Question: Who's Hayden Licking?
Answer: Kent Huskins
That's a lady who loves her team
10 Remaining Minutes of Freedom...
Murderer's Row
Story of My Life
Story of His Life
Artistic Genius
Poetic Genius
Duelling Pegs
Unforgettable
Unsightly
Elliotte
Beirut
Summer
Revolting
Mother Nature
4.3 IP 0.00 ERA 3 SV
Late for the Prom
Suicide
Defies Comment
Heartbroken
Shirt of the Year
And Finally: the origin of the phrase "When you mess with the Bull, you get the horns".
In any event, she'd completed the gingerbread house late Christmas night, and had it packaged in a cardboard box with layers of duct tape for safekeeping, all ready to be shipped along with the family up to Thornbury.
Which brings us back to Boxing Day morning. Jessica is scraping the ice off of her parents new car so she can take it for a joyride, while Sandra is packing Jessica's stuff into the truck. Sandra doesn't like the fact that Jessica is unnecessarily making the family even later than they already are, so she makes some kind of middle-child comment to the effect of: "If you want to go for a drive, that's fine... we'll just see if your gingerbread house makes it onto the truck in one piece..." As she said this, she was pretending to kick the gingerbread house, but claims that she didn't make any contact.
The insinuation of sabotage must have made Jessica go off, because she immediately charged Sandra with the ice scraper and swung like a pre-Mitchell-report Slammin' Sammy Sosa, hitting Sandra in the arm with such force that she fell to the ground screaming and writhing in pain. You probably know where this one is going.
So infuriated with her sister's violent actions was Sandra that she got up from the ground, dusted herself off, and proceeded to treat Jessica's priceless work of edible art as if it were a 45-yard field goal attempt in the Foxboro snow, booting that Gingerbread Lighthouse halfway to Thamesville, and obliterating it into a thousand pieces in the process. I'm pretty sure that estrogen-spiked bedlam ensued, and you can use your imagination as to what kind of action unfolded in the aftermath.
Needless to say, there was a palpable tension in the air for the next 5 hours as the family crammed into the truck and drove on their merry way to experience all of the magic that the holiday season has to offer. And perhaps even more needless to say is the fact that Sandra and her sister haven't spoken to one another since.
So there you have it. Two families. Two Christmas's ruined. And I'm proud to say that I was a part of both of them.
Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
- Clark W. Griswold
use on Christmas, I always find myself thinking about all of the people who aren't as lucky as I am. All of the people who are away from their families, or worse yet, who don't have any family to spend the holidays with. The thought of it gets me every time.
ve as it gets: Frosty, Rudolph, Santa... all of the key players are there. Darlene Love's version of "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" blows U2s out of the water, and The Ronettes "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" is like nothing you've ever heard.
ng a twinge of guilt for having delayed us more than 2 hours, vouched to abstain from imbibing, and as a result, when I pulled over somewhere after Syracuse, Ronnie took the reigns and I joined Sully and Sneeze in the back seat for happy hour in the mobile bar. Completely illegal, I know, but the windows were so frosted (I'm pretty sure there was more than an inch of ice on the inside of the windows) that it was impossible to see what was transpiring on the inside... which is probably a good thing, because Sully, Sneeze and Dinner were half-cut by the time I joined them, and the battle for rear control of the van's HVAC system quickly turned into the most pointless debate of all-time, until it was supplanted by the debate to determine whether or not Sully's idea for a http://www.changeyouraddress.com/ business could ever succeed... Did I mention that we were drinking?
e, a South End staple that managed to find it's way onto Danny Tanner's Clipboard of Fun. (Whenever I go to a city, I compile a list of must-hit food joints and funky bars. This list is somewhat derogatorily referred to as "Danny Tanner's Clipboard of Fun", taken from the classic Full House episode where they all go to Hawaii to celebrate the fact that Jesse and Joey have been living with DJ, Steph, and the Olsen twins for 2 years). In any event, the breakfast at Charlie's was all it was billed to be; steaming hot greasy spoon fare in a local diner setting, the most friendly, accomodating waitress on the planet, and pictures of history and celebrities on the walls; further reinforcing the fact that you just don't wanna fuck with the clipboard of fun. Serious street cred was earned.
