Me and NYC

Sorry to take so long on posting something new, but two weeks of travelling and the whole time change bullshit have taken their toll on the J-Man and have left me completely lazy. A return to my routine for a week should get me back into form and with the start of the pool season, I'm sure the jackass stories will soon flow like urine down a special kid's leg.

So, as I mentioned, I took a trip to NYC for the weekend to celebrate my buddy Scott's bachelorhood. For those of you hoping for stories of strippers, hookers, excessive testosterone displays and the like, you should stop reading now and go directly to scatlovers.com you filthy degenerates.

Now, here's the rundown:

We started things off right, heading right to the bar at National airport for a quick round of beers before our 45 minute flight. Good times are in the air, as a younger MILF with huge boobs starts talking to Dave and informs him that she is heading to "Hot-lanta." No, I'm not making that up. No, seriously, that's what she said. I swear.

So, after we finish that round, it's off to the plane and on to the realization that the Delta Shuttle is the greatest airline in the world. We've just taken off when the steward (yeah, he was gay) offers me a snack package. As a seasoned flyer of two weekends, I immediately shoot back with, "Is it free?" (classy, I know) Well, guess what...it was free. Two chicken fingers on a bed of lettuce with white carrot pieces, honey mustard dressing, a Kit Kat and a mint...for free. And it's only a 40 minute flight? And then Catheter Man got a beer...and it was free!!! So, he doubled up...no questions asked!!! What the hell kinda flight is this?!!! I just went to Vegas where I was in the air for like 5 hours and I had to illegally mix my own drinks when the flight attendants weren't looking, and these guys are handing out free beer. God bless whoever came up with this. I am never going anywhere by plane other than Boston or New York, so I can take the Delta Shuttle. In these times of struggling airlines, it's nice to see that someone is not afraid to serve cold chicken tenders and give away 8 oz. of Bud Light's finest. Marvelous. Simply marvelous.

And we're in NYC.

We check into the Hilton Millenium, right by the site of 9/11, and we immediately notice that the double beds are not much more than a glorified twin bed. It's an awkward moment as Catheter Man and I look at each other and then 230 lb. Smitty, and rapidly decide that we're best served sleeping with each other and leaving Zack, who hasn't arrived yet, with the privelage of spooning with Dave. It is only at 7 AM the next morning when Catheter Man rolls over and tries to cuddle me that I realize that I may have made a mistake. "I thought you were Takoma (his dog)." Is that any better???

But back to Friday night. We head out to an Irish bar that is actually owned by Scott's fiance's dad. He's not there, but we settle in anyways and order a round of beers and some food, since the chicken finger salad alone can not fill me for the whole night. Before the food can come, I decide it's time for Scott's first round of shots, and I inform our 100% pure-bred Irish waitress that we need a round of shots. I give her the liberty of choosing the shot...which leads me to my first bit of advice to anyone who cares to listen. If you are at an Irish bar and want to get a round of shots, don't ask an Irish person to choose it for you. "All I shoot is Jamieson and so that's what you'll be havin' since I'll be havin' one wit' ya." Nice start to an evening, that's for sure. I took control of the shots from that point on and it seemed only fitting that Scott drink Red Headed Sluts from that point on since his future bride is a red head. (no insult intended)

We relocate the party to a place called Fiddle Sticks a few hours and a $200 bar tab later. (Apparently on the house doesn't apply to the bachelor until the ring is on the finger). Oh well.

Fiddle Sticks is packed and it's "Golf Pros and Tennis Hos" night, which makes for some nice scenary. We're all pretty trashed, I end up making fun of some joker who's trying to impress some ladies by playing with his balls...tennis balls, that is, and Catheter Man's buddy Colediggy, after completely appaulling all of us with his knowledge of scatlovers.com and ratemypoo.com gets his come upance as he is accosted by some gay dudes. A good time is had by all and we close the place down at 4 AM.

On Saturday, we start things off real slow but eventually end up meeting up with everyone at Chelsea Piers for a couple rounds of bowling before heading off to Ruth's Chris for steak dinner. I have to say this was the greatest steak dinner I have ever had in my entire life, and what made it even sweeter is that Scott's dad met us for dinner and picked up the whole tab. Yeah, the whole tab. For Ruth's Chris. In NYC. With like 12 of us there. And we weren't drinking water either. Hell with toasting the bachelor, here's to his dad.

We wrap up there and head to a comedy club where Darrell Hammond is the headliner. He's remotely funny, though if you've watched Saturday Night Live, you've seen most of his best bits. The opening act was solid however, and the continuous drinking always makes a comedy club more enjoyable. It's about midnight when the show ends and we're all pretty full and drunk, but no one is willing to admit they want to call it a night.

We fight on and head to another Irish bar where a round of Jager bombs (I think we had some?) brings us back to our senses. The place is kinda dead so we only stay for a bit, then move on to our final destination. Not sure where we went, but the place had a juke box and the night closed out with my request, in honor of Scotty, "Sweet Caroline." It is truly an homage to Scotty's single life, because the last time I heard it when he was around, he had just pulled his undershirt over his head at Millie & Al's and a random girl was rubbing his nipples. Ugh. I think I just threw up in my mouth. And I think I did at the bar too, so we called it a night, and a weekend.

A solid performance and a definite improvment from my last trip to New York, when I was punched in the chest and robbed by a large black man who was claiming to sell my buddy a fake ID, and when I was charged $60 at Runway 69 for buying a stripper a rum and coke and then telling her to get the hell away from me. Actually, I guess anything would have been an improvment from that, and I did get a banana at the airport as we were departing.

It'll have to do since we never saw the Unhappy Gorilla.