Jamie B.
Yelp
Lauren and I are here to watch the fights. The thing about Boston is that there aren't too many options for catching a PPV fight. The thing about fighting is, it's a perfect allegory for life. The difference being that the opponent is life, and to beat life, one has to beat themselves.
It's important to study fighting, even over chicken and beer. It's important to understand that, even though the cover to enter here is exorbitant, that every day is a reckoning. And in life one's either happy fighting or miserable and bickering over hand towels. Constantly misplacing the remote.
Hurricanes price hikes because it's the only game in town for watching the fights. Price-gouging should be against the rules like eye-gouging. Over-charging should be frowned upon like an oblique kick to the knee. Lauren goes outside for cigarettes while I wait for the waiter to bring me a Sam Seasonal. The gentleman next to us is yelling at the TVs. I want to join Lauren so I ask the gentleman if he'll look after our coats. He nods and I leave, and outside it's brisk and Lauren is one of those poets lately, the kind that smells of smoke. She hasn't touched her wings and not because Hurricanes doesn't do a good job with their fryer, but because she herself is bitter. She feels I'm turning into a boob. That all I do is complain about others. Mr. King. Liam Brode, the mega donner who told me at a fundraiser that I can't just go to places like Hurricanes, order the wings, paint a still life and be deemed a serious artist. I've modeled my career off of women and food. Gluttony and lust and all the fine low brow things. My new fascination is fighting and watching mixed martial arts. I wonder if it's a terrible idea to verbally spar with Lauren, that she's upset at me for loosing my luster, my innocence and constant inspiration in all things shiny. That in fact, she's the one! She should help me strategize and take over the art world. I'm on the brink of becoming a living icon. If only the waiter at Hurricanes and Lauren appreciate me the way the Paris Review won't leave me alone. I don't want to go chasing someone down for a beer, no matter how pretty they are or how busy and tied up. My soul is on the ropes. My wallet's nowhere near empty despite the cover to get in this place. It's dark. It has many TVs.
I tell Lauren that this is a great place for a fight. I beg her to come back inside. That Hurricanes is one of the few places I can enjoy these days. That thank God I'm no longer a man without money in New York. I remember my nine dollar a day budget. One beer max at Sharlenes in Brooklyn. Does she remember those days? I went from Millers to Sam Adams. From art school to being displayed at a Boston gallery, looking to eat wings and watch the fights. It's easy to complain about places not getting everything right, but all in all, I'm pretty happy to be here.