1017 New Years
(click the pictures to zoom-in)
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| Warning: This page may cause irreversible dain bramage. |
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| After a valiant scheduling struggle with the glory that is the Massachusetts Transit Authority, I was thrown off a train to wander my way through the skyscrapers of downtown Boston towards Rowe's Wharf. There I would meet the other members of our cheery little endeavor. |
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| Pausing for a moment of reflection in the courtyard of Walsh's building, I looked up at Old Glory and was inspired by serene thoughts of patriotic freedom n' shit. Perhaps tonight's debauchery should be set aside for more intellectual pursuits...? Yeah and Tara loves techno. |
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| I joined up with my partners in crime, Drew "Burger" Kidder and Jon "Ryobi" Eller," and our gracious host, Jon "Izu" Walsh. An ever-so-wise decision was made to frequent the bars early in the afternoon, thus avoiding the crowds and providing for underage stragglers joining us later. Besides, we would discover that the typical door charge for spending the evening at one of Bean Town's fine bars was upwards of one hundred clams, man. Ahh... The streets of Boston. |
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| Our first stop was to a place where we might disguise our "liquid habits" under a historical guise. The Bell in Hand tavern is the oldest in the United States, and we were proud to be killing brain cells in the same place as our floundering fathers once did. |
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| Amid one-liners about sexy Sith, masturbating hobos and naked grandma's, we snap another photo. Look ma – I'm using the camera's timer! |
(Burger, Ryobi, Props, and Izu, all lookin' way too sober) |
| After the historical beers, we felt the need to explore a more gratuitous establishment, Hong Kong's. Infamous for a particular drink they serve, referred to only in a whispers as the "scorpion bowl," we were eagerly carded by a friendly bouncer and shown to a wooden table. Only after finishing our second bowl did the bouncer inform us that each version of the concoction contained fourteen shots of good ole' fashioned brain poison. So much for our efforts to stay (mostly) sober until later... How can we be expected to resist the mother of all cocktails when they sell one thousand of them each weekend fer' fourteen bucks a pop? |
(Burger, Ryobi, and Izu taking a breath, with the random friendly bouncer scowling in the background) |
| At Hong Kong's I failed the bouncer's preliminary drunk test: "How many hands am I holdin' up?" But my spirits were far from shot. |
(Props gettin' jiggy) |
| Returning to the pad, we added a few stragglers to our merry gang: Brian, Peter and his fiance' Allison, and fellow gangsta roommate, Tara "T-Bone" Teich. All was not well, though. The night's due course was realized when I found myself completely inebriated (read: shitfaced) at 6:30pm. Time for a quick nap. |
(Props, D.O.A.) |
| After being roused by a valiant and bored Izu, we amused ourselves while awaiting the big moment. As painful as it was to those listening in, Ryobi and Allison slipped into an extended debate on historical issues – You know, war n' shit. At the same time, Burger and I drooled over the ultimate expression of testosterone, blasting critter after critter in House of the Dead II for DreamCast. |
(Allison and Ryobi in front, Props and Burger in back, with Props double-fisting his gun for "stablility.") |
| The big moment creeped closer, and we all braved the cold for an excellent view from the terrace – Not that the cold was very effective at this point, anyway. |
(T-Bone, Props, and Pete in front, Brian, Izu, Burger, and Ryobi in back – the greatest picture ever) |
| Just the buds. |
(Izu and Ryobi, with a UFO floating about forecasting our impending millennial doom) |
| After leading a rousing chorus of other drunks on the wharf below, Brian and I were inspired to wander the streets in the hopes of seeing the impending chaos up-close and personal-like. While charges are being pressed I am not at will to speak freely, but rumor has it that Pete, Props, Izu, and of course the Boston PD were involved in some amount of very chilly nakedness. At first reluctant to join, Izu was justifiably frustrated at the attention Pete was receiving from members of the opposite sex (Pete?!) and decided to embrace his naked self. At the end of our cavorting, Ryobi was inspired by a gray import sitting alone in a random parking lot. Scenes came to mind from a downtown Chicago Bulls championship celebration. |
(Izu, Ryobi, and Burger) |
| Returning to the warmth of Izu's pad, the pace began to slow. What better time to bust out the bottles of champaign...? |
(Props and T-Bone) |
| Here we make a T-Bone sandwich. |
(Props, T-Bone, and Ryobi) |
| One by one, we each assume the dreaded horizontal position. |
(Brian, Props, Burger, a buried T-Bone, and Ryobi watching from above) |
| Just before crashing, Pete and his fiancé attempt to give the evening a PG-13 rating. Ryobi cringes in agony and clutches feebly at his teddy bear (a.k.a. football). |
(Ryobi, Pete, and Allison) |
| Evidence as to why one should never leave their camera available to "creative" drunks. |
(Izu's half-n'-half Mountain Jack and Ryobi's half-n'-half Rum n' Coke) |
| Finally the children are nestled in their beds, visions of something dancing in their heads. Here Ryobi passes out after battling through an embarrassing moment of nausea in T-Bone's temporary bedroom. |
(Ryobi schnoozing) |
| They're so cute, it's pathetic. God damn I need a girlfriend. |
(Pete and Allison, with scorpion bowl umbrellas as hair ornaments) |
| The morning after... Sweet Jesus, where's the Advil? But we were all certainly glad to have survived the armageddon, and the millennium. |
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