2002-04-12 - 12:36 a.m.

So hungry. In the middle of watching an uncharacteristically non-gripping episode of Law & Order, and all I could think about was a Red Sox game almost a year ago, where these three Asian chicks were eating these ballpark freshly cut lawn steak and cheese subs.

I went to the game with the Girlfriend, towards the end of the season, and the team sucked (but I still loved them), and the game was lousy, and we were both very broke�the only thing either of us had of value were our tickets.

And we were hungry. And these three giggling Asian chicks behind us had the best smelling steak and cheese subs ever.

And I had no idea that they even sold subs at Fenway.

So.

Went to Redneck�s.

It�s a Thursday in Allston, which is the same thing as a Friday or Saturday. And it�s 11:00, which is hardly time for the drunks to be out in full force.

Oh no!

The Townies.

Like myself, most Townies are from the Boston area, but are not natives of Allston/Brighton. Like myself, they ignorantly came for a hyped up reason they cannot name, and like myself, they will leave somewhat disappointed, but without a concrete reason to explain why things sucked.

But don�t get me started.

Redneck�s, with its unpredictable menu, is kind of a turn off for me. It serves drunk food for drunks. It�s practically empty �till the bars close.

Practically.

After I had placed my order, I leaned against a table. Some dude decided that I was his buddy, and spoke eloquently on the topic of his rib consumption.

And then went to the bathroom.

Then, some crazy spritzed-up chick, houndstooth pants, from Saugus or Everett or Revere or Dedham or even Roslindale or Chelmsford or North Easton stumbled by after placing her order.

I was staring straight forward, and almost didn�t notice her tumbling by.

She would have tripped over my foot had I not realized in time.

She plummeted into a booth, struggling to remain awake. She looked at me. Oh no. I was her buddy.

Not effortlessly got up, and fell backwards.

Woah, she said, and then collapsed into giggles, and also conveniently into the seat of the table I was leaning against.

I looked oh so never deeply into her please help me eyes.

Are you allright?

I dunnoh. Whadja assin�f, but, hey, y�YOU alight?

I�m doing fine. Ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and I�m looking forward to it. My number is 79. What�s yours?

Eayghtie-tew.

Her head dipped as if she wanted to put it on my shoulder, but my hip and our table were all where her head could really go.

I started to become kinda pissed. Not at her, not at all. I was pissed at the Charlestown or Hyde Park or Walpole, or even Dracut or Mashpee or even Duxbury chowdaheads that had left her alone to stumble around and hopefully find a $40+ cab, maybe.

Not that this was my problem.

I was curious as to from which of the bars du jour she had come. So I asked.

Where didja come from?

HELL!, was her reply.

Followed by a very kind soul calling out the number 79.

I collected my cheeseburger, patted her on the shoulder, and walked away.

Her number came up at the same time.

Greasy food and bottled water.

And the two Townies hiding in the background, one of which could have easily nailed me for �hitting on� his girl/friend.

Who he had allowed to flail about.

Riff-raff.

Like I�m Mr. Drive-you-out-of-business.

Like I�m Mr. How-do-you-propose-to-do-that?

If I weren�t so thoughtless, I�d think myself rather offensive.