lly bus and headed for Yawkey. We parked in a spot that almost guaranteed the vehicle's towing, and stumbled off down the street, with Ronnie showing a complete disregard for the law by drinking a Silver Bullet en route... it was 2:30 in the afternoon. For some reason, when on these roadtrips, some of us slip into permanent "force field" mode; Ronnie was definitely the leading candidate at this point.
rals as the snow fell silently in the outfield. It was absolutely beautiful. And educational! We learned everything about the past, present and future renovations, and I even managed to ask a few questions about what they were using for their waterproofing in the outfield bleachers, and whether or not they had any plans to replace the membranes on their roofing systems in the near future (ABC, baby!... Actually, I was hoping that I'd be able to use the information to justify writing off the $70 I spent on gas... we'll have to see about that). Some of the BU students caught on to the fact that we weren't supposed to be there, but they were totally cool about, joking that we were grad students sitting in for extra credit. We even managed to get in on the big group shot they took at the end. Great times. As the group was headed up to the luxury suites to check those out, we confessed to our guide that we were actually from Toronto and had snuck in. He thought it was pretty funny, but then realized that he could definitely get fired for such a transgression, and told us: "But seriously: You have to get the hell out". Too funny.
y to refer to it as "the Gahden" - that place is long gone, and the new rink is about as run-of-the-mill as it gets. If you walked in blindfolded, you'd think you were in Buffalo, or Ottawa, or Philly... a damn shame). We left the ticket brokering to the two big sales guys, and Ronnie and Dinner didn't disappoint... if it's opposite day. They turned down 6 $25 tickets together in favour of 6 $15 tickets that they were told were together, but ended up being the exact opposite of together. But we really weren't all that concerned because we knew we'd be sitting together regardless (force fields), and for $40 a pop we were in the door and loving life. We had a couple of quick Sam Adams at The Fours, a ridiculously good sports bar outside the Banknorth, and then headed inside for the tip.
them. To say that they got blown out would be like saying Lindsay Lohan likes the occasional cocktail. Apparently the final score was 112-84, but believe me when I say that it was nowhere near that close. The only thing I know is that the Wade Boggs Specials were going down smooth, and that Brian Scalabrine is an absolute legend in Boston. The crowd simply can't get enough of him, and when he drained his first bucket, I thought the roof was coming off the place. He's like the Wade Belak of the Boston Celtics. Another monster highlight was looking up at the rafters and seeing all of those championship banners... Wow... Just... Wow... It must be what it's like to be a Leaf fan, only the exact opposite.
nd Swirsk did not disappoint. First off, they were interviewing Scal, a class move all around; and secondly, when I told the Coach that we were meeting him in half an hour at Sully's Tap, he seemed genuinely disappointed that he couldn't make it ("You know I'd love to boys, but I gotta be on a plane in an hour". Lord love Jack Armstrong). They posed for this beautiful pic, and with that, we were out of there to grab a shot of Sully in front of his lifelong dream, and then went for a stroll through the Boston night where Flats gave us an impromtu tour of his newly adopted hometown. Huge thumbs up to our host for remaining lucid enough to point out historical landmarks (Park Street Church, site of the Boston Massacre, Faneuil Hall...) as we staggered through the financial district on our way to Felt.
use he showed up in Seinfeld-esque white sneakers, a Felt faux-pas, which meant that Ronnie and I had to stand outside and pull the "good cop/bad cop" on the bouncer ("there are 15 of us in there and we're all spending well over $100 tonight; why don't we ask your manager if he wants us to walk out of here over a pair of white running shoes..." Works every time). And yes, Foley owns more pairs of dress shoes than our entire entourage combined, but when he's on vacation he likes to live on the edge a little. Personally, I think he just likes to feel the love. He wants us to fight for him, to reaffirm his place in the group. Hey, I have no problem with that. Maybe he wasn't held enough as a child, I don't know.
