Wednesday, May 31, 2006
In other news, tomorrow is Midwestern Eavesdropping, and it's pretty thin right now. I know that over the course of the weekend several of you tried to tell me in person about funny things you overheard. I don't remember anything that happened last weekend, so please email them to firstname.lastname@example.org. For the rest of you, there had to have been something funny you overheard last weekend. Share it with the world. Thanks.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
- Now that Memorial Day has passed, I finally broke out my many pairs of white pants.
- I ate enough deviled eggs to merit an angioplasty.
- In related news, the amount of beer, brats, burgers, and various mayonnaise-based salads that I inhaled this weekend took a year or two off of my life.
- I had some late-night Bamba's both Saturday and Sunday night. I'm assuming that was a wise decision. It certainly seemed as such at the time. Then again, so did boosting a complete stranger onto a second-floor porch roof from steep stairs.
- VH1 Classic (a wonderful station, by the way) introduced me to VH1's phenomenal four-part series entitled "Heavy: The Story of Metal." Check it out if you have a chance, particularly the "Looks That Kill" episode, which focuses on hair bands and features a scene from the 1988 documentary "The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years" in which W.A.S.P. guitarist Chris Holmes (shown to the right) is shown floating in a chair in a pool, fully clothed and fully sauced, discussing his severe alcoholism while chugging vodka, with his mother sitting poolside. That guy knew how to party.
- I received my first piece of hate mail regarding GMYH: an email from someone whose name I shant repeat, who I had apparently angered by including him or her as a bit character in one of my hilariously poignant biographies. The subject of the email read "Hey nut job" and the body read "Do me a favor and remove my name from your ridiculous blog. Thanks, I would greatly appreciate it."
Nut job, I'm fine with, but ridiculous? Infantile, sophomoric, irrelevant, devoid of rational thought, often politically incorrect, more entertaining than venereal diseases, and extremely well-written, sure. But ridiculous? Well that just hurts. I guess he or she doesn't appreciate satire. Nonetheless, I obliged. We here at GMYH respect our readers' privacy rights to a limited extent, and if you don't want your name to be associated with of one of the funniest fake biographies ever written, then that's your prerogative, no matter how ridiculous it may be.
- The amount of swass I experienced this weekend was about enough for the whole summer. Sadly, I know there's more to come.
- After Jester and I hosted a delightful cookout Sunday evening, a group of about ten or fifteen of us headed over to my favorite bar in Chicago, The Burwood Tap. For those who don't know, every Sunday at the Burwood is Hillbilly Sunday. They play only country music and have, among other things, Lone Star beer on special. I hate country music, but I love Hillbilly Sunday.
John, the bartender/owner, also loves Hillbilly Sunday, which means that he partakes in spirits right along with all of the patrons. John's drink of choice is Jim Beam. At one point, I made my way to the bar to order myself a Lone Star. John was busy helping others, which was no big deal. Apparently he must have thought that the wait inconvenienced me more than it did. Without asking what I want, he hands be a half-full bottle of Beam and a sleeve of plastic shot glasses and tells me to hand some shots out. I began pouring shots as fast as humanly possible, thinking that John would soon come to his senses and realize what a horrible decision he had made. I killed the bottle in the process, handing out 10-12 shots, while saving a shot for John of course. Then, to top it off, John gave me a bottle of Lone Star on the house. This, my friends, is why The Burwood Tap is the greatest bar in Chicago.
In addition to the many free or deeply discounted drinks we received over the course of the night, John gave Jessie a cowboy hat to wear during Hillbilly Sunday (and apparently forever because he told her to keep it). Here, Jessie is shown in said hat while Kyla tries to make Jessie one of the undead.
