Beer

I've consumed so much beer these last few days that if I never see another beer again I honestly think I'll be fine.  The better for it, perhaps.  We're talking gallons, at least one of which was consumed at the Old Town Bar on 18th Street.  Because you people think I always go to Peter McManus.  Which is patently wrong.

Actually, the Old Town and McManus are kindred spirits.  Although the Old Town is slightly more of a tourist place, they have the same neighborhood-ly feel and a sense of themselves as the PMC.  Case in point, the Old Town had a sign on its door saying "No Santas Allowed."

Because Saturday night was Santa-Con.  I don't know what that specifically meant, but functionally, it meant that the streets of New York were littered with fully-drunk college kids half-dressed as Santa Claus, slogging around in six inches of snow.

The snow was fun.  The Santas, less so.

The Old Town also makes a vastly better Nachos Grande than McManus (which, upon reflection, doesn't make them at all).  By Nachos Grande I mean a plate of chips with chili, cheese, sour cream, ideally guacamole, and maybe some salsa.  Not to be confused with Ariana Grande.  Who, if I were her father, I'd spank soundly and then say that the next time she goes on-stage she should remember to bring the bottom half of her dress.