First off, congratulations to LTJ and Miss Possible on tying the knot yesterday. A great time was had by all. The weather cooperated for the most part and everything went off without a hitch. I could go on at length about just how great everything was planned, but what I have to fill you in on is my 4am walk back to my hotel. Due to some pre-planning mishaps, Swedish Girl and I ended up at a different hotel than the rest of the wedding party. It would have been fine, except for the fact that it was across the street, beset by highway on-ramps and off-ramps on all sides, and devoid of sidewalks.
After the reception, Swedish Girl was all partied out, so we got her some quick food and she dropped me off at the wedding group’s hotel. I knew that getting back to our hotel wasn’t going to be a breeze, but I figured I’d worry about that problem after a handful of beers. I definitely did not regret the first half of the decision, as the beers were cold and we all laughed our asses off for a couple of hours. When I checked the time, I was shocked to see that it was 4am already. Swedish Girl had called me almost three hours earlier to find out when I’d be back and I had assured her then that it wouldn’t be long.
It was at this point that I probably would have been better served to just stay another 60 or 90 minutes until daybreak. The walk back to my hotel was one of the most harrowing experiences I’ve ever been foolish enough to do. It doesn’t compare to The Big Dig Story (to be included in my upcoming book), but it’s up there. The distance was under a mile, but it was so dark and foggy that I thought for sure I was a sitting duck for oncoming cars. The speed limit on that road was upwards of 40 to 45 MPH and I thanked the heavens above that only two or three cars passed me. Close to half my walk was on the shoulder of the road and I soon realized one huge mistake. I was still wearing a black tuxedo.
Not great attire in fog so thick that I was swimming through it. I considered holding my cell phone over my head as a beacon in the night, but didn’t want to kill the battery. That’s when a decent idea came to mind – I removed my tuxedo jacket so that the bright white back of my vest would be seen in people’s headlights. The whole walk was probably no more than 10 or 15 minutes, but felt like an hour. I was so relieved to be back at the hotel that it felt like home sweet home. And as Captain Larby mentioned in his best man speech, these types of things are par for the course when LTJ is involved.
Last night marked a momentous first for me. I went to a movie theater that serves beer and wine and took full advantage of that perk. It was a silver lining in what was a bummer of an evening. My “sis” Lisa had given me Patriots tickets, which were given to her by Patriots legend Andre Tippett. Due to a series of mishaps consistent with the life and times of Cool Jesus, I didn’t make the Sunday night game, and coincidentally, probably ruined any chance of future tickets. I pictured myself in a Seinfeldian moment in which I was George and Lisa was Jerry. And instead of Keith Hernandez, the (less) famous athlete involved was Andre Tippett and he was pissed that his tickets went to waste.
Instead, Swedish Girl and I went to an ancient cinema (with unfortunately contemporary ticket prices) near our neighborhood and took in Little Miss Sunshine. The film was enjoyable and I was glad that Swedish Girl enjoyed it, since we rarely ever agree on movies. I sulked through the first half of the film, but soon enough the beer did its job and acted as the balm to my wounds. All in all, not a bad plan B.
I had my first autumn seasonal beer of the season last Friday. September 15. Eight full days before the official end of summer and I sold out my second favorite season for the amber glow of a Harpoon Octoberfest draft. I commented to my counterpart, Hardytrain, that drinking that beer was the final nail in the coffin of summertime.
Mid-September can be an odd time. The typical summer paraphernalia are put away and all the harvest season decor is displayed, replete with Halloween costumes at a retailer near you. Yet it was 83 degrees in the Boston area yesterday. I was walking into a supermarket yesterday in the glorious, blazing sun and passing decorated pumpkins and bales of hay on my left and right. For a moment, it made me think that this is how LTJ and Miss Possible will be enjoying the harvest season in 2007 and beyond.
But…for those of us remaining in the Northeast U.S. hinterlands, we’ll enjoy this last week of summer, we’ll delight in the random warm days of Indian Summer in this month and next, and hope that the winter brews don’t roll out too soon. Slainte.
Before Captain Larby turned me on to The Big Lebowski, I had probably consumed no more than a handful of White Russians in my brief drinking life. And most or all of those were probably ordered up at the dearly departed Jack Lynch’s Webb Street Grille, a teeny tiny little drinking hole with the coolest damn bartender I ever knew (wish I could remember his name). Back when I was pre-legal, I had an in at Lynch’s and made it my mission to sample everything behind the bar. Yes, it is true that Long Island Iced Tea and Alabama Slammers taste like Hi-C and will wollap you hours later.
This sampling took place a couple of years before I saw Lebowski, and since then the White Russian has been revered as a sacred elixir. Larby and I honed our mixing technique over repeated viewings of Lebowski, as well as other favorites in his extensive collection. That Atwood Square apartment hosted some damn good times and some epic conversations that should have been recorded for posterity. We’d debate the merits of more Kahlua than vodka (which had to be Smirnoff like The Dude), 2% milk versus 1% milk, and how many ice cubes made it perfect. I dare say we were pros.
I recently discovered that a chic little bar in my neighborhood makes killer White Russians. However, even though they are tasty, they are not potent. I can’t give them an A overall. Next time, I’ll watch while it’s being made, but I suspect a splash of Kahlua, a splash of vodka, and mostly milk. That just doesn’t cut it.
So, what’s your drink of choice? I got this round.