Also at the Burwood, Holt nearly got me punched in the peen. Knowing damn well that I hate Notre Dame and that when I get really drunk I have no problem telling people that went to Notre Dame about my hatred of their alma mater, Holt tells his friend Mike's female friend (who went to ND) that I hate Notre Dame. She of course asks me why, and I explained myself succinctly and as politely as possible given my close proximity to cirrhosis. I guess I didn't do a great job because at one point she asked Holt if she could "punch [me] in the dick." Then again, she also claimed that Notre Dame was a better party school than IU, so I'm sure I didn't take that obscene lie too well. It ended well, however, as we agreed to disagree and had a nice hug.
Then several of us (which included my lovely wife Jessie, or so I was told the next day) went to LaBamba for a wonderful end to a wonderful evening.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
After an expectedly satisfying trip to Bamba's, we were walking along the north side of Wrightwood when we were beckoned from across the street by a young lady -- we'll call her Jane -- standing on some porch stairs. "Hey, can one of you guys give me a boost?" she asks. Since we're smart guys, we said, "sure, no problem."
We get across the street and Jane explains that she is staying with a friend, who lives on the 2nd floor (and is apparently still out for the night), so we need to give her a boost to the porch roof from the rather steep porch stairs, so that she can crawl through a window. The plan was absolutely foolproof. Standing next to her was another friend -- we'll call her Martha -- who had to fly home to Arizona in several hours. Martha seemed less than thrilled to be in this situation, and she was fairly unimpressed with the three of us.
Ryan put his hands down in the boost position, and Jane readied herself for what may have been her last seconds on earth. I expressed my concern that this was going to end horribly. By horribly, I meant that Ryan would drop Jane, who would then die instantly from the blunt head trauma resulting from her nearly attractive head exploding on the otherwise pristine sidewalk, thus forcing me to immediately execute Martha -- the only witness who could not be trusted to never mention this again -- via a Van Damme style neck-snapping, and Ryan, Holt, and I would be on our way. We'd probably have to hole up in Belize for a couple years until it blew over, and we'd have to change our names to Cyrano Clayton Merriweather IV, Nigel Evan Trafalgar, and Baron Frederich Maplethorpe of Upper Uncton, respectively, then become banana farmers, and return to the US under cover of darkness, forced to live the rest of our lives running from the memory of Martha, surviving on our hard-earned banana money.
The gods were looking down upon us and, wanting to spare Jane and Martha's lives, sent Jane and Martha's friends down Wrightwood before there was any bloodshed. We left, and soon after, I explained to Holt and Ryan what would have happened had Jane fallen. They laughed, but I wasn't kidding. Van fucking Damme. Not a second's hesitation or regret.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Well-dressed fortysomething black woman on her cell phone: You came all the way over here with those grapes. Don't nobody need no damn grapes. You and your grapes can get outta here.
--Chicago, Wendy's near Clark & Madison
Emo-girl: I'm just like totally amazed by how many people are out there. I mean, look down there. Look at all the people.
Stank homeless guy with cane: All I see is pussy, sweetheart.
--Chicago, Brown Line train
Late teens/early 20s stoner: I am a bastion of Republican motherhood.
--Chicago, crowded Purple Line train
This was a conversation between "Chach McGee," who made it known that he was a law clerk at a small plaintiffs firm in Chicago. He was talking to an old female friend who was a roommate of another friend's ex-girlfriend (as told by Chach to his cute blonde friend after she got off the train). They were talking with outside voices, and there were about 3 people between them:
Chach: Yeah, Dave finally got his bed wetting problem fixed.
Trixie in training: How are him and Kristen?
Chach: They broke up. They would be doing so well, and then they would have a great evening together, but then they would wake up in the morning and he would have pissed all over her. I think she had enough of that.
Trixie in training: Geezzz, that's too bad. They were so compatible. They had that natural chemistry, you know?
--Chicago, rush hour Red Line train "packed tighter than the Japanese public transit lines"
CTA announcer: This is a Purple Line express.
Pasty college-age chick: Express? Does that mean it takes you right to your door?
College-age stoner guy (somewhat seriously): Only if you're totally stoned.
Chick: Oh, then I guess it won't.
