Did you ever know that Rolling Rock can roll right over your head?

Last night Chico invited Jon and me to a little hole-in-the-wall in Hell's Kitchen that opened last week. It's a former Middle Eastern greasy spoon (apparently the ex-owners were deported suddenly for being involved with al-Qaeda), and the only bar-type additions to the space so far have been a disco ball and a purple gel over the menu board. Liquor bottles were placed behind the Formica counter, and there were still many signs in Arabic. A placard announced "Available Rice Pudding." When you descended the dangerously steep stairs that led the bathroom, you passed a "Have You Prayed Today?" bumper sticker slapped on the wall. Most of the lights were off, and it was like drinking in a postapocalyptic bombed-out diner.

Oh, what a night. How much alcohol did I consume? Well, let's just say that I haven't engaged in such self-abuse since I was 13. (And, come to think of it, that was a different kind of self-abuse.) Some fragmentary memories of the evening include Nita, the bartender, telling everyone in the bar that I may look innocuous, but "he's the devil." (This was right before she kissed me on the cheek.) There was much toasting of Johnny Cash and Warren Zevon, much raucous singing along with Zevon, Cash, Dylan, and Mojo Nixon, dancing on the bar (no, not me), inappropriate uses of bottle openers, inappropriate uses of bottle caps, and other assorted mayhem.

Needless to say, I'm paying for it now.