water. This was a clever way to mark the grave of nearly 1200 men who died during the sneak attack, an enormous cross that's not there unless you think about it. The bow and stern are marked with white buoys. Around the harbor you see cement markers memorializing the other ships sunk on that day.
The list of those who died at Pearl Harbor, without a smiling idiot.
It's eerie, looking down through the crystal blue water and seeing the rusted hulk of the ship just below, occasionally seeping oil. Small colorful fish dart around the structure. A sign asks you to not throw coins, which contribute to the decay.
The remains of the front turret, gun removed.
The immensity of the battleship is not readily apparent below the surface. Even when you see the buoys, it's hard to imagine. I've seen larger boats, like the ore boats of the Great Lakes, but not from above. The sailors who shuttle you to the platform remind you that this is a cemetery at sea, and to be respectful, but it's quickly forgotten.
The ship stretches into the distance.
The small white dot below the other ship marks the stern. That and the slightly rust-colored tinge to the water gives you an idea of the Arizona's size. A torpedo pierced the bow, but it sank with the superstructure otherwise intact. It's a solemn place, or should be. Maybe they need more soldiers there to give a presence of authority; at Arlington National Cemetery, people were well behaved, especially during the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I think people posed in front of the Eternal Flame, which is still pretty lame.
I didn't see any people doing this at Bergen-Belsen, or in front of Anne Frank's grave. Soldiers vs. civilians, I guess. Ground Zero is certainly hallowed ground to the families of the dead, yet tourists feel compelled to smile and pose in front of the empty hole. The stereotype of the Ugly tourist isn't just for Americans anymore.
The anchor of the U.S.S. Arizona
We visited the U.S.S. Bowfin while we waited 2 hours for our shuttle to the platform. It's parked right nearby and a good way to kill time while you're waiting, without sweating with the mobs in the museum and souvenir shops.
The U.S.S. Bowfin, aka "Pearl Harbor Avenger"
It's about the same as the U.S.S. Growler near the Intrepid museum in NYC. If you've never been on a sub before, it's a good look into the life of a submariner. The cramped beds, the hatchways, the claustrophobic spaces; it makes Das Boot seem roomy.
On the old subs everything is make of brass and looks like antique steampunk machinery. It seems out of place next to the large mechanical switches and analog gauges. It's sort of in-between the brass equipment of old sailing ships and the voting-booth look of switches and knobs on war machinery of the 70's and 80's.
I'm not sure if they allow you on the deck of the Growler, but we got to crawl all over the cannons and guns on this one. And take clever photos. And while I would not pose smiling before 1,177 watery graves, or a list of men who died in combat, I believe the stern of the Pearl Harbor Avenger and Old Glory are perfectly fine.
Until I can pose smiling and giving the peace sign in front of the Hiroshima memorial to avenge myself against all the Japanese tourists I've seen posing at Pearl Harbor and Ground Zero, this will have to do.
I'm tired of the pussification of our National Parks. Nothing irks me more to go to some dangerous spot and find child-proof fences denying nature the chance to weed out the stupid kids. Thankfully, Hawaii Volcanoes National Park has no such safety nets. In fact, they have a sign gloating about the last kid who got par-boiled after walking off the path and falling in a sulfurous crevasse.
The park encompasses the lava fields and caldera of 4,500-ft Mount Kīlauea, an offshoot of the much larger Mauna Loa volcano. The entire island consists of 5 connected volcanoes, of which Kīlauea is the most active. It's one of the most active volcanoes in the world, and it's currently dumping lava into the sea near Kimau. We drove down to see it at night, and amazingly people still live on the lava field relatively close to the flow, as far as I'm concerned.
The park showcases many natural spectacles you're unlikely to see anywhere else. Here are the ones we visited:
1. Lava Tubes
Park Motto: Enter at Your Own Risk.
Lava tubes are channel-like caves where lava once flowed rapidly underneath the surface. The most accessible tube at the park is the Thurston Lava Tube, which is smooth and has track lighting for tourists. There is an extended section left undisturbed, but we forgot to take our flashlights when we hiked to it. It's still smoother than fresh ones.
Track lighting is an igneous rock.
2. Smoking Caldera
Between you & impending death- one small railing.
Smoke and steam plumes rise from the caldera, the site where a volcano erupted and collapsed. It means bowl, or cauldron, because it looks like one. We hiked past the Kīlauea caldera on the way to the lava tube, and while young plants and weeds are growing down there, the smoke and steam show that it is still quite active.
