The KGB Bar Ramble
- Wade
wadE and Chelle got married... gosh.. almost four years ago now. Andy, Al, Dan, Jason, and I hopped on a flight bound for La Guardia on the afternoon of September 19th. If you're not a subtraction person, that's 2001-- meaning the plane was pretty empty. We arrived that night and went on a whirlwind tour of Long Island and, later, Manhattan.
It was quite an experience, especially for a midwestern boy who hadn't yet been to NYC. The Italian restaurant where we ate next to a table of large Sopranos-like men. The tailor who got a little friendly when measuring me for my tux. The night before the wedding when Dan-o slapped a benjamin down on the bar, where we requested that the DJ play "'Cause I Got High" 38 times, how I'm still not sure how seven of us got home in a single cab. Oh, and during the reception, how I decided to get in a tequila shot contest with Chelle's cousin's wife. And lost. Handily.
Oh boy...
But after the newlyweds headed out for their honeymoon, us rubes made our way into Manhattan for touring, sightseeing, and the general jackassery that we're known and loved for. On Saturday night we all jumped into a cab and said "take us someplace cool." (Yes, that's verbatim.) We ended up in the East Village, drinking expensive drinks outside and watching a nightlife unlike we'd ever seen pass us by. Of particular interest were the people who, in a not unzoolike fashion, interacted with us. Like the man who encouraged us to check out the bath house next door (we declined), or the girl-- wearing a necklace emblazoned with "Fuck Me"-- who invited Jason to call her later (he declined, I think.)
We noticed an interesting looking building with red doors across the street. Andy, who had been to Manhattan before, exclaimed "Dude, fuck... it's the KGB Bar!" (Andy prefixes every statement with "Dude, fuck..." Well, not really, but he's done it a couple of times and it stuck.) We entered, and the metaphorical needle skipped off the record. The clientele eventually returned to reading their poetry, and we bellied up to the bar. I tend to enter into my default mode when in an uncomfortable place, so when the bartender-- who looked like Yakov Smirnoff-- asked what I wanted to drink, I responded "Whiskey and diet coke, please."
Not really relevant... but it's Yakov with Jim Nabors!
He paused briefly, looked at me, and turned around to make my drink. I looked around, admiring the artwork with assorted hammers, sickles, and gratuitous Lenin shots. The bartender returned, I paid up, and turned around to join my cohorts. After my first sip, I noticed something wasn't right. I looked at my drink... there's no way a whiskey and diet coke should be clear. I sniffed... took another sip... Vodka!
I returned to the bar.
"Excuse me, I ordered a whiskey and diet coke."
Yakov nods at my drink.
"This clearly isn't whiskey. As a matter of fact, it's clear. So it can contain neither whiskey nor diet coke."
Yakov blinks twice, slowly. Points at my drink.
I quickly change strategies. "Um. Oh, right. So... My mistake, then. Thanks."
No matter what you order at the KGB Bar, you end up with vodka. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?
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