boston, recap, part one
3 July 2007
First, an admission: my buddy Kyle and I failed in our goal of getting cut off by the bartender on the train ride from NYC to Boston on Thursday night. There were many reasons for this (there were long lines in the cafe car to get beer, there was a two beer per person limit which we sweet-talked to four, they eventually ran out of beer, etc), but frankly, we were out-classed. There were a group of Massholes, financial-type guys in their mid-fifties, who stood in the cafe car drinking chardonnay the entire ride and getting bombed. These guys were really, really impressive. Every time I stood in line, I had to listen to them stammer and scream in their thick Mass accents, "We goht Ray Fahking Allen! Are you fahking serious! Arghh [garbled Masshole talk]!" (Editor’s Note: We rode up the night of the NBA draft). If anyone was getting cut off aboard that train, it was those guys. Back to the minor leagues for Kyle and I.
But despite this early failure, the weekend in Boston was a great success.
Children and ball games
It started in earnest on Friday afternoon, when I had a beer with my haircut at State Street Barbers (God, I love that place). After that, we took a jaunt to Anna’s for, sadly, what was the worst Anna’s burrito I ever had, meaning it was only "very good." After that, we headed back to the apartment of my friends and newlyweds Joe and Danielle where we had some beers before heading out to the Sox game.
I’ve been to Fenway a bunch of times and really like the park. Sure, it’s built for guys who are 5’4" and 140 pounds, but otherwise, it’s a nice park with a lot of pluses: great location in the center of the city, colorful and joyously inarticulate fans, sense of history, etc.
One of the negatives is that vendors are not walking around selling beer (not sure if this is true of the whole stadium or just in our section). Therefore, we had to get up and actually go get beer each time we wanted more. This was a problem at first, but I timed so that with every piss I’d buy two beers. Perfect. Also, we were on the end of the row, meaning I only had to climb over Joe and Dani to get to the aisle, rather than over a dozen people with my size 13 feet down the narrow, narrow row (seriously, the park was built for midgets).
(Note: I did not drop the "size 13" reference in there to subtly suggest that I have a large penis. Far from it. Having such large feet with such a small penis makes the whole situation much, much worse; I’d rather wear size 6 sneakers so I don’t have to hear, "You have big feet – you know what that means!" whenever someone discovers my shoe size. Yes, I know what it means: Nothing. It means I have big feet and can stick my dick in the cap of a water bottle if it’s frightened enough. Asshole God. Giving me big feet a little bird. What a dick.)
What I haven’t mentioned yet was that I was rocked at the game. Friday was one of those loads where you have one beer and immediately feel a difference; I walked out of the haircut place with what felt like a solid buzz after just one beer. The Anna’s "sobered" me up, but after that it was right back to heavy drinking at Joe’s, and by the third inning I couldn’t pay attention to the game. All six of us sort of forgot about it (it was a pretty boring 2-1 Sox win anyway) and talked away. To our dismay, we couldn’t curse, because there was a girl about five years old sitting directly in front of me, between her mom and her aunt. So our discussion about the biggest cockhound we know would have to wait for another day.
The guys in our row further down were also very rocked at the game. They were your standard Red Sox fans, four of them, maybe a few years older than ourselves. They weren’t especially obnoxious (so maybe they weren’t "standard" Red Sox fans), but they annoyed us in that they kept getting up very often, causing my six friends and I to repeatedly stand up so they could squeeze by. Every once in a while this is fine – c’mon, it’s a ball game – but one of the four would get up every half inning. That’s too much.
By the seventh, I had just returned from a beer break, was holding two beers, and was really, really feeling it, in desperate need of a second wind. I sat slumped in my seat while my friends were all out buying more beers or food or taking bathroom breaks. Seeing as it was just me and five empty seats, two of my neighbors decided it would be a good time to walk by me and head for more beers or whatnot.
