Ever wake up on a Saturday morning and feel like Madbury Road is wrapped around your neck? And no matter how many times you walk up and down Main Street, you just don't see anything new? Yes, the small town blues, the suffocating feeling that there is nothing outside of Durham is a common lament among restless UNHers. Boston is cool for a necessary escape, but the city is far, expensive and usually entails a complicated journey. I guess the next best option is Portsmouth, a sort of poor man's Boston. It's got the New England charm, decent commerce and most importantly to the school weary student, numerous bars and pubs. So for all of you willing and of age MSM is bringing you the first and admittedly unconventional bar review of Portsmouth.

The idea was to go out on a Portsmouth pub crawl, ascending on the port city like drunken pirates freshly docked and looking for some fun and to hopefully drum up a gonzo bar review in a fashion less fragmented than our memories of the evening. Our crew consisted of Julie and I representing the Main Street staff, and three other hooligans, an elite group of my buddies, whom I chose based on the fact that their partying thresholds have been primed after 3 years of college. They were not going to lag during our journey. We brought a tape recorder and a digital camera to ensure journalistic integrity. We took the Wildcat Transit to Market Square at 8, which saved us a designated driver, but left us without a ride home, but that is another story among a dozen other stories.

The Muddy River Smoke House The Muddy River Smoke House was our first stop. Known for it's live music and all you can eat rib deals, The Smokehouse is located on 21 Congress Street. Beer, live music and meat are definitely a winning trifecta, but there was no time for charred swine and distortion, there were other bars to patronize and we could not be slowed. So we drank our beers in the well-lit basement as a band was setting up in front of a small linoleum dance floor. With the right music and ample spirits, I am sure the Smoke House could be a good time. Perhaps it was the early hour, but the crowd was older and when I saw a child in a high chair a few seats down I knew it was time to leave.

The Rusty Hammer The Rusty Hammer on 49 Pleasant Street is a pretty laid back place with an older clientele as well. At a few minutes to 9 people were still eating. It seemed to be a popular dating place, as young professionals making eyes occupied many of the tables. We ordered two pitchers of domestic swill and sat in the corner, feeling young, out of place and out of love. It looked like a good place to have dinner, but if it's crazy nightlife you are after, you may want to continue your search across the street.

The State Street Pub The State St. Pub was the next bar in sight, just a few steps from The Hammer on, well State St., dummy. It is a nice sports bar with dozens of TVs surrounding the center island bar, showing every sport imaginable. The patrons are the kind of people who aren't afraid to go out in their sweatpants with their Pats t-shirt tucked into the elastic waistband. Brian, Eric and Mike took 1st and 2nd at Photo Hunt; a touch screen game where you investigate two seemingly identical nudie pictures (your choice, male or female) for subtle differences. With a keen eye for missing nipples and panty lines the boys decided they deserved another round to celebrate. So with the televisions on mute and the speakers screaming out rock, we sat and soaked up the ambience.

Jack Quigley's Pub Jack Quigley's Pub on 111 State Street was a recommended stop by the State St. bouncers. So with no planned itinerary, it would be our next stop. It was a two-floor pub with traditional booth seating and loud music. This was probably the first bar we went to with a predominately college aged crowd. We stayed on the lower floor because there was a cover charge to go upstairs and listen to the live music. We were not interested in live music; we were there to drink and besides, Super Freak was pumping out of the speakers, and that sufficed. The crowd was jovial, the booths crammed with people swaying and singing. Mike and Eric suggested Irish Mist, a syrupy liqueur that leaves you sticky and nauseous in the morning. However, the guys were a bit angered when the bartender confessed there was no more Mist. We settled them down with a quick nip of Jagermiester and barreled out towards Daniel Street, vowing to stop at the next bar.

