In early February, I found myself at a pub in New York City. All right, so this is American and here we call pubs "bars", but, since I was with a bunch of Yorkshire Brits at the time, we called it a pub. Said pub, located somewhere in the Village (we had been walking about all day and had about zero clue where the hell we were, but I remember observing Dean & Deluca's just a bit before, which meant that NYU couldn't be far off), had a name that I should have immediately picked up on: "The Slaughtered Lamb."

Like the American backpackers in the movie from which "The Slaughtered Lamb" derives its name, I simply muttered "what the bloody hell kinda name for a pub is 'The Slaughtered Lamb'." Regardless, we entered. On the wall, by what may be perhaps the tiniest bathroom in all of Manhattan, is a poster of An American Werewolf in London.

Continue reading: An American Werewolf In London Review