In a former life, Memorial Day weekend meant one thing to me: Time to go racing.
Now for those of you not intimately acquainted with what this means, it meant loading up a car with a tent, a bunch of your buddies and enough booze to end the current California drought. School had just let out and all of the hopes and dreams of an amazing summer were still alive. That girl who you missed out on shacking with during finals week, she was back in play for one more night. Everyone would meet in a large grass field near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and within a matter of minutes, the scene would devolve into total chaos. A day and night of partying, followed by the greatest spectacle in auto racing the following day.
Memorial Days were spent riding out a hangover by a pool or on the lake. Drinking just enough beer to bring you back to zero, because tomorrow you start a prestigious internship at a bank/accounting firm/law office and you don't want to fuck it up.
Those were the days, the days when I could easily spend 48 hours consecutively in 95 plus degree weather, wearing nothing but jorts and a 1992 Reggie Miller jersey, drinking Bud heavy until I would eventually succumb to heat stroke.
Those days are gone.
I have noticed little snippets of my own maturity lately. I have started to take extreme pleasure in shopping for very comfortable sweat pants, and for the first time this weekend when I looked at Instagram, I felt something other than FOMO. I felt relief.
I used to see someone standing on the back of a pick-up truck and think "MAN I would have crushed that beer, SO much faster." This time around I thought, 'man he looks hot...and sweaty. I bet he is going to be uncomfortable later. Buuuut more power to him, like.'
That was it. You know that feeling where you can't look at any more of your friends photos because the jealousy turns to outlandish rage? I didn't have that! It was awesome. This must be the mature feeling one gets when they feel empathy for someone. I'm happy something went well for you, I'm not jealous at all. That feeling has been rare for me to this point in my life, but maybe I'm starting to grow up.
My weekend was rather unspectacular but it was exactly what I wanted out of my three day holiday. Three days I had beer and food in hand by noon, three days I was in bed by midnight. (Well Friday I got a bit tuned at Shore Bar, but we'll leave that out of this)
But this blog isn't about my ill fated attempt at surfing with a broken wrist, or the frustration of watching both my teams lose a crucial game 4 last night.
It's about crawfish.
I have a funny relationship with French culture. I think French Quebec is about the worst place on Earth, and I never met a Francophile that I didn't want to punch in the face, but for some reason the French inspired culture of Louisiana I find to be about the greatest thing in the world.
When I was in college, I should have spent more time writing and making youtube videos. Instead, I spent my time social climbing and trying to find girls that would take me to all the cool dances. But also I spent a good amount of time on an ahead of its time blog called FrattingHard. It was an SEC country Greek lifestyle blog and I would go there and read all about the goings on in the south because I was fascinated by their culture. This website had a knack for ranking things that they thought were awesome, and creating a tournament. More often than not two unfamiliar items would meet in the finals.
Costas and Croakies vs. Crawfish Boil.
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| Pictured: All I ever wanted to be when I was 19. |
Of course I recognized things like "Sperry's" "Old Crow" and the like, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the other two terms were, so I took to the interwebs and learned that Costas were a brand of sunglasses, and croakies were what held them around your neck.
But a crawfish boil seemed to be this mythical ceremony similar to the classic midwest barbecue, except a thousand times better.
I was wrong, comparing a boil to a bbq even in the slightest is unfair to the crawfish/crayfish/crawdads/mud bugs of the creeks all over the world. A crawfish boil is a life changing event that I wish I could experience bi monthly.
So let's explain how it works shall we? I show up to The Brig, a shitty Venice bar famous for being close to a bus stop that services Culver City (I'll leave it at that and let you infer what you will) however, it has a massive parking lot off to the side. On this day, the parking lot was transformed into a beer garden. Nothing but picnic tables, a Budweiser truck and a Sailor Jerry's RV.
My group sat down at a table unsure of the procedure until a friendly cajun man at least 150 pounds overweight placed a long wax placemat down on our picnic table (you know like the kind at shitty pizza places growing up where you can play tic tac toe with your dad or something to that effect)
Not moments later, the same friendly Cajun rolled out about 100 pounds of crawfish, corn, jumbalaya and garlic onto our placemat, handed out some empty trays and told us to enjoy. Giving this man the once over, it was apparent that he liked to eat, I had a feeling we were in for quite a good time.
