Day 11, 5:01pm, we arrive at JB Winnberries for the start of infamous Princeton Pub Crawl (if executed flawlessly, you WILL be crawling). Pods, Anne, Yo and Mrs. Yo arrive, circle the bar 3 times, circle the inside restaurant 4 times, head outside, circle the restaurant 5 times, back inside again, only to scream WHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Pods flips open his so called SmartPhone, preparing a TDDoC group text that reads F______CPL you %$&&@, but is stopped by the pretty young waitress, who orders us first round AND a table, as far back in the tavern as possible, using her 6th sense, knowing what lies ahead for the town of Pton. Art Nufeld shows up, as he imbibes his first draft, explaining how Honeywell may be taking over every company that ever employed ex-AstroSpace employees/contractors/deceased employees and never to be seen again only heard-from virtual employees like him. Celeste, David, Diane (aka Polo, Celeste EMS pal) and her friend Steve arrive, all corning the coveted last piece of 10Square feet of real-estate remaining in the standing room only bar. I get tongue-lashed by Polo for not immediately recognizing her in the dimly lit area, despite being AWOL for over 2 plus years, claiming that she “needed some space” from this wacky group experience from the 2010 holidays…who could blame her ? The ladies only cycling committee arrives, led by Rebecca, Katherine and red-shirt arrival Barb, who had to buy first round and order 8 plates of ½ priced Chicken Quesadillas (equaling the cycling equivalent of 4.75 full plates) which the lovely ladies embellished after a long day. Their girl-only conversation could not be revealed to me, despite my best efforts of eaves-dropping, but I did over-hear a quick sentence on WHY so many of these TDDoC men are so cheap, frugal and only want to attend bars inhabited by hot young waitresses and clients…point well taken. Mosso, Erin, Ed show up. Eman, Lisa and Trent on a Stick show up (yes, we have pictures) The remaining time was spent guessing the Pton where-abouts of Gman, Su, Tamps and most importantly, Sophia, who is on a 10 game winning streak.
We clear out of Winberries, walk past the decadent Palmer-Sqaure Christmas tree, where we took picture of Pods and I peeing first on the tree, followed by a normal shot, as we work our way into the crowded, legendary Yankee Doodle Tap room, where Gman, Su, Goettle, Tamps and few others have been waiting all evening, perhaps an evil game to see how LONG it would take the rest of us to discover their true-whereabouts from missing location stop one or an ill-conceived plan to Protest Winberries over-crowded bar area, or the bar’s affiliation with attempted put-down of Congo, the world-famous Pton German-Shepard who bit the landscaper..we may never know for sure.
The Yankee Doodle Tap Room is famous for the SAME two (2) bar-tenders, who also double as waiter and waitress, who are no doubt on track to receive massive fully patron-paid Yankee Doodle pensions and medical benefits, along with 250 sick days, upon their retirement date in 2025. As we begin to take-over the entire dining room lounge area of the TapRoom, squeezing out the last of the Friday night male-only Princeton Electrical Engineering holiday party, I am approached by a lone-lady at the bar, with Silver hair and red-top, asking me “Are you guys part of the Central Jersey Outer Ski Club”? as I replied “No ma’am, we are just a group of ill-conceived drunks, participating in the 12 drinking days of Christmas, as she proceeded to say “how wonderful” then asked “are you all skiers and bikers?”, as I replied again, “No ma’am, our specialty is just drinking”…it’s what we do best”, as she now left me be roam about the cabin. I am then pulled aside by a broadly grinning Lynn, stating they have keenly spotted a women at the corner of the bar, sporting a new Silver top with Lord and Taylor tags prominently displayed, quickly dubbing her Princeton’s first ever “Extreme CheapSkates - OCD Chronic Shopper” award. Her husband, the disabled man with the walker taking up the entire corner of the bar, was last seen tucking receipts into his pants underneath the picture of Michelle Obama at the famous dining room’s “wall of fame”. Scugi is having blast, making the rounds and promising not to show off his 20 inch Galaxy 3 SmartPhone, with quarter-second TIROS satellite weather updates and “Extreme blondes into Porches” You Tube videos. Many many great discussions abound simultaneously, but suddenly we are caught off-guard by the site of Su contortioning herself, feet facing the ceiling, in an ill-fated attempt at fetching the “Trent on a Stick” (TOAS), which has somehow slithered down into an unknown “black-hole” behind the massive 250 year old wooden bench upon which they sat. We summoned Scugi to summon off a blazing fast Text off to the Princeton Astrology club, as they quickly rounded up their gear and bee-lined it over, to study this phenomenon and most importantly, film this never-seen before black hole. Three more sexy contortion attempts by other females, all with exposed body parts…all coming up empty. A crowd ensues to watch this never-before seen all-female rescue attempt. Many You Tube videos are surely released by now. Gman is infuriated by the sight of his wife in this vulnerable position, by not bringing his video camera, his hopes dashed of cashing in on the Google You-Tube Video of the Year $10,000 cash reward. Mertz’s son Cory arrive, fully decked out in his finest Princeton attire “HotDog Johnny” T-Shirt, followed by Dad (Mertz) with second son, Jeff, fresh in tow from Ithaca College. A great family tradition has begun!
