Wow. I don't even know if it was the semi-gloomy-but-pretty-nice weather, the Gay Pride, the Mavericks beating the MoHeatos, or just some kind of ancient druid equinox that makes everyone crazy, but gosh, did we as a city ever drink this weekend. It seemed like everywhere I went, I was stumbling into someone falling down on the street, puking in the bushes, or banging on the doors of In-N-Out at 4 am as if the guy who makes the shakes was sleeping in the back, just waiting for his fans to arrive. My proof this weekend is likely a haze for a bunch of Angelenos? These photos of a crowd in the process of getting blurry Friday night at Roxbury to kick-off the weekend.
Of course, this isn't Philly, so I don't have any awful stories about drunken hooligans pistol-whipping Santa Claus or beating out-of-towners with a sock full of batteries or whatever it is they do in Philly. No, our benders tend to take on more of a "personal challenge" feel, with participants in a race against passing out trying to test their own limits. Me, personally? I was in a Jameson kind of mood, and while in my youth I'll admit that Irish Whiskey would make me surly and confrontational, I'm just too old to be picking fights anymore, especially with people that are actually in shape. This is an extraordinarily complicated way of saying that I had fun drinking this weekend. Did you?
And I wasn't going to say anything, but Roxbury, do you only let girls in if they're not wearing pants? Seriously, though, would you turn a girl away at the door for wearing a pair of pants that didn't expose at least half a buttcheek? Or do you have loaner pairs of fishnet stockings the way a country club has extra blue blazers? I'm just curious.