Boston Shit Show

Kristin promised me a good old-fashioned shit show on my last night in Boston. And she delivered. She was my boss when we both worked in the Portland office in 2006. The term shit show was used then to describe 1. whenever we just totally lost control of the office, or 2. a night of indulging that got way out of hand. So she invited a bunch of people in the office for an outing on my last night. It was a very work-heavy stay, so a chance to hit the town was welcome.

We started out at a sushi bar. Whenever Kristin has a vision for anything, she just grabs it by the balls and makes it happen. So by the end of dinner, everyone at the table had drank, I think, 6 or 7 sake bombs.

The restaurant owners didn’t kick us out, but they should have. We were loud, knocking things over, and definitely overstaying our welcome. I was lobbying heavily for us to leave. Or as I think I put it at the time, “We need to get the fuck out of here. Now.”

We had a lengthy trip on the train to get out to Kristin’s house in Jamaica Plains. I’m pretty sure we were acting like children the whole way.

This is the view from Kristin’s rooftop. If you walk out of her apartment, take a narrow side door and walk up several flights of narrow, rickety stairs, the path spits you out on the roof. There is no rail or protection from falling over. But it was a really great view of a part of Boston I really enjoyed. This picture really doesn’t do anything for it.

People started to trickle into the party. I think my camera died at this point in the night. There were tiny bottles of tequila involved. Lots of Pabst. At one point there was a massive, multi-team party game, similar to catch phrase or taboo, but you had to get your team to say the name of pre-chosen celebrities. Heather entered my mother’s name into the mix, but I don’t remember if it ever came up in the draw.

The party ran nice and late. I woke up in the guest room, on a sea of black foam rubber. Kristin woke me up right on time.

I’ve already gone into detail about the ensuing travel disaster, but I had a couple of good photos:

While I hate travel delays, I LOVE hotel rooms. And the one Delta put me up in was pretty nice. It was also filled with people from canceled flights as well as pilots and flight attendants.

You can’t stay alone in a hotel without at least checking out the porn selection. These were my favorite entries. “A little guy-on-guy action doesn’t mean you’re gay,” is the best. It’s stated with an almost medical certainty. Like, “Don’t worry, there was a study the New England Journal of Medicine. Turns out, a little guy-on-guy action doesn’t mean you’re gay. You can watch this movie and not get AIDS.”

And no, I didn’t order any porn. It was like 15 dollars. It’s free on the Internet.

Whoever owns the Crowne Whatever hotel must have a huge phobia of not being able to sleep. There was a little sparkly bag on the bed containing: a sleep mask, ear plugs, a cd with sleepy music, and the masterpiece, a bottle of lavender essence spray for your sheets. My own alternative was basic cable TV movies and four beers.

I took this picture because it’s the only art I can remember seeing in a hotel room that I really liked.

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2 Responses to

  1. Kristin says:

    I’m throwing a party on Friday night in celebration of Leap Year. You should come back…


    Kristin, Professional Shit Shower

  2. Mr. Chair says:

    I’ll check flights!

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