I like my drinks with a splash of literature...

Last night, I ventured out of the Village to explore some nightlife on the other side of the city.

I know. I'm having trouble believing it, too.

I took a cab ride from the bar named after Darcy (Fat, Black Pussycat) to 81st and Amsterdam (best $18 I've ever spent...the subway system a little before midnight on a Saturday? No, thankyou). We started at a place called McAleer's and then went on to this great bar called The Dead Poet.

To say we 'went on' doesn't quite cover it. I mean, as English Lit geeks, we were drawn to this bar. We were compelled.

And the bar was worthy of the name. They had literary quotes on the wall, old books shoved into crevices, and drinks named after- what else?- dead poets. Poe, Wilde, Keats...I tried the Yeats (how could I resist).

The Yeats was like an alcoholic's midori sour. It was good, but the poet himself wouldn't have been caught dead drinking it. The man who wrote 'The Second Coming' did not enjoy the taste of sour melon. A drink named after Yeats should, we decided, taste like Irish whiskey and bitterness.

But don't think that just because we discuss the literary merits of cocktails that we don't have good, normal times at bars. My friend got in a fight with the bouncer and he took her martini away. There were shots and flirtations and now forgotten conversations about absolute drivel. English geeks are just like normal people...except we have to get up the next morning and read long nineteenth century novels. And then we blog to avoid the reading.

In other news...

The people who live upstairs have loud morning sex. Very loud. Once, one of the guys who lives upstairs came down and complained about our music volume. Can you lodge a noise complaint about sex?