Or Was it Santa?

So Saturday night, Jester, Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, Tradd "My Name is Not Chad" Fromme, his special ladyfriend Kara, and I went to the new hizzie of Jeremy "Disco Stu" and Kristin "The Largest Patient I've Ever Had was Over 700 Pounds" Widenhofer. They live in the North Park/Albany Park area of Chicago. In what I now realize was a poor decision, we decided to take the L all the way up there, rather than follow Jeremy's directions of getting off a couple stops early and taking a cab the rest of the way. My gross miscalculations as to how close his place was to the L nearly caused a divorce.

But no matter, we got there. The party was a smashing success, complete with a wide array of delicious food, many varieties of alcohol, and the IU/Eastern Michigan basketball game. I started off with several Caucasians, in the parlance of our times, then switching to beer later on. But no amount of drinks could have prepared me for what I saw on the roof of what was either Jeremy's or his neighbor's garage: a lone footprint in the middle of a snowy roof. This picture doesn't really do it justice, but you get the point. I have come to the startling, but very real, conclusion that one of the following people left the print: Frank Dux, Michael Jordan (from the Space Jam era), Dr. Richard Kimble, Blanka from Street Fighter, the ghost of FloJo, The Six Million Dollar Man, or one of those motherfuckers from Crouching Tiger.

Back inside, the discussion took an ugly turn as we began to postulate about the star-studded cast of The Outsiders. We thought of everyone: Matt Dillon, Tom Cruise, Ralph Macchio, Patrick Swayze, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez, Leif Garrett, Diane Lane. But what was the name of that emaciated bastard who played Ponyboy? It was at this point where we realized that imdb.com is perhaps the greatest website of all-time. How in the name of S.E. Hinton did we forget C. Thomas Howell? I'll tell you who I didn't forget: those fucking uppity Socs and their fancy cars. That SOB Sheldon had it coming.

After the party began to wind down, we went to the Burwood, drank some beers, then ordered a pizza from Papa Romeo's. Yesterday, the ladies went shopping, while I laid on the couch watching the Bears defense dominate yet another team. The picture of Brett Favre wincing after Mike Brown concaved his chest was priceless.

The drive back to Sunny D was another 5-hour trip, which included a stop at Culver's for some fried cheese curds and a butter burger. Two trips around 5 hours in one weekend is almost unheard of, especially when there are 2 females in the car. This of course guarantees that my next drive to Chicago will take between 7 and 14 hours. Additionally of note, on the drive home, Rhonda (my tricked-out, g'd-up, total pimp-ride '91 Accord) hit the big 192,000-mile mark. For you astute GMYH readers, you may recall that I hit the 190,000-mile mark less than one month ago on my way home from B-town during the famed "Weekend of Areola." I hope to be at 200,000 by the end of the year.