Monkey see, monkey listen, monkey drink.

I found myself pre-(f)unemployment typically partaking in drinks more during the week than on the weekend. A combination of factors went into this:

1) my job often entailed social events
2) my job drove me to the bottle
3) my job's hours limited social time to other people from the firm or other overworked midtown friends

Let it be known that I wasn't out in a bar four days a week like some lush or cad. I just, you know, enjoy a drink every now and again.

So Thursday night came and went, and I found myself killing a couple hours at a name-forgotten pub in the east 50's. The place looked and smelled like it was freshly stained - the pungent kick in the face when I first walked through the door reminded me of 6th grade shop class and my Minwax-stained baseball clock. My friend KDubs was there, and we caught up over Bud Lights and Blue Moons. I tiptoed through the (f)unemployment daises for a bit. She brought me up to speed on her long distance, vacation-fueled, Canadian based relationship. Her sleeves are were made up of more emotion than cashmere, so it was not difficult to see how happy she was. I was genuinely happy for her, too, more than I probably expressed.

Then there was this guy.


I don't know what part of Irish lore includes monkey heads, but these guys adorned the front of the bar. We don't know why, and frankly we didn't want to know. Tip money down and out the door.