License to Booze

Aside from giving us the greatest undercover video still since Plunder Dome, the investigation into Dianne Wilkerson also revealed what restaurateurs have known for years—that the process of getting a liquor license in Boston is harder to figure out than a Rubik's Cube. And much like those jerks who claim to have solved the puzzle but really just peeled the stickers off, most people who succeed are cheating.

Erm, excuse me. Have hired a law firm that has an astonishing success rate with the Boston Licensing Board. Which is just further proof that the system is in serious need of an overhaul.

The Boston Municipal Research Bureau, a business-funded city watchdog, says liquor licenses should be handed out by the city with more oversight.

"Why not give the city the authority to manage it?" bureau president Samuel R. Tyler said.

Here's what the city should do—hire me as Liquor Czarina. I'll allow any booze-serving hopeful the chance to obtain a license. I will judge these purveyors of drunkenness on the same criteria as the lawyers at McDermott, Quilty & Miller, but I'll be working for the city and judging everyone equally.

And each establishment will have to bring a signature drink to me to make sure they're properly serving customers. I have a taste for everything from Narragansett Beer to delicious designer cocktails, so I'll make sure every cheap beer is served cold and in a can, and that the balance between mixer and liquor is appropriate. Everyone (especially me) wins!

Stranded in Singleville

I've recently become sick of being single. Usually, I can deal with it, especially when I watch couples who clearly hate each other bicker on the street. I have been that couple; I do not wish to do it again. But lately, the couples who are all schmoopy and hold hands and do things together in Red Sox hats on Sunday afternoons are resonating with me.

So, I've been trying to put myself out there. I'm casually seeing someone, but I'm not sure if it will work, so I'm trying to make an effort to be open to new people. I'm smiling back at men on the train. And last night, I decided to chat up a dude who'd been ogling me at the bar.

He was cute—maybe in his late 30s, with glasses and a touch of gray in his hair. Things started out well enough. He was asked about what I do, talked about his job in marketing, and chatted a little with my friends.

Then, the ass-grabbing began. And apparently, when I left to hit the ladies, he described himself as "a prick" to my friends. He used the fishing dance move only semi-ironically. He was bombed. The situation was fast deteriorating, so I started to ignore him.

"You're mad," he said, his breath reeking of gin. "You're ignoring me."

Um, yes. I am ignoring you. Which I might not have done had you not fondled my butt two seconds after we started talking. I might have given you the benefit if you didn't advertise your douchebagginess to my friends, then backed up your claim by not once offering to buy any of us a drink. And I was 100 percent confident in my choice when I looked back and saw you feeling up yet another girl once you caught the hint that I was not going to go home with you.

"There are a lot of jerks out there," my mother told me this afternoon. And my ass is apparently their catnip.

I Hate People When They're Not Polite

There's nothing worse than facing a multitude of niggling annoyances on the Monday before a long weekend. I spent the day contending with some technical difficulties at work, and when I left I had visions of al fresco margaritas. I stopped at the bank to get a money order for my rent because the new checks I ordered hadn't arrived, and then hopped on the Green Line.

Somehow, I managed to get a seat on the crowded train. After a bunch of people got off at Park Street, a tall, grey-haired man moved to sit down next to me. He stepped on my toes on his way into the seat, and apologized quickly once he was seated. Then he flipped open his dungeons and dragons fantasy novel and started bouncing his leg.

Bounce bounce bounce bounce. I did my best to shift my weight to my left ass cheek to avoid contact with his bouncing leg, but I could still feel his leg twitching. Bounce bounce bounce bounce. Never had the ride to North Station felt so long. I was practically in the lap of the bored woman who was playing solitaire on her iPod to get away from his bouncing limb. Still could feel it. Bounce bounce bounce bounce.

It was all I could do not to slam my fist down on his upper thigh to make him stop. Finally, I got to North Station and bolted off the train toward my tequila-laced libations.

After sitting in the sun and sipping my drink, my mood was much improved. Until I came home and found my new order of checks waiting for me. So I didn't need to spend $5 for my money order.

Is it Thursday yet?

I'm in the Business of Misery

Tonight, A, S, and I went to the Harpoon Summer Session. After getting checked out by Ernie Boch, Jr. (he did not as us to come on down, thank God) we had too much beer and then decided to eat some sausage. (Not a euphemism. We were hungry, and there was sausage.)

A cute boy with a buzzcut and a green fleece jacket asked us how we liked our meat. Naturally, we said we enjoyed it, realized the double entendre, and went about our business.

Later, we were dancing to the awesome DJ and Green Fleece stood on the periphery, clearly wanting to dance but unwilling to come over and make a move. Eventually, his bombed friend E came over and jostled his way into my friend S, his less-bombed friend E came over to my friend A, and I danced with Green Fleece.

Later, I spied him groping my friend S while dancing with me. Which, hey, whatever. Bombed E, Less-Bombed E, and Green Fleece all took turns dancing with us. Eventually, the fine people at Harpoon decided to close up shop and we hopped on the shuttle bus. A, S, the two Es, and Green Fleece went out drinking, while my bitter ass got on the Red Line and went home.

I probably should have gone out for another drink with the cute boys and my friends. But I'd consumed a lot of beer at Harpoon, I got up at the asscrack today, and the last time I pushed my patience beyond my limits I ended up accusing a guy of homicide. So, I think I made the right call. Though I do miss Green Fleece. He was pretty.

Misadventures in Dating

The a couple of weeks ago, the day job let out early and my work cohorts and I went out drinking. Several hours and half a dozen beers later, my friends picked me up and we went to a bar in Cambridge. At that point, I'd gone from drunk to hungover without sleeping and my stomach was distended from all the carbonation in my beers, so I ordered a Pabst and did my best to be social when really, all I wanted was to be in my bed.

A trio of guys came in to the bar, and did that annoying thing that boys do where they scan the room to see which girls are cute and most likely to talk to them. Sadly, the trio (which my friend M named "Dorky, Dull, and Douchebag") decided my friends and I would be the best candidates.

Douchebag chatted with my friend A and I, asking us where we went to school and what we do for work. He told us he worked for an architecture firm as a structural engineer, and that he'd worked on Emerson's new dorm and classroom building on Boylston Street.

"Oh," I said. "Did you engineer the scaffolding that fell on that guy and killed him too?"

My friends immediately shouted "Amy!" at me, along with several "I can't believe you said that"s. For his part, Douchebag was completely flabbergasted and stopped talking to me entirely. I was striving for jovial, but my unconcealed disdain for this drunk buffoon and my hangover combined to have it come out as entirely bitchy.

Not that I mind. The guy was a douchebag. But it does confirm that I will be a burden on society as I prepare to die alone in my old age.