--Chicago, crowded Purple Line train
These are random snippets from a conversation between two fratty college guys heading home on the train, presumably after a class they had together:
Guy #1 (talking about another guy in their class who apparently is not a good communicator): On paper, he's really smart, but socially, he can't seem to put his thoughts -- uh, you know, communic -- uh, get his points acr -- uh, you know, it's like he can't say what he, uh, you know.
. . . .
Guy #1: You should never put your GPA on a your resume. Employers don't really care about it. Like, my girlfriend does because she got a 3.9 at U of I and was in the honors program and shit, but she can get away with it because it's good. I would never put mine on my resume.
. . . .
Guy #1 (discussing the fact that he had to take a class over because he got a D the first time): Getting that A was like lifting the fucking elephant off my chest, you know.
. . . .
Guy #2: You have to tailor your papers to different professors, like one professor I have is in the women's studies department, so you know, I have to, like, dumb it down.
--Chicago, an excruciating ride on a Purple Line train
This isn't really eavesdropping, but it's entertaining nonetheless:
Sign held by a guy standing outside a movie theater: "The DaVinci Code Hurts Our Lord Jesus Christ"
--Indianapolis, in front of the Regal Cinema
Career woman on cell phone: I mean is it really that much to ask? I wanted Louis Vuitton.
Fat homeless guy: Happy fucking Wednesday, everybody, happpppy fucking Wednesday.
Career woman on cell phone: No it’s some street urchin cussing everyone good morning
Fat homeless guy: Uppity fucking bitch, everybody, uppity fucking bitchhhh
Career woman on cell phone: Who cares? Something about upchucking in a ditch. Would you stop interrupting?
--Chicago, Washington & Wells
This isn't funny by any means, but it was pretty damned refreshing to hear:
Attractive twentysomething girl answers cell phone: "Hi, I'm on the train, I'll call you back."
--Chicago, crowded rush hour Brown Line train. It's people unlike her that make Midwestern Eavesropping a possbility.
Twentysomething woman talking on cell phone, going in between English and Polish, contradicting herself with each sentence: Yeah, I met him like 16 years ago. I didn't even know he existed until now. I've heard from a bunch of people that he's a fun guy to hang out with.
--Chicago, Purple Line train
To everyone who contributed, thanks and keep up the good work! For everyone else, keep those meddling ears open, and if you hear something funny, email it to email@example.com for inclusion in the next Midwestern Eavesdropping. I'm expecting some contributions from the loyal GMYH readers in Dayton and Cincy.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Anyway, the ceremony was fine, but let's be honest, no one attends a wedding for the ceremony. There were a few hours in between the ceremony and reception (which was in the hotel--always a good idea), so several of us made our way to the RCG to pay for drinks before the free ones started.
At one point, I made my way to the lobby to make a phone call because the reception was bad in the RCG. Who do I see walking past me in the lobby? None other than "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" regular Colin Mochrie. Having no idea what his name was at the time, I did not approach him. I'm sure there's nothing worse when you're a celebrity than when some devastatingly handsome lawyer comes up to you and says, "Hey, you're that bald guy from "Whose Line Is It Anyway?," aren't you? I don't know your name, but I have seen the show between ten and fifteen times. Well, have a good one." Anyway (pun intended), it turns out that C-list celebrities need to use the ATM to get money, just like you and me. I am proud to say that I later used that very same ATM. Who knows, maybe he and I even have the same PIN. Man, wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake. Too bad we'll never know.
Back to the wedding. The reception started with vigor, as there was a cocktail hour, complete with appattiezers (I would say "hors d’oeuvres," but I have no idea how to spell it). It was during the cocktail hour that several of us watched as the snap of a horse's leg made the 2006 Belmont Stakes completely irrelevant.
Dinner and the rest of the reception are best expressed through pictures and accompanying descriptions:
Kim and Casey kicked off the reception in a very unique way: by having miniature carrier pigeons fly around the ballroom. The trick was that some of them would dive-bomb guests, while others would simply drop little cards with Kim and Casey's favorite movie quotes, which for some reason were all from "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood." Either way, it made most of the guests uneasy, and it was best to pay close attention to the paths of the pigeons, as Jenn and Jim are shown doing here:
Jamie and Amy took advantage of their night away from AC (whose mullet is not coming in nearly as thick and curly as I would have hoped).
