Anyway, Friday night Jester and I went to Palmer Place, the LaGrange bar with the largest beer selection in the Chicagoland area, to share some ales and tales with Chris "Gemkeezi" Gemkow, his fiance Selina "Soon to be a Gemkeezi" Wozniak, and their friend Amy. Good times were had.
Saturday, of course, was the long-awaited wedding of Ryan "King Canute" Knudsen and Carrie "Now Part Danish" Bunting, which took place in Darien. The attendees that I knew read like a who's who of Ryan's friends: Matthew Spring and Volleyball Katie, Jones and Lynch, Sean and Bridget, the Gemkeezis, JD and Tray-C, TZ and Chach, and the Brothers Lenhardt and Their Lovely Ladies. In addition, Ryan's uncle from Rome was there. He is a priest, and actually got a papal marriage blessing certificate signed by the Pope for Ryan and Carrie. Not too shabby.
There was a little over 3 hours between when the wedding ended (about 3:45) and when dinner was to be served (7). The reception hall was across the street from the church, and it had been arranged so that the bar at the reception hall would be open at 4:30. This is nothing short of a remarkable idea. By the time dinner was served, most of the people there were more than half in the bag, including me. Why the bartender didn't cut me off after my 5th or 6th J&B on the rocks is beyond me, although I think I gave him a $5 tip at one point, so that might have had a lot to do with it. As with most weddings, it was a blast. Anytime I drink enough to dance means that I had a hell of a time. I'd tell you more about the evening, but all I really
remember is Jessie and Katie were polka'ing a lot, even though no polka music was played, and I told Bridget (pictured to the right, trying to escape the clutches of my camera-phone by dancing away) that I wouldn't post any pictures of her on my blog after she got the DJ to play "Livin' On a Prayer." Great song.After such a glorious evening, one could only expect a shitty drive back the next day. Luckily I had early taken some Excedrin Migraine, which is the single greatest hangover cure, this side of not drinking 8-10 scotches on the rocks. Jester and I picked up Holt at the Pilot gas station at Exit 201 on I-65, as you would expect. We were making great time on the way back, and it was looking like I would get back in time to see the kickoff in the Bears game. Then we get about 25-30 miles east of Indy and we come to a complete stop. And by "complete stop," I mean that we did not move an inch for an hour. We must have arrived just a couple minutes after an accident a couple miles up because all of the emergency vehicles made their way down the shoulder a couple minutes after we stopped.
After the first 15 minutes sitting completely still, it started to get annoying. My eyes couldn't help but notice the median, which had a prisitine blanket of 3 or 4 inches of snow. Could Rhonda, my totally pimped-out '91 Accord with nearly 193,00 miles, make it across? The consensus in the car was "probably not."
At 30 minutes, the meter had passed the drunk Ohio State fan level of annoyance. SUVs and pick-ups began to cross the snow-covered median to freedom. Meanwhile, about 100-200 yards behind us, a conversion van was not so lucky. It apparently misjudged the speed necessary to get up the other side of the median, serving as a grim reminder to all of us without SUVs and trucks that Mother Nature is a cold-hearted slut who punishes the weak and dumb. But still, that median was just so damn inviting.
At the 45-minute mark, sitting there had become more annoying than listening to a conversation between Suzy Kolber and Kathy Griffin. A brave Ford Focus wagon had turned itself completely around, and got a head of steam on the shoulder and cut across the median at a diagonal. While Jessie tried to tell me that my car wasn't as heavy as the Focus, the median began to look more and more like a really drunk chick who just broke up with her boyfriend--vulnerable, enticing, and conquerable.
When we finally hit an hour, it was full-on Scott Stapp-level annoying. Something had to be done. If I was going to go down, I was going to go down swinging. By this time, the consensus in the car had shifted from "probably not" to "85% sure we could make it." I maneuvered Rhonda so that I was perpendicular to traffic, face-to-face with the median. Once the traffic on the other side cleared, I gunned it, making it across with relative ease. Screams of joy and elation poured from our lungs as the sweet concrete of I-70 West fell victim to my proud and victorious tires. When we looked back, other cars (i.e., not just trucks) had followed my lead. All they had been waiting for was someone who didn't have a vehicle endorsed by Toby Keith to have the courage and foresight to challenge Mother Nature from a standstill. I hesitate to call myself a hero, but nothing else comes to mind at the moment.
We made it back to the previous exit and headed down to US-40 (which runs parallel to I-70), which we took for about 15 miles before hopping back on 70. The excitement of driving faster than zero mph caused me to miss Rhonda's big 193,000-mile landmark. But on the bright side, I got back for the 2nd half of the Bears game, which allowed me to see Lovie Smith finally bench Kyle Orton and his hideous facial hair. And I got to see the Bears defense beat down the Falcons like they were scared, quadraplegic mules. Anyway, this week I don't have anything very pressing to do, which means that I will be looking at the clock every 30 to 45 seconds, waiting for Friday afternoon to get here.
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1 comment:
You suck
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