me as excuse
18 March 2008
Every single one of my guy friends in Boston has a significant other whose title ranges from serious girlfriend (i.e. "I love you"/one year-plus dating) to fiancée, all the way up to wife or pregnant wife. Every single one of them. I don’t know if it’s something in the water or because of the cold weather, but all of my Beantown buddies are seriously involved. Love, love, love.
Personally, I think so many of my Boston friends are in relationships because the bars close at 1:30am up there, as opposed to 4am in NYC (bear with me here). The bars close earlier in Boston, which means less time for drinking, which means less time for serious drunkenness, which mean people are drunk enough to have the courage to talk to the opposite sex but not so drunk their eyes are half-closed and they’re spitting on the person they’re talking to. Whereas in NYC, by the time last call finally rolls around, most people are barely conscious and unable to tell the cabbie where they live, let alone deftly ask a boy/girl to meet up for coffee later in the week. This may allow for more drunken sloppy hook-ups (I’ve probably messed around with more women than all of my Boston buddies combined), but less long-lasting relationships (the most serious relationship I’ve had in the past seven years was with a sausage).* For example, on an average Friday or Saturday night at 1:30am in NYC, I’m sober enough to fly a plane. But by the time 4am comes, my fly is open and there’s a chicken bone and/or my keys in my beard. Things fall apart – dramatically – between the hours of 2am and 4am, which is why 90% of my NYC friends are single and 100% of my Boston friends are not.** The end.
[* Part or all of this sentence was a lie or true. Thank you.]
[** It could also be because my friends in Boston are better people than me and my friends here in NYC, but I'm not quite ready to concede that.]
That my friends in Boston have serious ladies does not make me jealous. Not in the least. If anything, it’s a warning: This is what the future holds, my dear, so rock out with your cock out (sometimes literally) before it comes for you. And it’s not that I dislike any of my friends’ girls. They are all wonderful women, and many of them are dating well below their league. I can count on one hand the number of times in my lifetime that I’ve had problems with my friends exes, and it each case it was not just me but many of my friends that thought the lady in question was a douche, and each time the relationship ended (and then we all said, "Oh thank god – she sucked").
To be honest, I’m actually thrilled that so many of my friends are so deeply committed. Not because that means more weddings – and more open bars – to go to. Nor is it because they’re happy and it’s good to see them happy – I like my friends miserable and on-edge, thank you very much. Why I’m pumped that my friends have serious relationships is because they are so used to playing house (and being required to play house) that when I visit Boston, I am The Excuse. The Excuse goes something like this: "Honey, I’d love to spend the weekend with you watching movies/going to your parents/having a dinner party/fixing up the place, but Jason’s in town and he’s moving soon and probably won’t be back to Boston, well, ever. So I really have to spend the weekend drinking with him, since you know he drinks a lot because he’s so lonely and doesn’t have what we have."
I am The Excuse. And I am totally comfortable with that.
On Thursday night, I drank on the train ride up to Boston and was picked up by Site Guy Brendan and whisked away to the apartment he shares with our buddy John in lovely Dorchester, Massachusetts. Brendan and I stopped to pick up sixers, me of Smithwick’s and him of Sierra, thinking we’d have a couple of pops back at the place and then call it a night (Brendan had work the next day, while John had spent the day running errands after having gotten laid off, and I worked all day).
What followed was arguably one of the more disgusting drinking nights of my life. After getting home, we eschewed our fancy beer and harkening back to old times, went right for the cheap stuff, which tasted delicious. Sometime later, I spilled a beer all over myself. Then it was Brendan’s idea to play beer pong. We didn’t have any plastic cups, so we filled their dining room table with half full pint glasses and two stein glasses and started playing. When we ran out of the cheap stuff, we switched to Smithwick’s. When that was gone, onto the Sierra. When that was gone, we switched to Harpoon IPA, the last beer they had in their fridge. It was around this time that I dropped another beer, this time on the ground and not on myself, for no apparent reason. It was also around this time that Site Guy Brendan casually stepped into the bathroom to vomit. It was around 4am when I heard a loud thump in the kitchen and walked in to find John sitting on the floor, like he just wanted to take a rest. Some uncooked hot dogs may or may not have been eaten. John hit the sack just after 4:30am and I feel asleep on the couch shortly thereafter with Site Guy Brendan sitting on the couch next to mine, drinking and watching TV. The next morning, Brendan, with the help of Jesus Himself, got up to go to work. John and I woke up at noon and I proceeded to spend three hours that afternoon showering (three separate showers) trying to shake my tremendous hangover. We counted 52 empty cans and bottles from the night before, not including the six beers I had on the train on the way up.
