boston, recap, part two
5 July 2007
Continuing our recap of the weekend in Boston…
Death, snackwraps
On Sunday, Kyle and I had tickets to return to NYC via Amtrak (hello, afternoon train boozing!), but our buddy Bill, who was driving to the Jersey shore from Boston, offered us a ride back.
Bill was, to put it mildly, still very shit-canned from the previous night. He woke up at 2pm and we could still smell the booze coming off of him when we hit the road at 5pm. Also, he smelled a little like hoagie, but that’s his natural scent.
I’ve written before that I’m convinced that I’m going to die in spectacular fashion. Hotel fire is still number one on the last, but "fiery eight car crash" is not far behind. Now of course, Bill was not drunk driving when we got in the car – at least, not in the traditional sense. He hadn’t had a drink for about twelve hours, so really, there was nothing for me to be concerned about. But, coming down from such a long and "exciting" weekend, I felt nervous and hypochondriacal as the booze escaped from my body. Not a good feeling.
It was with great anxiety that I got in the car, but soon I saw that we were fine. We scooted out of Boston and along the Masspike without a problem, and I calmed down. We saw a sign for a McDonalds and stopped for some food.
I wasn’t that hungry, but hey – fuck it. Also, Bill spent ten miles from when we first saw the sign to when we arrived at the McDonalds talking about how good their snackwraps are. I had never had one, but I knew Bill wouldn’t steer me wrong. I got one ranch and one honey mustard. Bill did the same and added a cheeseburger. Kyle didn’t get food and instead pooped.
I thought we were going to eat at the rest stop, but Bill wanted to continue driving. This made my anxiety returned, but I realized that if anyone can eat while driving, it’s probably Bill.
I sat shotgun with our McDonalds bag in my lap, and passed Bill his burger. I went to town on my snackwraps, which, as Bill said, were delicious. They are basically taco bell tacos but with chicken fingers instead of horsemeat. So, yum.
So there we were, two fat guys in the front seat, passing food and garbage to each other, while Kyle sat in the back and said things like, "Man, you guys are some serious fatties" and "Jas, do you think if you gave Bill a sneaker he’d notice? Or would he just eat it?"
We approached a toll near the end of the Mass Pike. Bill was going pretty fast, but he was in the center E-Z Pass lane with no car in front of him. Bill asked me to pass him a snackwrap. As he watched me, I reached into the bag to pull out his snackwrap, raising my eyes from the bag just in time to see a silver SUV cutting across our lane.
Bill did not see the SUV, as he was hypnotized by the snackwrap I was pulling out of the bag, and did not slow down. I screamed, "Bill! Bill!" and he looked away from the snackwrap, saw the SUV, and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a sudden stop, tires screeched, our sodas in the cup holders went flying, and we all lunged forward. Bill leaned on the horn and the SUV honked back. In two seconds, it was over.
I have only been in a car accident once, and in that case we were driving around the back streets behind Upper Campus at Boston College, going about ten miles an hour down an icy road, and we harmlessly hit a telephone pole while listening to Prince’s "Seven" (it’s really the perfect song to listen to while driving around on ice). I was in the backseat, but even as we lost control of the car, I didn’t get scared, since I probably could have punched the telephone pole harder than we hit it (there were minor damages to the car and telephone poll and no one in the car was hurt).
But in this case, I was crapping myself (almost literally). We were going pretty fast toward the E-Z Pass toll and had we hit that SUV – which we were about two seconds and ten feet from doing – there would have been some serious, serious damage. We all were wearing seatbelts, but after drinking so much and sleeping so little over the weekend, not to mention my so-high-it’s-almost-hilarious blood pressure, I would have probably died from fright if we had been in an accident. I’m kind of a pussy.
But, God spared us and saved us (this time). After we took a second to collect ourselves, we started driving again. Bill then said, "Jesus Christ, Nass - I thought you were yelling at me to grab the snackwrap!"
Bill knows that a snackwrap would inspire such emotion in me. He knows me well.
Please, have sex in my bed
Apparently, my friends and I have a communication problem. Because I’m a good friend, I always let friends crash at my place – some even have their own keys (not necessarily to come and go when they please, but to make last minute stays easier). But the problem is that when I say, "Sure, you can stay at my apartment," they hear, "Sure, you can have sex in my bed."
Sunday night, after nearing dying on the road and a punishing weekend, all I wanted was to crank up the AC and sleep in the comfort of my own bed, which, as I’ve stated before, is arguably the most comfortable in America. A very simple and very attainable goal, I thought.
Not so. The trouble started upon entering my apartment, when my buddy Kyle used the bathroom and yelled, "Dude, your toilet’s broken." To that point, I had forgotten that my friend – who we’ll call Prudence – had left me a voicemail Friday afternoon, asking to stay at my place. I forgot because I was partying and didn’t call her back, but I kinda didn’t want her to stay at my place when I wasn’t there anyway. She has a lot of friends in NYC and could have made other plans, so whatever. Not a big deal, and I forgot about it.