You can probably figure out how the rest goes: two guys walk by drunk Jason, he struggles to stand and balance himself with a full beer in each hand, they pass by, and as Jason tries to sit down his spills not a small amount of beer in the little girl’s chair in front of him. Fortunately, the little girl was sitting on the edge of her seat, so the beer didn’t directly hit her. Instead, it ricocheted off the back of her chair and splashed her back. Great. My drunk ass had just poured beer on a little girl.
I apologized profusely as the girl fled onto the lap of her mom. I didn’t have any napkins so I began rubbing by bare arm (I was wearing short sleeves) on the back of the little girl’s chair, saying "I’m sorry" over and over again. The adults she was with kept saying, "That’s alright," but it was one of those "that’s alright" that really mean "You’re a real fucking asshole." Again, great.
The good news, however, is that this incident provided me with that much-needed second wind. I was so moved by embarrassment that I was reinvigorated. Now, more awake and alert, I rode this second wind until the bars closed at 2am, enjoying it all the way.
So, little girl, I’m sorry, truly sorry, that I spilled beer on you. Please believe me – I’m a scumbag and a drunk in many ways, but I never thought I’d be the type of drunk who spills his beer on little girls at baseball games. My greatest hope is that you are not scarred by the incident and for the rest of your life you will stay away from fat guys with beards, all on account of my drunkenness. Please accept my apologies. We’re not all like that.
(Actually, it’s probably best if you stay away from fat guys with beards. You’ll be better off in the long run.)
Party floaters, cysts and pepper vodka
Saturday started with a monster hangover and my buddy Bill and I got Anna’s once again. This time I went without the extra cheese and it proved to be a great decision – the burrito was phenomenal. My faith in Anna’s was restored.
(I know – I never thought there was such a thing as "too much cheese," but I’m sad to say there is, my friends. I’m sad to say there is.)
Bill and I then joined Joe, Danielle and Kyle (Kyle was staying with Joe and Dani; I was staying with Bill) for brunch. Bill and I didn’t eat (I originally had "of course" in there, but I don’t think it’s appropriate with Bill and I – the two of us eating again would not have been out of the question) but we had beers and once again, it had started.
Brunch turned into a three-hour affair with several beers and sangria on a rooftop bar on Boylston whose name escapes me. I shouldn’t have to tell you that it was lovely: old friends, warm sunny weather, booze; Trinity of Love.
After brunch, it was back to Joe and Dani’s beautiful apartment on Boylston for several more beers. I took a small nap and before long, it was 8pm and time for some action. We decided to go get some dinner.
(I know – rough weekend. Sleeping, eating, drinking, repeat.)
Without getting too into it, some ugliness ensued. All I’ll say was that the four of them (Joe, Dani, Bill and Kyle) wanted to get sushi, but I don’t like sushi. I pleaded with them for us to go to a restaurant that we all could enjoy, but they didn’t budge. Like a petulant child, while the four of them had dinner at a sushi place next to Bill’s apartment in Beacon Hill, I sat in Bill’s apartment, alone, drinking beer and eating a chicken parm sandwich from a local pizza place. Stupid jerk friends.
The four came back to Bill’s place for more drinks. After 11pm and after much debate and discussion, we finally decided to head out. While out, we met up with our friend Cara and some of her friends, and some of Bill’s co-workers joined us, and the night was in full swing.
But because we’re talking about Boston, the night ended too soon. Just as everyone started enjoying themselves, last call was announced and we were kicked out of the bar. Disgruntled, about 15 of us thought it would be a good idea to head back to Bill’s (tiny, one bedroom) apartment nearby for some nighttcaps.
Things get a little blurry from this point forward.
For one, Bill had a limited amount of alcohol in his apartment. From what I could tell he had maybe 16 beers, a 40 (Joe’s from earlier in the day), a half a bottle of vodka, and a full bottle of Absolut Peppar, which is described as "containing a complex taste of green jalapeno peppers and fiery capsicum spices like paprika and chili." Spicy vodka. Terrific.
Of the 15 people who came back to Bill’s, about six cracked open a beer, had a few sips, then left the party, leaving behind their floaters that were anywhere from half to mostly full. This, I thought, was not a good use of our limited resources.
