Ahh, it’s that time of year again. Leprechauns, gross green beer, and shepherd’s pie. Lousy limericks and the luck o’ the Irish. Or, as in my case, bar fights, gogo dancers, and accidents in my pants! Yeah, that’s right, it’s almost St. Patty’s Day, so here comes my much-requested Part Two Ending to whatever the fuck happened last year up in Boston Town…
Now, where was I. Oh right! Drinkin’ 3 Buck Chuck at 11am, the day before THE DAY…
Wednesday Evening: Dropkick Murphies tix? Check. Gin ‘n Juice in waters bottles? Check. Moshing / crowd-surfing attire? Check. Money? Whatever. And we’re off! It’s freezing, clearly, since this is Boston in early March, but we’re walking, so it’s a good thing we have gin. Once arrived at the House of Blues, we chug a bottle, get cavity-searched at the door (yeah, that second bottle had to go…) and enter. And it’s amazing! I love this band. Lose the brother after about, say 10 minutes? I’m crap-faced and it’s time to mosh. I used to go fairly regularly (it is not my fault I’m short, I get to take my anger out on strangers anyway, dammit!), but have fallen off since I’m no longer, you know, 17 years old and disgruntled. Hence I’d forgotten how awesome mosh-pit-etiquette is. Some drunk-fuck chick goes down in front of you? The whole crowd parts to pick her up and chuck her back in, then we’re back to trying to kill each other. You’re a bit tired of combat boots to your head? It’s cool, just tell the tallest dude there to send you up, and crowd-surf out. The mosh pit is fabulous 🙂
So I go outside at one point for a breather, and some drunk Boston dude comes up. And he’s big.
DBD: “Hey. You’re Italian aren’t ya?”
Me: “Uhh, yeah, kinda.” I mean, more than you, yes. “Why?”
DBD: “Aw, ’cause us Boston Irish, we don’t like you Eyetie chicks.” Followed by grunting and posturing.
Now this, I think, is just unecessary. Here I am, havin’ a fuckin’ brilliant time, till this douche comes up for Christ knows what reason, and I don’t know if he thinks insulting my ancestors is a good pick-up idea or what, but I’m in Boston, goddamn it, where _everyone_ is insulting as fuck, and I am having NONE of that.
Me: “Yeah? Well it’s not our fault you fuckin’ Boston Irish are such pussies. So you can go fuck yourself, you stupid dick, I’m going moshing.”
I think that did the trick, although I wouldn’t really know, since I followed this with a shove and a return to the pit…
The concert was amazing, I recall it ending with me dancing onstage with 50 other chicks and the band, and perhaps stage diving off? Who can say. And then, the brother and I, we made a poor life decision…
Later Wednesday Night: It’s now about midnight, and we’re trying desperately to get money out of an ATM off the brother’s AmEx, for which he does not recall the pin, ’cause we’re out of cash and really need the door cover to get into the gay bar. To which I have decided to wear… a somewhat see-through nightgown. With cowboy boots. Not my fault! Didn’t bring club clothes, and it’s a really super cute nightie that could totally pass for a mini-dress type thing, I swear. After failing yet again, we buy like, 3 packs of cigarettes on credit for some dude I have accosted, and take his cash in return. And now we’re at the gay bar? And the gogo dancer wants to salsa with me? Well, if you really think so then 🙂 I knew this “dress” was awesome! Bluhh…..
Thursday: 8am. The sound of No Alarm Ringing. I wake precipitously, in a haze of gin and tangled clothing, on the couch. It’s about 8:30 and FUCK we were supposed to meet friends for beer downtown at 8. That’s right, I’ve been asleep for about 2.5 hours and I’m already late for a pint ’cause It’s St. Patty’s Day 2011!!! Turns out the brother has jacked my phone ’cause his was missing, and he can’t function without a phone within a three foot radius of his body at all times (thus the deafening lack of alarm). My attempts to wake him last about 1.5 minutes, before I pass back out…
Much Later Thursday: Ok! Now we’re awake. First order of business: dress myself, ’cause oh dear god have I planned an outfit… That’s right, I’m going as a leprechaun. Ish. A picture’s worth a thousand words right? See below:
Second order of business: I need all the liquids. Yes, all of them. It has been a long… 7 days? 14? Whatever, it’s been long. Once we have acquired: a lemonade, a smoothie, a giant iced coffee, a couple bottles of water, and a couple bottles of gin ‘n juice, we head to the pub. And I’m actually not the creepiest lookin’ person in it, believe it or not. God bless Shitty O’Kea’s!
