Kate Loves Peen

Sorry this is so late in the day. Meetings suck, especially non-billable ones.

Well, I gotta say, I had a very pleasant and satisfying weekend. Friday, Jester I and ventured over to the Circle City for the wedding of Andy "Spawn" Southard. It was a good time. The list of attendees that I knew read like a who's who of Pi Kapps that Spawn knew extremely well: Brad "Grandpa" Andrews, Brent "Lando" Landry, Garrett "GMC" McNally, Justin "Spider" Webb, Scott "Giant" White, and Jeremy "Uter" Widenhofer (as shown here eating an imaginary mettwurst). Their reception was at the headquarters of CMG Worldwide, which is a publicity rights agency that owns the publicity rights to such dead stars as Elvis, Malcolm X, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Babe Ruth, Flo Jo, and many others, and is for some reason located in Indianapolis.

Afterward a bunch of us went to some bar in a strip mall called Lulu's, where Garrett and I did some shots, the girls talked to each other, Brad smoked some cigars, Landry regaled us with tales of convincing a Canadian bar's kitchen staff that he was a health inspector and therefore needed a pizza to be made immediately, and I had to leave before saying bye to anyone because my cab arrived while they were arguing with the waitress about the bill.

Jessie and I got back to Sunny D on Saturday just in time to catch the 2nd half of the IU/Michigan game (IU lost 41-14), after listening to the 1st half on the radio. Listening to and watching this game was about as fun as watching Johnny Knoxville give himself paper cuts between his toes in the Jackass movie. At least the Hoosiers outscored the Wolverines 7-0 in the 2nd half. The loss knocks IU out of bowl eligibility. At least Purdue is also out of bowl eligibility, so the battle for the Old Oaken Bucket this Saturday will be as it has historically been: completely meaningless outside the state of Indiana.

Saturday night, a bunch of us went on what was deemed the Dirty Dayton Bar Crawl. It was organized by Jenn "Not a Dirty Dayton Rookie" Weisgerber, and included such D-town legends as "NaviKate" Rohrer, Jim [last name unknown] (Jenn's boyfriend), Chris & Trisha [last name unknown], Holt "" Hedrick, Jessie "Wife" LeMar, and myself. We went to many purveyors of spirits where the patrons would have no idea what "purveyors of spirits" meant. They are the kind of bars that have huge signs that say "cash only," that serve beer in cans, and where a "rum and coke" is a glass of rum with a splash of coke and only costs you $2.25. Here is a bar-by-bar account:
Kramers - We started the night at Kramers, which is a favorite of ours. They have the best pizza in Dayton and serve 40s. It's absolutely impossible to go wrong with that combination. Holt and I went all Mama Cass on the pizza, eating enough to make us drink a lot more than usual before getting drunk.
Somewhere Lounge - From Kramers, we went to The Somewhere Lounge (or as Jim called it, the Nowhere Lounge), and the "somewhere" in this case was a strip mall. The astute GMYH reader will notice that this was not the first time this weekend I had been to a bar in a strip mall. It was karaoke night at Somewhere, which meant that Dayton's finest mullet-clad men and overweight women got up and sang country songs I had never heard before. Country music makes me uncomfortable, especially when I'm one of three people in the bar that doesn't know all the words to every song. We were getting some weird looks in there, probably on account of the fact that we were complaining loudly that the only TV in the bar was showing the Mark Harmon vehicle NCIS and not the Auburn/Georgia game. Oh yeah, and because we had college educations.
Taggart's - This was the closest to a non-dive that we experienced. It could easily be on the South Side of Chicago, except for the fact that it's a self-applied Cleveland Browns bar (seriously). It was here that Holt encountered one of his neighbors, who has a 38DD chest. For some reason, she was being very "friendly" with Holt, which was confusing to all of us because she's getting married in a couple weeks and her fiance was standing 5 feet away. Alas, Holt's dreams of being part of a Wobbly H that night disappeared when they left. My only beef with Taggart's was that they had a bunch of old concert posters, including one from some sort of all-star concert in 1965 featuring, among others, Chuck Berry, Donovan, The Temptations, and Buddy Holly. Yes, the very same Buddy Holly that died on February 3, 1959.
Side Room - As the title implies, the Side Room is about as big as someone's side room with a bar in it. The light wood paneling and plethora of dart tournament trophies said mid-'70s small town Wisconsin, and the cans of Bud Light said high school party in Mike Vesperman's basement. Jessie and I had an epic Silver Strike Bowling match-up, in which I eeked out a 145-144 come-from-behind victory. Much to my chagrin, it was the only point during the night where I would be coming from behind Jessie. After all, she beat me handily the next several games (get your minds out of the gutter).
Partners - Partners was a delightful dive that felt like it might belong on a lake in Wisconsin or Minnesota. Dark wood accents and a rockin' jukebox made me feel like I was meant to spend eternity there. It was there where I discovered that Chris shared my affinity for the finest trilogy in cinematic history: the Sleepaway Camp trilogy. We discussed Angela Baker, aka the Angel of Death, and her meteoric rise from Camp Arawak camper/murderer to Camp Rolling Hills counselor/murderer to Camp New Horizons pseudo-camper/murderer. It's my theory that you should watch them in reverse order because the very last scene of the first movie is one of the more disturbing scenes in movie history and really should be viewed only after seeing Angela's carnage in the other 2. That way, you're not exactly sure why she's killing people with giant drills and firecrackers in the nose while you're watching the first 2, and then all of your questions are answered with one horrible visual at the end of the first one. It's really quite cathartic.
The New Shroyer Inn - This is where the night ended for us, and it was pretty decent. Apparently Kate had been there before because her love of peen was scrawled in all caps on one of the chalkboards. Upon arriving, I decided to order some drinks, as is the custom in these parts. While I was doing so, a bearded, incoherent 75-year-old man who I can only assume sleeps on a park bench very near there asked me if I was "fucking with [his] head." It's my theory that he drank an entire bottle of Evan Williams whiskey (as he has done every day since his wife left him, 43 years ago) because it took him 14 tries for me to understand what he was saying. Confused myself, I said "no" and turned back toward the bar, bracing my kidneys for the inevitable shiv. He was later seen sound asleep in his bar stool. Like the Somewhere Lounge, the Shroyer Inn featured karaoke, although luckily it was less country-leaning. I must ask, though: What the fuck is wrong with America when is the song "Sin Wagon" by the Dixie Chicks is sung twice in the same night at different bars? I had never heard this song before Saturday night. Thanks to Lurlene and Brandine, I've heard it twice. Anyway, some pseudo-punks were very enthralled with karaoke, as was some limey bastard who was dressed in a suit (hey Nigel, here in America, we don't wear khaki suits to bars, especially ones where 90% of the clientele does not own a suit). We heard everything from "Regulate" by Nate Dogg & Warren G. to Elvis's "Jailhouse Rock" (sung surprisingly well by a guy wearing a Purdon't hat and a Denver Broncos' Rueben Droughns jersey who looked like Dewey from Malcom in the Middle) to "The Best of You" by Foo Fighters (sung by some girl named Beth with a butchy haircut, longer sideburns than most guys, looks and facial expressions that screamed "I'm not comfortable with dressing like a punk, but I will because the guy with ear plugs thinks I should," and who replaced every "best" with "Beth." Get it? The "Beth of you." How insanely clever.).

Afterward, we all went to our respective homes, knowing just a little bit more about Dirty Dayton and -- you know what -- a little bit more about ourselves. I'll post some pictures of the night as soon as Kate or others send them to me.

Be sure to tune in tomorrow for the biography of Mr. or Mrs. 3000.