My Poor Decisions, I Blame On My Friends…

25 04 2011

So, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but a couple things have changed around here. Namely the blog header at the top. I really dig it. A friend of mine did it and, I’m a man of my word so they’ll be getting 20 bucks of their favorite gift card. (or 20 dollars in Jello Shots it’s still to be determined.)

Also, if you’ll look to the right there, you’ll notice there is a spot for you to sign up and receive my words in your email. That way, you’ll never miss one of my self indulgent, ego boosting, grammatically incorrect, all around garbage writing, in your inbox. (Yeah, I know I messed up the punctuation on that bad ass previous sentence, but deep down knowing exactly when to use ; and : just doesn’t sit right with me. So until someone actually wants to teach me how to use them correctly they’re going to have to deal with a lot of commas. Also, I’m drunk again, so being able to tell the difference between : and ; is fucking mind blowing, let alone how to use them.)

Last change, and it’s kinda minor/big depending on how you look at it, is I’ve started to blog over at tumblr. Now, by no means will you see one of these epic blogs posted over on tumblr, but it’s easy for me to throw something up there. Like taking a picture of something and blogging about it. Or some cool deep philosophical quote and post it. So it’s there. Take it for what you will. See I’m arrogant enough to think you guys really deep down like what I have to say, so I keep spewing garbage from all sorts of social media sites. Thanks internets!

Here’s the link, just in case you missed it highlighted in the paragraph above.

Anyway, enough with the changes. My last blog basically dealt with my new found life working with all women. It’s gotten progressively better, and I can honestly say I’ve made some real friendships there. I’ve also gotten the inside scoop on the latest DSW store opening so if you need all the deets, just shoot me an email.

Lately I’ve come to know my new friend Boise quite well. (And if you’re new here, you know that people get nicknames to protect the innocent. Also, when I introduce a character, it’s best to make you think they may be a stripper.) We’ve hung out a couple times, and based on stories and personalities realized were very similar in many ways. But the most glaring of these similarities, is our awesomeness. For example a couple weekends ago it was one of the first gorgeous days of the year. So we took it upon ourselves to leave work a couple minutes early and head to a sports bar that also has an amazing outdoor patio. We also decided that we should start drinking. Heavily.

And so the weekend began. There were stories shared, skin burned, and overall merriment that went along with playing a little hooky from work. (In fairness, we put in an insane amount of time where we work. Literally, like 60+ on some weeks, so we told ourselves, “we’ll make it up at some point.”) After 2-3 rounds of drinks, it was decided to head back to Boise’s place to hang with her husband and some of her out of town guests. This was not a problem for me, because they provided snacks. It’s amazing what I’ll do for a snack or two when I’ve been drinking. As the drinks began to flow a little more heavily, at one point someone suggested some new fangled “whipped cream vodka.” What the hell is this? Like seriously? I know in my beginning stages of drinking I may have mixed a couple of zima’s with a jolly rancher but this is straight up ridiculous. I mean, does it look like I was in a sorority?!? No. I am a dude…. and this by jove is disgu…..wait… this. ain’t. half. bad. Whipped Cream Vodka! Why didn’t I think of that. It’s delicious! So to keep things a little short, there was whipped cream vodka had.

After some hours of drinking, there was a executive decision to head downtown and grab some dinner, then maybe hit up a bar or two. Little did we know that whipped cream vodka can send you down a dark path real quick. We had some delicious dinner and moved on to what is now becoming one of our favorite spots. A karaoke bar that sits right across the street from a bar that hosts a very popular drag show in our city. (This will indeed come into play soon.)

We got inside the bar, and found a great table next to some pool tables and began ordering more drinks. As people started to shuffle in and the bar became more packed it was decided that I would indeed bust out my favorite Karaoke song, Sweet Caroline. I put my name down on the list and went back to our table. By this time, unbeknownst to me, a group of Drag Queens came to play some pool. Now, I’m not the best at having a ton of tact when I’ve been drinking, and well, sometimes the worst in me comes out. And so, while the “ladies” shot a round of pool, I took it upon myself to point out… “thats a dude.” “that’s a dude.” “Also a dude.” I also may or may not have been pointing. Whatever. They were very nice, and didn’t gang up on me to kick the living shit out of me for being rude, so we call it even.