It is at this point that things start to go downhill. The brother needs to make a half-assed apology to the friend we’ve ditched, so I’m left all on me own on this St. Patty’s Day morn’, and decide it would be a wonderfull idea to.. attempt to get thrown out of a bar? This made sense at the time, swear. Like, so the brother has a friend of a friend who’d been thrown out of this bar downtown, Solas, for like, totally no reason. She’d gone to the men’s to pee (ladies was shut) and the bartender had gotten all dick-ish about it, so she (drunk, claro) told him to fuck off or something, and they threw her out. And then like, duh, she went in the other bar around the back. But… they tracked her down and called her on it, so she said she’d seen his manager in the bathroom blowing a dude. And the manager’s a dude. So they threw her out again and called the cops, leading to her hiding in a dumpster. Now I have decided this is bullshit, and I’m off to get myself chucked out of Solas, you know, as an act of solidarity, in my leprechaun suit…
So I’m havin’ some pints, I’ve got gin ‘n juice stuffed down the back of my jeans, and I’ve met some actual Irish chick from the lovely town of Kilkee, where I’ve actually been?? Too bad, I’ve a bar to get thrown out of! So I pay my tab (wouldn’t want to cheat the nice bartender lady…) and ask if the manager’s around. He’s not. Poop. Next up, walk out to the bouncer, a giant hulk of a tatted-up beast, and tell him I gotta talk to him.
TUB: “Yeah, ‘sup?”
Me: “So, I’ve heard this rumor about your manager.”
Me: “Yeah. I guess he like, likes to suck dick in the bathroom.”
TUB: “The fuck? He’s the straightest dude livin’.”
Me: All up in his face. Well, as much as a really short, pretty drunk, non-violent-type, white chick can get up in anybody’s face… “Fuckin A, man, my friend, like, saw him doin’ it!”
TUB: “Aww, whatever. So what’s your shirt say?”
Me: Fuck me, man, I can’t get thrown out of a bar in fuckin’ Boston tryin‘.
Thursday Evening: Oh god. I’ve just returned from the bathroom of some gay bar / restaurant (kinda awesome actually. Too bad NO ONE can remember the fuck it was called. Somewhere in Southie??). And said this:
Me: “I’ve just had an accident. In my pants.”
Assorted Gays: “Huh? Hahahahaha.”
Clearly I had spilled the second bottle of gin ‘n juice all down there. Clearly.
Me: “But it’s sticky!!!!“
Gay #1: “I’ll fix that!”
And yes, that is how I had gin licked out of my ass-crack by a gay man on St. Patrick’s Day in Boston. And no, the story does NOT end there.
About 3 hours later… So now we’re at The Estate, which is in The Alley. I have had this location confirmed by outside sources. And we’re actually in the alley, cause apparently the bar has gotten so fucked-up drunk that it has been cut off. Yeah, that’s right, the whole fucking bar. I mean, I’ve seen people get cut off, but the whole bar? WIN for Boston, I say! Now, I’d been telling people I needed to go home for like, at least a couple hours. Cause, left to my own devices, I’m pretty good about putting myself to bed when necessary. And they wouldn’t let me, bitches. So the culmination of the evening is really not my fault, as I take no responsibility for my actions when bed-blocked.
Me: To my brother. “Hey. Fuck you.”
Bro: “Huh? God you’re drunk.”
Me: “Yeah? Well fuck that. And fuck you double!” Turning to chick walking by who’s glancing at us. “Oh yeah? And fuck you too!” Chick scampers off in fear. I think I’m starting to understand the state the DBD from the concert was in…
Bro: “Dude, you need to go home.”
Me: “You fucking little shit, I’ve been telling you that for hours! Fuck you!”
Bro: “Someone get her a cab…”
And fuck you, and you and your ho-bag friend, and fuck you toooooooo…
The remainder of the weekend: I’m pretty sure we went out again, something about Scorpion Bowls of Liquor and badly-done karaoke to bad bad Oasis songs? But the thought of describing it makes my head hurt. Peace out, Bean-town.