January 12th - Aces and Eights / Coppersmith

Three days later and I am still sore form my first physical activity of the New Year. I like playing Coed Sports. It is wonderful way of meeting new people then slowly get on their nerves as you play for meaningless glory in a glorified rec league. It is like Risk only it takes slightly longer and has less cannons. This year I chose to play outdoor soccer and volleyball. I choose outdoor soccer. I don't really have the shoes for indoor and I don't mind the cold. Also I was kind of curious is ice cold nips would point through a sports bra (Mine did).

I choose volleyball simply because it was the only sport Zog offered that I would imagine there would be more girls to guys. Plus I figured volleyball would be an easy blow off sport. I didn't feel like getting emotionally invested, and I can be a dick when I am competitive. Of course, I realize what a huge mistake I made when I arrived at the gum late and saw Agent XI covered in sweat. As soon as I got in the game I realized that even playing casual volleyball is serious business. No one was joking around.

After the game I grabbed a quick Winter Lager, with my team at Aces and Eights. I asked everyone's name for the fourth time (I am pretty sure I forgot them all already), and ran to my outdoor soccer game across town. This was infinitely more fun. My team turned out to be a bunch of great people. John Oliver ended up defending me on the field and he is pretty good. Though I learned from my time playing soccer in England, that even the most uncoordinated English man looks a thousand times more coordinated on the soccer field than the average American guy. I ended up having a blast despite the fact my body wanted to die from actually having to do anything physical.

After the game the team went to Coppersmith's. I ordered a Guinness and almost spit up my first gulp when I saw USC hired Lane "Lance" Kiffin. What? Why in God's green earth would USC do that? For those of you that follow college football, USC is on the verge of getting pounded by the NCAA for rules violations. So much so that Pete Carroll the former coach fled the cushiest jump in college sports to go be an underwhelming coach for an underwhelming NFL franchise. USC's counter move was to Kiffin who may be the worst coach in college football to hire with NCAA investigation coming your way.

Why is Kiffin terrible? Kiffin is such a horrible human being he got fired from the Raiders with cause. A NFL coach getting fired with cause is almost unheard of. You basically have to be killing orphans in the locker room while taking bets on dog fights to get fired with cause. On can argue Al Davis wanted him gone because Kiffin didn't listen to the franchise killer but Kiffin didn't win his court case. Of course then Kiffin spends a year at Tennessee racking up six NCAA violations while going after other coaches for the same. Kind of hard being a whistleblower when you consistently cheat yourself. Also people from Kiffin's first recruiting class were caught for attempted armed robbery during the football system.

Kiffin is a dirty idiot who has a terrible track record of following the rules. It is mind boggling to think he would be brought into a program about to get bitch slapped by the NCAA. Especially when you consider the last thing the NCAA wants to do is bitchslap USC since it is pretty much the only "pro" football team in Los Angeles. It is almost like USC is daring the NCAA to take the program out.

I grab a Magners and try to recite everyone's name again. I think I may have picked up two. I am terrible with names in a social setting. I walk a couple of blocks home and pass out. I wake up to ever muscle in my body screaming at me for being dumb enough to run around. Fun times.

January 9th - Cheapshots / Agent XI's place

Jane drops us off in the village and I decide we should to go to Cheapshots. I haven't been there in a bit and somehow Agent XI is wearing a sash and screaming about whores. I decide that a classy establishment such as Cheapshots is good place to be seen with my new screaming beauty queen friend.

When we enter I find something is amiss. The place seems different. I can't put my finger on it but I drag Agent X to the back while Agent XI is still in some semblance of a coherent state. I wanted show him my greatest singular achievement in drinking, my victorious picture after a Truck Bomb. A Truck Bomb easily the manliest drink invented probably by a lumberjack after headbutted a grizzly bear to death. A Truck Bomb is comprised of the same elements of an Irish Car Bomb but enlarged proportions. Basically you fill half a pitcher with Guinness, a 3/4 of a Collin's glass full of Bailey's, and fill the collin's glass until it overflows with Jameson. You then have to do the entire truck bomb in one go. The real trick is not letting the Collin's glass to smash into your face.

