Man, we really celebrated the hell out of America's birthday.
This weekend featured non-stop refreshments, with occasional breaks for other events, including but not limited to, fireworks, grilling bison burgers, Zach's spectacular face-plant on Beacon street, everyone jumping the fence from the Esplanade and onto Storrow drive, Schnabel failing epically and falling flat on his ass, everyone deciding to try a new landing strategy called jump on Carlos "because he's big and will catch you and if he doesn't, well, again, he's big," the birth and death of Josh Feldman and Josh Feldstein, Neil Diamond, the consumption of, roughly, between 200-250 beers by our calculation, shirtless oatmeal guy, drinking pretty much a beer an inning at the Sox game, the Manji and I getting into a near fight with the bouncers at Tequila Rain because our "yes, we paid the cover" Jedi mind trick predictably failed, a Mexican and an American leading an entire dock full of people in a sing-along of "America the Beautiful," brown-bagging it and then seeing a police car ten feet away, Weitz shattering a full bottle of cologne on my bathroom floor, ensuring both that my apartment will reek of Hugo Boss I'll be picking small slivers of glass from my feet for a few weeks, a short conversation with Gary Busey, and other events too numerous, hazy, and not suited for disclosure in a blog read by, among others, my parents.
My body, much like the British, has surrendered. It is expected to resume full functionality by Labor Day. Until then, it will hitch and start like an old horse forced into yet another marathon by its ruthless and clueless owner. Right now it might not make it until morning.
It was totally worth it.
1 comment:
two enthusiastic thumbs way up.
y'all are just lucky you weren't drinking 200-250 Canadian beers. that shit is strong.
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