Wednesday, March 21, 2007

BOOZIN in the friendly skies

Let's see. OK. So lemme get it out of the way and say that there is no possible way for me to fly without BOOZIN. I hate planes and I love BOOZE. BOOZE makes me feel better about both BOOZE and about planes. So, when I get on a plane I have generally already had some BOOZE and I continue to have *more* BOOZE until the plane lands. With this background, the story can proceed but I have a feeling that you can see where this is going.

I'm on a flight from London to Boston last week. Whatever, I'm a lucky guy and this pretty much happens about once a month. So I'm late getting to the airport and I don't have a single second to get any BOOZE before my flight. In fact, they are calling my name over the PA as I run through the terminal to catch my flight and I get there just before they say 'Fuck It' and close the doors. Yup, I'm that guy. But usually it's because I'm running from the bar (Which, as it happens, is what happened on my Boston to London flight. Yes. Really.) and not because I am running from a cab.

So there I am on the plane and fortunately in business class they will serve you BOOZE while they check on all the shit they have to check on and whatever while they get the plane going. So I knock back a couple of cold ones before takeoff. Should be fine now. We depart right on time and there's nothing but a nice smooth 6-hour ride between me and a Friday night outing with some friends. So I hit the wine pretty hard on the way over and all is well.


We get over Boston and the fucking airport is closed due to weather. What!? Yes, we are being rerouted to New York. No worries... I have friends in the city and I have some more BOOZE on the way into JFK. The plane lands and I head to the flight attendant (at this point, I am obviously shattered) and axe her if I can get off the plane and go hang out with my friends. Actually, I told her that I had been planning on taking the train to NY from Boston anyway and wouldn't it be convenient to just get off the plane now. She wasn't going for it. Hey, I can handle this. There is one thing that solves every problem: BOOZE, right? "Could I get another scotch before I sit down?", I axe politely. "Actually, sir, while we are holding on the taxiway we're not allowed to serve alcohol." WTF? They can serve it while we take off. Why not after we've landed? Whatever. I go and sit down.

Well, they tell us they'll be holding us on the plane until the weather in Boston clears and then flying us up to Boston. Fine. Now certainly I can have some BOOZE, and I axe the flight attendant for exactly that. But I am turned down again because, "They don't want the passengers getting drunk while we wait." All right, now fucking seriously, it's fine if I order drink after drink like a chain smoker all the way across the Atlantic for seven fucking hours but now that we're on the ground I'm not allowed to BOOZE. I'm thinking fuck that.

How to get around this? Ah. I have it. Surely my colleagues that were leaving Europe at the same time as me are stuck on planes and I can waste some time talking to them and gathering valuable intelligence regarding the drink service on their flights. I start calling cell phones. And surely they were. We all conference in with each other and commisserate. Turns out the BOOZE faucet is crimped on everyone. This one dude gets on the call after a while. He was conferenced in by a person who was sitting on a runway in Bangor, ME. Says he's in New York. "Which flight?", I ask immediately. "The (popular airline here) one.", he says. I'm on the same plane with him but I don't really like the guy all that much so I don't mention anything of it and the other people on the conference call either miss it or they know I'm avoiding him. Either way, I don't care and it drops.


He starts fucking going on and on about how they're not serving BOOZE on the plane and everybody's uptight but that he has a giant bottle of gin that he picked up at duty-free and he's been hitting off that and it's all good. Oh mother-fucker... now I have to hang out with this guy just to get his BOOZE. You do what you gotta do, I guess. So I mention to him that I think I'm on the same plane and maybe I could get some BOOZE from him.

I end up hanging out with the most boring fucking dude in the whole world while we're held hostage on a plane at JFK for over six hours before we head to Boston. But we polished off the gin and got into Boston at 4AM. I guess that was a lot like how I had originally envisioned my Friday night but with cooler people and in Boston at a bar rather than in NYC on a plane. But, hey, c'est la vie.

No matter how you look at it, I got my BOOZE on for almost 14 hours on Friday! High-five!

