As you regular readers are aware, I was once married. That means, not only do I have a lovely sentimental video of myself dancing to a Whitney Houston song, I also have a group of married friends that I used to spend time with when I was “under contract.”
This Saturday night, we’re getting together to catch up.
Quite a few things have changed since we last hung out. Most of my friends now have kids. Several of them have moved deep into the ’burbs. And me? Well, I have been given the opportunity to make an ass of myself in this publication — an opportunity I like to think I’ve embraced fully.
Adventures in going out, staying in, and acting up
I need to get my ass to the gym. I’ve done nothing this week but work, drink, and eat. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, my job enables a slovenly lifestyle. Covering Boston’s nightlife is fun, but the excesses are many: a lunch meeting with a chef who wants you to try everything on his new menu; several glasses of red wine paired with a near-inappropriate inability to stop eating cheese chunks at an art gallery opening; a drunken 3 a.m. diner breakfast so large that an unavoidable food coma causes you to “nap” right there in the booth, pressed between your friend and the cold window you’re propped up against. Shhh... he’s sleeping. Isn’t he cute? Rub somebutter on his lips — they look chapped.
Adventures in going out, staying in, and acting upWhen it comes to birthdays, I believe most people fall into one of two categories: those who celebrate them, and those who don’t. I’m firmly in the latter category. I’ve never been a big fan of tooting my own horn — a statement I’m sure you find hard to believe, considering that I force you folks to read this self-serving crap every other week (and all too often include a photo of myself as well). TOOT! TOOT!But seriously, I hate being the center of attention. I don’t like causing a scene; I feel badly making people go out of their way for me; and at my sixth birthday party, I punched a little girl in the face for singing “Happy Birthday” to me and then spent the next two hours hiding in my bedroom closet waiting for everyone to go home. Normal, right? Seems I’ve been missing out on my God-given right to enjoy freebie birthday ass ever since I was a little kid. But I turn 39 in four weeks. With the proper employment of Valium and a well-timed whiskey shot, I really think this could be my big break-out year.
I move more than an overly caffeinated epileptic on roller skates. It’s as if I get off on the smell of a UHaul truck. Ah, yes, breathe it in. it smells of sofa farts and sweat, doesn’t it? That distinctive odor can only mean one thing: it’s September, that magical time of year when discarded furniture can be found on nearly every city block and oversized moving trucks can be found wedged under nearly every overpass on Storrow Drive.
So this Saturday night I’m going to explore my new neighborhood. Yes, I’ve moved again. This was my third move in 14 months. I’ve owned, I’ve rented, and I’ve even subletted this year. Actually, I’ve also squatted, but that really had nothing to do with my living situation, so let’s move on, shall we?
Last night I took it easy. I had a fun but extremely low-key evening. So when I wake up this morning, I feel great. My exemplary Saturdaynight behavior has been rewarded. The allknowing hangover gods looked down upon me and said, “Let this man have a Sunday free of sinus headaches and latenightgarbageeating indigestion. Let him go forth and be productive on this glorious midsummer weekend day. For he has earned this right by showing us he can be an intelligent and responsible young man.”
Subscribe: Rss
