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!

January 4th – Fat Cat

Last night was my sister’s last night in the city. She is heading back University of Georgia where she continue to get paid for handing out As to SEC athletes. But I will be damned if the Bulldogs don’t appreciate the hell of theater after she is done with them. I call Agent XI and we head down to the Fat Cat to spend one last night with her.

The Fat Cat is hipster’s paradise. On a Monday night the place is packed. It offers live jazz as well as a gazillion different games. People are playing pool, ping pong, shuffleboard, Scrabble, Chess, and even Magic the Gathering. There are couches everywhere just to chill out with a group of friends. No one seems particularly concerned that is a Monday night.

My sister hands me my first PBR can as she walks to me where her friends are. It is her friend Jordan’s birthday. Jordan is not only a talented actor but he also sports the world’s most impressive Jewfro. Seth Rogen would bow in Jordan’s Jewfrodom. A couple of other friends of my sister I know are there including Sheets. We sit around talk, I grab another PBR can, in order to fit in better around the gaggle of starving actors and actresses.

After some bullshitting I offer to play Agent XI in some chess. Loser buys next round. Despite his prep school and Ivy League education, Agent XI had no chance against a Math Team Legend like myself. He easily falls for wildcat offensive. As he goes to retrieve a PBR can as his penance, I bask in the glow of victory that can only be appreciated by someone who goes to Comic Book stores every Wednesday. And lets face it the ladies dig nerds. Well at least in theory.

The second game is even more crushing when I announce there is no way for Ian to win. Showing him every single maneuver he can do would lead to his imminent demise I allow to take back a couple of moves (he was already in a fairly deep grave) and played from there. I eventually lose after a couple of resets but go on to enjoy my last victory PBR can.

Drinking and Chess is where it is at … if, of course, you have no desire to meet women.

January 2nd – Gin Mill

Agent XI calls me early in the evening to tell me he is tapping out tonight. So I call my friend Rob. Rob is easily one of the best people to go drinking with mostly because there is zero chance anyone will fight me when I am out with Rob. Rob is about 6′3″ maybe 250 lbs of pure muscle. He makes pro wrestlers seem small. He may be even larger than that but if I elaborate you may realize my homoerotic whiffleball based crush on him or my love 90s WWF wrestling. Both are too severely embarrassing to go into this early in the year.

Rob and I decide to meet up at the Gin Mill which is easily one of the best bars in the city. In fact everything I have gone to at this point is on my top ten bars list. Hell probably in my top five. Gin Mill is fairly cheap, full of interesting people, has cherry wheat on tap, has every sports package imaginable, and has beer pong in the back.

I get there before Rob does and order myself a pitcher of Cherry Wheat. As I wait for Rob a drunk girl continues to bump into me and declares she feels her personal space violated. The bar is jammed packed and her boyfriend is desperately trying to drag her out. Everyone starts laughing as she declares a couple more ridiculous things include a titanic conspiracy theory.

Rob arrives and orders me a Jameson shot for being late. I really didn’t mind anyway but what the hell. Rob and I decide to discuss travel plans for the upcoming year including a Montreal road trip, a trip to West Palm for spring training, and the impending Vegas/Japan Agent XI birthday trip. Rob starts talking to Michigan State fans. We all get a Tullamore Dew shot from the bartender who is feeling bad for the Michigan St. fans as it looks like Leach locked their team in a closet.

After the sad Spartans move on a new group of girls are lured in by Rob. Rob notes I am a little sullen and I explain that I am a bit emotionally drained from David Tennant’s last episode as Doctor Who. Yes Virgina, nerds do exist. I finish up my pitcher and receive a Code Blue from Justin my kindly barkeep. It is supposedly some sort of hangover prevention and tastes decent enough. At this point Justin has been a cool guy and I decide now it is time to send out my Africa request. To my infinite amusement, Justin is even more of a fan than I am (that is nearly impossible) and decides to bribe the DJ into “ruining the flow” (Africa never ruins the flow, DJs, never.)

I grab a Guinness and decide to be social with the new group of girls. Angie thinks it is pretty cool I can admit being a nerd not realizing I have very little shame. We get into a discussion of how comic books are unrealistic since girls in comics are not really into the bad boys but in real life they are. Jean Grey stays with Cyclops in real life? No chance.

Before I even order, Justin hands me a second Guinness. He says it is for victory. Then the soothing melody of Africa envelops me. Rob doesn’t know the lyrics as well as Justin, me, and the girls so he walks off. One of the girls asks me to play Naked Photo Hunt with her. She is an expert. I mean I have never seen anyone as good as this. I start humming Pinball Wizard as LJ pounds double nipples and different color pumps. We end up with the 4th highest score. As this is going o,n Rob starts trying to grab me.

At this point we are dealing with a Drunk Point Critical situation. Rob is pretty much at the end of his charming level drunk and has found his last consciously chosen girl for the night. Next drink and he might as well be playing hookup roulette if he is even able to get with anyone. I relent as I find that LJ is pretty one dimensional and that massive Naked Photo Hunt skills simply is not enough to keep my attention that long. I walk over and realize that good ol’ Rob is hitting on a girl that works for one of my clients. This one client is still waiting for some work to be finished. Awesome.