If you guys have picked up anything about me from reading this site, you know that I’m a team player. My own happiness matters little compared to the happiness of those around me, so I do whatever it takes to improves the lives of those I’m with. I’m just wired that way.
Therefore, I figured it would be a good idea for me to drink these floaters so that everyone else could have fresh, full, new beers. To that end, I discreetly collected the floaters and brought them over to a corner of the kitchen where I could work undisturbed. I then combined them into as few beer cans as possible (from the six I made three nearly full cans), put two open cans in the fridge, and started drinking the other one. Never mind the fact that I only knew two of the people whose old beers I was drinking and probably gave myself hepatitis, the party benefited because of my actions. Winner.
(Did I mention I that I turned 28 in a few weeks?)
Around floater number two, we started exploiting Bill’s cyst. You see, my buddy Bill, formerly of "Average Joe: Hawaii," has what we believe is a cyst on his back. He first showed this to me about two months ago when he visited me here in NYC, and it was nothing more than a small bump on his back. Now, however, the cyst is somewhere between a golf ball and a racquetball – and appears to be getting stronger. I imagine it is only a matter of time before it is talking, and world domination should follow in about three months.
All weekend long, we were bothering Bill about the cyst, making fun of it but also slapping him on the back or pushing him on the back, just to piss off him and the cyst (apparently, they are painful). But now, drunk at just about 3am, our harassment took on all new levels. We decided that we were going to try to burst Bill’s cyst.
In addition to slapping, Kyle and I spent the night throwing a tennis ball at Bill’s cyst, often doing alley-oops to one another from across the apartment. Joe hit the cyst with a belt. I hit the cyst with a phone book. Bill helped his own cause my getting drunk, falling into his trash cans, cyst-first. Despite our best efforts, the cyst would not burst – it just got purple and red and mean-looking.
Lastly, we ran out of beer (I drank those floaters pretty quickly) and regular vodka. At about 5am, the only thing we had left was the Absolut Peppar – and no ice. Of course, we drank it anyway. I have only one piece of advice to anyone about to drink Absolut Peppar: Don’t. Put it down or, better yet, dump it out into the sink. You’d be better off sucking the alcohol out of your own blood than drinking this vodka. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever tasted and your next-day burps will instantly kill any elderly or infirm people within ten feet of you. And yes, we nearly finished the bottle.
(What else were we gonna do?)
******
Tune in tomorrow for Part Two, featuring a brush with death because of a McDonald’s product and finding another man’s semen in my bed!
But despite this early failure, the weekend in Boston was a great success.
Children and ball games
It started in earnest on Friday afternoon, when I had a beer with my haircut at State Street Barbers (God, I love that place). After that, we took a jaunt to Anna’s for, sadly, what was the worst Anna’s burrito I ever had, meaning it was only "very good." After that, we headed back to the apartment of my friends and newlyweds Joe and Danielle where we had some beers before heading out to the Sox game.
I’ve been to Fenway a bunch of times and really like the park. Sure, it’s built for guys who are 5’4" and 140 pounds, but otherwise, it’s a nice park with a lot of pluses: great location in the center of the city, colorful and joyously inarticulate fans, sense of history, etc.
One of the negatives is that vendors are not walking around selling beer (not sure if this is true of the whole stadium or just in our section). Therefore, we had to get up and actually go get beer each time we wanted more. This was a problem at first, but I timed so that with every piss I’d buy two beers. Perfect. Also, we were on the end of the row, meaning I only had to climb over Joe and Dani to get to the aisle, rather than over a dozen people with my size 13 feet down the narrow, narrow row (seriously, the park was built for midgets).
(Note: I did not drop the "size 13" reference in there to subtly suggest that I have a large penis. Far from it. Having such large feet with such a small penis makes the whole situation much, much worse; I’d rather wear size 6 sneakers so I don’t have to hear, "You have big feet – you know what that means!" whenever someone discovers my shoe size. Yes, I know what it means: Nothing. It means I have big feet and can stick my dick in the cap of a water bottle if it’s frightened enough. Asshole God. Giving me big feet a little bird. What a dick.)