ome. I hit up the buffet like it was going out of style, and the bartenders really had no idea what hit them. And I have to say that Flats' Lady - Mary Callaghan, of the Callaghan Auto Parts empire - just might be the greatest girl out there. She totally made us feel welcome despite the fact that we were the exact opposite, and she wasn't the least bit put-off by our seemingly cryptic barrage of colloquial vernacular and endless inside references; in fact, I think she may have even found some of what we said to be entertaining, which goes a long way in my books... I mean, sure, she probably broke up with Flats two minutes after we left Sunday morning, having seen the company he keeps, but from what I could gather, Mary Callaghan gets two massive thumbs up. Anyone who can handle the likes of us for a weekend should be grappled onto with hoops of steel.
h next to the jackets, and we just couldn't bring ourselves to wake him. Apparently, after going green, he had managed to score Flats' keys. Not exactly the best decision we could have made, because after the bar emptied and we were able to catch a cab back to Flats' pad, it was only then that we realized: a) Ronnie wasn't with us, and b) our host was sans latchkey. By this time, Ronnie's phone was dead, so Foley, Flats, Mary and I stood around outside the apartment debating what to do. We eventually decided that we were heading back to Mary's place in Southie (I was singing the Springsteen song as we came to the decision, imploring them to "Meet me at Mary's Place / We're gonna have a party"), and then just as we were walking out to Columbus Ave. to snake a cab, around the corner walks Ronnie, a google map courtesy of a benevolent bellhop in hand, completely obvlivious to the fact that he possessed our only means of entry.
he trick 24 hours earlier. Same result this time: top notch breakfast nosh. After stealthily sneaking back into the apartment and avoiding all contact with the landlady, Foley, Sneeze and I decided that we needed to hit up a Starbucks so we could sit cross-legged and recite the works of Walt Whitman. And let me tell you, it was just what the doctor ordered. A little highbrow culture to break up the savagery running rampant in that apartment.
ar in Boston". As soon as we stepped inside, it was pretty easy to understand why: the place smelled like a barracks latrine, and let's just say that natural lighting wasn't exactly at the top of the architect's wish list at the time of construction. But we quickly sidled up to "the longest bar in Boston", and the bartender started pouring Sully Lights and telling great stories about the history of the place. Shortly thereafter, we hit up the Hoop Fever; a game that I would pay almost anything to have in my living room; for our weekend's worth of exercise. Flats showed his supreme athleticism by dropping a 60 on us, and I'm pretty sure we would have stood around there all day drinking Sully lights and pumping quarters into that game, but we were already 45 minutes late to meet the shopping couple, so we sadly had to exit stage left.
e Four Seasons (we met a girl named Sherry, so obviously a serenade was in order). We also lit up the Fooseball table (it looked a little something like this), and talked to some Steelers fans from Vancouver. But the highlight of the BHP experience came in the form of a schizophrenic-amateur-homeless-man's Marshall Mathers, sans meds, who assured us he was born to rhyme any line (when I offered: "give me a hook that swings with orange", I expected a shivving), before teaching us an intricate handshake that concluded with a move that was enthusiastically christened: "the exploding panty-dropper". After crazy Jay wandered off to panhandle and search for the ghost of Sean "Diddy" Combs, I had to justify to Sneeze on a number of occasions exactly why the BHP was on the clipboard of fun... Um, hello? Are you not sampling these exquisite Brubakers? Needless to say, I guess the BHP is a little more exciting at 1am than it is at 6pm. But I loved it nonetheless.
well somes up the way I felt about the place, but again, I was on borrowed time by this point. The funny thing is, they don't serve beer in glass bottles there, and the reason, I quickly concluded, is because if they did, I would have been repeatedly smashing myself in the face with them. I had to leave the bar every 30 minutes or so because the air was so bad in there (Sneeze actually had an asthma attack at one point, prompting the future hypothetical exchange: "How was the bar last night?" "So bad that it gave me an asthma attack". That's a shitty bar). But multiple Sam Adams and Bud Lights later, things started to pick up, and when they played Nirvana for 2 minutes, I began air guitaring on one of the speakers and all was good in the world.
the bottle of Goose... what a legend. It took us a good 40 minutes to flag down a cab out front of the bar, and I'm pretty sure we received a call from the recently betrothed Phatty while wating, and I was told last night that we may even have left a couple of taunting messages for Skeeter during this time. I'm also pretty sure that we managed to perfect the "Exploding Panty-Dropper". Beyond those vague images, it was all a blur except for the ice-balls and the narrowly averted race riot.
Chris Farley Sighting
