As a drinker St. Patrick’s Day fails completely as a holiday. What would have normally been an enjoyable night at my local pub has now been ruined by the influx of assholes wearing green that have swarmed seemingly every bar in the city.
When I think of the holiday now, my first thought is not of the Irish, but rather a plague of verdant locus, a green mob of drunken assholes destroying everything that it comes in contact with. My favorite bar? Now overrun with a bunch of animal-house types who have valiantly, yet with no signs of composer or skill, been imbibing since the morning. They crowd the counter and spill their drinks in a misbegotten orgy of high-fives and chest bumps. The sidewalks are splotched with lime tinged vomit. Cabs are impossible to get. That cute girl at my local that I have been slowly mustering the courage to talk is now being hit on by a dozen preppy looking douche bags wearing Guinness baseball hats and green polo shirts. The beer I liked? Now perverted with green food dye. The pub food I crave? Not tonight, they’re too busy. Everything that was sacred at my bar – my temple – unremorsefully stuprated and debauched. What should have been a joyous evening turned into a surreal nightmare of sacrilege.
St. Patrick may have succeeded in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but he also managed to drive all the pricks to the bars one night a year. If you want to find me next St. Patty’s Day I’ll be at home with a bottle of scotch and six-pack of Bass.
Posted in Begrudged Maturity, Holidays, Societal Woes
Tagged bars, beer, drinking, Holidays, Irish, scotch, should but don't, shouldbutdont, squalor, St. Patrick's Day, St. Patty's Day, twenty-something, whiskey
America cannot consider itself a civilized nation until the scourge of the wave has been eliminated from sporting events. I do not care if you think it is a magical moment of community amongst fans. Any activity that leads to that much beer spilling can never be considered benevolent. No activity that involves unwarranted exercise can be considered joyous. The only possible benefit the wave has is the shaking of female bosoms caused by the rapid standing, but even on this account, the wave is organized all wrong. Everyone is facing the backside of everyone else. Instead of quivering tits, you get ass crack and back sweat. I came to watch sports, not to do rudimentary calisthenics while having my draft spilled to ghastly sights.
And let’s face it, after the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics no amount of mass coordinated movement will look cool again. Thanks China. So can we all agree that the wave is now unequivocally lame and desist from making asses of ourselves? If the Chinese want to prove how far they come by having thousands of people memorize basic actions and then perform them with slave-driver oversight type precision, that’s fine with me. They can have that honor. But this is American, the supposed land of cowboys and entrepreneurs – a country of self starting, independent thinkers – and the wave flies in the face of all of this. We are not a country of joiners; we are a nation of doers (and borrowers).
Anyhow, can we all hold off on doing the wave, at least until the Chinese call in our debts and we all have to learn Cantonese and synchronized box-crouching? That is all that I am asking.
Posted in Societal Woes, Sports
Tagged america, back sweat, beer, Beijing Olympics, China, drinking, exercise, national debt, should but don't, shouldbutdont, slave drivers, sporting events, Sports, the wave, tits
Today is my birthday. Yes, thanks for posting on my Facebook wall. Some people call it a milestone, an accomplishment. Do they have such little faith in me? Do they find my life so dangerous? Or did they think I’d off myself by now?
It’s not an issue of age. I look forward to getting older. There is so much ahead: career advancement, falling in love, developing deeper friendships—infinite adventures. There are a whole bunch of places I haven’t been and a long list of books I haven’t read. The future is the most exciting part. My laugh lines will speak for themselves.
Throwing parties in New York is stressful. I can’t expect my friends to pay for dinner, drinks, and dancing (like I so often get dragged into). I can’t front the bill, either. And this Manhattan shoebox apartment can’t fit the crowds my Chicago loft did. I’m left without a celebration venue. I don’t like birthday cake either—too wary of calories and candles (though I endorse a strong birthday cocktail). I think it’s a birthday faux pas not to eat your own cake.
Sometimes I miss my elementary school days, when all you needed was ice cream cake, silly string, and a roller rink to throw a rockin’ party.
Actually, that sounds pretty awesome right now. (As long as they serve beer.)
Posted in Begrudged Maturity, Holidays, Societal Woes
Tagged accomplishments, adventure, aging, apartment, beer, birthday cake, birthday parties, birthdays, celebration, chicago, cocktails, facebook, faux pas, friendships, getting older, growing up, ice cream cake, laugh lines, manhattan, milestones, new york, parites, roller skating, suicide
I’m a fairly simple girl. It doesn’t take a lot of bells and whistles to make me happy. Which is why when I see my female comrades (and certain male friends too) order some fancy cocktail nonsense, I can’t help but cringe in despair.
I like some fruity drinks. A mojito in summer. A margarita on the beach. But you’re not impressing anyone with your four-fruit colada. As a rule, drinks should be made with as few ingredients as possible. Why must you overcomplicate a boozy night on the town? If you want something sweet, order the cake, not the chocolate ravage. It will take the bartender ten seconds to pull a pint or pour my scotch. You’re backing up the line and wasting everyone’s time with your super deluxe “martini.”
A martini should be made one way: with gin.
Or maybe I just break too many long-stemmed glasses.
Posted in Fine Dining
Tagged beer, cake, chocolate, chocolate ravage, cocktails, colada, drinking, fancy, gin, margaritas, martini, mojito, scotch, summertime