Finnerty’s Irish Pub

I promised myself I wouldn’t get drunk tonight.  These promises only work if you make them day-to-day.  If you go play pool or darts in a pub, however, you owe it to the establishment to order a drink.  It’s just rude to take up space and not buy anything.  And if you’re with three friends, it’s just easier to get into a round.  Then you’re locked into four drinks.  This is where I should be stopping, but this is where you get a taste and the taste is good.  You have to finish what you’ve started.  This is when someone starts feeling generous and offers me a free drink or worse, a shot.  I usually jump on the shot bandwagon and order a round myself.  If we’re at Finnerty’s in the East Village (which we are now), pitchers upon pitchers are thrust upon us by the owner.

I’m wasted again and staring at my pint glass filled to the rim with McSorley’s.  This drink might as well be called a mind eraser.  Damn this open till’ 4am bullshit, if I were in any other city, I’d be at home right now.  The beer goes down like water at this point and there’s no way I can leave a full glass and just go home, like how my grandmother can’t bring herself to throw away gift wrapping scraps.  I’m becoming way too familiar with the graffiti in the bathroom.  If there’s a new entry, I know immediately, it sticks out.

I’m making more trips to the ATM lately.  I go through my $100 withdrawals faster than it’s coming in.  I’ve noticed a pooch in my stomach, and in my friends’.  I poke at mine and giggle the Pillsbury giggle while I wait for my turn at this useless game of darts.  At 3am it’s not a sport, it’s a test of endurance.  You just kinda hope the dart finds its way to what you need.  That’s where personal darts come in handy; they can read your intentions.  Then you just ask for help from above when it comes to the bulls.  It’s amazing how if you really concentrate and focus on hitting that little circle, a wave of sobriety washes over you for just a second, a moment of clarity in the eye of the tumultuous inebriation.  The music stops, the haze dissipates, and all the barroom noise is shut off.  It only lasts for a second and then it’s gone.  We’re all superstars in that passing moment.  As soon as that dart hits the board the voices are buzzing once again.  You hear that your songs are still playing on the jukebox and realize you missed the first ten of the set.  Your vision returns to its rightful state of blurriness.  It’s a remarkable phenomenon.

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