After I finish my first truck bomb, I had to do a little dance to allow the foam to rise and took a victory picture with my friend Meg. There it hung on the wall of champions at Cheapshots for years. However tonight, all the pictures of the champions past are gone. I also notice that the bartenders are no longer trustifarian burn outs but girls in tight jean cut outs and corsets. Something is amiss. When I inquire what is wrong with my beloved Cheapshots, Patience, our bartender, informs Agent XI and I that there is new ownership. These owners are in fact the owners of the Patriot.

If class does not matter to you at all, the Patriot would be the finest bar in Manhattan. 5 dollar pitchers and drunk bartenders in corsets are the highlight while the sweet ass country music adds to the amazing atmosphere. This of course leads to the last coherent discussion of the night as Patience hands us a pitcher of Patriot Ale. Are corsets really sexy? Sure they make a girl look good when they are on, but there is a lot untying to do in the back. Or do you just leave it on during sex? Untying is unsexy as far as I am concern. If you can't do it with your teeth, it is too complicated for the bedroom. That is why velcro sneakers are the hottest.

Minka Kelly is a Porn Name, I am sorry for the vomit smell in here. I told my boss about it. - Pateince

When we get handed our second Patriot Ale Pitcher, Boring Jen begins bombarding the clearly intoxicated Agent XI. They have what is probably the most drunk conversation I have ever read and Agent XI takes off to go meet her at home. I finish off the pitcher and begin to take off when Agent XI calls me. Apparently Boring Jen brought a friend with her. I run to Agent XI's to find said friend passed out on the couch and Jen and XI playing video games poorly. I sit down on the couch and pass out.

I wake up around 11 AM to Agent XI walking out of his bedroom with only underwear and the beauty queen sash on. I laugh then realize the pillow I am using is weird. I sit up to find I was using Jen's friend's butt as a pillow. I haven't gathered the girl's name yet and she being used to comfort my head. I gather my belongings and head home where I pass out and sleep though the abortion of a first half the Patriots had. Small gifts friends small gifts

January 9th - Agent XI's place / Greenpoint

I rarely leave Manhattan if I can avoid it especially for going out on the weekends. It is tough as crap getting back to Manhattan from one of the outer boroughs. The subways run infrequently and the cabs are far and few between. Even if you catch one, it is a long ride home. However this night, I was going to go to Brooklyn. It pretty much takes wild horses to drag me out there but it was my friend, Gonul's birthday.

I get into to Manhattan a little later then I expected to so I head right over to Agent XI. I had a dark and stormy as I settled down and discussed our volleyball strategies for Tuesday (mostly I attended on looking as apathetic as possible). Agent XI decided to show me his extensive cyber stalking skills already had field reports on all the girls on the team. After digesting my first CIA field report, I poured another dark and stormy and began preparing for the trip to Brooklyn.

See you can't just go to Brooklyn, you have to prepare. First off you better know where you are going. If you don't have a general idea including nearby subway stops you could be wandering for years. That is what happened to Gulliver and Odysseus. Second you better have the number of the person you are meeting there. Otherwise you could stuck outside someone's place. Third and this is most important. You best reevaluate your decision to go to Brooklyn. I mean Brooklyn is hipster central. You best be prepared to bust out some sweet riot fight moves to teach those bastards life lessons in awesome. I generally like to headbutt a wall and listen to some Pantera.

We decide we use a cab finding a quick route to Greenpoint. That we avoided the evil know as the G train. Sixteen bucks and six flights later we arrive at the party. We arrive upon hipster central. I pour myself a vodka cranberry and run into my old friend Maura. Some guy is trying to talk to her but I immediately notice one of the big advances of hipster parties. The guy tried to imply he was talking to Maura already and all I had to do was give him a look and he went to stew in the corner. Surely he was writing a very mean spirited emo song about the situation.