Step 1: Pinch (the tail)
Although that may sound like a coping tactic for premature ejaculation, it is actually the first step in crawfish consumption. First of all, let's get something out of the way. Crawfish look fucking disgusting. The fun animated images that may be attached to marketing materials for a Boil or cajun themed restaurant? They're lying to you. Staring down these soulless dead eyed river shrimp can be extremely intimidating. I'm sure that the whole bottom feeder caveat in Kosher of the Jewish tradition was the doing of some priest who was like, NOPE.
However, like all things that require lowering your inhibitions there is booze. Did I mention the god damn Budweiser truck!?!
And no this is not one of those annoying "all you can drink" events with one shitty bartender and 79 people trying to get a drink. There are like 5 speed pouring champs serving out 12 beers a minute, more often than not, there will just be a handful of drinks waiting for you at the beverage tent. I recommend double fisting, it's the quickest way to quell your anxiety.
Once you are lubed up enough to conquer these undead boiled prawns, proceed to step two and...
Step 2: Twist
And pull! Decapitate that motherfucker, not so terrifying now are you? Oh wait, yes yes you are. Let's focus on something else shall we? There is a bags tournament going on in the corner and...what the hell is the deal with that Sailor Jerry's RV, they giving out some swag inside? Let's go investigate.
Ah, free tattoos! Who doesn't love a tacky temporary tattoo so when they stroll into work Tuesday morning they will bear a faded remembrance to their coworkers insinuating that fun was had without them!
What's that you say? They are actually doing REAL tattoos in there? Of the Sailor Jerry's anchor? AND THE LINE IS THREE HOURS LONG?!?
I always figured that getting a tattoo could be a bit of an impulsive decision for some. Even though it stays with you, like the rest of your life, but I never knew there would be such high demand for corporate brand integration. COME BE A WALKING ADVERTISEMENT FOR US FOREVER! We'll ink you up for free! (Tip your tattoo artist) To be quite honest, there are much lamer things to be tatted up with than an anchor, you can attach faux-bullshit meaning behind it. (It means I'm never leaving Venice Beach, get it I'm ANCHORED HERE) However upon further investigation it turns out the reason for this whole tattoo stunt was that Sailor Jerry, the namesake of the Rum, was a famous tattoo artist. Before he died, he imparted his tattooing wisdom to one person, Ed Hardy, I can no longer support Sailor Jerry.
Step 3: Suck the head
Celebrity chef and hero to the people, Anthony Bourdain, once said: "There are two kinds of people, those who suck the head and those who don't." Again, knowing Bourdain is a lush you may mistake this for a rant about blowjobs and the growing prudeness of women in America, alas he is talking about crawfish consumption.
Now that you have ripped this fucker in half you are presented with the head and tail section. Obviously the tail section contains the classic crustacean meat that you are accustomed to. But the head...the head contains the goods. I'm not quite sure how it happens, but at some point during the boiling process, the crawfish brains warp into this succulent cajun juice that MUST be consumed. I am like a crawfish zombie...fuck the tails, GIVE ME THEIR BRAINS. I need them all.
I can see how it might be off putting to spend an afternoon, sucking crawfish heads (what if their evil devil eyes come out too!) again, did I mention the copious amount of free beer? I used to be afraid to eat anything that wasn't Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I didn't even eat cheese pizza until high school. If I can do it, you can too.
Aftermath
If there is anything that makes one feel sexy, it is undoubtedly the feeling of being covered in Louisiana hot sauce while having strong garlic breath. So for this reason most of my crew decided to go out after the boil. Let's go to Townhouse, down some Fireball and dance like the world is ending.
Naw, I'm good.
If you think about the key components on motive to go out they are getting drunk, spending time with friends and maybe finding a girl to kiss. I already had two out of three, why shoot for the moon. The idea of getting in a conversation with someone of the opposite sex, sharing things about myself, stories of my childhood, asking her about her interests, hopes and dreams only for a sweaty make-out during "Turn Down For What" is it worth it?
Naw. Because tomorrow I'll just be the sweaty guy with garlic breath she kissed at a bar.
