Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Here's a familiar scene. I open my eyes to a picture of bliss strewn about the floor in front of me. The self-assembled wooden Ikea coffee table is filled with empty beer bottles. Two XBOX 360 remotes like huge boulders anchored in the ocean shallows, create small gaps amidst the sea of glass. An old sock that looks strangely like one of my own, lays next to a flannel shirt, definitely not mine, on the floor. Drinking shoes (yes, the timbs made it) weigh my feet down like two cinder blocks as I peel my face off the leather arm of the couch in an attempt to get the day started. It's 8:30 am Sunday morning. Time to get to the Pats' tailgate.

Rewind 24 hours. I've just woken up with a terrible, or should I say "wicked bad" hang over. My head is pounding. The drive that started with a few Irish coffees while sitting shotgun of my buddy's Pontiac, moved quickly (as 3 1/2 hours tends to do while drinking Irish coffees) into a night of what can only be described as absurd overindulgence. Upon arrival in Boston we went straight to [insert Irish last name here]'s Pub, where the men were men and the women were too. And, thus, the buckets of beer were only $10! Needless to say we rode the euphoric high of seeing old friends, reaching our weekend destination, and a little bit of whiskey to the vertical limits of a prolonged adrenaline rush.

This alone would explain the throbbing head, but after some investigative work I see there's more to this picture. I look down and see some blood on the elbow of my thermal undershirt. I inspect my actual elbow and see it's scraped open and gravel infested. It is then I realize that my head is pounding not only from the booze, but also from the sizable lump on the back of it, most likely caused by falling onto pavement. Pavement + fall = pain + gravel in the wound. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I went to college. The pain quickly turns to inspiration when I realize I'm actually not that hung over. There's hope yet that this, my only Saturday in Boston, will rise above the temptation of peaceful sleep and will lead me to Harpoonfest.

After a hot breakfast at a local dive we wasted no time making our way down to the Harpoon brewery for their Oktoberfest party, Harpoonfest. $20 got us in the door and a "free" beer. An additional $20 bought 4 more tickets for beers. The price wasn't foreign to a healthy Manhattan drinker like myself, although it was brought up as a negative factor of the festival by some of the Boston locals. The redeeming quality for the "outlandish" price: the alcohol content of Harpoon beers (nearly always around 5%). Our four tickets, plus a few we picked up off of some lowly stragglers no longer willing to entertain the idea of another Hefeweizen, predictably ended with a circle of clanking glasses and celebratory wasteful pours to the late, great Boston god: Teddy Williams.

Saturday night was better summed up Sunday morning in a Hangover-like photo reel recapping the events. Shots (or is that just one shot?) of Patron, some unknown dark, iced concoctions in pint-sized glasses, card games, me in a blue flannel shirt which I still don't believe is mine but nonetheless, and finally some late night bagels with assorted condiments.

Overall, Boston went above and beyond my expectations. South Boston especially felt like a home away from home. Or more like a college away from college. Could I do it every weekend? Probably not. Do I respect the men and women that do do it every weekend? Absolutely. Boston is like a young drinker's paradise: lots of bars, not much else to do, the drinking starts so early you forget that 2 am is absurdly early to close a bar...It works. I'm not saying it's a last great place or anything, but it works. So to all those I visited this past weekend, this one's for you.

Teddy Williams