Bad news, loyal readers: the Lush was waylaid by a nasty cold for the entirety of this weekend, forcing her to abandon plans to attend (and probably not remember) that most holy of Boston holidays - Marathon Monday.
A serious case of the sniffles prevented my triumphant return to Boston College and two separate Kegs 'N' Eggs invites.
All kidding aside, The Lush loves the Boston Marathon, even sober. Congratulations to all the members of the Tufts team who ran, especially my friend Talia.
But maybe it was for the best. As much as the Lush may have missed the opportunity to see Bacow in spandex, Marathon Monday can seriously wear out the drunken spectator. Ending up sunburned and passed out on the Green Line is not a triumphant end to a day.
Even without Marathon Monday/Patriots' Day, this was a holiday-heavy weekend, also featuring the Lush's 22nd birthday and Easter Sunday, which happen to coincide this year. Don't get me wrong, the resurrection of Christ is some birthday present, but Easter Sunday is not known for encouraging imbibing. Jesus was known for compassion and miracles - not Jell-o shots and keg stands.
Not to fret: Due to some foresight by my roommates, we celebrated before the holiday weekend and before the Lush ended up under the weather. They amassed a relatively small (due to the Spring holidays, not any lack of popularity on the Lush's part, I assure you), but dedicated group at our apartment for an outing to Daisy Buchanan's on Newbury Street.
I know what you are thinking. Yes, I already wrote about Daisy's, but I can justify the repetition. One, none of you read my column back in October. Two, I was sick for the rest of the weekend after this trip. Three, I now have justification for something I said all those months ago. And four, it was my damn birthday - it's my party and I'll repeat if I want to.
We had to fortify ourselves for the long T ride, in order to keep ourselves psyched for the night. A crowded subway car is a major buzzkill. Ellen and Kelly planned well, however, and presented us with a menu and stocked bar ready to serve a variety of fruity shooters.
After about six or seven apiece, we were ready to venture out. I have to admit, I was a little nervous. The Lush's last trip to Daisy's resulted in a fall in the bar, a lost cell phone, tears, a fall down some stairs and hefty amounts of belligerence.
On the way, the Lush was scolded for using big words, to which she replied, "I'm drunk in my body, but not in my brain." Classic. We surfaced on Newbury Street - stopping for a quick photo op in front of a store called "Lush" - and then we arrived.
Good news: Mike the bartender/love of my life was working. Better news: no line for the ladies' room. Best news: we emerged from the bathroom to hear that Tom and Mike had spotted the ultimate part of the Daisy's experience - a member of the Red Sox.
I always tell people that Red Sox go to Daisy's; I even told you readers that back in October. But to be honest, until last week, I was relying on hearsay. So let me tell you about how the Lush partied with new Red Sox ace Josh Beckett.
Well, the story is more like how I became BFF with Josh Beckett's financial advisor's girlfriend. But Beckett was there - I even shook his hand and traded "Anchorman" dialogue with him. But he had little interest in us, even when Sarina and I made Mike offer to buy him and his friends a round of drinks. Beckett declined.
Did I mention that I insisted on snagging the table right next to Beckett's? Oh yeah, I had no shame. Don't worry, we didn't bother the guy. None of us tried to talk baseball with him; none of us even acknowledged that we knew who he was. I contented myself with chatting up said girlfriend of financial advisor (she later became a great dance partner), who introduced me to Beckett.
I thought he was warming up to me when we got in a heated argument over the title of a song by The Who ("Baba O'Riley," Beckett, not "Teenage Wasteland"), but he and his friend (obviously the dude who has been riding his coattails since high school) were less than amused when members of my group tried to covertly snap his picture. He's afraid of what Granny Beckett might see on Google. I can't blame him - my entire family reads this column every week.
Beckett did loosen up after an hour and a few beers - he even started hitting on some girls. He eased off the first one after his friend said he thought she was pregnant. Several subsequent attempts at smooth pick-ups also failed for our poor pitcher. Word to the wise - until you have been in town longer and gotten some more face recognition, dropping a line from "Anchorman" (i.e. "You have an absolutely breathtaking heinie") is not going to get your foot in the door.
Time sure flies when you're kind of a big deal. Before we knew it, it was time to head home to the leftover birthday cake. It was quite the star-studded weekend for the Lush - I also saw Aerosmith's Joey Kramer at dinner on Saturday - but Beckett was definitely the highlight.
Even though he was a bit aloof, he was a nice guy. As long as he keeps winning games, he is just fine by the Lush. It can't be easy being bothered in public all the time, although I wouldn't mind it so much if I was making 4.5 million this year.
That said - and Tom and Mike insisted I put this in - Josh Beckett struck out (with the ladies that is). Don't worry Josh, a few more strikeouts at Fenway and I'm sure you'll be able to score with the ladies at Daisy's.
