Because Friday was a bad day, things got a little out of control on Friday night.

And the sad thing is, I’m not exactly sure how.  The only thing I remember is waking up on Saturday morning with a random blonde in my bed and one of the top ten worst hangovers of my life.  The rest – the night before, the afternoon after, hell, everything up until about 24 hours ago – is blurry.

If you were able to trudge through the nine pages of sports stuff I posted on Sunday, you may have read that I did not go to Boston this weekend, despite having every intention of doing so.  I packed on Thursday night, lugged my suitcase and 30 pound laptop to work, dropped an egregious $110 on a 6pm train ticket, and was very much looking forward to Beantown.  Knowing that my train would put me into Boston at 9:30pm and I’d have to hit the ground running, for the train ride I bought some little bottles of alcohol which I call nips (but I think that might be racist): three of Maker’s Mark (since they sell ginger ale on board) and three of vodka (to split among the two cans of Red Bull I had in my luggage).  I was going to get a little, maybe a lot, loose on the train.  All day I was sending emails and talking on the phone with my Boston buddies about the weekend’s activities.  I was getting excited.

I was busy at work on Friday but manageably so.  And by about 3pm, it appeared that I had cleared my plate and would be able to sneak out 15 minutes early to make sure I’d catch that 6pm train.  Boston here I come!  Fathers, lock up your daughters!  And maybe any very feminine-looking animals, just to be safe!

And then disaster struck.

Without getting too into it, I was ordered to reorganize a project that I thought was finished at about 3:30pm.  I wound up working until 7:30pm.  The last train to Boston left Penn Station at 7:30pm and wouldn’t get in until midnight, so that was out.  I debated taking a bus, but then I realized: what’s the point at arriving at 1am on Friday night, only to come back on Sunday?  New York to Boston is around 4 hours, usually more.  That’s a lot of traveling for one day in the city.

(Also, buses are for poors.)

So, disgusted with myself and my job, I bagged the trip.  I intend now to go to Boston this weekend, and am taking a half day Friday to ensure I’m out of the office and on a train.  Instead of leaving for Boston at 6pm on Friday, I should be there at 6pm (hopefully).  Now that Boston is back on this coming weekend, I won’t have a weekend in NYC again until January 6 (with jaunts to Boston, Philly, Seattle, and LA coming up, then three consecutive weekends in Philly, one for a drinking tour and two for the holidays), which makes me a little sad, but whatever.

On Friday night, after this great Boston defeat, I was determined to get fucked up.  Like, really fucked up.  I had two vodka red bulls, a bottle of white wine, and then three cans of PBR – and then I went out.  It was my buddy’s 27th birthday "bar crawl" (read: we went to two bars) and things got really out of control: beers, shots, possibly some pain pills, whatever.  I don’t remember much of the evening, but I had a fucking blast.  To wit, the next day, sometime in the afternoon, I found a bar tab from a bar at which I put my card down.  The bill was $35.  For whatever reason, I decided to tip $25.  My math skills weren’t on point that night however, and under total I wrote "$80."  I have no idea what I was actually charged.  Also, I don’t remember going to this particular bar.  At all.  So there’s that.

I was so hungover on Saturday that I did not go out on Saturday night and instead stayed in and watched six hours of shows about prisons (which was actually pretty awesome).  Just before bed I had a glass of a nice Chilean red (in honor of Pablo Neruda, whose memoirs I am reading right now), a half milligram of Xanax (in honor of my father, whose love of pills I inherited), and a shot of NyQuil to wash it all down (that was just for me).  I slept for 11 hours.  It was fucking incredible.

But the missed Boston trip, my hellacious night of boozing, and my downright dangerous and bizarre consumption of sedatives the following night are not the issue.  The bigger issue, the one which concerns me most, is that my employer is trying to turn me into a real employee, not just someone on the payroll who makes personal phone calls, checks his fantasy teams all day long, and writes scurrilous poems about his future ex-wife during staff meetings.  And nowhere is shift from work slacker to professional stud better exemplified than the electronic leash that is now at all times around my neck.  Yes, I, Jason Mulgrew, have been given a blackberry.

Make no mistake: though I love shiny things, I did not want this blackberry.  Not only because I already have a Treo, but because I understood the implications on the blackberry – if you have one, your employer can contact to 24 hours a day and expect you to answer.  My co-workers and I were asked if we would like blackberries and I subtly protested, trying not to sound too much like a slacker, saying that I didn’t think I needed one (which I really don’t) and voicing concerns about the departmental budget (which, on my list of things I’m concerned about, ranks about as high as "I hope my ex-girlfriend is having consistent, non-self-induced orgasms"). 

But there was no resisting, since every member of my department was "rewarded" with a blackberry.  Not only that, when the IT guy brought me the blackberry for the first time, it was though I was expected to start squealing like an five year old on Christmas who just got "Grease" on video (you know, like I did in 1984).  Oh, ok – so you expect me to be happy now, Mr. IT Guy?  Is that it?  I’m supposed to be glad that I will literally carry my work with me all the time now?  Really?  You know what will make me happy?  Making out with someone who’s not after my money.  Or just making out with someone.  Whichever comes first.  Asshole.

As I type this, I have a blackberry clipped to my belt.  Yes, I am rocking a beltclip.  I know, I know – you’re probably thinking, "My, how the mighty have fallen!" or "Man, is this post almost over?", but please, believe me, I have no choice in the matter.  Everyone at work wears their blackberries on their belts.  Company man that I now am, I must to.  Judge if you must, but know that it pains me.

(And the beltclip blackberry is only an in-work type of thing; as soon as I leave my office building, I take the blackberry off and bury it (and the beltclip) somewhere on my person.  Although I can definitely see myself taking the blackberry out at bars and typing away on it, trying to look important in front of women.  And then I can see myself taking out my Treo and typing on that at the same time as the blackberry, making myself look doubly important.  And then I can see some guy coming over and punching me in the face, because I’m acting like a fucking douche.)

The good news is that so far I haven’t received any emails that required urgent attention while I was out of work.  The truth of the matter is that I do not expect to receive such emails, but just the thought that my employer expects to be able to get in touch with me at all times and wherever I am, well, it just really fucking pisses me off. 

(By the way, if any of my co-workers or superiors are reading this, I’m totally kidding.  I love the job.  Seriously.  And not just because it’s bonus season.)

And there are some positives, aside from being flashy, to the blackberry.  For one, it has a game called Brickbreaker on it, which is some sort of Pong-type derivative.  This is great because it allows me to both look busy and do nothing at the same time.  In meetings and lunches, I’m sure I’ll whip out the blackberry and play away, while everyone around me thinks I’m just really busy.  I’ve actually already done this twice, with great results (top score: 5450).

But this blackberry thing is going to take some adjusting.  I’m not really a good worker.  This blackberry might force me to become one.  And what’s that whole thing about what happens when an irresistible force meets an immutable object?  That’s right – fire.  I don’t mean as in "to lose one’s job", I mean, real actual fire.  As in, I’m going to light one.  Soon.  So watch out.   

(Except if my co-workers and/or superiors are reading this.  Then by "fire" I mean "passion to excel."  Excel for that holiday bonus.  Which I really need, since I’ve decided to surprise my family by putting in a pool.  Also, I need it because I apparently spent $80 at a bar on Friday night that I don’t remember even being at.  So gimme that bonus.  Please.)