What I haven’t mentioned yet was that I was rocked at the game. Friday was one of those loads where you have one beer and immediately feel a difference; I walked out of the haircut place with what felt like a solid buzz after just one beer. The Anna’s "sobered" me up, but after that it was right back to heavy drinking at Joe’s, and by the third inning I couldn’t pay attention to the game. All six of us sort of forgot about it (it was a pretty boring 2-1 Sox win anyway) and talked away. To our dismay, we couldn’t curse, because there was a girl about five years old sitting directly in front of me, between her mom and her aunt. So our discussion about the biggest cockhound we know would have to wait for another day.
The guys in our row further down were also very rocked at the game. They were your standard Red Sox fans, four of them, maybe a few years older than ourselves. They weren’t especially obnoxious (so maybe they weren’t "standard" Red Sox fans), but they annoyed us in that they kept getting up very often, causing my six friends and I to repeatedly stand up so they could squeeze by. Every once in a while this is fine – c’mon, it’s a ball game – but one of the four would get up every half inning. That’s too much.
By the seventh, I had just returned from a beer break, was holding two beers, and was really, really feeling it, in desperate need of a second wind. I sat slumped in my seat while my friends were all out buying more beers or food or taking bathroom breaks. Seeing as it was just me and five empty seats, two of my neighbors decided it would be a good time to walk by me and head for more beers or whatnot.
You can probably figure out how the rest goes: two guys walk by drunk Jason, he struggles to stand and balance himself with a full beer in each hand, they pass by, and as Jason tries to sit down his spills not a small amount of beer in the little girl’s chair in front of him. Fortunately, the little girl was sitting on the edge of her seat, so the beer didn’t directly hit her. Instead, it ricocheted off the back of her chair and splashed her back. Great. My drunk ass had just poured beer on a little girl.
I apologized profusely as the girl fled onto the lap of her mom. I didn’t have any napkins so I began rubbing by bare arm (I was wearing short sleeves) on the back of the little girl’s chair, saying "I’m sorry" over and over again. The adults she was with kept saying, "That’s alright," but it was one of those "that’s alright" that really mean "You’re a real fucking asshole." Again, great.
The good news, however, is that this incident provided me with that much-needed second wind. I was so moved by embarrassment that I was reinvigorated. Now, more awake and alert, I rode this second wind until the bars closed at 2am, enjoying it all the way.
So, little girl, I’m sorry, truly sorry, that I spilled beer on you. Please believe me – I’m a scumbag and a drunk in many ways, but I never thought I’d be the type of drunk who spills his beer on little girls at baseball games. My greatest hope is that you are not scarred by the incident and for the rest of your life you will stay away from fat guys with beards, all on account of my drunkenness. Please accept my apologies. We’re not all like that.
(Actually, it’s probably best if you stay away from fat guys with beards. You’ll be better off in the long run.)
Party floaters, cysts and pepper vodka
Saturday started with a monster hangover and my buddy Bill and I got Anna’s once again. This time I went without the extra cheese and it proved to be a great decision – the burrito was phenomenal. My faith in Anna’s was restored.
(I know – I never thought there was such a thing as "too much cheese," but I’m sad to say there is, my friends. I’m sad to say there is.)
Bill and I then joined Joe, Danielle and Kyle (Kyle was staying with Joe and Dani; I was staying with Bill) for brunch. Bill and I didn’t eat (I originally had "of course" in there, but I don’t think it’s appropriate with Bill and I – the two of us eating again would not have been out of the question) but we had beers and once again, it had started.
Brunch turned into a three-hour affair with several beers and sangria on a rooftop bar on Boylston whose name escapes me. I shouldn’t have to tell you that it was lovely: old friends, warm sunny weather, booze; Trinity of Love.
After brunch, it was back to Joe and Dani’s beautiful apartment on Boylston for several more beers. I took a small nap and before long, it was 8pm and time for some action. We decided to go get some dinner.
(I know – rough weekend. Sleeping, eating, drinking, repeat.)
