A bender.  That’s all I can say about this weekend.  I stayed with Site Guy Brendan and my buddy John and there was not a two hour stretch between Thursday at 10pm though Sunday night when I was conscious and didn’t have a beer, which is pretty standard for Boston visits.  And marvelous, but also severely damaging to my health and well-being. 

Some things I learned: 

Site Guy Brendan is a champion among, well, lesser drunks
Aside from working together on this site, Site Guy Brendan and I are actual friends in real life.  We first started hanging out in our junior year of college, when Brendan and I (along with our buddies Doug and Gary) took Computer Science I together.

My plan, at the time, was to minor in Computer Science.  I figured this would nicely complement my history major, and perhaps I even had an inkling that I would be one greatest celebrities the internet has ever seen.  However, six weeks later I had withdrawn from the class, as I had never had such an intellectual ass-fucking like I did in CSI.  My buddy Doug also dropped the class.  My buddy Gary toughed it out and didn’t do so well.  Brendan got an A.  Thus began his road to Site Guy Brendan.

But what I like about Brendan is that despite being a total computer nerd, he, like the rest of my friends, likes to drink beer.  I arrived at his and John’s apartment at 10pm on Thursday night.  We stayed in watching the basketball games and whacking beers.  John went to bed at midnight.  Brendan and I stayed up drinking.  And drinking.  And drinking some more.  Finally, just before 3am, I had to cut him off (he had to go to work the next day), for free that he might die on me, right there in the living room, from alcohol poisoning. 

And that was just the beginning of what can best be described as a clinic.  On Friday night, once again John went to bed early and Brendan and I stayed up, this time until 4am, when I didn’t cut him but rather said, "You can keep drinking, but can you do it in your bedroom?" (as I was sleeping in the living room). 

His performance peaked on Saturday night when he threw up on the floor of the bar but continued to drink through it.  I always marvel at people who do this; I am a terrible pussy when I puke and need my mom to come help me immediately.  But Brendan stood strong and kept on drinking.

So kudos to Brendan, who gets the weekend award for “Biggest Fucking Disaster.”  Enjoy it while it lasts, fuck-o.  Because I’m aiming for you next time around.   

I miss Hong Kong
There is a bar in the Faneuil Hall area of Boston called Hong Kong.  It’s a little hole in the wall, but it serves something called Scorpion Bowls.  As you might guess, the Scorpion Bowl is a mystery concoction, served in a giant bowl with several straws.  It is pretty potent. 

After one, I was undeterred.  After the second, the fruit juice that the Scorpion Bowl is made of stripped away the lining of my esophagus.  After third, I was not only sufficiently shithoused, but I was now fighting back my own stomach acid, blood, and vomit.  Oh, the joys of drinking.

I have not found anything like this in NYC – a specialty drink that puts one over the edge.  If anyone knows of a bar that serves something like this, please let me know.  These bad boys really accelerate the night and make possible some terrible, terrible decisions.  

Crab rangoon = fucking awesome
Can we take a moment to give credit where credit’s due and marvel at the crab rangoon?  Since moving to Chinatown, I don’t eat Chinese food, but we got some up in Boston at the end of Sunday night and it was spectacular.  Still being a month long vegetarian, I got only the seafood options, including some crab rangoons, which I ate approximately 20 of.

I mean, it’s got a healthy dollop of cream cheese with chunks of crab in it, covered in a fried shell.  So simple, but so perfect.  I plan on making a conscious effort on eating a lot more of these. 

(Not at point here, just saying they’re very good.) 

Don’t fucking touch me
Unless it is under the auspicious of love making, I do not like to be touched.  Hell, even whilst love making, I’d much rather touch than be touched.  I think this is because anytime a woman is doing something to me in bed (or in a stairwell, as the case may be), I’m thinking, “Good lord – there is NO way that she’s enjoying this right now.”  Therefore I can’t enjoy it.  But let’s not go down that road right now. 

On Saturday night, while drinking the Scorpion Bowls, which we only started drinking after we’d been at a sports bar for six hours during the day, my friends Danielle and Lena kept on touching up on me.  This was not sexual in any way; on the contrary, it was torturous.  Both are old college friends and know of my dislike of being touched, poked, and prodded, but they did so anyway just to piss me off.  And piss me off it did.

