A week ago Friday, a group of misfits were enjoying the first warm Spring Friday afternoon with a well deserved happy hour at Fiddlesticks when we spotted you walking by talking on your cellphone. Because we're a debaucherous lot, it seemed not only natural but fitting that we'd befriend you, or at least gain a celebrity "high five." It was not our intention to become "that group" which, inevitably we did, albeit much later in the evening. Our sending your table a round of shots was in no way meant to piss off your ladyfriend. We would have felt guilt when you retreated to the same spot as the cell phone call to console her, but were too intent in our quest to gain every passing New Yorker's "high five" slap to let the guilt last longer than a fleeting wince.
Out of respect (or embarrassment), we moved this week's installment of High Five Happy Hour uptown to terrorize the residents of Amsterdam and 80th/81st.
The High 5 Crew