We depart for our next stop, waving to Silver lady in red, knocking down disabled man’s walker, head through the main dining room of the Palmer Inn, ruining the dinner of many, as we head out the main corridor past the Nassau Inn gatekeeper, snatching a few high-end chocolate-licorice mints, as we crawl over to the “Annex” or now known as the well-thought-out name Princeton Sports Bar and Grill (PSBG)”. PSBG is a bit dead upon arrival, but that is quickly changed by the 30+ crowd we shovel into the 15 ft below sea-level bar area. Gman ensues a conversation about how a group of the TDDoC ladies are now in the lead for taking over the most consecutive TDDoC point totals for the year (or something like that), to which the ladies surround him with hugs, lap-dances and a soon to be departing wife Su. All is cheerful and well. The men are consumed by both the hot bartender and the NY Knicks, who are getting their A__s whooped by Chicago, all while pretending to talk to their female counterparts, replying with “yes, I hear ya” to everything they say. There is a very strange looking DJ playing semi-club-inspired music, while his twin-look alike brother stands swaying strangely to the beat in the middle of the dance floor, moving around with his eyes shoved in the back of his head like he just had 3 shots of Tequila, making an ill-fated eye-contact attempts at attracting female-followers to join him on the dance floor. Conversations ensue about which shot we will do, as Reese opens up her now infamous iPhone drink app, namely “Hot Girls, Hot Shots” I believe. The selection is made, with Reese’s app and liquor-store expert Cory’s lead assistance. I look over at Pods, who just bought a beer for Reese, Pods makes his “cheers” beer-mug swing into Reese’s glass, only to have a “Beer Gone Wild” moment, with brew spilling all over Reese’s, uh, upper body area shall we say. Reese, who is now in the running for the first ever PSBG Hot Girls, Hot Shots wet T-Shirt Contest, scorns Pods, but quickly offers Prayers and Guidance of forgiveness, as she was taught down the street at her Princeton Place of Worship. She advices Pods to seek immediate counseling, go to church every Sunday and to enroll in MCCC’s “How to Make a first impression to a Female” Non-Credit class, starting in January. Now, the young, highly attractive army of young ladies arrive, all decked out in sexy low-cut tops, tight jeans, ready to take over the 12x12 dance floor near the Pysco-Path strange dude, who now realizes he “might” have accomplished his mission by the look on his face. We start dancing a bit, led by Rebecca, who was moving nicely. Pods makes an ill-fated attempt at a sexy-back to back dance move on Rebecca; they wind-up on the floor, rolling around, next to the Pycho-Path dude, while some of the young Pton party girls contempt an early night exit.
As I dig out my coat from under the 25 other coats sitting on top of it, all with smoke, fleas and a spilled Bud Light on it, we exit past the throngs of young revelers, while Pods and I wonder “WHHHHYYYYYY” in the hell are we leaving!!!!! That turns out to be a VERY good question, as we wobble down the sidewalk to enter the ultra-sophisticated WitherSpoon Grill, complete with about 10 people in the establishment, all wondering “WHHHHYYYY” in the hell am I here as well? We move to the bar area, as my drink order is filled by two new-comber friend-dudes of Rebecca, who seem to have no problem ordered an entire round for every person in the immediate area. I then ask, WHHHHYYYY Not?!! So, here we are, Pods and I kicking and screaming over the loss of our hot female dance counter-parts, only to be drinking $7.00 Dogfish brews, while listening to smooth jazz instead of retro-club, while contemplating HOW we’re going to get home. Yes, Pods and I concocted this plan of “no drinking and driving”, with him and his lady coming over to our place first, only to have our female counterparts leave us early, leaving us with no ride home. A great plan, if I may say so. After an earlier Eman/Lisa failed request, Gman/Su offered us the lift, which we quickly rejected due our drunken state and an ill-fated follow-on plan B that Pods and I could somehow return to the PSBG hot-check laden dance floor for a second chance. Still without a ride home (and no BillyBob overnight hotel stay as rumored), leaving us to ponder if we will be soon sleeping on our piss laden ground under the Palmer Square Christmas Tree, getting a ride home from a taxi driven by Mohammed for $50, or left to die in the Princeton wilderness, only to found in the morning by a homeless guy. Brilliant plan, if I may say so. Desperation begins to kick-in, as I head over to the upscale men’s room, complete with pictures of the Princeton 1897 football games, I run into Ed, husband of Dow Jones acclaimed cyclist Erin, who, upon finishing reading all the wall photos, ask him where he lives; he says “Lawrenceville”, which brings a giant sized smile to my face. As he heads back to the bar to join his wife Erin, Pods and I muster up the courage to ask for the much-needed ride home, to which they replied “sure!”. All is merry and well, we offer drinks, steaks, body-shots, all which are flatly rejected. One condition made by Erin was that Pods not shout “F____K Witherspoon Grill” on the way out the door, which he blatantly ignored. No sleeping underneath the Christmas tree this year. Tamps and his crew are over at the far end of the bar, somehow making sure to stay as humanly far away from the main bar area as possible, in what I believe was an effort to ensure they are NOT positively ID’d as the key decision makers to leave the hot girl laden PSBG bar that Pods and I wanted to own by now. I am hungry by now, so I contemplate ordering a $35 Steak sandwich appetizer, but instead, keenly note the full plate of left-over Italian bread, sitting on the yet to be cleaned off empty table next to me. I lunge for the bread and begin woofing it down, all to the astonishment of the TDDoC crowd. The lovely brunette bar maid notices, who proceeds to send me a dirty look, while I think she contemplated my early removal from the establishment. A great night had by all.