But now my toilet was broken. Nothing serious, but still broken. So Prudence had to have stayed there. I then noticed that a Playboy magazine of mine (love those articles) was on my coffee table. Next, I walked into my bedroom to find the bed haphazardly made, which I was sure I didn’t do. Then, most damningly, I found two half-full wine glasses on my night table next to my bed.
Well.
As Kyle pointed out with a laugh, I don’t think Prudence drank both of these herself. Grossed out to the umpteenth degree, I immediately started stripping the sheets. It was then, much to my disgust, that I discovered matter in my bed. Matter that comes from something like making love.
[Rage]
Seeing as I haven’t had sex in my bed in, oh, seasons (told you – I’m going through a floor phase right now), I knew that I could have not left this evidence behind. Putting it all together - the broken toilet, the Playboy, the two wine glasses, the sex mark – it seemed that Prudence had indeed made some kind of love in my bed.
[Rage building]
I called our mutual friend to ask if he knew whether or not Prudence had stayed at my place and he said that yes, he thought she did. All our mutual friend knew was that Prudence had a date on Friday night in Manhattan.
[Rage - rage - rage]
Look – I love wine and I love making love. And I hope that my friends find happiness in wine and making love as well – just not in my bed. I can not express the extent of my disgust at this situation. Strike one was crashing at my place without getting my explicit permission. Strike two was bringing some stranger back to my apartment and in the course of the evening reading my Playboy, breaking my toilet, and drinking wine together in my bed. Strike three was doing the dude in my bed. The thought of my friend and some random dude lying, likely naked and post-coitus, drinking wine in my bed…I mean, I am filled with rage right now. Rage. Everywhere. All over the place. Walls. Ceiling. Floor. Rage.
And as I said in the beginning, this is, unfortunately, not the first time this has happened to me. Not with Prudence, but with other friends. But those others have owned up to it and bought back my love in the form of meals, drinks and even sheets. Also, what’s different this time around is that these other transgressions were by my guy friends. Something about Prudence being a girl and a random guy sleeping in my bed is much, much worse than a guy buddy doing a random chick in my bed. Call me sexist, but that’s where I am, baby. Random guys = gross. Random chicks = hi, I’m Jason.
Barring a major setback, I will be in LA for three weeks in late July/early August. I was planning on basically giving my apartment over to my friends to use however they see fit (my buddy Brendan called me this weekend in Boston and complained that I can’t go away because my place is the clubhouse and when I’m gone my friends don’t have a place to congregate before going out, which I found oddly touching). But now, I’m thinking about actually boarding the apartment up with plywood and padlocking the doors. Because I’ll be damned if I come back to wine glasses on my night table and a strange dude’s goo in my bed.
[Deep breaths...deep breaths...]
[I think I need a snackwrap.]
Death, snackwraps
On Sunday, Kyle and I had tickets to return to NYC via Amtrak (hello, afternoon train boozing!), but our buddy Bill, who was driving to the Jersey shore from Boston, offered us a ride back.
Bill was, to put it mildly, still very shit-canned from the previous night. He woke up at 2pm and we could still smell the booze coming off of him when we hit the road at 5pm. Also, he smelled a little like hoagie, but that’s his natural scent.
I’ve written before that I’m convinced that I’m going to die in spectacular fashion. Hotel fire is still number one on the last, but "fiery eight car crash" is not far behind. Now of course, Bill was not drunk driving when we got in the car – at least, not in the traditional sense. He hadn’t had a drink for about twelve hours, so really, there was nothing for me to be concerned about. But, coming down from such a long and "exciting" weekend, I felt nervous and hypochondriacal as the booze escaped from my body. Not a good feeling.
It was with great anxiety that I got in the car, but soon I saw that we were fine. We scooted out of Boston and along the Masspike without a problem, and I calmed down. We saw a sign for a McDonalds and stopped for some food.
I wasn’t that hungry, but hey – fuck it. Also, Bill spent ten miles from when we first saw the sign to when we arrived at the McDonalds talking about how good their snackwraps are. I had never had one, but I knew Bill wouldn’t steer me wrong. I got one ranch and one honey mustard. Bill did the same and added a cheeseburger. Kyle didn’t get food and instead pooped.
I thought we were going to eat at the rest stop, but Bill wanted to continue driving. This made my anxiety returned, but I realized that if anyone can eat while driving, it’s probably Bill.
I sat shotgun with our McDonalds bag in my lap, and passed Bill his burger. I went to town on my snackwraps, which, as Bill said, were delicious. They are basically taco bell tacos but with chicken fingers instead of horsemeat. So, yum.
So there we were, two fat guys in the front seat, passing food and garbage to each other, while Kyle sat in the back and said things like, "Man, you guys are some serious fatties" and "Jas, do you think if you gave Bill a sneaker he’d notice? Or would he just eat it?"
We approached a toll near the end of the Mass Pike. Bill was going pretty fast, but he was in the center E-Z Pass lane with no car in front of him. Bill asked me to pass him a snackwrap. As he watched me, I reached into the bag to pull out his snackwrap, raising my eyes from the bag just in time to see a silver SUV cutting across our lane.