As the night wore on, my tolerance for booze slowly got lower and lower. At one point it was discussed that we should probably be on our way, however, an injustice had been done when I had yet to perform Sweet Caroline. Boise and I went up to the KJ (karaoke jockey right?!? seriously? Am I right?) It was there that I learned I was still roughly 8-10 songs away from performing my masterpiece. In my drunken haze, I saw the mans tip jar on the table. Knowing full well that you tip the KJ to get your song up next, I reached for the jar, and was trying to find change for a 20. Well… apparently this is rude and he took exception to my little maneuver.
“What are you doing?” he yelled at me.
“I’m just trying to make change for a 20.” was my reply.
“Dude put my fucking jar back, and I’ll get you some. Asshole. What song are you anyway?”
“Sweet Caroline, how far away?”
“Like 10-15 minutes.”
“Fuck it man, heres a 20. Wheres that get me.”
“Sweet Caroline, next.”
“Awesome. Just awesome.”

So, with that, Sweet Caroline was performed. It was epic and we left the bar. I was so drunk that the realization that I tipped someone 20 bucks to drag and drop my name haunts me to this day. But what can you do. It was time for Boise and I to say goodbye and we did so in the best way possible. Like 12 year old girls. We hugged each other, say good by and repeated “you’re my favorite!” “no, you’re my favorite.” MY best friend Stampy should have known that this was indeed time to call it a night but I have other ideas on my mind. Very bad ideas…..

We carried on to a club, a literal club in all senses of the word. A club that has poles installed, and a swing attached to the ceiling. You would think, by my description that I have just broken no strip club rule, however, this is NOT the case. It’s just a club so dirty, that it’s where most the strippers go before heading to work. Also, if you haven’t bedazzled your shirt, you probably don’t belong as a dude. But hey, apparently I was dead set on attending the club so we went. And my god was it horrific. I wish I could say I remember things, but I don’t. 2 events stick out in my mind…
A. I almost got in a fight. That’s right, this dude thought I poured a drink on his bedazzled white shirt and took exception to that. To which, I would say good sir. 1. I would never waste alcohol on pouring it on a dude. Never. 2. You shouldn’t wear a white shirt to the club. It’s not even memorial day son. 3. When someone offers you to buy you a drink, and you take them up on the offer, and the drink is blue… you probably deserve to get your ass kicked. Luckily Stampy was the voice of reason, and I and White Shirt Bedazzled Dude left the club unscathed.
B. Some girl actually was flirting with me. Like, for real. Came up to me. Was flirting with me. Apparently, we were actually doing sign language with each other. Which is shocking, cause about the only sign language I remember from college is “beautiful” and “fucking.” Which, considering the club we were in, may have been all I needed. But alas, it was not meant to be. Sign Language girl took off, and even after a diligent attempt at scouring the club, she was no where to be found.

Again, at this point, Stampy should have known it was time to go. However, it was someones bright idea to continue on. Party Trifecta! We made it in to one more bar. (Which is shocking, cause most places won’t let people in if they look intoxicated. And based on my previous activities, and how much I had to drink, I have a hard time believing I didn’t look intoxicated.) But hey, I’m no bouncer. Once inside bar number three we sat down on some couches across from some very attractive ladies. (actually it was only one attractive lady. The other was the booster friend.) At this time, we had met up with another friend of ours and his wife. They were Downtown having a stay-cation, and they decided to meet up with Stampy and I. DBJ was in full drunk mode. As Stampy and DBJ’s wife sat together, DBJ and I sat on another couch and DBJ was in my ear like a muthereffing shoulder devil.
“You should go talk to that girl, she’s really hot.”
“I”m good DBJ, I’m too drunk, plus, they don’t look like they want to talk.”
“DUDE, they totally want to talk. I’m sure I just saw one of them wave you over.”
“really. You thinks so?”
“Would I lie?!? Go talk to her. Do it for me man. I’m married. And you know I always want the best for my friends!”
“You’re soooo right DBJ, Suchs a greats friends you are. I”m going over.”

Now, it would be important to know that some of the above statements are true. DBJ does want the best for his friends. However, had I turned around this one night, more than likely I would have seen DBJ with a huge shit eating grin on his face as I flew solo into the lions den.

I sat down next to one of the ladies, and began having a “conversation.” I use that term loosely, because really. I don’t remember a damn thing. I do however remember how awkward I felt, so I can only assume it was 20 times worse for the lady. I sat there for a good 10 minutes (or what felt like it) and attempted some sort of open dialoge. The only thing I remember talking about was soccer. Something for which I have a great deal of passion, however, in my state, I’m not sure I conveyed that to this nice young lady.

I woke up the next day with no hangover. Which was a nice way of god not punishing me, however, he left me just enough memory to remember the “conversation” with the young lady. And looking back, I’m trying to figure out, just which one I’d rather have. Knowing just how much of an asshole I was all night. Or a little headache and some nausea.