Agent XI and I grabbed Dixie Cups of champagne and decided now would be a solid time to play Africa. Ian whips out his iPod and realizes any and all resistance would be snide comments said just within audible levels (stupid hipsters). Screw Norah Jones, it is Toto time bitches.

As Agent XI and I rock out to sweet melody of our favorite song when I meet Jane. Jane is a former honors chem student from NYU so we begin to go entirely in Geek mode. We talk about all our senile professors and how they couldn't remember our names. I talked about the standing ovations I once received for getting to Orgo 3 arriving on time (I swear to God a tear rolled down Professor Lukeman's cheek). Jane decides to impart some sage like wisdom in the journal.

It is not rape if you yell surprise

I remark that I am not entirely sure that is the law. Jane offers Agent XI and I a ride back to the city. We jump on it and take off. String Theory is discussed.

January 9 - Hartnett Compound, North Kingston, RI

I got up in my house in RI and grabbed some of my father's clothes to replace the clothes I destroyed in Kenmore Sq. I limped a bit when I got up and got ready to go to my Grandmother's 50th birthday. I say 50th birthday because as I tell her "I am kind of in shock that you are even over 40 looking at you." (Cementing favorite grandson status).

We drive into North Kingston where my mom's giant Irish family is assembling. All four of her other siblings are going to be there and about half of my three thousand first cousins. I walk in and am handed a Coors Light by Eamonn, my cousin who is closest to me in age. Eamonn is definitely a cool guy and has come down to New York to drink with me time to time. He has came for my last two or three birthdays. Eamonn and I are famous for getting into the only wrestling match during an interscholastic tennis match. Our mothers how to explain we usual decide who goes first instead of a coin toss.

We start to tease his Irish Twin Conor. Conor is a funny dude with a shady background. Conor was the kind of guy that ran the Craps game in the bathroom of a school semi formal. Eamonn and I start our usual interrogation about why Conor transferred from ASU to PC. The official statement is was he was "homesick" and some whispers of a time he woke up hung over in the desert. Conor asserts "I liked Arizona State fine, but I would liked it better if they covered the spread."

I say hello to the rest of my family, and then go down to the basement with Eamonn. There my cousin Conor is playing my two eight year old cousins in Halo. While they are starting to figure out the controls, Conor is screen peeking from a separate tv he is playing on. This won't be so bad except Conor is ranked in the top 500 in the world at playing Halo. So here we have one the world's best video game players cheating to beat his 8 year old cousins who have never played Halo before. Class act.

I step in making fun of Conor and say I will play with my cousin Timmy. At first Conor says I should play with both cousins but then his brother teases him for being a pussy. To be fair even if Eamonn and I both played Conor we would lose. I consider myself a good video game player but I simply don't put the time Conor does. He is proficient in every weapon, knows every level, and has near perfect aim. In fact Conor could have taken the weight of both 8 year old cousins and still murdered us.

We start playing when I realize that Conor is using his partner as Chase as bait. I decide to start flushing Conor out using explosives. Conor then starts driving vehicles into me to keep Chase safe. Or so I thought. Actually Conor sarts just leaving Chase in cars and running as soon as go to blow them up. He actually says "Well Chase it has been fun." as Chase pleads with him to tell him the button to get out. Eventually he starts knocking me out every time I move to protect my partner. He still tries to avoid me and go after the eight year old driving in circles. It would be like Jon Lester pitching around a minor league player to pitch a minor leaguer. Classy.

After receiving my beating I head upstairs to eat and take family photos which you need a portrait lens to take since a quardter of the population of Cork is in the living room. After that we decide to play cards with my grandmother who I affectionately call Nanny. Nanny is as smart as a tact and enjoys playing senile. She is hilarious. Lately she has been watching Fox News. This is funny because there is zero chance when the booth closely she votes for anyone that isn't on the Kennedy's ticket.

