One of the best things about traveling west of 27th Avenue is that the beer mugs bloat. Your standard 22 ouncer nearly doubles to a trough of swill that makes a pitcher seem like an adorable fixture in at a child's tea party. And a 12-ounce glass? Damn near adorable.
"Whenever I drink out of one of these, I feel like I'm in 'The Lord of the Rings,'" Chuck said Sunday night, holding a grand mug.
Last night we went to the North Pole Bar, which is about the furthest place from our front door that we could possibly go without falling off the grid. It was a fun mess of people, including friends who had spent the afternoon on the Pride Fest Fruit Float, fans of Tuska who wanted to see her get a year older before their very eyes. And Hot Rod, a guy who wears sunglasses tucked into the collar of his T'shirt, who alternated between calling the bartender "barkeep," and "soda jerk."
"What? He likes it," Hot Rod said of the poor man.
Then there was Cork1, who seemed to think that it had been divine intervention that we had ended up at this bar.
"You know where I'm from, right?" he asked.
"North Pole, Alaska," I answered.
"That should be good for at least one free drink, right?" he asked. Twice.
We stuck around until we were physically removed from the bar, then Chuck tried to find a cab company that would travel this far. One $25 fare later, we were back at home, splitting flavorless Amy's brand burritos and listening to 80s era records from the shoe gazer genre.