I really don't see the point anymore. Sure I'm capable of an all day/night bender once in a while. I'll be hungover for half a week and drink every Pedialyte at the local CVS, but I can do it. If I'm at a concert and there is a little Molly floating around, I might not say no. But I'm starting to realize I have limits. I'm starting to see the value in going to bed at midnight instead of 8am. I think it's no crazy revelation that partying at day > partying at night. Maybe it's the sun, maybe it's the type of activities.
A typical night out costs north of 100 bucks between cabs, drinks, late night drunk food, bouncer bribes. A typical day out costs about a case of beer. Using that logic, I saved 300 bucks this weekend (subtract 3 cases of beer @ $20 a pop) I'm net positive $240.
So what did I do with that $240? I bought a round trip flight to Seattle. Why? I dunno, why the fuck not? I heard there is this boat race weekend called SeaFair that is pretty epic. So now instead of 3 hazy nights that I will never remember, I have a trip to look forward to.
If I use this same method the next couple weekends maybe I can book a late June trip to Austin to see some friends and get a quick New Braunfels river float in.
Growing up I was always told nothing good happens after midnight, I didn't realize the wisdom in that. I assumed it was adults telling me to scale back my partying, however they just realized that partying is better between 12 and 8 than it is between the other 12 and 8.
The bonus? You wake up feeling great the next day with more time for activities. No shame of sleeping until 4pm and wasting the whole day, no instead you even have time to knock out a few episodes of Lost before you head to something like a wine tasting, sailing trip or you know...a crawfish boil.
I was wrong, comparing a boil to a bbq even in the slightest is unfair to the crawfish/crayfish/crawdads/mud bugs of the creeks all over the world. A crawfish boil is a life changing event that I wish I could experience bi monthly.
So let's explain how it works shall we? I show up to The Brig, a shitty Venice bar famous for being close to a bus stop that services Culver City (I'll leave it at that and let you infer what you will) however, it has a massive parking lot off to the side. On this day, the parking lot was transformed into a beer garden. Nothing but picnic tables, a Budweiser truck and a Sailor Jerry's RV.
My group sat down at a table unsure of the procedure until a friendly cajun man at least 150 pounds overweight placed a long wax placemat down on our picnic table (you know like the kind at shitty pizza places growing up where you can play tic tac toe with your dad or something to that effect)
Not moments later, the same friendly Cajun rolled out about 100 pounds of crawfish, corn, jumbalaya and garlic onto our placemat, handed out some empty trays and told us to enjoy. Giving this man the once over, it was apparent that he liked to eat, I had a feeling we were in for quite a good time.
Step 1: Pinch (the tail)
Although that may sound like a coping tactic for premature ejaculation, it is actually the first step in crawfish consumption. First of all, let's get something out of the way. Crawfish look fucking disgusting. The fun animated images that may be attached to marketing materials for a Boil or cajun themed restaurant? They're lying to you. Staring down these soulless dead eyed river shrimp can be extremely intimidating. I'm sure that the whole bottom feeder caveat in Kosher of the Jewish tradition was the doing of some priest who was like, NOPE.
However, like all things that require lowering your inhibitions there is booze. Did I mention the god damn Budweiser truck!?!
And no this is not one of those annoying "all you can drink" events with one shitty bartender and 79 people trying to get a drink. There are like 5 speed pouring champs serving out 12 beers a minute, more often than not, there will just be a handful of drinks waiting for you at the beverage tent. I recommend double fisting, it's the quickest way to quell your anxiety.
Once you are lubed up enough to conquer these undead boiled prawns, proceed to step two and...
 |
| Pictured: A fucking lie |
Step 2: Twist
And pull! Decapitate that motherfucker, not so terrifying now are you? Oh wait, yes yes you are. Let's focus on something else shall we? There is a bags tournament going on in the corner and...what the hell is the deal with that Sailor Jerry's RV, they giving out some swag inside? Let's go investigate.
Ah, free tattoos! Who doesn't love a tacky temporary tattoo so when they stroll into work Tuesday morning they will bear a faded remembrance to their coworkers insinuating that fun was had without them!