In addition to the carrier pigeons, later in the night Kim and Casey held a very unique contest. It was a same-sex dancing contest, where the contestants were whittled down by a floating white orb. If the orb came to a stop by a couple, that couple was booted from the contest. Jester and Katie are shown here trying to avoid being the orb's next victim. I guess it didn't like the polka.
After getting sauced, Casey shows the camera what he actually thinks of Kim. Kim laughs because she realizes that Casey is dyslexic.
As it turns out, certain types of alcohol, most notably beer, can turn me into a demon-possessed, stupid-face-making bastard.
And wine turns Jester into an evil, yet giddy, seductress.
In lieu of a tangible wedding present, Mike, Jamie, and I decided to give Kim and Casey something more valuable and lasting than fine china: a tear-jerking, blindingly drunk a capella rendition of "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday" by Boyz II Men . . . .
. . . . Followed later in the evening by yet another wedding present: an even drunker a capella version of the Gordon Lightfoot masterpiece, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." There was nary a dry eye in the place as we harmoniously recounted the tale of a ship that fate took from us before its time. Hell, I cry just looking at my face in this picture.
While I thought it was odd (and somewhat inappropriate) for a DJ to play "Raining Blood" by Slayer at a wedding, I wasn't about to miss out an opportunity to totally rock out. I was surprised Jamie knew the words, that Jessie found a way to dance to it, and that Holt kept trying to read a non-existant "message from God" he claimed was written on his right palm.
Luckily for the DJ's sake, he followed Slayer up with The Who's "Baba O'Riley," which got quite a rise from the crowd, save for Jessie, who fell asleep standing up. Because I like to look cool in front of other people, I was playing the air guitar just like Pete Townsend, strumming by bringing the right arm around for a complete circle. I was electric.
Katie demonstrated to everyone what she learned by taking classes from Andy Dick's character in Old School. Meanwhile, Amy looked at the camera as if to say "what the hay?" as Katie continued her demonstration and Jamie seemed to be following Katie's lead.Outside of performing inappropriate acts on bottles of beer (it was a wedding, Katie, not some ramshackle Tijuana burlesque house), it turns out that Katie can't do a fucking shot. Icky! In case you didn't know, I like to ruin pictures.And that's probably why I got cut out of the Dayton peeps' picture. At least the little bit of me that made its way into the picture gives an accurate representation of the only two things I know how to do: drink and rock.
Man, I can't believe I wrote all that in seven minutes. I guess it's true what they say, that when you're crunched for time, you make more efficient use of the time you have.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Once I got to Subway and realized the line was way too long for my extremely important schedule, I asked myself a question, the answer to which I've been fearing since my freshman year at IU: should I eat LaBamba sober? The internal struggle was fierce, but in the end, I decided that I would face my fears. My fear wasn't so much that I wouldn't like it. More than anything else in the world, I feared that I would like it, thereby ushering in an era of gluttony not seen in my gastral regions since the arduous and decadent Early Dormitory Era of late 1996, in which I gained 17 pounds by November of my freshman year.
As I entered the restaurant, the tension was palpable. It was unlike the five previous LaBamba's restaurants that I had visited, yet at the same time it was all too familiar in every way. Sensing my indisposition, the man of less-than-average height behind the counter asked, "can I help you?" I had passed the point of no return. Rather than go with the standard burrito, I ordered the super nachos with steak, to which I was greeted with the customary and strangely welcoming, "everything?" "No sour cream," I replied, without a hint of hesitation or regret. Nonetheless, it felt like he could see right through my mildly confident facade.
Once I got back to the office, my deepest, darkest fears were confirmed. Super steak nachos from LaBamba are just as good sober as they are when I am drunker than John Bonham (too soon?). I fear time, for my days in this world are numbered.
