The first time I went to the Lava Lounge, I remember being decidedly cross about the fact that they didn't have liquor. You should not be allowed to call yourself a lounge if you don't have whiskey. Thankfully, that error has been corrected and you can now imbibe whatever foolish cocktail you want, including the Chambord kamikazes that have just been ordered for us by Strangercrombie auction winner Columba McGlynn. McGlynn is the winner of a night of serious drinking with me, managing art director Kelly O, and ad rep Kara Hoppe, and this is our second stop on a skull-crushing pub crawl that will eventually grant me a hangover on par with the one I awoke to on New Year's Day. We've been fortunate enough to snag the coveted front booth, an oasis of privacy. Wood-paneled and nearly womb-like, the booth is adorned with a three-part series of photos documenting the eruption of Mount St. Helens and an antique, nautical-themed mirror. Through the window looking out onto Second Avenue, we observe one of the colorful characters who've seemingly been following us throughout the evening--a preening fellow in a very ill-fitting, scarlet-colored suit. The DJ is doing an admirable job at the moment, managing a tricky segue between the Beastie Boys' "Brass Monkey" and the Velvet Underground's "Black Angel's Death Song." A trip to the ladies' room finds a flush-faced young woman racing through the door to relieve herself after a lengthy road trip from Spokane and two seriously drunk college girls arguing about the value of ordering Jägermeister shots to accompany their raspberry vodka and Red Bulls--a scenario that makes me feel diabetic just hearing about it. We down one last round of vodka sodas, relinquish our booth to a grateful gaggle of women, and start making our way up to our next destination, the Canterbury on Capitol Hill. HANNAH LEVIN