What's up, Doc's

There have been countless times over the past few years that I have gone somewhere with The Joker, had a few drinks, and, at some point, told him he would be driving home.

Until Friday night, he never actually had to do it.

It had been years since I went out drinking in NYC -- other than a few trips to The Culture Club (which is still awesome). Back in the day, I would go out to one bar another in the city at least once a week. But since my friend, Sam, moved out, and since most of my friends have gotten married, become parents, and gotten lame, there really hasn't been much occasions for getting a crew together and heading across the Hudson.

Sure, I still go out. But it's usually in Jersey and, more often than not, it's to everyone's favorite South Bound Brook establishment for some raucous shtick and scintillating karaoke.

It was nice to recapture my fading youth, even for one night, and the place that had the honor is my new favorite East Village bar, Doc Holliday's.

A few weeks ago, while on my most recent AC jaunt, I befriended a nice young lady in the Borgata's poker room (who is also a hell of a poker player -- well, for a GURRRL -- ...I keed! I keed!). It turns out, she is the manager at Doc's, and one of the bartenders on Friday nights.

Over the past couple of weeks, she's told me repeatedly how much fun the place is and that I should come out, so I blew off band practice Friday night and The Joker and I headed in.

This place was right up my ally.

It's small, quaint, and definitely can be classified as a "dive bar," which is my favorite kind.

The jukebox is completely stocked with country music, which I dig, the clientele -- at least that night -- was bereft of the elitists yahoo yuppy toolboxes that often populate city bars, and both bartenders (Joanna and Alyssa) were half in the bag by the time we rolled in a little after 10 bells.

Less than an hour later, as I downed my third or fourth Captain and Diet (which were about 80 percent Captain and 20 percent Diet) and my second or so shot of Patron, I tossed The Joker my keys, told him he was driving home, and, as it turned out, meant it.

I kept drinking and enjoying the atmosphere, enjoyed some spirited shtick with the bartenders, bouncers, and some of the other patrons, and, we even raised a toast to the late, great George Carlin.

I am happy to report, enjoyed one of my all-time Top 10 benders that evening. I don't know how I continued to function. It was my first hardcore, all the way, drunken stupor since opening day 2006 at the Jets tailgate, where I consumed the large majority of a bottle of Captain Morgan on my own. Some of you witnessed that bit of fun.

We had a blast. Even The Joker, who was forced to remain relatively dry for the evening, reported he had a good time. I thoroughly recommend Doc Holliday's on your next trip into NYC. I might have to add it to my St. Patrick Day route -- well, assuming I can get back on that route this year after a two-year absence due to work conflicts (don't worry, Brooke, we'll still be starting the day at McSorley's).

For those of you who might be wondering, the answer is no. I did not pass out, I have not puked, and other than some minor queasiness and a general haze, I am none the worse for wear today.

Yes. I am hardcore (man taking a bow)