But it also did something that I didn’t tell them or anyone else: made me puke.   Yup, after getting fucked with for a good portion of the night, squirming and saying, “Seriously, knock it off!”, I calmly walked into one of the most disgusting bathrooms in Boston, closed the door, and pulled the trigger.

And boy was I a pussy about it.  Like I said, I’m not a good puker and I was not happy about the whole situation.  There were some tears shed.  And maybe some prayers said.  But I cleaned up as best I could, rinsed out, and drank water for a while.  I was eventually able to bounce back, thanks to a lot of water and another Scorpion Bowl.  But god that sucked.   

The moral?  Don’t touch me.  Because I’ll throw up.     

(Mild) fame = free booze
I hardly ever get recognized.  That is to say, I’m rarely out in a social situation and someone says, “Hey, are you that retard with the blog?”  But when it happens, it totally gives me a boner.

On Saturday night, after the sports bar, the Scorpion Bowls, and the puking, my buddy Bill and I escaped the masses to go to another bar.  This next bar was a big one, a dance-type bar.  I don’t really know why Bill and I went there, but I don’t know why I do a lot of things when I’m drunk.  

I went up to the bar to order two Bud Lights.  The bartender brought them back and asked what my name was.  When I told him Jason, he said, “Oh yeah – I read your stuff.  You wanna do a shot?”  Umm, yes.  Yes, I do. Very much so. 

I know I should be cool about this and act like it’s not a big deal, but I thought that was pretty awesome.  The only times I’ve been called out on the blog is through friends of friends or stuff like that.  But never has a bartender, a server of booze (!), recognized me and bought me shots (!!). 

(And I know that I sound like a douche even writing about this, but I don’t care). 

So the bartender, Bill and I did the largest shots of Jager I’ve ever seen, which I promptly spilled down my shirt.  My regret was that I was not able to properly talk to/thank the dude, as I was bombed and it was loud as fuck in there.  But thank you, Mr. Bartender.  By providing me with free shots, you have completely validated myself and my work here.  God bless you, sir.      

Cabs in Boston are fucking terrible
I know I write about this every fucking time I got to Boston, but the cab situation is unbearable up there.  Everyone leaves the bar at the same time, heading out into the sub-zero wind chill weather.  And cabbies become gods.

Unlike New York cabbies, who by law are required to take a passenger to any destination in the five boroughs, Boston cabbies can pick and choose where they go.  So even if you finally manage to flag a cab down among the hordes leaving the bars, he still might not take you to where you want to go because, I don’t know, he doesn’t feel like it.  Fucking bullshit. 

I am surprised that there is not a) more fighting and b) more sex with cabbies.  Fighting because I was tempted, after standing drunk in the cold for 20 minutes at 2am, to punch the face, neck, and head of the next cabbie to refuse to take me to Dorchester.  However, if I were a woman, I would have at least offered a handjob for a free ride to my destination.  Boston is really fucking cold.

Amateur hour/breaking tradition was in vogue
Every Sunday of St. Patty’s Day weekend there’s a parade in Southie.  Every year my friends have an all day party to celebrate the parade.  And every year since I graduated college, my friends Dave and Bill and I have cooked an Irish breakfast for the partygoers.  Until this year.

When I woke up at 9:30am on Sunday morning to get showered and head over to Southie, I looked at the clock and said, “Nope.”  I woke up again at noon, and didn’t make it out until 2pm.  Five years of tradition wasted, because I am getting older and weaker.  Crap.  

This makes me sad, but there’s not much I can do.  I still went out for the parade on Sunday and pretty much don’t remember anything after 6pm.  Fortunately, thanks to my cell phone, I have a record of Sunday evening, as I sent approximately 900 text messages to just about everyone in my phone, mostly them filled with typos and/or sexual advances.  I’m not very smooth when I’ve been drinking for 72 hours.  But I did wind up getting a very long hug from my buddy Dave at the end of the night, so not all was lost.  Oh, and some girl at the party fell and one of her boobs almost came out, so that was pretty sweet, too. 

*****

There’s more, I’m sure, but I’m home sick from work today and can’t continue.  Pray for me.  And bring me some ice cream.  Please.