3. Steam Vents
Driving by sulfurous emissions.
In New York it's not uncommon to see steam and vapor rising from the manhole covers and subway grates, with that delicate eau du urine scent wafting up from the tunnels. Here it comes right up from the ground, with a grainy taste from the deadly chemicals you've just breathed in. They call it "vog," for volcanic fog, and signs warn you to stay in the car with the windows up when it is thick. The wind us often so fierce that you can barely see the vog, as it blows across the a'a fields.
Roll up your windows so the deadly fumes smell better.
4. Lava Fields
No parking.
What's an a'a field? There are two types of lava, a'a and pahoehoe. The first one is fresh sharp lava, and you can guess how it got its name, from the first poor bastard who walked barefoot on it. In the old days they'd punish people by having them spend the night out there where you can't sit or lie down without being lacerated. Pahoehoe is smooth older lava that looks like grey candle wax. There are huge expanses of these old hardened flows in the park, and if you drive all the way down Chain of Craters Road, you can see where the lava flows covered the road for a length of 12 miles. The steam plume beyond is the active flow pouring into the sea, slowly enlarging the island.
The buried sign says "Road Closed"
5. Petroglyphs
Walk on the sacred glyphs and your soul will be cast into the hot magma.
If you walk out on the lava fields, there are carvings in the lava. Various figures and symbols in the black crust. These here are at least 400 years old, and the tiny dots were part of a birth rite- the severed umbilical cord of a new child was put in it. What's fascinating is that the spot is seemingly in the middle of nowhere, far from the coast and the sheltering wall of the mountain. I guess one spot's as good as any, but it's a heck of a walk. The ritual linked the child's soul to the island, and there are 16,000 such holes known in the area.
Do not play Chinese Checkers on the sacred carvings.
6. Sulfur Vents
Mmm, looks like lemon sorbet!
If steam's not enough for you, there's also stinky sulfur fumes rising to the surface, giving the rocks an eerie fluorescent yellow color. This is the spot where the kid fell in. If you don't look at all the warning signs, the area is quite serene- beautiful flowers growing along secluded paths, with the occasional fissure splitting the earth open. The ground is unstable off the paths, and the kid fell in a crevice up to his shoulders, and suffered steam burns over 10% of his body. Thankfully he didn't ruin it for everybody, and you can still view the rocks coated with their crystalline layer of sulfur.
Tastes like burning!
7. Active Lava Flows
This is the money shot and is actually outside the park grounds now; the flow has been active since 1983, but has moved. It's at the other end of Chain of Craters Road, which requires you to double back on an hour detour. You just keep driving down 130, and eventually you see highway signs for "Lava Viewing Open- Last Car Admitted 8pm." The back road is pretty rutted and bumpy, but we had a Jeep Wrangler so had no problems. You also need flashlights, sturdy shoes, and water. It's a 3/4 mile walk on the lava fields in the dark, but the path is marked to the safe viewing area. On some days you just see the glow of the lava as it pours into the ocean, but we got a beautiful fireworks display of molten rock splashing around. Sometimes you can see the steam plume's shadow in front of glow, and the rock formations left around it.
The park is a World Heritage Site, and rightly so. If you visit Hawaii, you owe yourself a trip to the rustic and quiet Big Island, and a visit to the park. There's a $10 fee for a week pass per car, and you can stay in nearby Volcano village. We stayed at Aloha Junction B&B, and ate at Dan De Luz's Koa Shop Kaffee, where you can get a great hearty breakfast and some beautiful hard-carved koa as well. I wish we'd gotten there in time for dinner after the lava viewing!
Spam, Teriyaki Beef, Portuguese sausage, hash browns... I devoured the deep-fried Vienna Sausages already.
