Category Archives: What I Did This Weekend

Oh, Brother

I have a much, much younger brother back at home. When I introduce him to people as my brother, they look at him, then look at me, and then think, “mistake!” My parents more kindly refer to him as a “surprise.” Seeing as how I had been through several sex ed classes by the time he was born, I’ve always known better. Also, I’d rather have not known in my high school years that my parents still had a sex life.

pawsoxberm.jpgWhen those who don’t know us see my brother and I in public, they’re more likely to think we’re father and son. So I imagine that’s what happened this weekend when I took him to his very first minor league baseball game. It was one thing for me to stumble over my own words as I asked for a child’s ticket. It was another thing to be quietly judged as a parent by the other parents around me.

I have to admit that I don’t see my brother that often. So, when I get a chance to go home, I find myself spoiling him as though I was a grandparent. I take him out to the beach for chowder and clamcakes. I take him to the Science Museum. I take him out for ice cream. I’m clearly the favorite sibling, but that’s probably only because I buy him off.

Friday night’s ballgame was no different. He got everything he wanted. When we were in the team shop before the game, my brother wanted a pennant. “Chris, you should buy me this,” he told me. How can I say no to that? At two dollars, I figured he was going to be the cheapest date I’ve ever had. Directly behind me in line, another child saw my brother with the pennant and asked his parents for the same. They sternly lectured the child. “You can’t just get everything you want,” his mother said.

The guilt was poured on even heavier when I bought my brother a cup of french fries. We came back to our seats on the left field berm and plopped down with our fries. In no less than ten seconds, a little girl next to us was pointing in our direction, asking her parents for fries. “No,” her mother said. “They’ll make you fat.”

I nearly burst into laughter, but I avoided any eye contact with that family for the rest of the game. I feared getting a stare-down from the girl’s mom.

Now, to be fair, her mom was pretty hot… definitely a MILF. So the little girl’s got genetics on her side, and laying off the fries would probably do her some good. But I couldn’t help but think that I was being judged for spoiling my brother.

Of course, it isn’t my fault that these kids’ parents have principles. I can’t help the fact that they’re not willing to put out a simple two or three bucks to give their child their every want and need. I can’t help that they’re not willing to succumb to the puppy-dog faces and the “pleeeeeease, pretty pleeeeases” that their kids pull on them. Is it really my fault that I can’t say no?

Yes, it is. 

I am going to make a horrible parent.



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What I Did This Weekend: For the Record

By pure coincidence, in my apartment, at 8:30pm on Saturday, I was doing all three of the following:

I should just fill out an application for Canadian citizenship now.


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What I Did This Weekend: The Room is Still Spinning

This extended holiday weekend called for some drinking. And I did a little too much of it this weekend. Or much too much of it. So much, in fact, that it led me to do stupid things like this – on command – in the Times Square subway station:

I will hang my head in shame. And consider a 12-step program.


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What I Did This Weekend: Guaranteed Hangover

I woke up Sunday morning with an awful hangover. It was one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long time. I ended up trying to sleep it off through most of the afternoon, too, to no avail.

So, what caused this hangover? I was stumped. I didn’t drink any more than I had in other recent weekends. But some of the details from Saturday night were fuzzy – particularly the last bar stop of the night. I couldn’t even remember the name of the bar, let alone what I had to drink there. Then I picked up my phone and poked through some of the pictures from Saturday night. Lo and behold, I found the root cause of my hangover:


Any beer that you can get at a bar in New York for $1 a can will result in a guaranteed hangover. I’m embarrassed to admit that in my drunken stupor, I voluntarily ordered this beer. And my body would not forgive me for that all day on Sunday.


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In Which I Miss a Crucial Step in Dressing Myself

Saturday night, I did my fair share of drinking. Our group ran up a $497 tab at just our first bar of the night. But the most embarassing moment of the night came before I was halfway through my second beer.

sabresgame.jpgBecause I had been craning my neck for the entire first period to watch a TV almost directly over my head, I got up from the table to watch the Sabres-Islanders game from a more comfortable angle. I chose a spot next to my friend against a short wall that divided the bar from the seating area. This spot also happened to be directly next to the hostess’ station.

I leaned back and watched the intermission report and talked with my friend while observing the massive crowd. I had been resting my elbow over the receipt printer, so whenever a waitress came over to close out a tab, I moved my arm away. Given how packed the bar was, I figured I was being a model bar patron.

