James and I went to college together. It was fun, except when it was really shitty. Then it wasn't so much fun. In between (and often because of) the shitty parts, James and I would drink beer.
James isn't a heavy drinker, particularly compared to some of our other classmates. I've probably only seen him truly drunk a couple of times. Don't misunderstand me: James is an excellent fellow with whom to put down a pint or three. One of the best I know, in fact. He just doesn't often go beyond that point.
Now, James is coming to Israel. And he'll be here for St. Patrick's Day. This lucky happenstance has me reminiscing of St. Paddy's Days gone by. James made an exception one year to his "Don't Get Ridiculously Drunk" rule. And why not? He was throwing the party. I remember it surprisingly well..
I was flying back to NYC from the Domincan Republic the night of the 16th. I called James from JFK:
I rang his bell at 8am sharp.
James answered the door wearing a bath robe and a very confused, sleepy look.
Several Guinnesses later but still lacking any other guests, James and I set out for supplies. This was not to be a normal, all-drinking St. Paddy's Day party. No. Not at Chez Griffith. Perish the thought. In addition to (a whole lot of) booze, we needed: corned beef, potatoes, cabbage. Jim, James' very Irish roommate may well have shed a solitary tear of pride watching us drunkenlydepart upon our holy mission.
The food we procurred without incident, but our trip to the liquor store happened to take us by the Cooper Union buildings. On our way back, heavily laden, we came upon James (Evans) pacing the steps of the Engineering building. Jevans (as he was known at the time) is the sort of guy to be studying during Spring Break (which it was
at the time) and will probably go bald some day not because of faulty genes but from too frequently and too roughly pulling his hand through his hair in frustration. Jevans immediately began harranguing James and I about how much work he had to do, how none of his projects were working, how impossible the electronics homework was, how, in short, everything was going to shit.
James and I shared a look.
Returning to his apartment, James and I put everything away, resumed our steady diet of Guinness and waited for everyone else. By and by, people began showing up and the party grew livelier. James, as the host, adopted the onerous role of sitting on his couch playing drinking games and issuing instructions to the rest of us. In the business world I believe this is known as "delegating" and "inspired leadership."
It was in the course of those drinking games, though, that James made a fatal error. He started playing with hard alcohol rather than beer. Jameson's Irish Whiskey, in all likelihood. James' instructions soon grew louder but less frequent or coherent. He concurrently
developed a complex social theory regarding the attendees of his party. Many of them (namely the ones beating him at the drinking games, thereby obligating him to drink more) "sucked" while a select few of us were "ok." Matters continued to go downhill for James, until he came to a pair of very important realizations:
Now, James is coming to Israel. And he has reminded me that Beef Marshall was a lifetime appointment. I can't wait to resume my duties.
One of our more successful beer drinking enterprises: 'camping' along the Delaware River in upstate New York. Left to right: Jim McCann, me, James and Chris Simon.
James isn't a heavy drinker, particularly compared to some of our other classmates. I've probably only seen him truly drunk a couple of times. Don't misunderstand me: James is an excellent fellow with whom to put down a pint or three. One of the best I know, in fact. He just doesn't often go beyond that point.
James very wisely celebrates his birthday in New York, even if he doesn't happen to be living there at the time.
Now, James is coming to Israel. And he'll be here for St. Patrick's Day. This lucky happenstance has me reminiscing of St. Paddy's Days gone by. James made an exception one year to his "Don't Get Ridiculously Drunk" rule. And why not? He was throwing the party. I remember it surprisingly well..
I was flying back to NYC from the Domincan Republic the night of the 16th. I called James from JFK:
Me: "So, St. Paddy's Day party at your place tomorrow, right? What time should I show up?"This was certainly a possibility: we lived only a few blocks from each other. But I figured his response was at least half bravado and decided to let him sleep in.
James, with gusto: "7am!"
I rang his bell at 8am sharp.
James answered the door wearing a bath robe and a very confused, sleepy look.
James: "You know I was kidding, right? About showing up at 7am?"Trooper that he is, James rolled with the punch and cracked open a pair of Guinnesses, the first of many that day (N.B.: a breakfast consisting entirely of Guinness is a beautiful, beautiful thing).
Me: "Yeah, I know. It's 8!"
It's the breakfast of champions. Also, the Irish. (photo credit)
Several Guinnesses later but still lacking any other guests, James and I set out for supplies. This was not to be a normal, all-drinking St. Paddy's Day party. No. Not at Chez Griffith. Perish the thought. In addition to (a whole lot of) booze, we needed: corned beef, potatoes, cabbage. Jim, James' very Irish roommate may well have shed a solitary tear of pride watching us drunkenlydepart upon our holy mission.
The food we procurred without incident, but our trip to the liquor store happened to take us by the Cooper Union buildings. On our way back, heavily laden, we came upon James (Evans) pacing the steps of the Engineering building. Jevans (as he was known at the time) is the sort of guy to be studying during Spring Break (which it was
These steps were paced many, many times by similarly distraught students. (photo credit: DNAinfo.com)
at the time) and will probably go bald some day not because of faulty genes but from too frequently and too roughly pulling his hand through his hair in frustration. Jevans immediately began harranguing James and I about how much work he had to do, how none of his projects were working, how impossible the electronics homework was, how, in short, everything was going to shit.
James and I shared a look.
Us: "So come get drunk with us!"Terrified, Jevans fled inside, unable to reconcile his workload with the sight of our early morning drunkenness. Some people are simply beyond help.
Jevans, alarmed: "What?!"
Us, shaking our bags to clink the bottles: "It's St. Patrick's Day! We're throwing a party. Come get drunk!"
Jevans, eyes wide with dawning understanding: "Jesus Christ, you two are drunk already.. It's 11 in the goddamn morning!"
Us: "Yeah, well, we did start at 8.."
Returning to his apartment, James and I put everything away, resumed our steady diet of Guinness and waited for everyone else. By and by, people began showing up and the party grew livelier. James, as the host, adopted the onerous role of sitting on his couch playing drinking games and issuing instructions to the rest of us. In the business world I believe this is known as "delegating" and "inspired leadership."
It was in the course of those drinking games, though, that James made a fatal error. He started playing with hard alcohol rather than beer. Jameson's Irish Whiskey, in all likelihood. James' instructions soon grew louder but less frequent or coherent. He concurrently
developed a complex social theory regarding the attendees of his party. Many of them (namely the ones beating him at the drinking games, thereby obligating him to drink more) "sucked" while a select few of us were "ok." Matters continued to go downhill for James, until he came to a pair of very important realizations:
James: "Wait, you guys, wait. I don't think I should play any more."And with that, James took a well deserved and much needed nap. The rest of us kept drinking and had a marvelous time. The beef, potatoes and cabbage all turned out very well.
Us: "Whyever not, James?"
James: "Shaddup, you suck! I don't think I can cook anymore either.. boiling water is.. and I.. Jim?!"
Jim: "Yes, James?"
James: "You're Irish.. so you're in charge of the potatoes. You're my Potato Marshall. Benjamin?!"
Me: "Yes, James?"
James: "You're ok. Not like these people. They suck. But you're ok. You're my Beef Marshall! Cabbage'll prolly take care of itself.."
Mmmm.. boiled to mush. (photo credit)
Now, James is coming to Israel. And he has reminded me that Beef Marshall was a lifetime appointment. I can't wait to resume my duties.
That was a good party in 2005.
ReplyDeleteAnd it was a good party last night. I have a couple pictures incoming for you.
James