...for there was no room in the pub

No room in any pub, in fact.

sweh and I wandered back and forth across Manhattan searching for someplace reasonably quiet to drink and feed and escape the giant cloud of stupid that has hung over the land.

#1, The Full Shilling (our usual default as it's right by his office): imported a band from Canada for the evening. Packed, loud, and kitchen apparently closed.

#2, the overflow pub up the block: Closed for some Goldman-Sachs thingy.

#3, some random place sweh knew of, down two and up one: Dinner section closed for private party.

Fuck Wall Street, let's go to the Ginger Man in midtown. It has lots of beer and giant comfy chairs and is usually empty early in the week.

#4, Ginger Man: mobbed with some damn LIU alumni event.

"I got nothing." sweh led me therefore back to the Village to one of our other haunts, which meant I had spent $6 in subway fares to get back to the stop I'd begun with. I was not sanguine, as they are known to sometimes have (really awful) live bands during the summer, but...

#5, Fiddlesticks: Dark, quiet, nigh-empty. THANK YOU GOD. And life took on a rosier glow as I gnawed through a pile of black puddings.

But, I mean, Tuesday. TUESDAY. WTF?