After the awkward discussion and the ninja like escape keeping Rob away from my work life a game of dodge the questions about Rob. I tell Justin it is time I hit the rickety road, sign out my tab. Justin does one more Tullamore Dew with me and I drag Rob outside.

Rob pleads to have one cigarette before we leave which doesn’t bother me in the least besides the freezing cold temperature. That is when I meet Jen N. She is a nursing student from Oregon which makes me laugh because my last girlfriend was a nursing student from Oregon. Jen tells me she was crying the other day after the Ducks blew the Rose Bowl and I murmur at least she doesn’t like Princess Stories.

Jen invites me in and I decide to grab a Cherry Wheat pint while I continue my conversation with Jen. I meet her friends Bald Bob and Kate. They get a huge kick out of the book and Bob and Rob nearly make out as they man flirt with each other. Jen and Kate laugh at this.

At this point, the game of hook up roulette has begun. Jen asks me to play date so her previous suitor, Smelly, would pass her by. Smelly then bounces to the 50 year old women dancing behind us. I mean she was a good looking 50 year old, maybe even 40 but she was old. After this Kate grabs the notebook and Bob, leaving Rob without a dance partner. Rob then bounces to Utah, a cute wasted blonde that was still in college. For no reason at all Rob walks away from the adoring Utah and bounces Smelly off of 50 year old. Smelly dejected bounces to Utah. Utah is pissed that she is losing to a woman double her age. Utah rejects Smelly then bounces to Date Rape. The guy looks like typical douchebag villian from college movies and ends every sentence with “Lets have a shot”. Now Rob decides he doesn’t want 50 year old anymore and walks back to Utah. Date Rape tries to intimidate Rob (hilariously) and Utah splits. In the final move, Date Rape starts buying 50 year old shots. Rob and Smelly cockblocked.

Kate takes over my notebook for the rest of the evening as I finish off my last Guinness of the night

Robs love each other. Everyone names “Rob” will have gang sex w/ each other

“I have a huge vagina” – Tom

Dear Tom,

I like your notebook!

Live long & prosper.

Kate

A guy also gave Kate his number which she wrote in the notebook. Bald Bob stole the notebook became angry upon reading about his homoerotic love for Rob decided to write:

“Jenlfer” w/ Penis (reference to the number)

I (me, the guy that owns this notebook) was futiley futily nilting on Jen instead working oni info for my pilot i should probably know when to quit but sue was very friendly and altomodaxing!

Rob (Asshole)

Another good Journal night.

January 1st – Asian Pub

The Artist Formerly Known As Ian (or TAFKAI for those of you into abbreviations [Thanks Tuche]) and I jump in cab. The cab drive is pretty inconsequential as we talk about football bets (Bet Alabama) until we arrive at Cooper Sq. This is when the cab driver in cab 18HN decides to be a prick. He doesn’t pull over right away then pulls the “I need cash my credit card machine isn’t working” routine. This is bullshit as the thing is working. As I begin to argue I realize the guy hasn’t shut off his meter. I tell the guy to turn off the meter to which he replies to scream at the top of his lungs in Hindi. Cute. Cute enough for me to dial 311.

Normally I am against using bureaucracy. It is a pain since it involves the two things I least want to deal with on my weekends, waiting in digital lines and digital controlled menus. However my good friend screaming in Hindi pushed me to my limit. When he realizes what I am doing and that I wrote his cab number down, he stops ranting and suddenly the credit card machine works. Too late, I throw the guy exact change and leave as he screams about tipping being courteous. So is not being a lying prick. And if you are going to be a lying prick at least be funny about it.

We get into Asian Pub at 12:25 AM. I order my go to Gin and Tonic. Of course my stripper song, “Billie Jean” starts playing and I start dancing with the hostess Elina who is apparently from Russia.

Sena arrives at 1:07 AM and Elina and Sena grab my notebook. Apparently this is not as dorky as I first thought. I order a Black Prince as Elina does the first guest writing of the Book of 2010.

Happy New Year! With love from Russia!!! and Elina

(Elina’s Signature)

At this point, I would like explain something I will do pretty much every single time I go out. Now Billie Jean is my go to stripper song but Africa by Toto is my drunk bar request song. Africa is the perfect bar “scream at the top of your lungs off key” song. The lyrics are slammed together sloppily to begin with. There are some great “just scream a couple of words” lyrics for those who don’t know the song intimately like the pros. Also there is a flute solo which is concluded by the second best line in the song “HURRY BOY SHE IS WAITING THERE FOR YOU”. Africa is a song you simply can get way too excited for and still seem cool in your own mind. People will laugh with you or if they truly are cool, get far too excited too.

Now Agent XI and I always trying to make bartenders and djs to play this musical masterpiece. The key is persistence. Borrow, Bargain, Beg, Compliment, Threaten bad behavior, whatever it takes we are going to hear Africa. In case the bartender or DJ somehow suck and don’t have Africa on their playlist, Agent XI has the song on his iPhone. We use Elina to convince the rest of the staff that we should be given carte blanche in order to get the place rocking.