In Hawaii I was reading Mark Twain's Letters from Hawaii, a collection of letters he wrote for a newspaper when he visited the islands in the 1860's, before he became famous. In the book he goes on about his horse Oahu, a horrible creature that gave him a fearsome case of saddle sores that made him bedridden for a week. That's how I felt after Firecracker and I went horseback riding at Gunstock Ranch near the North Shore. We were already sunburned from snorkeling in Waimea Bay, and earlier that day we climbed Diamond Head crater in Waikiki. My horse was named Rhett, which made me Scarlett, and he carried me upstairs and had his way with me. My balls played that saddle like it was a timpani. Our guide was a gal named Jamie from West Virginia. Like all West Virginians she was friendlier than you could imagine. We rode for about 2 hours, and she was a wellspring of information about the local foliage and environment. For example these are century plants, so named because they are planted in front of Century 21 realty agencies. Rhett reminded me of myself. He was stubborn and slow, but good-natured as long as he got to stop and eat every few minutes. He was also impatient, and kept trying to muscle Sarah's horse aside to jockey forward. If he hung back too long whilst munching on grass, he'd trot to catch up, playing a timpani serenade on the back of the saddle with my scrotum. He also liked to trot uphill.
"Stand up in the saddle," the gals said. That just gave my nutsack more distance to drop and hit the unforgiving leather of the seat. "Roll with it," they called. I tried, looking like Yosemite Sam bouncing on his ornery burro. "Whoa mule! WHOA!" We stopped for a brief interlude atop a crest for photos. As you can see, Rhett wouldn't pose for the photo when there was grass to be eaten.
For your entertainment, I took some video of our ride. The second one is mostly Cloverfield on horseback with me a-hootin' and a-hollerin' trying to hang on for dear life, but the first one isn't so bad.
Rhett trying to kill me.
For 2 hours in the sun with a sunburn it was a lovely ride. I even managed to dismount, or as I put it, "park my horse" by the steps and get off without stumbling. I noticed Rhett was a gelding, and all became clear. He was jealous, and wanted to geld me too.
Firecracker and I have two hobbies that the other doesn't enjoy much. Mine is hiking; hers is horseback riding. I like riding, I'm just not any good at it. Hiking is a lot easier, it just takes conditioning so your feet and legs can handle climbing rocky trails for hours. Riding requires a similar commitment, but usually costs $60 or more, so that's my excuse.
The crater from near the rim.
Diamond Head is a crater visible from Waikiki and surroundings on Oahu. It's also the "Black Mountain" on Lost. It got its name from British soldiers who mistook calcite crystals for diamonds. Mark Twain got to ride around it on horseback when he visited the islands, but since then it's been a military installation and now a park, so no more horses. It's a 271-step hike that gains 560 feet in elevation, which is challenging on a hot and sunny day.
Waikiki
The stairs are real concrete stairs, not stones like the "Stairway to Heaven" part of the Appalachian Trail that Darth Milk and I have climbed. It's kind of cool, getting to climb all over an abandoned military site, but it's less enjoyable as a hike because you're fenced away from nature.
The tunnel to the trailhead.
The hike to the top is worth it, with spectacular views of Waikiki. At the top, you climb out of a camouflaged bunker to the viewing spot. With the Japanese tourists everywhere, it reminded me a little of clearing the bunkers in The Thin Red Line.
Abandoned bunker sites are the same everywhere- graffitized.
That's Alexander Hamilton's house, known as Hamilton Grange, currently residing on Convent Avenue in upper Manhattan. The neighborhood is called Hamilton Heights and is in Harlem near City College, a nice brownstone enclave between the bustle of Broadway and St. Nicholas. The Park Service is moving the house because it's surrounded by a church and apartment building, in a spot it was moved to years ago anyway; they've got a nice cozy spot in a nearby park a block away ready for it.
At normal height
They've got it raised up about 50 feet to get it squeezed out from between those two buildings. The original porch and facade were removed when it was placed there, so hopefully they will return. It's a pretty amazing feat, lifting a historic building that high.
The park near where it will be moved.
I'm looking forward to seeing it in its new spot and checking out the interior next year once it's completed. I imagine Alexander Hamilton will be prancing from his grave down in Trinity Church cemetery all the way up Broadway to return home, too.
The infamous prancing statue
Everyone knows the story of Aaron Burr and Hamilton dueling illegally in Weehawken and his subsequent death. He may have been a prancer in statuary, but he was a hardcore bastard. His cannon regiments may have turned the tide of the Revolution in the Jersey wars, and he reserved his fire against Burr without telling him. I guess he wanted to see if he could take on the man he'd verbally sparred with so virulently.