Bill did not see the SUV, as he was hypnotized by the snackwrap I was pulling out of the bag, and did not slow down. I screamed, "Bill! Bill!" and he looked away from the snackwrap, saw the SUV, and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a sudden stop, tires screeched, our sodas in the cup holders went flying, and we all lunged forward. Bill leaned on the horn and the SUV honked back. In two seconds, it was over.
I have only been in a car accident once, and in that case we were driving around the back streets behind Upper Campus at Boston College, going about ten miles an hour down an icy road, and we harmlessly hit a telephone pole while listening to Prince’s "Seven" (it’s really the perfect song to listen to while driving around on ice). I was in the backseat, but even as we lost control of the car, I didn’t get scared, since I probably could have punched the telephone pole harder than we hit it (there were minor damages to the car and telephone poll and no one in the car was hurt).
But in this case, I was crapping myself (almost literally). We were going pretty fast toward the E-Z Pass toll and had we hit that SUV – which we were about two seconds and ten feet from doing – there would have been some serious, serious damage. We all were wearing seatbelts, but after drinking so much and sleeping so little over the weekend, not to mention my so-high-it’s-almost-hilarious blood pressure, I would have probably died from fright if we had been in an accident. I’m kind of a pussy.
But, God spared us and saved us (this time). After we took a second to collect ourselves, we started driving again. Bill then said, "Jesus Christ, Nass - I thought you were yelling at me to grab the snackwrap!"
Bill knows that a snackwrap would inspire such emotion in me. He knows me well.
Please, have sex in my bed
Apparently, my friends and I have a communication problem. Because I’m a good friend, I always let friends crash at my place – some even have their own keys (not necessarily to come and go when they please, but to make last minute stays easier). But the problem is that when I say, "Sure, you can stay at my apartment," they hear, "Sure, you can have sex in my bed."
Sunday night, after nearing dying on the road and a punishing weekend, all I wanted was to crank up the AC and sleep in the comfort of my own bed, which, as I’ve stated before, is arguably the most comfortable in America. A very simple and very attainable goal, I thought.
Not so. The trouble started upon entering my apartment, when my buddy Kyle used the bathroom and yelled, "Dude, your toilet’s broken." To that point, I had forgotten that my friend – who we’ll call Prudence – had left me a voicemail Friday afternoon, asking to stay at my place. I forgot because I was partying and didn’t call her back, but I kinda didn’t want her to stay at my place when I wasn’t there anyway. She has a lot of friends in NYC and could have made other plans, so whatever. Not a big deal, and I forgot about it.
But now my toilet was broken. Nothing serious, but still broken. So Prudence had to have stayed there. I then noticed that a Playboy magazine of mine (love those articles) was on my coffee table. Next, I walked into my bedroom to find the bed haphazardly made, which I was sure I didn’t do. Then, most damningly, I found two half-full wine glasses on my night table next to my bed.
Well.
As Kyle pointed out with a laugh, I don’t think Prudence drank both of these herself. Grossed out to the umpteenth degree, I immediately started stripping the sheets. It was then, much to my disgust, that I discovered matter in my bed. Matter that comes from something like making love.
[Rage]
Seeing as I haven’t had sex in my bed in, oh, seasons (told you – I’m going through a floor phase right now), I knew that I could have not left this evidence behind. Putting it all together - the broken toilet, the Playboy, the two wine glasses, the sex mark – it seemed that Prudence had indeed made some kind of love in my bed.
[Rage building]
I called our mutual friend to ask if he knew whether or not Prudence had stayed at my place and he said that yes, he thought she did. All our mutual friend knew was that Prudence had a date on Friday night in Manhattan.
[Rage - rage - rage]
Look – I love wine and I love making love. And I hope that my friends find happiness in wine and making love as well – just not in my bed. I can not express the extent of my disgust at this situation. Strike one was crashing at my place without getting my explicit permission. Strike two was bringing some stranger back to my apartment and in the course of the evening reading my Playboy, breaking my toilet, and drinking wine together in my bed. Strike three was doing the dude in my bed. The thought of my friend and some random dude lying, likely naked and post-coitus, drinking wine in my bed…I mean, I am filled with rage right now. Rage. Everywhere. All over the place. Walls. Ceiling. Floor. Rage.
And as I said in the beginning, this is, unfortunately, not the first time this has happened to me. Not with Prudence, but with other friends. But those others have owned up to it and bought back my love in the form of meals, drinks and even sheets. Also, what’s different this time around is that these other transgressions were by my guy friends. Something about Prudence being a girl and a random guy sleeping in my bed is much, much worse than a guy buddy doing a random chick in my bed. Call me sexist, but that’s where I am, baby. Random guys = gross. Random chicks = hi, I’m Jason.
Barring a major setback, I will be in LA for three weeks in late July/early August. I was planning on basically giving my apartment over to my friends to use however they see fit (my buddy Brendan called me this weekend in Boston and complained that I can’t go away because my place is the clubhouse and when I’m gone my friends don’t have a place to congregate before going out, which I found oddly touching). But now, I’m thinking about actually boarding the apartment up with plywood and padlocking the doors. Because I’ll be damned if I come back to wine glasses on my night table and a strange dude’s goo in my bed.
[Deep breaths...deep breaths...]
[I think I need a snackwrap.]
