2001-12-19 - 1:13 a.m.

I somehow, sometimes end up hanging out in Dick's Last Resort. I really like that place. The waiters and waitresses there are supposed to be really rude and condescending, and they make ridiculous party losers wear stupid paper hats that say "cum slut" and the like. They play cheese rock and Jimmy Buffett. Big groups come in for desperate "I'm about to get married" parties, and they never get lucky.

I've been there a few times, and I always hide from the waiters so that they don't notice me and make me wear a stupid hat. It's only funny when others have to wear them.

The first time I went there, it was to get a quick beer and some food. I placed my order at the bar and found a small table by it. While I was waiting, a waitress strolled by, and she picked up my ashtray. Let me freshen that up for you, she said. She dumped the ashes and butts on the floor and slammed the tray back down on my table.

When my food was ready, rather than bring the plate to me, the bartender threw a bunch of napkins at my head. When I looked over, he merely pointed at my food. I picked it up and brought it back to my table.

It was terrible. I loved it.

I took the Girlfriend there once. I had to wait for her, so I sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. Behind me were some rowdy kids poking fun at everyone. I was alone, and listening to them was my only entertainment. Their occasionally funny jokes were not as interesting as their Chowdaheadedness. (I don't think that I've mentioned this before, but the Girlfriend is overweight). When she walked in, she was under-breathedly greeted with Oh, here comes Mama Cass...

She was upset for well over a week. I don't think that she'll ever get over it.

I also met Nomar there. I was waiting for R., my college friend that I hadn't seen in some time. She was on her way from Pennsylvania, and Dick's was her first stop after she rendezvoused with her Boston friends. I was supposed to meet up with all of them, but when I got to Dicks, they weren't there. Again, I was by myself at Dick's and I could just watch things go down. I drank a few beers and tried to act like I really was with other people but just walking around by myself for a few.

Sitting with a pretty big crew was Nomar. Garciaparra. This was towards the end of the 2000 season. The Sox had made the playoffs the last couple of seasons. They played well for most of the 2000 season, but took their usual end of season nosedive and were basically out of contention with only a few games left to play. Nomar was on his way to winning a batting title, but had been in a mini hitting slump since getting hit on the wrist by a pitch (that would later force him to the operating table and take him out of the lineup for 90% of the 2001 season). There was much unrest in Red Sox Nation.

So what do you say? I love Nomar, and I love the Sox. But what do you say?

Sorry you got that injury, buddy.

Sorry you didn't become the first player to hit .400 since Ted Williams.

Sorry Crazy Carl "The moon landing was faked" Everett ripped apart your clubhouse morale like would the very dinosaurs in which he refuses to believe.

Sorry the Sox have an infinitesimal chance of making the playoffs this season.

Or, with some sliver of playoff contention still remaining, Hey buddy, it was a good season. Thanks for a good year.

So I brought him a clean napkin and a ballpoint pen and, like a four year old, said

Nomar? Can you sign my autograph?

Well, he said, only you can sign your own autograph.

Yeah, that sucks. He didn't sign the friggin' napkin, either.

Later on, I saw this drunk guy spill (what else?) his drink onto some massive Chowdahead's trashy trophy-chick. He apologized profusely (good), and then tried to wipe the spilled booze off of her blouse (bad). She laid into him, and he backed off. Under his breath, he muttered bitch.

The massive dude smashed a bottle over his head.

By the way, although I've never actually tried it, smashing a bottle over someone's head is pretty hard to do. (I learned this from a college buddy who has successfully done this, but maybe he was full of shit now that I think of it.) Still, I'd be concerned that the bottle would split vertically and sever my palm. That's a good way to teach some asshole a lesson, eh?

But this guy actually did it, and he and his dripping, alcohol soaked chick were tossed.

R's friends showed up later on. It seems that R. was exhausted from the long drive and went to the friends' place to crash (read a pun into that if you want to). R's friends and I had a decent time anyway.

Right before I left, I saw the drunk guy nursing a shot and a headwound. He was using (what once was) a clean napkin too.

I don't get out that much, and every time I have a chance to see wacky stuff like this, it's an event.

The best time I ever had at Dick's involved no violence or insults whatsoever. I guess it's like when your favorite indie band calms down (or grows up) after three albums of experimental noise and uses their experience to make some delicious indie-pop. And after that refined album, you can't listen to their older albums quite the same way.

I somehow ended up at Dick's with E. I think it may have been a follow-up to sushi. We were both pretty buzzed to begin with, and I ordered us up some gigantic bottled Buds in buckets of ice. We huddled close together, trying to make ourselves small so that the lewd-hat-making waiters wouldn't notice us. Chowdahead suburbanites partied on to some ridiculous glam band, trying to claim the whole city just for their little groups, so that they could later discuss themselves on their SUV rides home.

The band took a break. All of a sudden, it was Tell Me More(?) from Grease.

The Grease soundtrack is not my kind of music.

And E. sang the song for me. She knew all the words. Her head did a little dance as she sang, and she sang just for me. She looked so happy. She tried to get me into it. ...tell me more, tell me more... and, just for one second, I understood why someone could like that stupid, stupid movie, and I liked it too.

For a few days after, I caught myself whistling that song.

That was a moment. Whenever I think about E., I always think of that. I know we'll have other great moments together, but still wish I could experience just that one forever. I don't know why.

And that was the best time I ever had at Dick's Last Resort.