Friday night, Jesterio and I went to the birthday par-tay of Jeremy "Floppy Burrito" DeMuth at the Big Downtown, a bar in the Palmer House Hilton in downtown Chicago. Among the thousands of devout attendees were Jeremy's younger brothers, who I probably haven't seen since 1992 (Justin, who is 23 or 24, and was rockin' a suit with a khaki camelhair overcoat, and Clayton, who I think just recently turned 21). Anyway, several of us end up going to Burton Place (a bar in Old Town) afterward. Jeremy, Greg "Stormin'" Bohmann, and Dennis "The Body" Ventura engaged in what can only be described as a riveting conversation about their intramural basketball team from their undergrad days together at Illinois, blaming everyone else for the team's shortcomings.
After 45 minutes of listening to them go back and forth, I went over to talk to Justin and Clayton. I came to find out that Clayton is a drummer in a band called Hellz Funk. He described his band as "stoner rock," which I assumed meant that they were trying to fill the void left by Phish's demise. Boy was I wrong. I went to the band's MySpace webpage. First, I was greeted by an image of a naked woman in the crucifix position with a goat's head. The song that plays starts off kind of slow and acoustic, then about 30 seconds into it, turns all death metal on me. I scroll down the page to see some macabre photo with skulls, candles, and deer horns. Hellz Funk's MySpace friends include the likes of "Satan," "Death," and "Eye Hate God." Never did I think that the kid who used to worship the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would go from Splinter to Satan so seamlessly.
On a random note, also at Burton Place, I saw a guy I used to work with who recently got his ear sliced up pretty good in a street fight when some dude punched him in the ear with a pool ball. Who carries around a pool ball?
I woke up Saturday morning with no hangover, which always surprises the hell out of me. Saturday night was, of course, New Years Eve. In an unprecedented move, Jessie and I decided to spend New Years Eve at separate events. She went to Vaughan's Pub on Sheffield in Chicago with her friends. I went to the hizzie of Mike and Kelly Jones in Aurora (yes, the very same Aurora, Illinois from which Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar used to broadcast their zany, sophomoric TV show). Attendees included: Tony "T Dawg" Zumpano and his wife Megan, Ryan "The Great Dane" Knudsen and his wife Carrie, Mike "The Single Guy" Lynch, Paul "I Look Enough Like Mike to Cause Confusion" Jones and his wife, Sean "Treasonbeck" Riesenbeck and his life partner Bridget "Please Don't Post Any Pictures of Me" Spanbauer, Adam "Soon to Be Mr. 6000" McClure and his fiance Katie "Bathroom Floor" Wegner, Jon "J-Diza" Dudek and his girlfriend Tracy "I Can't Remember Her Last Name Right Now," Bill "Kill" Lehnhardt and his girlfriend Lauren, and Allison "I Hate Frat Rats" and her husband. Aside from the 2am tequila shot that came right back up, the night was a rousing success. Here are some pictures from the evening:
All was going well. Katie and Bridget shared a midnight tongue-touching on the dance floor. It's amazing what a ton of champagne and a blogger's camera phone can lead two women to do.
Everything seemed to be going well. People were dancing. Jon was pouring fruit punch all over himself.
Megan was slapping Tony's ass repeatedly. Onlookers couldn't contain themselves.
All of a sudden, the song "Murder on the Dance Floor" came on and Megan completely flipped out, apparently taking the song to heart. Before anyone could stop Megan, she grabbed several knives and stabbed Lauren in the back somewhere between 2 and 48 times.
Kelly vigourously cleaned the blood stain left by Lauren's carcas. A sobbing Megan looked on, still unsure of what she had done.
Lauren turned out to be alright afterall, though, because this whole scenario took place entirely in my distorted imagination.
On Sunday, I woke up sans hangover for the second day in a row. Confused, I returned to the city with the kind of hubris that would make Donald Trump blush. I watched the Bears lose a meaningless game to the Vikings, 42 minutes after which Mike Tice was fired. Ouch. In the evening, it was off to my favorite bar in the world, the Burwood Tap, for Hillbilly Sunday. I hate country music, but ain't nothin' wrong with $6 pitchers.
While there, some chick named Mary sits down at a table with me, Christoff, and Bohmann while she was waiting for her friend to take a dump or something. She was only there for a couple minutes and had the balls to ask us what our New Years resolutions were. Ryan, who told Mary that his name was Steve and that he was the part-owner of a Taco Bell in Oswego, told her that he was going to try to give up heroin in 2006. I told her that my goal in 2006 is to kill as many stupid chicks named Mary that come up to me in bars and ask me what my New Years resolution is. Then she left for some reason.
After the Burwood, a bunch of us went to a "country dance" party at one of Ari's friend's houses. Also in attendance was a ballerina named Brita that some of the guys had met earlier in the day while she was watching the Steelers game alone at a bar. She kept telling everyone about her brothers, Pur and Culligan. It was kind of annoying. Then Bohmann and I got to a pizza place just in time to grab a couple slices before the place closed at 5am.
The next morning several of us (Jesterio, Ari, Liz, Ryan, and me) went to get some breakfast. While dining, we came up with the perfect public shaming for people we don't like: depantsing at a bar. Here's how it goes down: I depants some stupid, stuck-up bitch that millions of people hate. Before she even knows what I've done, Ryan pushes her over me (since I'm kneeling behind her). We then punch her in the gut and pour drinks all over her. The finale is when everyone in the entire bar points, laughs, then pours their drinks on her. This should make said bitch feel uncomfortable. I ask all of you to go forth and make our dream come true.
And don't worry everyone, Mr. 6000 will be coming soon.
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