The Place Across The Street: Reassessment

April:

I hadn’t returned to this establishment for quite some time because Crossroads is closer for KJ, Button Nose, and The Burgs. An Irish Pub also, Crossroads was a place of legend until one manager was let go, and the well endowed angel from Ireland’s visa expired and she returned from whence she came. My dusky hued female Lebanese version of Troy Polamalu still serves plentiful drinks and has a wicked tongue that rivals my own, as well as an inherent racism that is particularly troubling, so most nights I would consider nowhere else a suitable location for a liquid debrief.

I live on the 4^th floor and one of my windows is always open because there is an air conditioning unit in it that I installed with brute force and copious amounts of duct-tape. This atmospheric vulnerability can occasionally result in lost sleep or an inability to hear the TV even with a surround sound system. Many’s the night I am plagued with the drunken cackles of those stumbling out of An Tua Nua, and the infuriating honking of car horns as the taxi’s block the street. Stop honking already, most of the time if people aren’t moving they probably have nowhere they can go, honestly, where do you have to be anyway? As irritating as the scene may be, it is also quite entertaining.

I tend to conduct my beverage-soaked recapitulation on the stoop of the apartment building when the weather is nice. Depending on the entourage, who walks by, and what events are occurring in the street, it exists as an unending source of entertainment. It has been suggested by some that I acquire a small stereo of some sort, to add a soundtrack to the scene, or pick up a few lawn chairs at the local economy hardware. I feel, however, that it defeats the purpose and effortlessness of simply sitting on the steps, drinking a beer, and enjoying good company and witty (and not-so witty) banter. Admittedly some country or hip-hop would liven up the atmosphere, but given my own nature and those of my associates, I’m not sure rowdy would be a good thing.

I have observed a line wrap around the block to get into this place every Thursday night for months. Some of the best humor that comes my way on my stroll home is often passing by this line hearing the bouncer at 1 AM: “It’s one. Why the fuck are you guys still out here? If you have somewhere else to go you should fucking go there because there is no way you’re gettin’ in here tonight!” Moments pass with no movement, and the exasperated doorman shakes his head. “Alright . . . you’ve been informed, wait your asses out here in the cold if you want. I don’t care.” Turning directly to some of the girls in the back of the line wearing skin-tight skirts barely covering the crack where their legs meet: “Hun, you’re not cold, seriously?”

Intrigued, I decided to find out some night what all these idiots were waiting for. I’ve been in there; it is a cool place, but not a level of fantastic that isn’t replicated by other watering holes. Left only to assume that the caliber of individuals must have this overwhelming draw, it was time to investigate further. Gauging the superficial qualities of the women entering this institution of higher alcohol consumption, there is indeed potential for at least some pleasant eye candy if nothing else. Why not?