All three of us are 28 years old. Brendan is successful, a homeowner about to pursue his second masters degree, and is engaged. John, despite being laid off recently, is successful, has all those silly licenses that financial people need, is a homeowner and is in love. I, well, I am The Excuse.
That Thursday night pretty much set the tone for the weekend. Boston is always a boozy time when I go up there, but I can’t recall such a sloppy series of nights in a long, long time. Friday night I threw up in my mouth at two different bars. Saturday night I got hooked up with a cheap hotel room by a friend and fell asleep twice with the shower running – once at the end of a boozing afternoon, while I was sitting on the bed pre-gaming and watching "King of Queens", running the water to help calm me down; and then at the end of the night, while drunk and sitting in the shower reading a book.
It was a disaster. I feel like I should be ashamed of myself. And if the weekend was the first part of my "Later, Boston" experience, I might. I hoped to stay for the St. Patty’s Parade in Southie on Sunday, wake up early on Monday, and take the train back to NYC to make work. But when I woke up in that hotel room on Sunday (which was about 78 degrees), there was no way I could do anything but throw my shit in a bag and get the fuck on the train. Done and done.
But what I take comfort in, and the reason that I do not feel ashamed, is that I was not alone. My friends, separated (for the most part) from their girlfriends, also got disgustingly drunk. I won’t go into detail lest their ladies grow disappointed in them, but it was chaos, pure and utter chaos; men encumbered with the responsibilities of adulthood and relationships absolutely going batshit crazy with booze because they finally have a legitimate excuse to escape the doldrums of married life: Jason is coming up to Boston and he won’t be back for a lone time.* Finally, after years of searching, I may have found my life’s purpose: act as the primary reason for irresponsible behavior for non-single men everywhere.**
[* Until I go up again this weekend for 72 hours of NCAA watching.]
[** Easily one of the top ten most homosexualized lines I've ever written.]
I am The Excuse. And I am totally comfortable with that.
Personally, I think so many of my Boston friends are in relationships because the bars close at 1:30am up there, as opposed to 4am in NYC (bear with me here). The bars close earlier in Boston, which means less time for drinking, which means less time for serious drunkenness, which mean people are drunk enough to have the courage to talk to the opposite sex but not so drunk their eyes are half-closed and they’re spitting on the person they’re talking to. Whereas in NYC, by the time last call finally rolls around, most people are barely conscious and unable to tell the cabbie where they live, let alone deftly ask a boy/girl to meet up for coffee later in the week. This may allow for more drunken sloppy hook-ups (I’ve probably messed around with more women than all of my Boston buddies combined), but less long-lasting relationships (the most serious relationship I’ve had in the past seven years was with a sausage).* For example, on an average Friday or Saturday night at 1:30am in NYC, I’m sober enough to fly a plane. But by the time 4am comes, my fly is open and there’s a chicken bone and/or my keys in my beard. Things fall apart – dramatically – between the hours of 2am and 4am, which is why 90% of my NYC friends are single and 100% of my Boston friends are not.** The end.
[* Part or all of this sentence was a lie or true. Thank you.]
[** It could also be because my friends in Boston are better people than me and my friends here in NYC, but I'm not quite ready to concede that.]
That my friends in Boston have serious ladies does not make me jealous. Not in the least. If anything, it’s a warning: This is what the future holds, my dear, so rock out with your cock out (sometimes literally) before it comes for you. And it’s not that I dislike any of my friends’ girls. They are all wonderful women, and many of them are dating well below their league. I can count on one hand the number of times in my lifetime that I’ve had problems with my friends exes, and it each case it was not just me but many of my friends that thought the lady in question was a douche, and each time the relationship ended (and then we all said, "Oh thank god – she sucked").
