Shout Out to Boylston St.

If you have ever been on a date where you were prompted to say, "excuse me sir, you may not know this - but you are a homosexual" - there is a usually a good reason why. You met him at some club or trendy lounge where his limp wrist's and overly effeminate mannerisms blended in with the scenery of actually out of the closet gay men and strobe lighting.

As the above mentioned places are my friends and my usual haunts, we often find ourselves also asking, "where is just a cute, straight man that has no apparent bi-curious tendencies?" Well ladies, I have found them and they exist at the Boylston Street bars.

48 hours ago, to someone suggesting "lets go to Boylston Street tonight", I would have defended all responses from "I'd rather choke on my own vomit" to "I thought euthanasia was illegal in Massachusetts". Today, I am a changed woman. Not only are these bars filled with unquestionably straight men, they are also filled with questionably straight woman. No, Boston is no fashion hub, but it appeared as if every 'female' in the room spent too much money on their field hockey or rugby equipment and therefore had to live without electricity or a full-length mirror. In short, I was in hog heaven.

Living at the bottom of a bottle since 9pm, I arrive at our first stop with a caravan of drunkards in tow. Seeing a group of men in Yankee hats, I feel this is a personal invitation for me to harass them. Rather then the usual, "new york sucks", I actually applauded their taste. Unaware of my sincerity, they become offended and I go inside. Within seconds of walking into Bar A, I am ready for plan B. No artistic liberties need to be taken to describe this place - picture hordes of sloppy Bostonian's, in both dress and behavior, searching for their next Pabst blue ribbon or Arbor Mist - If tacky could walk...

The good news is that I came with enough people to ignore all others in the room... this is until I found myself alone. Mike was flirting in the corner, Taylor was making his attempts to seal the deal with the girl he had brought along, the other Mike and friend were on a mission to get some and as both my roommate Jen and I confirmed we would not be participating in said event, they didn't even pretend to stick around. So there we were, our grouping dwindled to a pair, and a drink-less pairing at that. After losing to a game of "odds or evens" to see who will push their way through the wall of Axe-body spray, I head to the bar order 2 vodka red-bulls as planned and decide to get the night going with 2 soco-lime shots - I mean business. The bartender, although cute, not much between the ears. To my request for 2 soco-lime shots accompanied by my gesticulating the number two with my fingers, he became confused and made four. When god sends a gift your way - you take it… and I did.


I bundle myself up, line up the shots against my forearm with the red-bull vodka's in hand and return to where I last saw my roommate. Quel suprise, she too has disappeared into the abyss. So there I am, standing with 6 drink's in total, crammed into every crevice of my upper body I could appropriately find,... alone. Alone wouldn't be so bad if I didn't look like a squirrel collecting acorns, which in this case happen to be shot glasses, deer in headlights look as I realize I entered with a third of the bars capacity, and now see no one who even looks like someone I know. I need to get rid of these drinks. To my left… lets not even got there - but to my right, I find my disgruntled Yankees. Convincing them that I too am a fan, and truly was not being mocking, I share my good fortune of extra shots. I may have lost all the friends I came with, but luckily I just made new ones. Rather then do another unsuccessful loop of friend finding, I decide to stay in one place hoping eventually my friends find me. They do, and we had fun getting stink-eye from girls, and fish-eye from the guys but this particular bar closed at one, so it was soon time to make our next appearance.

Getting ready to leave, I look around - and you have got to be kidding me - I'm by myself. Again. This time it is worse. When I was tout seul at 11pm, people are slightly buzzed, just going out with friends. 1am rolls around, people are sloppy slurred cretins who clearly didn't take heed when the big dog said, "if you go out, looking like you've rolled out of bed - prepare to roll back into bed, ... alone", so keep walking, stop talking, and quit trying. Because I happen to be standing by myself, in a crowded bar, also slightly intoxicated at 1 in the morning does not mean I am waiting for you to come change this fact. That is when once again I look to my right, and low and behold, the no longer disgruntled Yankees.

Yankee: "Where are your friends?"
E: Good question.
Yankee: ... There seems to be a pattern with you.
E: You're telling me.

This time they really did leave me, but none of them realized this until they were half way down the block, already inside another packed place that I once again will have to circle alone, no, not looking for you sir, I am actually legitimately looking for my friends. As a side note, either girls use that line way too often, or the entire human race has as shitty of friends as I do. Every time I would squeeze through the sea of sports paraphernalia and bad dye jobs and say "I'm just looking for my friends, excuse me", that prompted people to continue talking as if it was some sort of code for "in truth, my friends are all over at that table in the corner and I'm voluntarily walking through a mosh pit so I could scope out the crowd and end up next to you," No and no.

As I trek through the crowd I think I see a glimpse of my friends when someone pulls my arm causing me to be almost flung into the bar at a speed that could have resulted in whiplash. I look up to see my attacker, and instead of someone who could be fittingly named 'Thor', he is probably the best looking guy I've seen all night. Tan driving loafers, cool jeans, white sweater, navy blazer and a Yankee hat - my first thought is what is he doing here? I look directly next to him; see a girl so ugly she couldn't be found in a sale bin at Old Navy. My next thought is what is he doing here with her? No sooner did I find out.