A few minutes into the second period, the hostess came over and ripped off a piece of a receipt and took her pen to the paper. I was a little distracted by her frantic scribbling, but I thought nothing of it. Then, she took the small piece of paper and held it up in my general direction. I’ve taken the opportunity to painstakingly recreate what the paper looked like:


XYZ? I had no idea what the “XYZ” stood for. For a few seconds, I thought she was holding it up for another waitress behind me, or signaling to one of the bartenders. Then, I realized that she was making eye contact with me.

I gave her a strange look. “What?”

zipper.jpg“X-Y-Z,” she reinforced.

“I see that,” I replied. “What does it mean?”

The hostess looked down towards my waist. “Your zipper.”

I stood in stunned embarassment. I looked down, and sure enough, the fly on my jeans was half-open, exposing my boxer shorts. Considering that the last time I had touched my jeans was after being at the gym that afternoon, I had probably been walking around Manhattan for at least four hours with my fly down. “Oh. Wow. Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said. “I bet you haven’t heard that one since you were 8 years old. Like, your parents probably said that to you.”

“Yeah,” I began to concur. “Actually… I probably heard it the last time I was too retardedly drunk to remember to zip up.”

So, thank you, very attractive blond hostess, for sparing me from further embarassment and potential indecent exposure on Saturday night. Now, every time I zip up, I will think of you.


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How Many Tools Can You Fit In One Town?

It seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. One of the biggest drunkfests of the year for the Irish and wannabe-Irish alike is the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Hoboken. I’m Irish. I like booze. I was free Saturday. I was willing to put aside the fact that people in New Jersey clearly don’t know how to read a calendar. I regretted this.

It was a beautiful day in Manhattan – sunny and 60 degrees. The weather motivated me and a few friends to jump on the PATH with visions of Guinness jigging in our heads. Things pretty much went downhill from there.

hobroken3.JPGYou can see Hoboken from Manhattan. Yet when we got to the street level from the PATH, we were shocked by the cold. It was about 15 degrees colder in Hoboken, and it was cloudy to boot. This was not a good start.

The city of Hoboken was pretty much a police state by the time we arrived. The SWAT team was stationed out on the street, ready to collect drunkards and toss them in the tank. Cops were writing tickets for open containers left and right, much to the amusement of our sober selves, who laughed at one cop’s exchange with a drunk:

Drunk Girl: How much is this ticket going to cost?
Cop: A lot.
Drunk Girl: How much is that?
Cop: Uh, a million, billion dollars.

Little did we know that we were about to be bilked ourselves.

hobroken2.JPGAs we started to walk further into town, we realized that essentially, McFaddens had left Midtown Manhattan to vomit all over Hoboken. McFaddens is full of drunken fresh-out-of-college fratboys and their slutty female counterparts. Hoboken did not have a single visitor over the age of 23, unless they were carrying a police badge or bagpipes.

McFaddens has an inexplicably long line with obnoxious drunks on cell phones at all hours of the night. Every bar in Hoboken had a line that was at least 30 people deep. I saw one line that stretched down an entire block. There is no way that any bar in Hoboken is worth that much of a wait. 

McFaddens charges a cover to get into a bar that has nothing special to offer, and everything pretty much sucks ass. Virtually every bar in Hoboken was charging a cover on Saturday. Not one that we passed in our hour of walking was charging less than $20. In fact, one bar was charging a $40 cover.

Me: $40? What does that get you?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Uh, it gets you in.
Me: Is there, like, a band playing or anything?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah, bro.
Me: Do we get open bar or something?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nope.
Me: Cheap beer?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah.
Me: Then, uh, why did you come here?

These poor, gullible kids. I think next year, I should buy a couple 12 packs, hold them over my head, and run past the long lines shouting, “FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!” I would then run into the PATH station and go back to Manhattan. On second thought, this might not be a good idea – people who are willing to pay $40 to get into a bar in Hoboken should just stay in New Jersey.

Not willing to fork over that much money to go to a shitty bar in Jersey, we decided to turn around and go home, dejected and sober. But not before seeing two drunk girls in a gutter climbing over each other to try to get up, getting sideswiped by a drunk guy who was seemingly running away from the authorities, and seeing a fratguy puke onto the side of a building. Over the course of our two hours in Hoboken, the sidewalks had turned from a sea of green to a sea of vomit. After seeing all that, all I wanted to do was poke my own eyes out.


Previously: How Many Tools Can You Fit In One Room?


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What I Did This Weekend: Sad Clown

And now, another remnant of my weekend at the alma mater: a clown juggling fire in the snow, complete with play-by-play.

See? That alone was totally worth the six-hour bus trip.

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