My grandparents dropped me off at Tufts at 3:30 today, effectively starting Phase III of my vacation, the drunken phase. The first was decompression, which consisted of staying home Monday and Tuesday and watching TV. The second was performing my duties as a good grandson. And now we have the final phase, trying to recapture my rapidly departing youth. So as soon as I go tout of the car, I met up with my good friend Alberto Rodriguez, and knocked back some whiskey and ginger ale. It was a beautiful day so we sat on the porch, watching the leaves turn color, waxing philosophic about growing older, and ogling the co-eds. Then we went across the street where some of his friends were doing the same. That was where I came across this little nugget, an article entitled “A Stupid Thing to Draw Lines Over” which extols the virtues of cocaine.
Apparently, this is the sort of thing that passes for journalism at my old alma mater. A self proclaimed “expert” on cocaine, because he’s done “hundred’s of lines,” Evan Cochran is the kind of kid that deserves a punch in the face. I’m not going to say anything about why it’s dumb to get into coke; he admits he’s dumb for doing it. But he’s especially dumb for writing about it. “Hey, mom, you saw my article in the paper? I was just kidding. Please don’t cut off my trust fund.” “What’s that potential employer, you want to see examples of my work from the college paper I worked for? I lost them. All of them.” It’s just completely irresponsible. Admitting to being reckless and out of control doesn’t make it OK, in fact it’s the first step in admitting your problem. But this is really just shameless self-promotion to create controversy, by a coked up brat.
Well after I was through ranting about that Al and I got some sweet, sweet Anna’s Taqueria burritos and washed it down with $3 Guinness drafts at Sligo Pub, the Happiest Place on Earth©. Actually, it’s one of the more depressing places to go on a Friday afternoon because everyone that’s not a privileged Tufts student is a blue collar worker burning his hard earned money on booze and lotto tickets. But the Guinness is $3, so I guess it balances out.
We followed that up with a tearful reuniting at ATO with my fellow swimmers from the old days. After playing some pong, with plywood as ATO is known for, we made back out for Davis Square’s drinking establishments, this time with a healthy ‘03 contingent. Al, being a young ‘un, and thoroughly mashed, was refused service, much to everyone’s amusement. From there the rest of the night became foggier and foggier, but everyone made it back safe and sound.
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