Two Times, Too Many?

Well, it's here. Homecoming. My homecoming. The real one. And on the eve of what should be my grand weekend, I'm feeling a little bit like my favorite ESPN columnist, Bill Simmons, when he went to Vegas with his fantasy football buddies for their league's 20th year celebration: old.

I'm tired. My original plan of loading my October weekends with substitution homecomings may now be coming back to haunt me. I mean, it's not like "back in the day" when my time during the week was consumed by 15 to 20 sober hours of work, tops, the rest spent prepping for the weekend with practice games of beer pong, mooseknuckle, flip cup and other various cardiovascular fitness activities. I work now, and the working man's body, although very much sober, is weak. Think about it, 40 hours a week I sit in front of a computer, staring at the screen thinking, "What happened?" The most exercise I do during the day is probably laughing at the "I loved College" Asher Roth spoof that my friend sent me the other day.

But, to quote my idol Bill Simmons, "[will this] stop [my friends and I from] putting on a throwback 48-hour show of...drinking, smoking, ball-busting, eating and (fill in every other verb that ends with "ing" except for the ones that would get us divorced)? Of course not." OK, so we're not that old that we need to worry about divorce, but some of us have girlfriends that would probably want those "ing's" left out of the list as well.

Tomorrow night at 9 my friends and I will embark on a mission to overcome the awkward second homecoming since our graduation. Are we too old to go back and still feel cool? Probably. Are we going anyway? Obviously. But as was push the envelope of what's socially acceptable in terms of the college comeback, I have to wonder, when will we finally be over the whole thing?

Maybe when I'm settled into a job, one that I'm truly happy with, where I'm writing and actually using the skills I learned while in school, will I begin to put to rest my memories of fondness towards college. But then again, maybe not. I've never heard anybody say, "Man, remember those middle years of our careers, when we were 35 and working for someone else, living on our own, with serious girlfriends/potential wives, hitting the hay at 9 pm, waking up at 6 (chipper and refreshed)...man those were really the best times ever!" Something tells me, for the most part, these middle memories humble in comparison to the glory days of college.

But alas, they're coming, and although the college years are closer to where I stand now on the time-line of life, unfortunately, the 30-somethings are (iceberg!) dead ahead.

So where does this leave my friends and me as we wait at the gates like worn out thoroughbreds about to sprint another tired lap- our awkward return, our mustered attempt to relive a life we enjoyed together...for the second time? Well, who knows? I don't have the answers. I'm just "in it to win it" as they say, praying I don't tweak an ankle along the way and, well, you saw the Kentucky Derby, you know what happens to injured race horses.

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

Is that Doctor Pan, or just Mister?

Or is it Peter Pan, CPA? Whatever your title may be, the fact of the matter is we've all begun to grow up. Despite all our best efforts, Hook has delivered a substantial blow. We've been booted from our college Neverland, and the question remains, what to do? How do we continue our childish dreams, sadly all realities a mere 18 months ago, of loafing all day in an Eden of beer and sex? The answer isn't simple, and I don't think it's the same for everyone, but here are some ideas I have been mulling over for all of you fresh college grads searching.

Move in with college friends. Who better to foster your return to Never Neverland than the very people you shared every moment (keg) with during your stay? Not me personally, but a guy I know was going through a tough time dealing with his post-graduate stress disorder (yes, that's what they're calling it now, and yes there's a prescription (or ten) for it). He was moping around his house with his roommates (mom and dad) until one day he decided to make the move out. Now he's getting invited over his college fling's house, conveniently located around the block, to help her "drill holes" for hanging pictures on her bare apartment walls. Call me crazy but I think his life has improved drastically.

The next step, also a crucial one but often not as easy to fulfill, is to either find a job you love or love the job you find. This is a tough one for all of us who used to scribble in the word "student" (in crayon) in the blank line marked occupation on the official documents that we were forced to complete at the doctor's office. (Lollipop on the way out anyone?). Time to find a new filler for this spot. How about "assistant ______?" Yea that'll work (crayon, too, will still work). You need a way to finance your mini-fraternity house right, so do what you must. And if assistant, or associate, or junior....blank, doesn't feel right, do something else (prostitution) that makes you happy. Peter Pan, Samuel Adams Beer Taster. There, that sounds right, no?

In the end we're all going to have to submit to Hook, but until then hang on tight to all your saving graces: video games, cheap beer, moldy apartments, fast women. To quote a great speech, "the inches we need are everywhere around us." It's up to you to be the badass and just take them. Don't ask for anything, nothing outside of Neverland is free. Until we're old and tired, and probably (definitely) overweight from all the Sam Adams tasting, stay strong. Exercise daily, drilling holes or curling brews, or even hitting the gym if you're so inclined. Learn something new each day (how to mix a mean bloody Mary is a good skill, and one of the many prescribed meds to the aforementioned disease). Whatever you do remember this: the title doesn't make the man, it's the Pan inside that keeps him going. It's a slippery slope, and if you find yourself falling, take a risk. Meet up with friends, get a keg, plan a party. Don't worry, Tinkerbell will still be at your Halloween bash, but trust me she's not looking for a guy in a suit (even you, corny guy who chose to be Clark Kent instead of Superman. What were you thinking?).