There will be more where that came from once I get a chance to write a recap. And yes, I'm well aware of the fact that Mr. 15,000's biography is extremely overdue. I'll work on it this week. Between moving, starting a new job, going to weddings, sleeping, and drinking, I haven't had time to sit down and write my next epic.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Enough with HBF, we have more important things to discuss, such as The OC season finale. Where do I start? In case you missed it, here's a run down of what happened:
- The gang graduated from high school. Loddi-frickin'-dah.
- Apparently smoking a joint and accidentally leaving it in a location that causes a building to burn to the ground is not enough to charge someone with a crime. Ergo, Seth is free and clear of said charge, at least for the time being.
- With the Newport Group burned to the ground, Sandy gets nostalgic for the good ol' days when he was a public defender. He even stops by his old office where some jackass without puffy eyebrows is doing a quarter of the job that Sandy Cohen could do.
- Ryan's mom shows up for graduation and gives Ryan a car (actually, it Toyota Land Cruiser from the '70s). Apparently waitressing in New Mexico is better for her finances than being an alcoholic streetwalker in Chino.
- We find out that Jimmy Cooper is making quite a name for himself as a yacht captain for rich people's yachts. He invites Marissa to be a dishwasher/concubine on the yacht for a year. The only catch is that she has to leave the day after graduation. No way. Way.
- Seth gets into RISD, but not until the spring semester because the time to apply for fall admission had passed. Apparently art schools are more organized and rigid than artists themselves. Oh what a paradox.
- Caitlin returns to The OC, and she explains that it's for good. Now that Marissa is leaving, someone is going to have to pronounce clothes as "clo-thez" and LA as "el ah," and Caitlin is the perfect word-mispronouncing biatch to do it.
- Volchok just can't seem to get over Marissa. It makes sense, since he's a Belarussian vampire who came to this country with only one dream: to marry an emaciated, seafaring Newpsie who can't pronounce "LA" or "clothes" correctly.
- And now for the climax. Ryan takes Marissa to the airport in his new mid-'70s pre-SUV SUV, or at least that was the plan. Volchok, who had been drinking from a flask that I assume held a combination of whiskey and the blood of innocents, decides to follow them in his hollowed out, rusty, piece-of-shit van, which can only be described as the worst Mystery Machine imitation of all-time. He should really write to MTV to see if the guys at West Coast Customs can hook him up. But that's for another episode. Anyway, Volchok starts to get pissed off because Ryan won't pull over, which Volchok wants because he will apparently then profess his love to Marissa. And if they won't pull over, what better way to say "I love you" than by running the object of your affection off the road. Leave it to a Belarussian vampire to come up with that kind of logic. So Volchok runs Ryan and Marissa off the road, and they go tumbling down the side of a hill, landing upside down on a road below. Ryan, while mildly stunned from the incident, pops out of the truck unscathed because, well, he's Ryan Atwood and he can only be stopped by a superrobot, at least 32 feet in height, but not more than 36, built and piloted by Jesus, Buddha, Ronald McDonald, Alberto Tomba, and Franklin D. Roosevelt. I'm not kidding. It's written in the prophecies. Marissa, on the other hand, can break a bone if she coughs too hard, so she was immobalized by the crash. Ryan sees that there is a fire spreading on the truck, so he grabs Marissa and carries her up the road a bit. Realizing that she is going to die, Marissa -- in one last act of defiance -- forbids Ryan from going to get help because she wants him to be with her as she blissfully glides off to reunite with Johnny (I knew she was up to something). Doing the right thing, Ryan resists the temptation to pull the ultimate dead horse. Then again, Marissa was looking very ghoulish at the time. Some might say she looked a bit undead, you know, like a vampire. Volchok! It was at this point that Ryan realizes that he should have finished Volchok off the first two times. Fool Ryan Atwood once, shame on you. Fool Ryan Atwood twice, prepare to die.
