San Diego Trip 6/21-6/24/2007

i was about an hour into my peaceful slumber (read: drunken coma), when i was ripped from my comfortable bed (read: walsh's couch) to a terrifying mixture of locapo's snoring, and my cell phone alarm screeching "the cup of life" by ricky martin. it was time to get up. ready to head out to california for 4 days of sun, the sox, and fake tits up and down the shoreline. so why did i feel like barry bonds had just taken batting practice on my head? cuz craig is an asshole.

let's rewind. i got out of work wednesday, and cruised up to walsh's house. where craig greeted me at the door with a 12 pack of pabst blue ribbon. (just a heads up, the blue ribbon was an award for first place in tasting like crap). he proceeded to tell me a story about how he went camping with a 30 of pabst, and was almost mauled by a bear. but wasn't. and would have finished his camping trip, but didn't. and thus had a bunch of leftover crappy beer. the only way he could get me to finish this beer for him was to tell a story so horrible that a coma was the only way to escape

So after I was done exaggerating, we hit up the whitehorse tavern in brighton for some trivia. with nate, walsh, craig, and james (0% celebrity). we proceeded to get our asses handed to us by a bunch of nerds from MIT and lesbians from harvard. (or vice versa) they knew shit about subjects like physics, astronomy and literature, while we were tailored more for subjects like why bleu cheese goes so well with buffalo chicken pizza, why walsh is a borderline ape that can't grow hair on his chest, and how to properly pull off the donkey punch. However, our heads didn't hang in shame for long. we rolled in to Wendy’s for some late night eats. not quite fourthmeal. we tried to ditch nate, but he saw us, smashed his drink on the ground, and we knew everything was back to normal. we returned home, found locapo on the steps, let him in, and went to bed. for about an hour. then it was snoring and ricky martin. i was awake. then i could taste pabst blue ribbon on my palette. i was miserable. this flight was gonna suck.

we get to the airport, and check in. we were flying continental. one way. boston to ontario (california, not canada). i booked the trip, so i checked us in. big mistake. not cuz i fucked it up. no, I’m flawless with reservations. the problem is that i'm on the terrorist watch list. (i'm not even kidding). every time i fly, i get pulled out of line and have to see a representative at the counter. apparently the Irish Republican Army is considered a terrorist network. One of their henchmen is Thomas J Murphy (my father and grandfathers name). So, it never fails. We get pulled out of line. check luggage. proceed to DD to get egg sandwich with fake plastic orange cheese that doesn't mix well with stale pbr in your stomach. good luck to whoever is stuck next to me.

Now, I have this thing about flying. when you get on the plane, and you look around and say to yourself, "no one on earth would miss anyone of these people if it went down in a fiery crash." it gets you kind of nervous. so to calm down, i get a starbucks. smooth thinking. now i'm wired. and after getting only an hour of sleep, all night, i don't sleep a wink on the flight. walsh slept the whole time. nick and i stayed awake, and for our patience, were rewarded with a breakfast and an in-flight movie. the mother-fucking Astronaut Farmer. there wasn't a single movie that I thought looked worse than this movie all year. they say you can't judge a book by its cover, but you can sure as hell judge a movie. this shit was awful. and now the fake cheese, coffee and pabst were beginning to mix.

ironically, the first leg into houston went off without a hitch. we arrived at 8am. my first return to texas since i was born there. these were my people. too short a stay. we were there long enough for walsh to get pancakes from Wendy’s. (yes, you read that right). with a tear in my eye, we departed. on a plane that stunk. of pancakes. from Wendy’s.

buuuuut, we're in luck. another in flight breakfast. another in flight movie. mother-fucking Catch and Release. I didn't even tune into this one. I sat there hoping we would take a dive into the rocky mountains. and they fucked up our seats so me walsh and nick were all in separate rows. and man, did i have some fucking gas on this flight. wow. i don't usually apologize, but my sincerest to the people in the last 4 rows of the plane.

