The Waverly Inn really is that stuck up...

It was 5:50(pm you masochist, pm...) and we were wandering the west village on what was possibly the most beautiful day yet of this year. It was one of those days filled with the brilliant electricity that only manhattan has: rampant biking, beautiful women walking their smartly dressed dogs(I mean really, smartly dressed dogs? really?), Lucy Liu shooting a scene just outside the waverly inn and me desperately needing a drink. The air of the early evening had that spice of body odour/cologne/trash that seems like a summer refrain to everyone who lives here.

We ducked into the aforementioned inn and the bartender helpfully(assholishly?) told us that the bar wouldn't be open till six. When the mercury is broaching 71, ten minutes might as well be an eternity so we moved on to some pedestrian bar with an overlarge bit of branding and a respectably priced margarita. next it was l trains and hipster wb busses ran for after frenetic purchasing of pacifico and cigarettes. Booklyn was the order of the night. We were already running late but lucky for us we were dealing with a den of agnostics who clearly believe timeliness is next to godliness. Fabulous.

At booklyn we learned how to make folding books and coptic stitches and we learned that bringing imported mexican beer makes you popular anywhere you go(like I didn't already know that). Somewhere along the way it became a good idea to visit the alluring bar conveniently located on the corner. Add equal parts ski-ball and guiness by the pitcher stir well and serve chilled. some frenetic young band played on a makeshift stage and things were generally splendid. Following all that was a borometer test of the neighborhood by means of Jonny Walker Black. Results: affordable and fun. I wish a train would have taken me back to manhattan but in this case it was a surly cab driver. So finally we ended up at some bar on 8th where I began to remember my own mortality and decided to head home. The Path served as a bitter reminder how much more fun life would be if I was a starving artist squatting in a brooklyn warehouse. At least I'll always have Lucy Liu outside the waverly ass fucking inn...