Without getting too into it, some ugliness ensued. All I’ll say was that the four of them (Joe, Dani, Bill and Kyle) wanted to get sushi, but I don’t like sushi. I pleaded with them for us to go to a restaurant that we all could enjoy, but they didn’t budge. Like a petulant child, while the four of them had dinner at a sushi place next to Bill’s apartment in Beacon Hill, I sat in Bill’s apartment, alone, drinking beer and eating a chicken parm sandwich from a local pizza place. Stupid jerk friends.
The four came back to Bill’s place for more drinks. After 11pm and after much debate and discussion, we finally decided to head out. While out, we met up with our friend Cara and some of her friends, and some of Bill’s co-workers joined us, and the night was in full swing.
But because we’re talking about Boston, the night ended too soon. Just as everyone started enjoying themselves, last call was announced and we were kicked out of the bar. Disgruntled, about 15 of us thought it would be a good idea to head back to Bill’s (tiny, one bedroom) apartment nearby for some nighttcaps.
Things get a little blurry from this point forward.
For one, Bill had a limited amount of alcohol in his apartment. From what I could tell he had maybe 16 beers, a 40 (Joe’s from earlier in the day), a half a bottle of vodka, and a full bottle of Absolut Peppar, which is described as "containing a complex taste of green jalapeno peppers and fiery capsicum spices like paprika and chili." Spicy vodka. Terrific.
Of the 15 people who came back to Bill’s, about six cracked open a beer, had a few sips, then left the party, leaving behind their floaters that were anywhere from half to mostly full. This, I thought, was not a good use of our limited resources.
If you guys have picked up anything about me from reading this site, you know that I’m a team player. My own happiness matters little compared to the happiness of those around me, so I do whatever it takes to improves the lives of those I’m with. I’m just wired that way.
Therefore, I figured it would be a good idea for me to drink these floaters so that everyone else could have fresh, full, new beers. To that end, I discreetly collected the floaters and brought them over to a corner of the kitchen where I could work undisturbed. I then combined them into as few beer cans as possible (from the six I made three nearly full cans), put two open cans in the fridge, and started drinking the other one. Never mind the fact that I only knew two of the people whose old beers I was drinking and probably gave myself hepatitis, the party benefited because of my actions. Winner.
(Did I mention I that I turned 28 in a few weeks?)
Around floater number two, we started exploiting Bill’s cyst. You see, my buddy Bill, formerly of "Average Joe: Hawaii," has what we believe is a cyst on his back. He first showed this to me about two months ago when he visited me here in NYC, and it was nothing more than a small bump on his back. Now, however, the cyst is somewhere between a golf ball and a racquetball – and appears to be getting stronger. I imagine it is only a matter of time before it is talking, and world domination should follow in about three months.
All weekend long, we were bothering Bill about the cyst, making fun of it but also slapping him on the back or pushing him on the back, just to piss off him and the cyst (apparently, they are painful). But now, drunk at just about 3am, our harassment took on all new levels. We decided that we were going to try to burst Bill’s cyst.
In addition to slapping, Kyle and I spent the night throwing a tennis ball at Bill’s cyst, often doing alley-oops to one another from across the apartment. Joe hit the cyst with a belt. I hit the cyst with a phone book. Bill helped his own cause my getting drunk, falling into his trash cans, cyst-first. Despite our best efforts, the cyst would not burst – it just got purple and red and mean-looking.
Lastly, we ran out of beer (I drank those floaters pretty quickly) and regular vodka. At about 5am, the only thing we had left was the Absolut Peppar – and no ice. Of course, we drank it anyway. I have only one piece of advice to anyone about to drink Absolut Peppar: Don’t. Put it down or, better yet, dump it out into the sink. You’d be better off sucking the alcohol out of your own blood than drinking this vodka. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever tasted and your next-day burps will instantly kill any elderly or infirm people within ten feet of you. And yes, we nearly finished the bottle.
(What else were we gonna do?)
******
Tune in tomorrow for Part Two, featuring a brush with death because of a McDonald’s product and finding another man’s semen in my bed!