we landed in Ontario, and it was like another planet. the security guard had some pigment disease that left her looking like a cross between a ying-yang and a marble donut from DD. while we waited for our luggage, she was replaced by a guy with one arm. the people were weird looking and disgusting. so walsh and i hit the men’s room and proceeded to put on a display probably never to be matched again. i dropped a smash well over 100 decibels. to the point where i had to cover my ears cuz i was i was laughing so hard. which as you might have guessed, didn't help.

about a half hour later, walsh emerged, and we went to get the rental. a stroke of good luck. they didn’t' have the jeep cherokee we reserved. but rather than stick us in a geo metro, they upgraded us to a dodge durango. we owned the road. i had 4 kills. it was like i was living grand theft auto.

we hooked up the gps, and drove to huntington beach, cuz we were staying with cassie. if you don't have a gps, do yourself a favor and get one. ive never been to huntington beach, and i never looked a google maps. and we found it no problem. we'd been up for 12 hours at this point, and it was barely lunch time. we hit up macaroni grille. and the hot assed waitress with the busted face gave us a table, then proceeded to move us so we could cheer up her manic depressive friend who was having a bad day but would be waitressing our table. walsh started drinking at this point, and we probably said about 10 words to our fat waitress as we struggled to stay awake. i doubt we helped her day much.

we had to break into cassies apartment. let me rephrase that. we had to sit outside the apartment in waiting. and lie undetected in waiting for a car to enter the complex. at which point, we proceeded to slam the car into drive, go full speed to catch up, while not causing a t-bone collision, and sneak into the complex behind them. if you've ever seen the episode of mr bean trying to get out of the parking garage without paying, that was basically us, except for good teeth, and a massive SUV.

we spent the day by the pool. as did the rest of huntington beach which is apparently unemployed. you'd think that on a thursday afternoon, people would be at their fucking jobs. but no. they too flooded the pool. and probably pissed it in. (i know i did). we couldn't get any chairs to lay out and sleep on. so we hung out in the hot tub, and played catch with dylan, this adorable four year old, until some drunk guy (about 35 and not his dad) took the football so he could play with his buddies. (it was a neon green water football, about 4 inches in diameter). nick drowned the guy, and made the body disappear, and then we went back to the apartment and took a nap.

Cassie and Brennan got home from work (the only people with jobs in town) and we had some dinner. and by dinner, i mean our lunch leftovers. i did had two turkey hotdogs (sans rolls) and they weren't bad. though i'd never admit it in public. we got beer, and pregamed, and headed down to the beach to some bars. and the settings were awesome. right on the water. not too expensive. we hit up two bars, got some apps, and traded stories. nick started doing magic. then we decided to call JP. we probably left some racial slur about his being an indian. at this point, we were starting to sway like Glass Joe with no power bars left after Little Mac delivers a punch with 3 hearts and the power glove. if that last reference makes no sense to you, hang yourself. we park the car, and go to piss on the wall. when lo and behold, security comes and catches us. we zip up (in pain now) and walk to the apt. security goes, you boys alright?. yes sir. ::sprints to apt::

we woke up friday morning when the girls got up at 6am and left for work. also when parry sends me a text message saying he got on an earlier flight to LAX and will be in at 11am. great. fight rush hour in LA. i sent him a text saying i was going to take a crap in his suitcase. we also got a text from JP. he said it was dress down friday, and he was wearing his indian loincloth to work. apparently, we had gone the indian route in our voicemail. (he never responded to us the rest of the weekend.)

walsh and i hit the pool early on before LAX to get some sun. Locapo hibernated for a few more hours. we let nick take the spare bedroom to himself. not because the walls are mirrors and we expected him to get laid. nick's snoring is ridiculously loud. it is the alleged reason walsh is deaf in one ear.