"See!! I told you my girlfriend was coming!!" - he shouts excitedly, claiming his girlfriend to be me. Not getting it, I look once more at him and then at her... click. After a few, "sorry, I'm late loves" and "where's my drink?", show-time was over and the only award I received was a stink eye so sinister that it even beat out that of my mothers when she found out that not only had I been expelled from boarding school, her gym was once again my bedroom.

"Not you're type?" I ask. It was his response that let me know my friends leaving me may have been fate, "Yea? Female gym teachers. Not so much” Assuring me he had me pegged, rather then order a drink, he said he knew what I'd be ordering before I even spoke. If there's one thing you should know about me, it is that I am not so easily pegged, or surprised for that matter (so if you were to know two things really) but what happened next even I couldn't write. Rather then come back with 2 drinks, he came back with a tray. Once he got to the bar, he started to doubt his pegging abilities, so rather then be wrong, he came up with the following formula:

2 kamikaze shots: "because all girls like Kamikaze shots"
2 soco lim shots: "just incase you thought I was gay based on the kamikaze's - yet still just girly enough"
A vodka red-bull: "wishful thinking..."
A vodka cranberry: "In case you became offended thinking I was trying to get your drunk with the Vodka Red-Bull"
Last but not least, a jack and coke for him.

I liked him before. I really like him now. Mind you, this was our last stop of the evening and as Boston closes at 2, we had one hour to consume an ungodly amount of alcohol. All of a sudden, after a night of being virtually a party of one, my friends seemed to crawl out of the woodworks as soon as a buffet of beverages shows up... coincidence? I think not. Either way, I was happy to prove that I, in fact, was looking for friends, that I even had friends, and was not, as it appeared, some crazy desperate degenerate who went to busy bars on Saturday nights alone.

A day or two later he texts me and just when you thought that this was money in the bank... I single handedly in one fall swoop realize why I am still single:
(As we bonded at the bar over being harassed Yankee fan's in Boston) Hat Boy: I just saw a midget wearing a Yankee hat walking down the street. Do you think people spare him the harassment because he is a little person?
(I, finding this hysterical, respond) E: Haha, I hope so however if someone were to harass him, I don't think they're first thought would be the hat....
Fearing that I now look like a littler person hater, which I am not, Wasser damage control makes it worse by sending: "FYI I am in full support of all little people rights"

No response. Big shocker as to why...

Screw The Sox: For Those Who Prefer Red Pumps

In light of the race for the pennant, I am coming out of the closet - I am not a sports fan. To simply say that I'm 'not a fan' truly does not do justice to my distaste for sports that I have been harboring as a Bostonian now for the past three years.

Okay there. I said it. Now pick your jaw up off the floor and hold in your 'gasps' and let me explain. Upon telling a friend of mine who is like most Bostonians, a sports fan[atic], he looked at me wide eyed, as if the future of our friendship was lingering on my response, and said, "well surely there is something you like about some sport.... somewhere". And well, no, there isn't.

Baseball, despite the player’s brag-worthy backsides, takes a long time and the players spit way to often. The only good thing about soccer is it has a running clock. Football? A bunch of grown men in matching spandex dog piling each other first on the 10, and wait... same thing on the 20 and so on? Check Please. Basketball makes me wish I were taller, wrestling makes me hungry, gymnasts make me anorexic... need I say more?

While some may think that living with this set of morals is just a walk in the park - anyone who believes that has never lived in Boston. Jerseys on Newbury Street, hats on the sidewalks, little B's and odd looking leprechaun's literally winking at you around ever corner. Try going to a bar? Just stay home on game night. You could walk around stark nude - unless you have a caricature of Bill Belichick tattooed between your shoulder blades or a "this is for Big Papi" on your left ass cheek - you will not get the time of day.

So why am I telling you this? Well for starters, if you're coming to Boston, are anything like me and would rather sip your vodka soda sans "that went right to him!" shouting, then your going to need this: 

"Screw the Sox: A Survival Guide for Those Who Care More About Red Pumps" 

(Just a little book I came up with)

1. Fake It. I know that sounds hypocritical coming from me, but believe me, there is no conversation more irrational or mind numbing than being brow beaten for your beliefs. The only thing that can take sports fans attention away from sports, is hearing how you too don’t pray 5 times a day to the Green Monster, and said sports fan’s rant is sure to last longer than 7 innings. You may curse the day Paul Peirce was born. Keep it to yourself.

2. Always have an answer. If you choose not to follow rule number one, be prepared to hear some of the most ridiculous reasoning for why said fan hasn’t changed their underwear in a week, or how sports brings the nation together, or other outlandish statements. When being confronted, it is necessary to fight fire with fire. 

I.E To: “Sports has always saved our country… think back to the Great Depression… without sports, where would we be?” I say: “That was then. Prozac is now”

3. Stick to your guns. At the end of the day, just like what you like and know in your heart of hearts, you can never please a sports fan. Proof? Whether they win or they lose… they riot.