To be honest, I’m actually thrilled that so many of my friends are so deeply committed. Not because that means more weddings – and more open bars – to go to. Nor is it because they’re happy and it’s good to see them happy – I like my friends miserable and on-edge, thank you very much. Why I’m pumped that my friends have serious relationships is because they are so used to playing house (and being required to play house) that when I visit Boston, I am The Excuse. The Excuse goes something like this: "Honey, I’d love to spend the weekend with you watching movies/going to your parents/having a dinner party/fixing up the place, but Jason’s in town and he’s moving soon and probably won’t be back to Boston, well, ever. So I really have to spend the weekend drinking with him, since you know he drinks a lot because he’s so lonely and doesn’t have what we have."
I am The Excuse. And I am totally comfortable with that.
On Thursday night, I drank on the train ride up to Boston and was picked up by Site Guy Brendan and whisked away to the apartment he shares with our buddy John in lovely Dorchester, Massachusetts. Brendan and I stopped to pick up sixers, me of Smithwick’s and him of Sierra, thinking we’d have a couple of pops back at the place and then call it a night (Brendan had work the next day, while John had spent the day running errands after having gotten laid off, and I worked all day).
What followed was arguably one of the more disgusting drinking nights of my life. After getting home, we eschewed our fancy beer and harkening back to old times, went right for the cheap stuff, which tasted delicious. Sometime later, I spilled a beer all over myself. Then it was Brendan’s idea to play beer pong. We didn’t have any plastic cups, so we filled their dining room table with half full pint glasses and two stein glasses and started playing. When we ran out of the cheap stuff, we switched to Smithwick’s. When that was gone, onto the Sierra. When that was gone, we switched to Harpoon IPA, the last beer they had in their fridge. It was around this time that I dropped another beer, this time on the ground and not on myself, for no apparent reason. It was also around this time that Site Guy Brendan casually stepped into the bathroom to vomit. It was around 4am when I heard a loud thump in the kitchen and walked in to find John sitting on the floor, like he just wanted to take a rest. Some uncooked hot dogs may or may not have been eaten. John hit the sack just after 4:30am and I feel asleep on the couch shortly thereafter with Site Guy Brendan sitting on the couch next to mine, drinking and watching TV. The next morning, Brendan, with the help of Jesus Himself, got up to go to work. John and I woke up at noon and I proceeded to spend three hours that afternoon showering (three separate showers) trying to shake my tremendous hangover. We counted 52 empty cans and bottles from the night before, not including the six beers I had on the train on the way up.
All three of us are 28 years old. Brendan is successful, a homeowner about to pursue his second masters degree, and is engaged. John, despite being laid off recently, is successful, has all those silly licenses that financial people need, is a homeowner and is in love. I, well, I am The Excuse.
That Thursday night pretty much set the tone for the weekend. Boston is always a boozy time when I go up there, but I can’t recall such a sloppy series of nights in a long, long time. Friday night I threw up in my mouth at two different bars. Saturday night I got hooked up with a cheap hotel room by a friend and fell asleep twice with the shower running – once at the end of a boozing afternoon, while I was sitting on the bed pre-gaming and watching "King of Queens", running the water to help calm me down; and then at the end of the night, while drunk and sitting in the shower reading a book.
It was a disaster. I feel like I should be ashamed of myself. And if the weekend was the first part of my "Later, Boston" experience, I might. I hoped to stay for the St. Patty’s Parade in Southie on Sunday, wake up early on Monday, and take the train back to NYC to make work. But when I woke up in that hotel room on Sunday (which was about 78 degrees), there was no way I could do anything but throw my shit in a bag and get the fuck on the train. Done and done.
But what I take comfort in, and the reason that I do not feel ashamed, is that I was not alone. My friends, separated (for the most part) from their girlfriends, also got disgustingly drunk. I won’t go into detail lest their ladies grow disappointed in them, but it was chaos, pure and utter chaos; men encumbered with the responsibilities of adulthood and relationships absolutely going batshit crazy with booze because they finally have a legitimate excuse to escape the doldrums of married life: Jason is coming up to Boston and he won’t be back for a lone time.* Finally, after years of searching, I may have found my life’s purpose: act as the primary reason for irresponsible behavior for non-single men everywhere.**
[* Until I go up again this weekend for 72 hours of NCAA watching.]
[** Easily one of the top ten most homosexualized lines I've ever written.]
I am The Excuse. And I am totally comfortable with that.