we got the car and magic nick and headed up to LAX to pick up the Pipper. he didn't check luggage, so he came out, and we picked him up, and were on our way home. (again, courtesy of Tom-Tom). we got home, dropped off his stuff. lathered eachother up in sunscreen in the least homosexual way as possible, and hit the bar. for lunch. on the beach.

after lunch, and on our way to dehydration, we set up shop on the beach. lotta fake tits. lot of em. everywhere. rumored to be a high school graduation present. to you women who shake your head in disgust every time we ogle over fake tits. then proceed to say, "but they're fake!!!". yeah. so are high heels and make up. we know. we don't care

Once we were nice and torched, we returned home and got booze and dinner. we wanted to order our something quick so we could watch the sox game (on a fucking laptop) so we decided (poorly) on pizza. this was the worst fucking pizza i have ever had in my life. it was like someone removed the taste out of the dough, flipped it, kneaded it, and stretched it into pizza. then added a red substance with the texture of sauce, but forgot to put in the taste. oh, and the cheese? rubber. i don't know what condoms taste like, but i imagine if they replaced the cheese with Magnums on this alleged pizza concoction and blindfolded you, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. and the worst part, is it was that bland, and still left a nasty taste in your mouth. we had to smother it in ranch dressing. that’s prolly why there's no fake tits up in the north east. they’re too busy perfecting pizza. oh, and at some point i allegedly fit into bren's skirt. it is not true. i realize there is a pic floating somewhere around the internet. it was probably locapo's best photoshop job ever.

we met up with cassie and brens friends and respective boyfriends, all of which were outgoing, personable, and made us feel at home. they took us to newport beach. when we got stuck in line at woody wharf, which was probably the best line i've ever been in, we left to go to an irish pub down the street. a long ass walk. but worth it. we got inside. $2 mugs. $9 a pitcher. so we just started slugging. to the point where we were standing next to a fan and I bet walsh $50 if he would shit in the trash can, next to the fan. he declined. parry matched it with $50. he declined. Locapo also matched my $50. Bren and her boyfriend Patrick (maybe just her bf?) added another $25. we had $175 in cash waiting to go. we'd provide the wall. all he had to do was drop a deuce, and snap. instant legend. but he wouldn't do it. walsh. you're a pussy. nick also took a picture of my tits. also floating around the internet. no photoshop at all. well, not yet. (nick, you son of a bitch)

We were fading fast cuz we'd been boozing all day, and were underslept from the night before. we cabbed it home. except...we had no way in. we had to wait for a clearing (i'm tellin you, this apt complex was like fort fucking knox). we hop the fence. one by one. get inside. pass out.

Saturday: we leave for San Diego. but not after some money breakfast burritos (thanks cass) and starbucks. we get in our mammoth vehicle, put in the address into good ole Tom-Tom, and head south. we get stuck in traffic in the middle of nowhere, and everyone has to piss. We pull over into a Wendy’s. the fourth time for walsh in as many days. we arrive in Del Mar, where we are staying with Walsh and Nicks friend from home, Sara and her boyfriend John.

I'm not even there 20 minutes and my eyes start watering. my eyes start itching. my skin starts itching, and my head starts swelling. they have a cat. fucking great. i didn't say anything, because i didn't want to be rude (imagine that??). but eventually I had to duck outside. parry explains why i'm swelling up like Macauley Culkin in "My Girl". I explain what’s happening, and ask where I can get some Benadryl. At which point, the "Murph is allergic to pussy" jokes start flying. Everyone's a comedian....

I head down to the supermarket and find some benadryl. i’m reading the carton. May increase drowsiness. Check. Do not mix with alcohol. Check. Do not operate vehicles under the influence of benadryl. Check. Alright, i'm ready to drive downtown and get wasted at the game.

