Qua-dra-phe-nia (kwa-dra-fee-nee-a) n. 1 A tour of four Levittville bars.
Of the many things and thoughts spoken of and spoken aloud, and sometimes accomplished, but rarely spoken of again and rarer even blogged about, Quadraphenia comes to mind.
As a celebration of Levittvilles finest historical pubs and current trendsetting drinking establishments, Quadraphenia was dreampt ought with the best intentions, as a melding of old and new to bridge the generational drinking gap.
Currently, Quadraphenia rests in the backwaters of the hooligan mind, to be thought of not and its memory dusted off if only for the purposes of this aspiring blog.
Quadraphenia began as any other night, with Pipe Adams growing anxious and commencing activities alone. Drinking. In his garage.
A short while thereafter Mr. Adams ventured to Gore’s Olde Tyme Irish Pub and an even shorter while thereafter was he joined by Marlo Leelan Brown and his comfort girl for the evening Loo-loo. A round of toasts and boasts preceded much anticipation, or rather chagrin, for the boy of the evening Brady Taylor Thomas had yet to arrive. The Hooligans amused themselves with the AIDS infected barkeep, who informed our patrons that all is on the up and up at Gores Old Tyme Irish Pub and that it is certainly not a place that where narcotics are brought or bought or even sold. She pointed out the many cameras that Gore’s principle shareholder, Donny, had placed around the place to ward off any evildoers, lest they be captured on celluloid and shown to the authorities. Not only is Gores a law-abiding establishment, she said, but it is also a pretty happening place. However, as luck would have it, the Hooligans had arrived on a bizarre “off-night” where only two regulars sat stinking drunk at the bar. The hooligans did not care. Brady arrived and they bemused themselves with a video poker machine before taking the cue and continuing on with Quadraphenia.
To Fife and Drum Ale House!
Arrgh matey! Arrgh! A true drinking experience in Levittville would not be complete without a trip to the Fife says I!
Oh what glorious times had the hooligans at the Fife and Drum Ale House that evening. Pipe and Marlo regaled Loo-loo and Brady with tales of days past spent at the ol’ Drum, playing hacketty sack and drinking Michelobs on the back veranda inhaling the sickly sweet fumes of the Chinese Food place’s dumpster. In remembrance, Marlo sniffed the air like a finely rolled Cuban cigar and Pipe quaffed down yet another pint. All was well at the ol’ Fife and Drum. It being near Christmas time, the oil paintings and art nouveau sketches which hang on the wall were covered in wrappings, so as to resemble presents. The giggling Brady, ever so mischievous, coyishly eyed one and peeled back the wrapper, in the process sending all the hooligans into laughing fits.
And that is how the hooligans left The Fife and Drum Ale House that wintry eve.
And that is how I’d like to remember it.
To Monsignor Beerys!
The hooligans drudged on in the cold lament and finally made it Mr. Beery’s funtime pub. Hark! Quadraphrenia was now halfway complete!
The hooligans continued to imbibe and this time it was on the most sumptuous brews in all of Levittville. You see friends, Mr. Beery’s funtime pub has the grandest selection of all, with beers on tap from the farthest reaches of the globe. Mr. Beery makes a habit of traveling-ling-ling to the farest, fairest, and fanciest ports of call throughout the world. From each strange new place he’ll select two of the finest casks of beer he can find. But only two because thats all he can carry. One on each shoulder mates! And as luck would have it Mr. Beery was due in at any moment! My eardrums still ring from the whistles and cheers from when Steven Q. Beery burst through that saloon door, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. Onto the bar he placed two weather worn casks. In a booming voice he announced the origin of these brews to be Siberian. Mr. Beery had just walked across the Bering Strait! “But you must rest Steven, you’re feet must be tired!” implored the crowd. With a booming laugh Steven replied that he was merely thirsty. And with that he picked up the cask and finished it all in one gulp. “To Steven Q. Beery” shouted the hooligans in unison, raising their glasses. They followed this up with some slam dancing and were off
To Parkside Pub sirs!
To bring closure to the eve, the hooligans toured the backstreets of Levittville, passing little Mikhail Srogatoy’s cottage with a wink and a nod, on their way to the Parkside pub. There the hooligans were met with a sumptuous holiday buffet. As usual, Pipe engorged himself on chicken parmigiana, buffalo chicken wings, fried calamari, buttered lobster rolls, stir-fried eggplant, grilled cheese and tomato muffins, cans of sardines, snail entrails, spotted dick, gorganzola stuffed avacadoes, peppermint poppers, penguin breasts, stuffed quail, fried soft-shell crab sandwiches, and shawshank redemption sandwiches. Brady had some bits and pieces here and there out of want of hunger while Marlo and Loo-loo turned their nose at the whole affair and a game of billiards was played and lost against a gas pumping Peruvian pool shark. Thoughts and conversations turned to reflection on the evening spent touring Levittvilles finest.
The hooligans made their exit at the appropriate moment and took a long slow cold walk towards home, home being Gores for one last round. And as they made their way through the falling snow flakes and through Levittvilles frost dappled night, the memory of Quadraphenia was filed away forever.