SPidge Tales

Sunday, October 02, 2005


So, I just got home from an amazing weekend. I went to Boston Friday night to visit my friend Matt, who is living and working there. Kirk came up to visit too, from his home in dirty Jersey. I managed to make what should be only a 2 hour 45 minute drive a 5 hour extravaganza. Part of it was not my fault, but rather God’s, because he sent a lot of traffic to slow me down. But, God wasn’t all bad, so thank Him for EZPass. I saved about 15 minutes of waiting at the tolls—yeah, I’m one of those guys you hate who gets to fly by everyone and not wait because I got the magnetic pass on my windshield. The drive was easy until I actually pulled into the city a little after 8. My directions had about 20 different turns, I think I messed up around turn number 2, every street in this frickin city is one-way, and I played phone tag for an hour with Matt, trying to help him figure out where I was by describing buildings I saw. After crossing the Charles River and going back and forth between Beantown and Cambridge like three times, I finally made it to some bar near Beacon Hill, the apartment area Matt lives at, and Matt and Kirk ran down to meet me (To fully comprehend my complete lack of a sense of direction, check out my column archives and read my blog titled “Montreal”).

Things were uphill from there. Jack Daniel and his buddies Sam Adams and Bud Light were waiting in the studio apartment for us. Jacky D, Sam Adams, Buddy Lite, Kirk, Matt, and I watched the rest of the Yanks-Sox game, before heading off to check out the downtown scene. We met up with our friend Jaggermeister (it would have been better if we didn’t). Matt and I played the anti-wingmen, and pulled Kirk away from a couple of girls he just met. Kirk wasn’t happy then, but it really was for the best. The beer goggles were in full effect, and somebody had to be the voice of reason. The three of us closed the night with something much better than meeting girls for random hookups—late night dominos pizza delivery and Anchorman on DVD. Now go back to your home on whore island!

There is something about Boston and its baseball team that is unlike any other city. It really is a love affair. Yankee fans are definitely into their team, but New York is a very diverse city, and it is fairly easy to find people who could care less about baseball. Boston is different. Everyone is nicknamed Sully or Pat, and they do not just like the Red Sox, they are obsessed. It is a love affair. You can sense the mood of the city by the results of a Red Sox game, and you can tell how the Sox did just by seeing how people interact at Starbucks or Bennigans. Saturday, we decided that the best cure for hangovers would be too keep drinking. We headed to Fenway at 1:00 for the game, and spent the afternoon watching at a bar near the Stadium (you pretty much would have to sell your firstborn child to get a ticket into the game). Kirk is a die-hard Yankee fan, Matt is a big Boston fan, and I am a Mets fan. So, I was the neutral, impartial friend just enjoying an opportunity to see Boston fans in their element.

Everyone but Kirk and I had Boston apparel on. They Yankees were winning, so the anger level rose. Apparently, if you yell and swear at a tv screen, you can actually affect what is happening on the field. Matt, Kirk, and I managed to get seats at the bar. Next to us on the left is That Drunk Girl. She was a really hot blond, but the most annoying person I have ever met. She had that high squeaky voice, she never shut it, and she loved to scream and swear at the tv. She decided it would be fun to talk to us. She was really sloppy; asking us our names like every 2 minutes, asking us for congratulations because she could remember our names. It got so bad that each time one of the three of us went pee, we would switch seats so that none of us were stuck with her the whole time. Worst of all, her fiancé was right with her, and you could tell he was embarrassed by her, and only with her for her looks. She asked me if she was gonna get thrown out if she kept being too loud, and I told her that she had 3 more strikes and then she had to leave. She said “really?”, then asked the bartender if she really would have to leave after 3 more mess-ups, and he assured her that she could stay. Then I convinced her that I had been mistaken, she could get 5 strikes, but then, she really had to go. Kirk had to tell her that I was a middle school teacher, too, when she told us she was a middle school teacher, so I was stuck talking to her some more (I’m sure her students want to both fuck her and kill her).

After the game, and the bragging we knew would come from Kirk, we traveled the city in a drunken haze, visiting about 5 more bars, subsisting on a diet of bar food—sweet pototo fries, onion rings, chips & salsa, chicken fingers—and, of course, more beer. Kirk’s dad was in town for business, so he met up with us. He’s a really cool guy; likes to party and everything. All in all, it was a great weekend. Part of me wishes I lived in a city like Boston or New York or DC. It would be chill to be able to head to a coffee shop and read whenever I wanted, to have easy cultural opportunity access, etc. The only bad part about cities is the driving. I hate city driving. People are crazy. And one-way streets. But, now it’s back to the grind, and waiting for the next big trip. It could be Montreal, it could be Syracuse, it could be anywhere…


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Anonymous bernie said...

hey i'll probably get there around 9 or 10 on friday night. see you then

12:04 AM  

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