Tough choice on this one…. tough indeed. However, what makes it all worth it, is thinking that she got with her girlfriend later that week and said… “Hey remember that really hot guy that hit on me, but was too drunk to keep his eyes open?” and her friend will reply… “Of course I do.” And she’ll reply by saying, “He was kinda funny. For a drunken asshole.”

And she’ll smile and giggle.

At least I made her laugh….

Until Next Time…

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Irish Wake Style… Pt.2

1 09 2009

If you haven’t done so already make sure to check out the first installment of this 2 part series.

Now, where did we leave off. Oh that’s right our faithful hero had made it home after a very long night of drinking, and had his manliness insulted.

I awoke early afternoon and RPG had already headed off to work. Luckily enough because of my extensive pre-game preparations before I headed out to Boston, I was indeed not hung-over. Some may say that this is a glorious turn of events, and other that know me really well might say that drinking excess amounts of Jack Daniels and not having a hang-over may actually be a sign of alcoholism.

Jury’s still out.

I got a call from RPG roughly around 1 something seeing if I wanted to get some lunch. Of course I hadn’t eaten, nor really done anything, so I agreed. He left work a bit early and we rolled to Coolidge Corner Clubhouse. Not going to lie, this was one of my favorite places on the trip to Boston. We enjoyed some jack and cokes in pint glasses, and some delicious huge sandwiches, and then some more Jack and cokes. It was a glorious place. I probably could have stayed there all day and night, but we had things we needed to do.

We headed home and began to do work. And by doing work I mean pouring Jack Daniels into flasks and taking shots before heading to Fenway park. the greatest place on earth. Seriously.

We headed to La Verdad, a bar outside Fenway, to meet up with RPG’s roommate. Probably my favorite sub pot/side story of the whole weekend that I wasn’t really able to exploit much was that RPG’s roommate happens to be moving out near the beginning of September.

I was wondering if any of you remember the theatrical performance Riverdance? You know Michael Flatley who’s feet look as if they are moving independently of his body? Well, as it happens if you thought Riverdance was no more, you my friends are 100% wrong. Riverdance is alive and well AND touring the country come this September. How do I know this you may ask?

Apparently, RPG’s roomate is indeed a dancer in Riverdance! That’s right, lets let that marinate for a bit.

Riverdance. My mind was immediately filled with questions. Have you met Michael Flatley? Can you move up the ranks and become lord of the dance yourself? Are you coming to Portland? What accent do you have? Oh, Australian? Cool.

So let me get this straight. You’re a dancer. You’re Australian. You dance for Riverdance. And I’m the one giving out the gay vibe?!?! Gotta love Boston.

We finished a couple of beers then headed into Fenway for what was going to be a glorious night of baseball. After picking up two bottles of Coke RPG and I found our way to our seats. Upon finding them I couldn’t help but notice that we had gotten seats in the Ted Williams era of Fenway park. You know the time many years ago that man was built like teacup Yorkshire Terriers. Turns out, RPG and I are not built like teacup Yorkshire terriers. We’re men. And were larger than the original designers of Fenway had in mind. We crouched in like sardines only to look down and see the wirey frame of Riverdance sitting comfortably in his seat, all sprawled out enjoying the copious amounts of space allotted to him. Gotta be something said for being a dancer.

The game began as did our drinking of the Jack Daniels. We had both managed to pour our entire flasks into a 1 liter bottle of coke. We sat there and watched as things began to get ugly. The Sox were facing the Yankees from the North in what was a pretty important game. The Yanks jump out to an early lead (like the first couple pitches) and I had thought to myself, maybe I’m going to be in for a long night. I was right.

At one point in the 5th inning I believe, I had finished my Jack and Coke and moved on to beer. The 5th inning had taken so long because we were getting ROCKED. Like bad. I thought maybe I could drown my sorrows in a Fenway Frank (the only hot dog I’ll eat in this world) but to no avail. Nothing was working. The Yankees began pouring on runs and I sat looking on more and more defeated. It was about this point in the game where things took a real turn for the worse. I looked over at RPG and said..
ME: “This is getting really ugly. I’m not sure I can handle much more.”
RPG: “I know. Maybe you shouldn’t come to Fenway anymore.”
ME: “Is it sad that I was just thinking the same thing.”
RPG: “I’m being serious.”
ME: “No, really. I know.”
RPG: “This sucks.”
ME: “Man, fuck this. I’m not going out like this. There will be no mourning. From here on out I’m celebrating this Irish Wake Style!”
RPG: “Fuck.”