The Daniel St. Tavern Next to the tattoo shop on Daniel St. lies a little pearl of the Portsmouth local scene. The Daniel St. Tavern is a place that really works to please their customers. Offering pint sized cans of PBR and a baby powdering station located near the pool tables, we were in heaven. Although we may have misunderstood the intended purpose of the baby powder, the regulars were non-judgmental and flashed us grins, a few toothless. Julie was pleased with the music stating it as her "High School Top 20." I think I caught some Melissa Ethridge in there, but I don't want to embarrass her. Mike, Eric and Brian took 1st and 2nd at Photo Hunt once again and Brian proclaimed, "Photo hunt is like my sex life, the uglier she is the better I do." From what I gathered, Daniel St. is more of a local scene although the bartender claimed that people often rush there for last call because they tend to stay open a bit longer than the other bars. All in all the people were friendly, the beers cheap and the ambience cluttered with bric a brac all over the wallsl like a hillbilly TGI Fridays.

The Press Room The Press Room on 77 Daniel St. was the next bar as we walked back towards Market Square. Like Quigley's they were charging a cover if you wanted to go upstairs for the live music. We ordered 5 Stella Artois and sat downstairs, squeezing into the rickety wooden booths that according to Julie resembled misery pews. Well, Stella is practically holy water in some circles, so it works. The mood was dark and lazy, with one large bar and a row of booths along a brick wall and some additional seating towards the back. It is a good place to have a quiet pint of imported with a few friends or a date. Mike said it was the kind of place one would expect live poultry to be running around. Brian felt comfortable saying, "Like any other bar we got this scary guy in the corner so I pretty much feel at home." Eric just eyed some girls in pseudo cowboy, Halloween getups. We sat and tipped our glasses slowly, with one or two trips to the bar for shots. We would need the serene atmosphere before the craziness of Tequila Jack's.

Tequila Jack's The interior of Tequila Jack's looks like a piņata exploded. It's guts paint the walls a mess of southwest colors-pastel blues and oranges. As the name insists we took tequila shots as Brian rapped Vanilla Ice Ice Baby to some adoring middle aged women. The place was definitely popular but overcrowded, and prying myself through a thick crowd just to fetch another round was getting tiresome. It was coming around to 12:30 and it was time to go to The Coat of Arms for last call. There was a line outside Jack's, under the watchful eye of a large bouncer, who, to quote Julie "was like, three me's." We walked out just in time to witness some drama. A large girl was arguing with the bouncer, trying to weasel her way into the already crowded to capacity bar. He just ignored her, so she turned and confided in us. She told us a real tearjerker, stating that she tried to get into the bar by flashing the bouncer but he wasn't impressed with her substantial cup size and still turned her away. She then went on to say something like "I'm going to flash some boob and if that doesn't work I'm gonna flash some knife." That was our cue to bounce to Fleet Street to get one last drink at The Coat of Arms to smooth over the ride home.

The Coat of Arms The Coat of Arms is the kind of place where you get laughed at if you order a domestic brew. Better make it a Guinness with a Jameson back or go back to Tequila Jack's for Corona and Vanilla Ice. It's a cool little pub tucked into the corner of an unassuming, brick building at 147 Fleet St. The bartender at The Coat of Arms, who we'll call Pan, was a burly man with Guinness running through his veins and a beard to match his stature. We decided that he resembled a billy goat and ordered a couple of Strongbows, a sweet and potent cider. The crowd was pretty sparse, but it was nice to be able to hear the person speak next to you. Conversations spanned outside our group of friends as it tends to when you drink a bit, but we found the other patrons to be cheerful and equally inebriated. Then I saw them and my eyes widened like a child staring at the cookie jar atop the fridge. Pickled eggs in a huge glass jar were swimming like pearls in a stagnant, reddish liquid, next to the taps. I had never had one and who was I to deny myself such a treat? So I forked over the dollar thirty-five and I was served the gray egg in a shot glass with a toothpick spiked into it. I salted it and without thinking too much I crammed the sucker into my mouth and cringed as the overpowering taste of vinegar filled my mouth. I quietly placed the half-eaten egg on the bar as my mouth contorted in horror with every chew of the masticated embryo. The bartender let out a long, drawn out "Laaaaast calllll" and it was time to leave.