We start to play five person cutthroat HiLo Jack. The entire time Nanny is just destroying people's bids will continuing to ask what suit is trump and who won the last hand. She clearly knows exactly what she is doing, and is laughing as she screws people. I ignore her feigned weakness and play my hands close to the vest. I eventually win and celebrate like a Math Team Magic the Gathering victory. My dad ends up owing me a dollar for all the times my grandmother screwed his bids.

I grab a new Coors Light as I circle around saying my goodbyes. After teasing my Uncle Neil about Disney and watch the Bengals completely fall apart I take off with my Dad to New Haven. I get on the train back to New York where I was going to meet Agent XI.

January 8th - Fenway Park / Copperfield's / Pizzeria Uno

As I lied at the floor at Kenmore Station, immobile from the pain, I thought to myself "Where did I go wrong?"

For Christmas, my mom bought my dad two tickets to go see the outdoor college Hockey game at Fenway, BU v. BC. I have always liked college hockey, I even went to NYU hockey games at Chelsea Piers. Sure I would sit with a couple of my frat brothers drinking out of Cutty Sark bottle screaming taunts at the opposing team, but I thought it was cool. In real college hockey I have always cheered for BC. My dad is a huge BC fan and since the hockey is in Hockey East, my hatred of BC for going to ACC does not apply to the Eagles hockey team.

Of course, loving BC hockey means hating BU hockey. And I despise BU hockey which instantly puts me at odds with anyone who attended BU. You see, BU really only has one sports team, and that is hockey. All their other programs are middling D1 programs but Hockey, they are always ranked. That makes BU hockey fans more adamant then the most annoying Yankee fan. Basically Hockey is all they have. They have clutch on to it like tapeworm clings to an intestine for dear life.

I grabbed a book (Bourne Supremacy) and jumped on the 2:30 Bolt Bus to Boston. The ride was pretty good (would have enjoyed bringing my computer) as I sat and read. I even dosed off for a bit however I woke up awkwardly snuggled to the Asian girl sitting next me. That wasn't the last time this weekend I woke up curdled up awkwardly with someone. I made it to South Station about a half hour later than I anticipated and decided not to play with the green line in the offseason and I just grabbed a cab.

First five minutes of watching a hockey game outside in a snowstorm is awesome. We sat really close to the ice. The BU band was right near us. It was an awesome environment. Then about the beginning of the second period, my toes got numb. It was hellaciously cold and Fenway with its ruthless efficiency knew this. End result Hot Chocolate and Coffee = $8.75. Debating a bit I decided to buy the cheaper Bud Light though if Fenway was offering Irish Coffee or the such I would have probably went as deep as 12 dollars a cup. It was really awesome actually seeing the slush on the beer tap from the beer freezing and was curious about how much a beer slushy would rock in the summer.

The game went on. Of course, BC Hockey did everythign in its power to let the lesser BU Terriers win. BC made sure to pass the puck whenever humanly possible therefore to ruin every single scoring chance it had. Maybe all the power plays wouldn't have been killed, if they thought about taking a shot.

After the game, my dad and I went to Copperfield's. His ex girlfriend's niece was the bartender and we got a round of Harpoon IPA w/ a shot of Jameson. That helped me thaw out a bit. We sat around discussing Beltre and other Sox stuff. Talked about how cool it was to see a hockey game in Fenway now that we were warm inside. We got a second round of Harpoon IPA w/ a shot of Jameson then headed over the Pizzeria Uno for some food.

After having a decent burger and a third Harpoon IPA at Pizzeria Uno, my dad and I shuffled across the street to Kenmore Sq. As we started to wait for the Green Line, I realized I left my book the Bourne Supremacy at the Pizzeria Uno as well as my precious journal. I told my dad I would be right back and sprinted up the stairs like a fat kid chasing an ice cream truck.