What's that you say? They are actually doing REAL tattoos in there? Of the Sailor Jerry's anchor? AND THE LINE IS THREE HOURS LONG?!?
I always figured that getting a tattoo could be a bit of an impulsive decision for some. Even though it stays with you, like the rest of your life, but I never knew there would be such high demand for corporate brand integration. COME BE A WALKING ADVERTISEMENT FOR US FOREVER! We'll ink you up for free! (Tip your tattoo artist) To be quite honest, there are much lamer things to be tatted up with than an anchor, you can attach faux-bullshit meaning behind it. (It means I'm never leaving Venice Beach, get it I'm ANCHORED HERE) However upon further investigation it turns out the reason for this whole tattoo stunt was that Sailor Jerry, the namesake of the Rum, was a famous tattoo artist. Before he died, he imparted his tattooing wisdom to one person, Ed Hardy, I can no longer support Sailor Jerry.
 |
| See ya in your nightmares! |
Step 3: Suck the head
Celebrity chef and hero to the people, Anthony Bourdain, once said: "There are two kinds of people, those who suck the head and those who don't." Again, knowing Bourdain is a lush you may mistake this for a rant about blowjobs and the growing prudeness of women in America, alas he is talking about crawfish consumption.
Now that you have ripped this fucker in half you are presented with the head and tail section. Obviously the tail section contains the classic crustacean meat that you are accustomed to. But the head...the head contains the goods. I'm not quite sure how it happens, but at some point during the boiling process, the crawfish brains warp into this succulent cajun juice that MUST be consumed. I am like a crawfish zombie...fuck the tails, GIVE ME THEIR BRAINS. I need them all.
I can see how it might be off putting to spend an afternoon, sucking crawfish heads (what if their evil devil eyes come out too!) again, did I mention the copious amount of free beer? I used to be afraid to eat anything that wasn't Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I didn't even eat cheese pizza until high school. If I can do it, you can too.
Aftermath
If there is anything that makes one feel sexy, it is undoubtedly the feeling of being covered in Louisiana hot sauce while having strong garlic breath. So for this reason most of my crew decided to go out after the boil. Let's go to Townhouse, down some Fireball and dance like the world is ending.
Naw, I'm good.
If you think about the key components on motive to go out they are getting drunk, spending time with friends and maybe finding a girl to kiss. I already had two out of three, why shoot for the moon. The idea of getting in a conversation with someone of the opposite sex, sharing things about myself, stories of my childhood, asking her about her interests, hopes and dreams only for a sweaty make-out during "Turn Down For What" is it worth it?
Naw. Because tomorrow I'll just be the sweaty guy with garlic breath she kissed at a bar.
I really don't see the point anymore. Sure I'm capable of an all day/night bender once in a while. I'll be hungover for half a week and drink every Pedialyte at the local CVS, but I can do it. If I'm at a concert and there is a little Molly floating around, I might not say no. But I'm starting to realize I have limits. I'm starting to see the value in going to bed at midnight instead of 8am. I think it's no crazy revelation that partying at day > partying at night. Maybe it's the sun, maybe it's the type of activities.
A typical night out costs north of 100 bucks between cabs, drinks, late night drunk food, bouncer bribes. A typical day out costs about a case of beer. Using that logic, I saved 300 bucks this weekend (subtract 3 cases of beer @ $20 a pop) I'm net positive $240.
So what did I do with that $240? I bought a round trip flight to Seattle. Why? I dunno, why the fuck not? I heard there is this boat race weekend called SeaFair that is pretty epic. So now instead of 3 hazy nights that I will never remember, I have a trip to look forward to.
If I use this same method the next couple weekends maybe I can book a late June trip to Austin to see some friends and get a quick New Braunfels river float in.
Growing up I was always told nothing good happens after midnight, I didn't realize the wisdom in that. I assumed it was adults telling me to scale back my partying, however they just realized that partying is better between 12 and 8 than it is between the other 12 and 8.
The bonus? You wake up feeling great the next day with more time for activities. No shame of sleeping until 4pm and wasting the whole day, no instead you even have time to knock out a few episodes of Lost before you head to something like a wine tasting, sailing trip or you know...a crawfish boil.
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