Monday, February 5, 2007

BOOZE du jour

So this past Saturday, clearly, I want to go out BOOZIN in the evening. Fine. So I try to find some people to go out and get all hammered with. I end up heading out with this dude I don't know all that well, let's call him The Man, but he's going out and says there's going to be a bunch of people there to hang out with. OK, I'll give it a whirl.

Problem: They are going out in Southie. I live in JP and the last thing I need is to have to go all the way across the city to drink beer with a bunch of people I don't know in a crowded bar. There are plenty of bars full of people I don't know right in my own neighborhood where I can drink beer. But fine, whatever, I head out anyway.

So I drive all the way to Southie. It's a pain to get there and it takes me about 20 minutes to find a decent parking space. The upside is that I didn't get lost like every other time I've been over in that neighborhood so it's a good night so far considering I had to drive all the way to Southie to drink beer with a bunch of people I don't know. Have I mentioned that part yet?

I arrive at the bar.

Problem: There is a line. OK, so here I am at this neighborhood shithole and there is a line. In fucking Southie. In summary, I have driven 20 minutes across town to spend 20 minutes finding a parking space to walk 10 minutes from where I parked to the bar and there is a fucking line. At a neighborhood bar. In. Southie.

So it's fucking freezing out that night. And there I am. Standing in line at the window watching all of the strangers with their "heat" and their "BOOZE" and thier "fun" and their "friends". But wait, someone is leaving... excellent... I gain entry and make an express trip to the bar to quench my frost-bitten thirst.

I get a beer and meet up with The Man. I start getting introduced to people. There are some women and some dudes and, given we're a bunch of 30-somethings, they are surprisingly unpaired. The Man is a talker and soon we're talking to every person who walks by. We have fun. We drink.

Problem: Some drama breaks out between rival factions of females associated with our group. I sure as shit have no idea what is going on. The Man is also befuddled. The drama continues to simmer but never seems to escalate and goes largely ignored for the balance of the evening.


Chick X seems anxious to go and says she lives in Back Bay. Since I am going to JP (and we are in fucking Southie), I offer her a ride home. She accepts my offer and we head out. Once we're on the other side of the door, I notice that another random drunk girl has joined us and "needs a ride to the North End".

Fine. I'm in nice guy mode tonight and so I generously give this chick a ride to the North End. There is friction between Chick X and Chick Y in the car but silent friction and we make small talk. I regret being in nice guy mode. But I get Chick Y home to the North End and things are all good.

OK, now Chick X, who I have never met before about three hours ago says, 'Can I just vent on you for a minute?' Ummm.... no. But my mouth says, "Sure." before my brain can kick its ass. So she goes on and on about Chick Y and I ignore her because I don't care. I figure it's all good. Then I make a wrong turn by mistake. Now I'm totally serious about this: This chick asks me where I'm going and basically accuses me of trying to kidnap her. Yes she did.

Don't go out drinking in Southie. Don't give crazy bitches rides home. Don't give other crazy bitches that are fighting with the crazy bitches you are driving home rides home.

South of the Border BOOZE

So this guy I work with is in town from Argentina. Good guy. Whatever. I figure I should bring him out for some BOOZE on Friday. So I axe him: "What do you want to do tonight?" And he says: "Whatever you would normally do." So... we head to my friend's basement to sit in front of the wood stove drinking everything that is put in arm's reach. International tourism, USA-style!

So we pick up a few bottles of wine and some beer and head over there. There are already the standard six other participants in their normal spots, you know, BOOZIN. So we sit down and we start drinking. Next thing you know, we're talking politics. And you know what happens when you start talking politics... the hard shit comes out! Now we're really getting started!

Obviously on the way home we have to stop off and order $72 worth of chinese food for the two of us. Yes, seriously. But only because "The Place With The Good Steak&Cheese" was already closed. So, there you have it, one man from Argentina's glimpse into what good ole' Americans do for fun on a Friday night.

Rule Number One

Rule Number One: BOOZE deserves the utmost respect. BOOZE shall always have all letters capitalized. There must be no exception to Rule Number One.