We decided to reconvene and gather our thoughts at Gilly's, a ramshackle trailer equipped with a few deep fryers and a huge, oily grill. It is conveniently located across the street from The Coat of Arms. Open until the wee hours, it is a favorite of late night souses, those looking to soak up all the booze they hoarded for last call with some cheesy fries and bile raising burgers. It would be at least a 45-minute wait for a taxi back to Durham and we were growing weary, the cheese fries loosing their charm. Our hero emerged out from the drunken youngsters lined up outside of Gilly's. Tony, our salt and peppered haired savior, walked out with two chilidogs and a side of cheese fries gripped in his meaty fists. Maybe it was his appendicular girth, but I swear the guy looked like Santa, his late model Cutlass Supreme, a noble sled. My Jewish denomination aside I decided I could trust the man. I ran up to him and asked him if he was heading towards Durham and if so would he cart off a few stranded undergrads in exchange of 20 bucks and good conversation. After a brief pause he answered, "Yeah, I don't give a shit." Of course he wouldn't give a shit; he was a true humanitarian.

Eric sat up front and traded war stories. They discovered that they were in the same line of business. Tony bounces at Rascals, a bar at the Portsmouth traffic circle and Eric is a hired juggernaut at a bar in Durham. Brian, Mike, Julie and I crammed in the back. Julie scolded me for my childbearing hips, as her own protruding hipbones ground into my thigh with every bump on route 4. Tony got us home safely and we threw him an extra ten for not being too sketchy.

So for all of those tired of sweaty frats and the four bar circuit of UNH, do not hesitate to experience the nightlife of Portsmouth it is believe me, liberating. My only advice is secure a ride home or else you may be stuck hitching rides outside of Gilly's in exchange for something perhaps more valuable than 20 dollars. I would also like to thank all the interesting people met along our journey for the slurred conversations and unprintable statements.

A Philosophy of the Pub-Crawl by Brian Eckert A pub-crawl encapsulates the essence of another time-honored college tradition: the road trip. It is an excuse to get a few friends together and get out of town. There is a spirit of adventure and the frame of mind that no matter how badly you behave, getting kicked out of a place is merely a reason to speed the journey along to the next destination. Yet the advantage of a pub crawl lies in its accessibility; one needs only a single night instead of several continuous days. Look at it as a beginning point for those of you who have aspirations of a road trip, but are limited by funds, motivation and/or mental illness.

Looking back on such a journey, the beginning and end are the easiest to remember, the middle consisting of murky recollections and exaggerated plot lines. But that's the beauty-it's your experience to retell anyway you want. But first, hit the road, Jack. People will be more willing to accept your inflated anecdotes if they take place in an atmosphere of excitement. It's the reason why Vietnam War vets have better stories than house wives.

Let our pub-crawling experience be a lesson that even a slight change in scenery can provide a welcome relief from social doldrums. Weekends should be a break from the snootiness of Monday through Friday, not a continuation of the rigidity of academia. Life has a tendency of creating patterns: daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly. It can get to the point where it seems that if we do not behave according to schedule, our behavior feels wrong or out of place. Don't let this happen! Life cannot take charge; it is us who must take the reins. When you feel that life has trapped you, if meetings and appointments dictate how you plan all your time, if you eat lunch at precisely 12:35 in the MUB every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, do something about it. Take a random trip to visit a friend, skip the meeting and go for a run, visit your grandmother, eat lunch at 1:12 in a sushi bar, get drunk at noon and go on a one-man tirade against Celine Dion.

Adjust your activities to your own taste, of course, the above are mere suggestions. Hell, if you feel that quitting your job and moving to Arkansas would be a welcome change, by all means do it. Random excursions are necessary, though. You don't even have to go anywhere. Stay in bed all day, sleep through your classes and eat breakfast at 5 p.m. Just remember that when life is exhibiting too much control, you have the power to change it.

I chose to come along on the pub crawl for the same reason I would pack my bags and head to Tahiti for the weekend. Mainly, because I knew what I would be doing if I didn't. Relationships are the most exciting at the beginning because there is an air of mystery and excitement. There is still time left in your college career to forge a new relationship with yourself and your friends. Don't wait for spring break to get out of town and come back with a gang of lewd tales. By constantly redefining your norms and habits your spirit will lighten and you will begin to get more out of everything you do. Don't take my word for it, though...