(sidebar: I’ve never actually been to an Irish Wake, but on TV they always show people drinking a lot. RPG lived with me through college and had seen me celebrate Irish Wake style many times. I just felt that with America’s foundation being built on some of the Irish’s decisions to immigrate here, I would indeed honor them the best way I knew how. Even if it was stereotypical, and completely false.)

And with my last statement it was indeed “on.” I left my seat for another Fenway Frank, and to procure two more beers. One was in fact for RPG, but unbeknown to me, RPG had also gotten up after me to procure some beers. When I returned to my seat he was nowhere to be found. I focused on my beer for it was my only solace for what was happening on the field. RPG returned with two beers in his hand. Apparently he had gotten the same idea, and gotten another beer for me. So there we were. In our tiny seats. Dropping back beers like our Irish grandma twice removed had just passed. And to be honest. Life was good. We moved down a bit after Fenway had starting clearing up a bit. I told RPG, no matter how bad it got, we weren’t leaving till Sweet Caroline. I flew across this damn country for some all American baseball at one of America’s most beloved ballparks, god dammit, I’m not leaving till I sing Sweet Caroline, sung by none other than one of America’s most beloved artists, Mr. Neil Diamond!

(sidebar again: I was drunk at this point.)
(another sidebar: Not my video. For reason to be explained)

The 8th inning came and went. We left Fenway and it was 18-10 or something god awful. I will say this. Yankee fans sure have become a little more tame in recent years. Years past, I would have been getting an earful from Yankee fans that traveled to Fenway. Not so much. Smart Yankee fans (oxymoron) know that while they may have overall dominance in the world of baseball, we have indeed handed their ass to them for the last 10 years. So, the walk from Fenway to the Cask N’ Flagon was indeed delightful. Aside from not having any booze.

We got inside the Cask, and I proceeded with my declaration of Irish Wake style celebrations. We ordered up 2 more Jack and Cokes, and watched as the sluts made there way inside the bar. Now, typically, this would make me a very happy person. Sluts, jack and coke, and being in Boston. However, while we were at the Cask, they still were showing the last couple bits of the game. Just enough for my poor eyes to witness, another 2 run home run! That was it. Couldn’t take it anymore. Two more Jack and Cokes were ordered and devoured.

It was about this point that I had realized my iPhone battery had died. I figured no big deal. I’ll miss all my friends texting me from their drunken nights back home, and just text them tomorrow. I was excited because I had gotten a number of great pictures, and video of everyone singing Sweet Caroline. Life was good.

At about 2 something am, we decided it was all said and done. We took a cab home to sleep off our depression of losing that last game. We got outta the cab, walked up stairs to RPG’s apartment and began to settle in, when I realized something. I was missing my phone. I searched all 12 of my pockets (I was wearing cargo shorts.) and it was nowhere to be found. I searched high and low beliving that it could be somewhere in the apartment already. No luck. We went outside and searched the area between being dropped off, and the apartment. No luck. The phone was gone. Like Ben Afflecks directorial debut, Gone Baby Gone. (which was also set in Boston. But this was about some kid, not exactly a phone. However, I feel that if anyone had lost an iphone, the feeling is similar right? too far?)

We walked upstairs defeated. Now what happens next depends on who you ask. If you ask me, in my hazy state I went upstairs and passed out in a deep depression. However, if you ask RPG, we went upstairs I grabbed the bottle of Jack and began chugging from the bottle. And then went to bed. Toss up. I’m not sure who to believe.

The rest of the trip was a bit sad. I had lost my iPhone, and we had only been together for 6 days. She was good to me. And so I was sad to have lost her. I’d like to think she found someone who was better than me. A Lawyer, a doctor, maybe even a Red Sox/Celtic, but who knows. It’s difficult to see your life without someone you love. Especially if you think she left you in a cab to be with the driver.

RPG and I killed our day be reliving college and not getting up from the couches for a good 6-8 hours. We rallied after a stunning win by our beloved Red Sox that night, and met up with some more wonderful friends of RPG. The night indeed wasn’t as taxing on my body as the other, but drinks were had, as were laughs and good times. I concluded my Boston trip by flying out 715 am with just enough booze on my breath for the mother with a 3 month old sitting next to me, to give me a dirty look. The look was returned for having a 3 month old sitting next to me. Touche lady.

I made it home safely. Exhausted. Hung over. A bit depressed. But that was one of the greatest vacations I’ve had in a long time. I love me some Boston. I look forward to my next trip.

Until Next Time…

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