We get back to Sara's apt, and begin looking at the North Middlesex high yearbook. if any of you are reading this, that was absolutely hysterical. Nate had hair!!!

we left for the game and parked downtown in probably the best spot ever. we went to J-bar which was up on a roof and got to catch up with/meet for the first time Sara and John. i know they told us about san diego. i'm not sure exactly what they said, but from what i can recall it was something along the lines of "it is like this here everyday...what the fuck are you doing in rhode island?" it probably wasn't that coarse. but christ, what the fuck am i doing in rhode island?

we head over to the game. we had awesome seats. petco park is awesome. check out my pics. we got creamed. wakefield stinks. whatever.

we went to a bar in the gas lamp quarter, that was the darkest bar ive ever been in. not the people. the lighting. i thought multiple times that I had put my sun glasses on. the red sox had flown down their front office, so a lot of people walsh worked with were there. including Scott van Reinold. if you don't know scott, well, that sucks for you. i might have tackled him in the street. I'm not sure how many people were watching, but I fell asleep in the bar, and my head dropped about 6 inches before i snapped it back up. (benadryl and booze). we headed home and decided to make food. but nothing except taco bell was open. fourthmeal it is. we got stuft burritos and gorditas, and quesadillas. it was like mexican heaven. parry pissed all over the parking lot. but i think it was at the supermarket, not taco bell. not exactly sure. things got fuzzy at that point. we were headed back home (to the cat), so i had popped more benadryl. fading fast. we got home and ate, and watched entourage. not me. all i did was wake up the next morning. to see walsh and parry on an air mattress in what looked like the sloppy leftovers of a fully clothed 69.

Sara made the best breakfast imaginable. bacon, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and mimosas. to go with my benadryl. before driving back downtown for the day game. full of great decisions. during breakfast, we watched cradle to the grave with jet li and dmx. it was a great flick. he got his daughter back. shit, i spoiled it, didn't i?

we headed back downtown for the game, got to our seats, and the other guys started drinking. i couldn’t do it. so i had an Icee, and a water. by the way. Padres fans suck. they have like a .500 team. they're obnoxious. and wicked stupid. and i'll prove it. one group of underage drinkers (judging by their first inning rowdiness that ended by the 4th inning in complete silence) huddled together for about 5 minutes. the verdict? this incredible chant.

"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum. Manny, you're a stupid bum."

i'll let you contemplate that disaster. beckett outpitched peavy. sox won. all is restored. the padres fans become obnoxious at nick and walsh. rather than get up and beat their asses, they hit em below the belt. reminding them of their beloved chargers early exit in the playoffs last year. unnervingly quiet after that. we exit the game, onto what appears to be the streets of boston. the padres fans are no where to be seen.

nick wanted to get a shirt at the hustler store. but we ended up at porn store. we found a purple alien blow up doll with three tits. we found a replica of jenna jamesons ass (with lubricant). and cock pumps (they actually exist). parry walked out the door by himself and ran right into someone who used to work for him at pc. and he has the nerve to call me sketchy....

we went to the hard rock cafe for dinner before catching our flight out. parry and walsh order some pink drink. i had a beer and a burger. medium rare. which they fucked up. (well done) so i sent it back. to get medium rare. which they fucked up (well done, again). there was prolly already spit in my second burger, so i didn't tempt fate. they took it off the menu and gave me a free beer. we left for the airport.

we return the rental car. apparently the Dollar rental car parking lot also serves as the runway, because planes were landing about 10 feet from us. it was deafening. (on par with locapo’s snoring). we return the car, somehow without damage, and shuttle to the airport. at which point, we go through check in. i'm guessing these people don't have their PhD’s. after about a half hour, we stroll up to our gate. to find out flight is delayed. i load up on benadryl and dramamine (which i know is for motion sickness, not sleeping purposes, but walsh claimed it worked, and i wanted to die at this point). we loaded the plane, and took off. what seemed like 20 minutes later, we landed at 9:30 in boston. it worked. i was home free. except for the drowsy drive back to providence.

but there you have it, a long ass tale of our trip to san diego.

it sucks to be back.