I picked up the books and started to make way back. From the top of the station stairs I could hear the train coming in. I bolted down the stairs as fast as I could when I reached the ticket platform. Not paying attention to the sandy slush beneath me, I endeavored faster and further until I got close to the ticket kiosk. There I tried to plant a foot when I realized the folly of my ways. As I boldly streaked across the station I did not realize who little traction my shoes had. As easily as I bounced down the stairs my legs kicked up above my head as I flipped.

I think it was just before I hit the ground I felt a certain sympathy for Charlie Brown. Just as he would flip after Lucy pulled that damnable football away I too was airborne. I vowed if I ever found myself in a Schultz comic I would give Lucy one upside the head and nod to Charlie Brown in a gesture of solidarity. Just as I finished with this mental pack with a fictional character I realized my butt and elbow were screaming in pain. I was lying limp on the ground with a newly formed crowd gawking at my clumsy self destruction. I moved slowly until someone suggested calling an ambulance. At that point I shot up, quickly gathered my things, and quasimoto'd my down the stairs to which my dad just shook his head and said "what now?" Clearly 25 years of raising me has left my dad unsurprised at my self crippling. We grabbed the train and continued the trip back to RI.

January 7th - Agent XI's Fortress of Solitude

I get in around 8:00 PM right from my last client of the day. Agent XI lives near a Domino's so I pick up some pizza. The new Domino's is pretty good. I don't notice the difference in the sauce but the crust is better. Kudos Dominos for making your pizza less sub par. Still cheap. Of course Agent XI and his friend Portland made the rookie mistake of grabbing the Buffalo Kickers with his pizza. They call those things kickers because it feels like someone was using your stomach as a soccer ball after you eat them. The poor boy is probably still on the toilet.

I grabbed my first Coors Light (left over from the Rodeo Festivus Holiday Party), checked on my bet (Alabama), and decided to play Modern Warfare for the first time. Game is pretty cool if you don't mind things like ridiculously stupid plots. The game centers around Russia paratrooping into the United States. That was a stretch in 80s with Red Dawn. However the constant cry of Wolverines! made you feel a bit better. Nowadays? Terrible. Strict to historical wars Call of Duty, thinking it is not your strong suit.

After dominating some sweet helicopter missions, I grabbed my second Coors Light and began taunting Colt McCoy. Apparently he must have heard me because he wussed out of the game pretty quickly. I also starting taunting McElroy, possibly the worst QB to ever lead his team to a national title, but McElroy must have been too busy screaming like a massive prick to hear. No wonder Nick Saban love the kid, he is a intolerable jerk and a Rhodes Scholar to boot!

After watching Texas get literally get run over by Ingram, the game became pretty uninteresting in the first half. To fill the time, we discussed the attractiveness of the Taco Bell Chick. You know the one that said she lost weight only eating Taco Bell. It was unanimously decided, that she was in fact extremely doable "fat" and may even been better in bed fat since she was pretty uppity thin and may lost that fat girl fervor.

Then came halftime. I proposed that we made a bet at halftime to keep the game interesting. Agent XI and Portland agreed, however I should have noticed that they were under the influence of Domino's Buffalo Kickers. At first I wanted to bet the over at 14 however as I distracted myself with thoughts of taking the Before Taco Bell Diet Chick out to a nice seafood dinner, the Buffalo Kicker Twins somehow convinced me to bet the line for Alabama. Thankfully I was not under the influence of those spicy colon destroying hallucinogens and only made a small bet instead doubling up my bet for the game. Honestly betting +9 instead of 14 under/over? Jimmy the Greek would beat us with Howard Cosell's toupee. But I suppose people under duress do crazy things, and right then Agent XI and Portland were losing an intestinal war.