His final resting place
If you watched the John Adams miniseries on HBO, they picture Hamilton as a hot-head, but he was a bit of a sneak as well. He published a pamphlet rudely critical of Vice-President Adams anonymously, that was "meant for private circulation" but got leaked. Riiight. The whole duel with Burr started over things overhead at a dinner, and repeated by someone else- essentially someone wrote nasty things about Burr's Vice-Presidency, and said "this is nothing compared to what Hamilton had to say about him!" Some historians think Hamilton was suicidal in accepting the duel and refusing to tell Burr what was actually said at that dinner. Hamilton's son had been killed in a duel at the same spot 3 years earlier, after his father advised him to "throw away his fire" - miss on purpose. Hamilton did the same thing during his own duel. It was considered a mark of bravery, but in these cases it turned out to be foolishness.
So every time you spend a ten-spot, remember the Hamilton's lesson. To hell with that bravery crap, shoot the other guy first.
It's Memorial Day and we all know what that means besides the first peak in gas prices of the summer- Fleet Week. As you can see, all the girls were giggling their way across town, giddy at the prospect of men in uniform. We came upon these few good men in Little Italy after a touristy dinner at Puglia's, a decent enough spot with Jorge Buccio the Italian Elvis crooning out tunes like "Hey Gumbaree." They were kind enough to pose for photos with the out of towner kids.
The Mast of the U.S.S. Maine
These photos are from Arlington Cemetery. Darth Milk and I visited in 2005 during our trip to D.C. It is a serene and holy place, even for us irreligious folk. It was first used in the Civil War, and the land was Robert E. Lee's family property. When he turned traitor, the Army quartermaster dug up Mrs. Lee's rose gardens and lined tombstones to the doorstep of the family home, to mark the ignominy of the war for generations to come. Just one of many vengeful excesses that would culminate in Sherman's March to the sea.
The tomb of the unknown soldier
Memorial Day is a holiday of convenience. It was originally called Decoration Day, and arose to honor those who died preserving the Union, and was rarely celebrated in the South of course. In 1868 it was changed to the last Monday in May and given its new name, to give us all a 3 day weekend and include remembrance of all soldiers who perish in service to their country. Veteran's Day on November 11th has always been more powerful to me- it commemorates the end of the First World War, on the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour. It was originally called Armistice Day, but it has the honor of at least happening on the same day each year, the anniversary of the greatest folly of war undertaken in modern memory.
Headstone after headstone in Arlington.
Kurt Vonnegut is oft quoted on the internet, and he actually said some of the things attributed to him. This one's from Breakfast of Champions, about Veteran's Day. Vonnegut himself served in WW2, and was a POW in Dresden as we bombed it. He was one of the few POWs to survive the bombing, and you can say it affected him deeply.
I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.
Armistice Day has become Veterans’ Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans’ day is not.
So I will throw Veterans’ Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don’t want to throw away any sacred things.
In Arlington Cemetery they bury 35 people a day; World War 2 veterans are passing away at a rate of 1800 a day now that most of them are in their 80's. In Iraq, we have lost 4,082 soldiers and 33,000 wounded. Let's remember the 150,000 plus men and women we have fighting overseas right now while we guzzle our beer and gobble our hot dogs, and consider bringing them home.
Patrick is the patron saint of public embarrassment, according to how his holiday is celebrated. Not to be sacrilegious, he is the patron saint of Ireland, the homeland of my grandfather (Bray, County Wicklow, for those counting) and it is part of the common myth that he drove the snakes out of Ireland, so if you keep his medal in your pocket, you won't get cockblocked on St. Patrick's Day.
In Hoboken St. Patrick's Day is celebrated on March 1st. Ask not why, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it's a draft horse lugging kegs of beer. We ventured cross the Hudson to experience what Hoboken had to offer on this holy day for Irishmen and drinkers. Sarah and I met up with Katie and her friend Laura from upstate, and later my pals Johnny, Sean and Andy, and finally my cousin Lou "the actor I doth knighted King Douche" and his girlfriend Courtney (not Love, thank all the gods in heaven).
We began braving the cold to slog to a party thrown by a guy named Matt, about 80 blocks away from the PATH station, at least it felt that way in the sudden icy winds. Next door to Matt's was Fiore's House of Quality, a deli. You know they're quality, it's right in their name. They are also Famous for their Mozzarella. Now every Italian deli or salumeria in Jersey fights for the best mozz title so I took it with a grain of salt. And some salami. And I must say Fiore's is in the running, their sign is no travesty. To build a solid foundation to drink upon, we introduced the New York transplant gals to the sangweech, the term for any sloppy sandwich using Italian deli products upon a crusty loaf. And yes, I constructed that sentence deliberately so I could use the words crusty loaf.
