Nothing says Friday Night like hoofing around the Village at 4am in pursuit of a public defender and an Ethiopian, aka Kerry's sister and her sister's boyfriend. We found them at the Little Branch Bar, a cross between a crowded speakeasy and your mother's basement with a lot of people in it.
I drank a rum buck made out of real ginger and real ginger juice. It was good. I love ginger. One time, I loved ginger a little too much and ate an entire jar in one sitting. (Please keep in mind that what may seem like an assbad idea to some people may seem like a genius move to other people, especially if they have had between three and seven beers.)
How it became 4am confounds me. One minute we were circling the block between 59th and Tenth searching for a bar actually located on 53rd and 9th; the next minute it was three hours later and we missed what could be considered the entire set of the band my friend's friend's friend was fronting; and then suddenly we were downtown late night in pouring rain desperately seeking Susan.
In the bonus round, Tom and I actually got off the train at the same PATH stop where we had parked our car. Not something I take for granted these days. Especially in the proximity of sunrise.