In the Land of 1,001 Happy Hours


You know how I know I’m in Brooklyn?

It’s 4:30pm on a Sunday and I’m sitting in a bar that will still be open 12 hours from now. I’ve walked 7 miles already today, run headfirst into a street fair, purchased the following: a variety of pickles (4 for $3!!), a couple of books (used!!), and a dress (on sale!!!). I’ve exchanged both NBA Finals banter and can-you-believe-how-crazy-drunk-and-plain-old-crazy-this-other-woman-at-the-bar-is-at-4:30pm? looks with an old guy sitting to my right, and to me left is a lady who has completely gone off the deep end.

That last part is an anomaly, I’m sure. I’m pretty convinced everyone in Brooklyn is the nicest, happiest, care-free-est and not-insane person ever.

They may also mostly be drunk.

How can you not be? I’ve yet to see a happy hour deal that is anything short of ridiculous. Even the Polish/Slovakian mom and pop (mama and tata?) restaurant below me offers $3 pints of Yuengling. All day. Every day. They probably just douse patrons in liquor and goulash from 3pm to 8pm on weekdays. On the house.

What I’m saying is, I’ve arrived in Brooklyn. I have to wait til tomorrow for my gas to be turned on so I can cook everything ever and in the meantime, the woman next to me is making fantastic conversation with a something I cannot even begin to see. I think that means it’s time to order another drink. Maybe an any/everything. I’ve got another $5 in my pocket.

I get to stare down my gas-less stove/oven from the comfort of my couch.
So far intimidation doesn’t turn it on. Prude.

Street fair!
Right ahead!

Night, night Brooklyn.
Gas awaits us tomorrow morning.

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