Agent XI plugs in his iPod as I order a Black Prince. The music starts playing. At this point Agent XI and I start getting overly excited. This is key. If you do this right off the start people will feed off your energy and get overly excited too. I don’t think it really matters what is happening. Someday I may try a “Parliament is in session” excitement chant. Music starts blaring, and destiny is ours or so we thought.

As Africa is raining down on us and we get the crowded bar singing, Boring Jen is standing outside the bar. One of Agent XI’s friends, Boring Jen should have realized his text only policy to avoid awkward situations as the tragedy that is about to occur. During the flute solo, Boring Jen calls. This shuts off the song. WHAT?!? I suddenly realized that Luke Wilson is a lying cash whore. Naturally the entire bar starts booing. I mean it was a flute solo ruined. Being the kindly gentlemen I am, I start a Boring Jen sucks chant as she wait for Agent XI to come find her. The chant dies down when I get distracted by my Black Prince as Sena spills on herself. In her embarrassment Sena grabs the notebook and starts playing Secretary, well not the way I would have preferred to play Secretary.

Ricardo says he’s WASTED!

Secretaries Run the Office!

Bad Decisions are being made in the Village tonight

- Sena

Now I order my third Black Prince (a delightful Guinness/brandy mix) when I made one too many secretary jokes and Sena storms out. Of course she just did this to have a piss with me. She texts laughing at my reaction.

Night is over as I grab a cab with an awesome driver. Tip him well and start my trek up the five stories to my apartment. I consider my first night out in 2010 a success.

January 1st – Alpha

I arrive at Alpha at about 9:30.

Ian is running late and I meet Amanda and Pearl. They sense my style and class immediately and ask where to find a good cheap bar in the city. Reflecting a moment, I give the girls the address to Asian Pub. The girls and I begin to talk football when I realize that girls have very little football acumen as Amanda divulges that only men find Tom Brady attractive. This is like talking to Knicks fan about basketball. To diffuse the tension, Henry brings out a round of Sake Bombs. I pound my sake bomb and instruct the hapless lady folk on the proper procedure

I follow this with Bud Light pint as the girls leave. The man sitting next me, clearly recognizing my immense creative talent, asks me what I am writing in. I explain the concept of the notebook and the man acts impressed. He introduces himself as Reeves, and he is the head of the SVA film and video department. He seems pretty interested in the concept of my journal but in reality I think he was sympathizing that I had to talk two women who clearly had no concept of the game of football (we all know everyone finds Tom Brady gorgeous).

As Reeves leaves, Ian comes in. Well not Ian, at least according to his new SAG card. No, no apparently Agent XI was too good to wait in line anymore in imdb. So now I am drinking with the artist formerly known as Ian. Of course Agent XI still enjoys the usual Alpha go to of a pitcher of bud light and a bottle of hot sake which we split.

We start going over what we need to do this month which includes finishing the terrible script of our pilot (Code Named EVERYONE LOVES TOM BRADY) and attend the Rodeo next weekend. The Rodeo at MSG has been a dream of ours for about a month and there is no way we are letting it go. If I don’t see Calf Wrestling live, I may cry.

With our second bottle of sake, we discuss when it became illegal to challenge someone to a duel. Apparently it is cool if you are Alexander Hamilton but if you are Gilbert Arenas?

Agent XI and I as for the check, discuss plans for his birthday trip to Japan via Vegas, and go next door to grab some pizza. I note how my handwriting has become terrible and we go to the next bar.

Mission Statement

Every year I hear people ramble on about their New Year’s resolutions. How they are going to change themselves or something they don’t like. It is usually preachy and within 2 months, they are even annoyed with their own rhetoric. Fact is New Year’s resolutions as worthless as the chick that made it one and half episodes on the Jersey Shore. Sure she was great in the beginning but she fell off right away.

So I thought about something to useful to do and I remembered high school. In high school when I was rolling deep with my math team crew, I use to journal. It beat the crap out of actually listening in class and teachers figured I was taking notes or at the very least I was being quiet, which was a huge plus for them. The journals turned out great because I got awesome quotes and didn’t learn a god damn thing in high school. Take that 19th century feminist literature.

I decided I would do this again. But instead of writing every day in work, where almost nothing interesting happens, I will force myself to drag a notebook out every time I go out to drink. That way I can log every drink of the New Year. I may write about non drinking events if they strike me as particularly interesting but this is really a drinking journal.

I know what you are thinking and I also agree that the Hudsucker Proxy is an underrated film. Also you are thinking “What about your drinks from New Year’s Eve?” Yes, I had drinks after midnight on New Year’s Eve some of which was a bottle of Jack Daniels given to me by friend Henry but that was New Year’s Eve. As far as I am concerned that was all December 31st. No one says I went drinking from Saturday to Sunday last night unless they are in Vegas. As far as I am concerned days start when I wake up and end when I fall asleep. Take that common convention. Though this is going to get pretty confusing the day I travel back from Japan.

So that is it. Every drink in 2010 goes in the journal. Party on Garth.