Ah, the Day Drink. If there were a medical need for you to black out and have a crippling Sunday hangover, a medical professional would prescribe you a Day Drink. A long one, starting in the mid-afternoon and ending whenever your most coherent friend gets people into cabs. I’m strongly considering retiring from day drinking. Not a brunch day drink, or like sitting down to watch a game and drink some beers kind of day drink. I’m talking about getting after it. Afternoon shots in the living room, or going to a bar that was specifically designed to get as much booze into your system before sundown, and happily obliging them until dinner time comes and goes without any food being ordered. Just round after round of dollar beers. Those kinds of afternoons are disabling. They take normal taxpaying adults (legally, we’re adults), and turn us into wild animals who lose most control of our prefrontal cortex.
Sometimes it starts when you’re alone in your living room waiting for some friends to come over, so you decide to have one screwdriver – just one – but you just sort of keep topping yourself off with more vodka and a splash of OJ as your glass gets dangerously close to being empty. But still, that’s just one screwdriver. Next thing you know, you and your buddies are taking pulls of whatever is on the bar and jamming out to Fleetwood Mac, acting out the scene from The Dance during “Silver Springs” when Stevie and Lindsey are singing daggers through each other’s souls. This was a month ago.
I don’t really remember what happened after that, but the story is that we went to get dinner at a bar and I kept falling asleep at the table. Apparently that’s frowned upon, so I went home, calling it a night before 9 p.m. (mutual decision made between me and a bouncer). One of my roommates told me his girlfriend had to help me untie my boots, but to be fair, they were hockey skate style lacing and that shit is tough to untie even when you’re sober. The next day, after a coma-style eleven-hour slumber, I swore off day drinking for a while. But much like Brett Favre or Michael Jordan, you need to bury the greats six feet down before they finally hang ‘em up; the immortals don’t know how to be retired. I wanted to stay retired, but I couldn’t because I was born to day drink. St. Patrick’s Day brought me out of retirement this past weekend, but just as quickly may have forced me back into it.
In the middle of last week, I woke up to a drunken voicemail from my best friend who’s in medical school (so I never see him) and in his drunken ramblings about how he found an awesome street meat vendor in Albany, he tells me he’s bringing a whole bunch of med students out to Boston for St. Patrick’s Day weekend and they’re looking to get weird.
*Sidenote: Can we talk for a minute how St. Paddy’s Day celebrations have become a month-long thing? Starting with Hoboken St. Patty’s Day and UMass Blarney Blowout over the first weekend of March, then going all the way through the actual date on the 17th, and then the following weekend, culminating in a Sunday parade in South Boston. It’s a whole month of activities, like ABC Family’s 25 Days of Christmas, except instead of watching nightly Christmas movies, you’re scheduled for a weekly blackout fueled by Jameson and sporting green.*
I met up with them on Saturday for brunch (obviously). Brunch was relatively tame, and I went back to my place while they went to check into their hotel. I figured we’d meet up again around dinner time, get some food, and plan the night. Instead, I was directed to Coogan’s, which for you non-Bostonians is a joint where they have $1 beers and everyone goes there with a mission to get absolutely slammed. Saturday was no different, as everyone at Coogan’s seemed to have gotten the memo.
I walked in and even though it was perfectly bright out, music was blasting and people were getting wild. I wanted to pace myself, so I started with something to sip on, but shit escalated quickly, and next thing I knew I was engaged in some serious chug-offs with med students who were looking to get after it.
I remember watching some significant Trader Joe’s grocery money fly away into my bookie’s pocket courtesy of the Kentucky Wildcats, and I think we ordered some food that I probably didn’t eat, and by then the Day Drink was coming off the rails. I have a memory of wearing a green hat with black felt clovers on it, which was confirmed in the lone picture taken from the day, a large group shot that I have no recollection of posing for, but I look ludicrously happy in.
Next thing I knew, I was at another bar posted up and watching the Spurs-Warriors game. Another brief memory of some dancing. Then nothing. Nothing but darkness, until I blacked in later in the night. I was on an empty party bus. It was completely trashed. The driver was still in the front. I was making out with some girl in said party bus. I had so many questions. My friends were gone, I had no clue who this chick was, or why I was on a party bus. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my place. No? Okay, how about your place? No? I remembered reading something from earlier that day about women rejecting your advances at the bar because they’re not being guaranteed an orgasm. I could have tried convincing her I’d get her off, but the truth was I was so plastered there was no way that was going to happen. 100% chance I’d get to her place and fall asleep on her couch. The Day Drink had taken full effect. Then I blacked out again.
I came to in an Uber, where the driver was telling me he was from the Dominican. Every time I meet someone who grew up in the DR, I always ask if they grew up with any famous ball players. Every time, the answer is “no.” Saturday night was different. This guy told me he grew up with Carlos Gomez. We talked about that for a while and that was my last memory until I woke up early Sunday with the shakes. I had two invites to day parties in Southie. One of them was even at a house that has an indoor pool that’s famous for throwing Gronk-style, legendary parties. The med students were on their way to Southie for the parade. The Snapchats from these day parties started flooding in before noon on Sunday. FOMO was kicking in hard. I tried to eat something and put on normal clothes. I tried drinking water and taking Advil. I wanted to go for round two. I couldn’t do it. I did what Apollo Creed couldn’t do against Drago; threw in the white towel. There would be no Day Drink for me on Sunday. I’m barely 25 years old, and I’ve officially re-entered retirement from Day Drinking. .
Image via Total Frat Move