Lame Adventure 7: A Shout Out to Martini Max on His Birthday!

Although my goal is to stick to a schedule where I’ll do my best to publish new posts on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I am making an exception for my dear friend, Martini Max, who is celebrating his blankety-ninth birthday today.  How can I ignore the man who toiled with me for ten years in the salt mines of network news before we broke free and he became the film culture czar of Fort Lee, New Jersey and I, the Minister of Tile Labeling in Gotham City?  Even though we parted work-ways seven years ago, Max remains one of my dearest friends to this day.  So buddy, this post is for you.

Max waxing poetically with his hand.

In honor of Max, Mr. Peabody and Sherman have granted me use of their Wayback Machine, so I can accurately relay a Lame Adventure I shared with him ten years ago when we celebrated my blankety-first birthday.

Mr. Peabody and Sherman and the Wayback Machine

It was an unseasonably warm day in early May.  Even though I pride myself on being a low maintenance woman, Max is a very generous guy, or as his mother, Gloria Corleone, is fond of saying, “My son, the portrait of a fool with his money.”  Max wanted to do something memorably special for me, so rather than slam a frosty pint or two (or three) and scarf a plate of chicken fingers in our favorite Irish watering hole, the Emerald Inn, Max announced that we were going to imbibe fancy libations with the swells at the Central Park Boathouse.

Central Park Boathouse

Our news network was located on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, near 67^th Street and Central Park West, and the Boathouse is towards the East Side of Central Park at approximately 74^th Street, so getting there was a bit of a hike.  There are no subway or bus stops inside Central Park.  Considering the sweltering heat of that particular day, Max reasoned that hiking the equivalent of the Bataan Death March for the reward of an icy cold martini in idyllic surroundings would offset the daily hell of our workplace environment where we spent eight hours trapped in a freezing dungeon writing detailed reports about news minutiae until our eyes glazed over.  Since he was game to do this, so was I.

Halfway into the park Max’s cell phone started ringing.  His (now former) wife Bruni (diminutive of Brunhilde) was calling but Max was unable to get his minibrick cell phone out of the holster on his belt fast enough.  This infuriated Bruni.  Max called her back, and after she yelled and he listened, she asked to speak to me.  I was a little nervous, but she just wanted to wish me a happy birthday, and was very pleasant.  Since she worked on the East Side of Manhattan, which was not far from where we were heading, I invited her to join us.  When Max heard that he kept mouthing “no!” and repeatedly did the cut sign across his throat.  Much to Max’s relief, Bruni, declined my invitation.  For the rest of our trek, Max questioned if the heat had impaired my judgment.

The former Mrs. Martini Max.

Finally, we reached the Boathouse.  We had only seen it from a distance during our many lunch break hikes in the park.  Once we saw Donald Trump, and I recall asking Max, “What’s going on with his hair?”  Max suggested,  “Why don’t you ask that question again a little louder to make sure you offend him?”  On another occasion where we were strolling by the lake, we saw a guy jump in, and an elderly woman insisted that Max “do something.”  It didn’t help the situation when I chimed in, “Yeah, Max, you jump in the lake, too.”

There we were on this very August-like May day sitting at a lakeside table with the fat cats and their emaciated mistresses and girlfriends.  We were not familiar with any of the overpriced drinks on the menu so Max suggested we order the Blue Curacao Martini.  I said, “Max, do you know what that is?  Is it good?”  Nibbling on a bread stick the size of a bamboo shoot, Max said, “Life’s an adventure, my friend.  Open your mind to new things.  Bask in the luxury of these surroundings.  How bad can it be?”  He waved his hand extravagantly.

A short while later, the server arrived with two vibrant blue martinis.  Max lifted his glass, and I did the same with mine.  An eloquent speaker, Max delivered a heartfelt toast in my honor and decreed, “For a broad who’s getting old, you’re still looking young.”  We clinked our glasses and sipped.

And did we have a hard time swallowing.

My eyes bulged and I cannot recall any other time I so wanted to projectile spit and that includes when I had to drink two liters of slimy salty lime flavored colon cleanser.  Yet, I knew these drinks were costing Max a king’s ransom and I did not want to seem like an ingrate, so I held my breath and got it down.  “Refreshing,” I lied.  Max appeared to be spitting his into his napkin.  He said, “Don’t bullshit me, you know this tastes like, like, what, help me here?”  I suggested, “Windex?”

Windex Martini

The server approached and asked, “Is everything good?”  Max said, “Lovely.  Can we have the check, please?”  The server returned with our bill, Max paid, and then we made a bee-line through the Sahara-like conditions to our favorite Irish saloon on Manhattan’s West Side.

As we shot through the park, I noticed a fellow walking ahead of us who every three or four steps would turn and face us.  Then, he would shout at the top of his lungs, “Columbia!”  I said, “Max, why’s he yelling at us, and what’s the significance of Columbia?  You think he’s a graduate?”  Max announced through clenched teeth, “He’s the Central Park Loon, you idiot!  If you want to live to see your blankety-second birthday, don’t make eye contact with him!”  Much to our relief, Mr. Loon needed to take a bathroom break, so we escaped Central Park with our lives intact.

A short while later, we entered the Emerald Inn, panting like mush dogs.  Our regular waitress, Diane, was there and she said, “The usual guys?”  Max said, “Yeah.”  We climbed onto two bar stools and within seconds two frosty pints of Bass Ale were sitting before us, and within seconds of that, two drained ale glasses were before us.  Max told me that Bass Ale never tasted so good to him as it did that day, when it washed the taste of those Windex Martinis out of our mouths.

An oasis.

Magical libation.

When I next see you, Max, a Beefeater Martini garnished with some fat green olives is on me.  Happy Birthday Pal!

Max's birthday present from Lame Adventures Woman