Right around my third Coors Light, Mark Ingram's vagina became very sandy. He decided to go hang out with Colt McCoy in the Ladies Locker Room. And that is when my new man crush emerged, Garrett Gilbert. I am not going to lie. I laughed my ass off at Gilbert in the first half. Why not? The man was winning me money. But considering the fact that this kid hadn't taken a hit since high school (huge jump from high school to the FBS championship game) and his coach was Mack Brown (who spent twenty minutes trying to tie his shoe), that second half was the most literally unbelievable performance I have ever seen in college football.

I starting cheering for Gilbert at the end. This guy has balls and considering McCoy is a raging pussy and McElroy might cry even more than Ben Roethlisberger, Gilbert looked like the man out there. Too bad Mack Brown was a edging out Saban for worst coaching performance ever in FBS game else you might as well had Gilbert walk out to the Foo Fighters playing in the background. It was better than a crappy Hollywood football movie. Gilbert just tore apart an amazing Alabama defense. It wasn't until Mack Brown was trying to remember what the rabbit ran behind and forgot to put in a blocking scheme that Gilbert gave the game up. The last interceptions was just a receiver handing the ball off to a corner.

Now I hate the Big 12. I find their fans insufferable and the conference horrendously overrated. I will go with SEC over the Big 12 15 out of 10 times and twice on Sunday. But I am instituting a Gilbert exception right now. For the next two or three years I will cheer for Texas on the sole reason Gilbert has massive balls. Even though their schedule next year is softer than the sweet touch of my new imaginary girlfriend Before Taco Bell Diet Chick, I will cheer for Texas unless by some miracle they go up against Notre Dame. I will even take them over a Big East team. Sure some part of me feels like cheering for Texas will be like trying to digest Buffalo Kicker but in the end I still get to hate Bob Stoops and that is what really matters.

Pretty soft Thursday but I am going to Fenway tonight for BC v. BU hockey game. The beer there should be cold.

January 6 – Home

No drinking tonight. No precious sweet bolded words. I know, angels weep. I was suppose to go grab drinks with my boy Cafaro however now I am sitting drinking tea watching crappy tv. I know I know I am a “curled up with my snuggie and chocolate” away from a lifetime special. Yet I will come out the manly one at the end of this story. At least that is what I lied to myself to stop myself from crying into my snuggie.

I feel a little apprehensive for using the term “my boy” when referencing Cafaro. I was mostly trying to up my street cred much like the time I wore my hat backwards for a week after I was caught singing Kelly Clarkson in the shower (she truly is the artist of our generation). Even street cred aside, Cafaro is a strange man. Born in the smack middle of New Jersey, Cafaro grew up as most characters from Jersey Shore did, tactless and Italian.

Cafaro cheers for the Yankees, the Cowboys, The “U” and any professional team that has reasonable track record of success besides the Knicks. The man actually booed when the Death Star blew up. When he isn’t cheering Cobra Kai, Cafaro spends most of his time giving emotional body blows to women. Basically his idea of flirting is systemically destroying a girl’s self esteem then complaining about the end of Mighty Ducks. In the end the girl is so emotionally destroyed she agrees. Terribly unsatisfying sex may follow.

So yes, Cafaro may be the Devil. As my vice president in the fraternity he constantly argued against my stance on letting Asians into the fraternity. Seems pretty manly right? More than the boy sipping his second cup of tea and watching Ugly Betty? Well son, you are dead wrong. Cafaro cancelled a night of drinking because they are putting the family cat down.

That is right, he turned down beer because he was emotionally distraught over a death of a cat, not even his cat. God Lord. It would be one thing if it was a dog, a fish, or some family member maybe but a cat? Cats are only acceptable to weep if you the leader of an evil criminal organization. And even then you are probably wearing a mask and you are going to kill like twenty henchmen in misplaced rage. However Cafaro couldn’t lead a shark to a bloody carcass.

My working theory is Cafaro actually doesn’t have testicles. Instead he spends his time alone singing along to Moulin Rouge and writing letters for Amnesty International. I hope Cafaro enjoys his future as a spinster.

In other news, I should grab some drinks tomorrow as I watch Alabama cover 4. Roll Tide!