Genoa salami, fresh mozzarella, and roasted peppers.
We'd heard that most bars had a $20 and higher cover charge and a line out the door, but Matt told us of a place up the block called 3A's Bar and Grill. Their cover was only ten bucks, the line wasn't that bad, and signs outside lured us with Guinness and Smithwick's. The fire department was being incredibly strict with "maximum persons" ratings for the bars; they came in three times during our 8 hour adventure, and bouncers were letting in people only when others left. Not sure if this was just the usual Hudson County corruption, or overzealous enforcement. Either way, we grabbed a spot at the bar, and the festivities began.
Early on, Katie (who is fascinated with hats and other props) saw a very drunken fellow with a huge Guinness hat on, and wanted to take my picture with it. So, catchphrases ahoy.
I drink your milkshake!
It looks as if I am ingesting this man's brains, from his expression. That would be only the third worst thing I imbibed that day. Katie wanted us to drink Irish carbombs to start with, but we held off a little while until some of the rest of the crew showed up. Still, we had enough to drink that the girls were grabbing my tweed hat and spontaneously singing stuff from Newsies.
What is it with girls and "Newsies?"
Johnny, Andy and Sean got through the line first, and I introduced them to the girls. Johnny eagerly played catch-up, jealous of our buzzes. He likes Jägerbombs and I hate Red Bull, so I bought us some red-headed sluts instead. Jägermeister is not my favorite beverage, it's a fratboy drink and too sweet and weak for me. In Germany I drank Ratzeputz, a higher proof Ginger schnapps. Ve liken der gingerschnapps!
Johnny: No roofies tonight!
After a few carbombs my resistance was weak and I partook of a Jägerbomb with Johnny, Sean, Sarah and others. The first thing this insidious cocktail attacks is your memory. Rather like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Sean became erased from our memories at this point. We later tracked him down in the john, where he learned that Jägerbombs and martinis don't mix. We brought him water but the bouncers threw him out while we weren't looking, and he found his way home. He did give me the best quote of the night.
Sean: I think when my head was in the toilet I saw the face of amy winehouse
Sean, you suffered not in vain. Here are some other beauties overheard throughout the evening.
Random drunk guy: No, the ingredients of each animal cracker are different, depending on the type of animal. Random drunk Katie: Dicks, all over my face? Aw... Random drunk Johnny: No roofies tonight!
Shortly thereafter we cajoled my cousin Lou into braving the short line to enter the bar, after getting pissed off at the bouncers earlier. I'm glad he made it, I hadn't seen him this year and because of the acting, it can be hard to see him. He was with his lady friend Courtney, from the old hometown. As you can see from this photo, soon to be sold for millions to greedy tabloids, she is a lot of fun.
I'm so excited to meet your cousin Tom, the famous blogger!
Lou introduced me to the newest drink craze sweeping the nation, the Benjamin! It's a beer, preferably an Amstel Light, cheap gin, and a lemon wedge. It's not as bad as it sounds, and that's the best I can say about it. I prefer gin in the summer, so maybe it'll taste better then. This binjeer or ginbeer combination does a job on the brain cells, because I can't remember when Lou and Courtney left. We do have extensive photo evidence that they were infected with the "prop vibe" that gave the night its flavor, posing with my hat, flowers I stole from a table, and so on.
Sssh, the leprechaun might hear you!
If you go to San Francisco, don't forget to put some flowers in your crack.
It wasn't the end of the night for Newsies, either. Here's Christian Bale singing "Santa Fe," and then Katie and Sarah's version. They would also sing Madonna, and some random chick who looked like Jodi Foster meets Posh Spice was dared to kiss Katie by her friends, but didn't have the guts.
More "Newsies," the girls are no Christian Bale.
Thank goodness no one captured me wailing "Sweet Child O'Mine" to Sarah when it played. Amusingly enough, Lou, who's performed on Broadway, didn't break into any songs, as he is often wont to do. The jukebox was broken, we tried to play "Pour Some Sugar on Me" to get Katie to dance on the bar, and "Big Balls" so Johnny could do the Pom Poko dance, but it was not to be. It was a fine evening at a decent neighborhood bar, with good cheer and only one casualty, Sean. I checked in with him and he's recovering well, with a newfound respect for martinis on an empty stomach.