So, what are we left to ponder for the whole summer? Here are the burning (too soon?) questions that remain to be answered during next season:
- Holy mother of God, how soon is Ryan going to kill Volchok? And I don't just mean kill, I mean a one-punch, break-every-bone-in-his-body-but-keep-him-alive-long-enough-so-that-he-is-in-horrendous-pain, Ryan Atwood special. That is gonna be awesome.
- Will any of the following people show up at Marissa's funeral: Oliver, Luke, Luke's gay dad, Volchok, Johnny, Dean Hess, or Caleb? I'm giddy just thinking about the fireworks that would ensue.
- Do you think Marissa is going to heaven? If so, do you think they'll force-feed her up there? Or maybe that would be her version of hell.
- So now that Marissa is dead and Seth isn't going to RISD until January, how much you wanna bet that Summer stays home to deal with her lingering lesbianic thoughts about Marissa and Ryan stays home because Berkeley won't let him in after he's implicated in stealing that car with Volchok?
- Will anyone bring up the ironic fact that Ryan, who was once going to live a life working on the high seas, was taking Marissa, who was once going to go to college, to the airport so that Marissa could fly off to start living on the high seas, leaving Ryan behind to go to one of the best public universities in the US? Where's O. Henry when you need him? Deader than Marissa Cooper, that's where.
- Will someone please slap Caitlin in the mouth?
- Will Sandy go back to being a public defender?
- Now that Marissa is dead, will Julie revert back to her days as a stag film star? Please?
- With Marissa finally out of the picture, will Teresa once and for all admit that her kid is Ryan's? Stop trying to kid us (pun intended), Josh Schwartz and McG.
Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until September to find out.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The photo below, snapped by Ari "Annie Leibovitz" Pope today, right by the Daley Center, shows a man dressed in a business suit (you can't see that part) holding a sign that said "FBI Agent [indecipherable first name and last name], STOP RAPING MY WIFE."
In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary, come again? Personally, I think this situation calls for pursuing the matter with the authorities, and not the use of a sign. There are four possible scenarios that prompted the making this sign, none of which should have resulted in the sign being made (for sake of ease, we'll call the FBI agent Horace Mayweather, and the guy holding the sign and his wife will be Edgar and Wilhelmina Bellefontaine, which for some reason is pronounced "bell fountain"):
- Scenario 1: Agent Mayweather has, in the past, raped Wilhelmina multiple times. If indeed this is the case, filing a police report and pressing charges may be a better way of getting Mayweather to stop the repeated rapings than a sign, which I assume is trying to alert the authorities of Mayweather's transgressions.
- Scenario 2: Agent Mayweather was in the process of raping Wilhelmina. If this was the case, I think Edgar should have jumped in and intervened, rather than just hold up a sign to try to get Mayweather to stop. Who knows, maybe Agent Mayweather wasn't looking in that direction. And furthermore, Agent Mayweather might have completed the act by the time Edgar got a sign printed. The sign was futile at best. Hitting Mayweather with the materials it took to make the sign would have actually been a better idea than making the sign in the first place.
- Scenario 3: No rape(s) occurred at all, but simply consentual adulterous sex. He should have simply filed for divorce. It's tough, though, because he loves her and wants to trust her. Hell, part of him can't blame her anyway, 'cause he's been working so damn much, sometimes overseas on busines for a couple weeks at a time. Plus, there's the kids, Zoe, Joey, and Chloe. They would be crushed. He could try to work things out with Wilhelmina and they could put all of this behind them. But that process must start with one thing and one thing only: walking around the Daley Center with a sign accusing Mayweather of rape. In this scenario, the sign is a bad idea because it's misleading, and it may subject Edgar to a defamation suit.
- Scenario 4 (most likely): Edgar Bellefontaine is actually a paranoid schizophrenic named Roger Bergoine, Jr. who has never been married, never seen or been in the same room as an FBI agent, and has no idea what "raping" means. If this is the case, a sign was a really bad idea because it was just a big waste of time and energy.
No matter what, it was poor judgment all around on Edgar's part.
Pasty white twentysomething girlfriend: Jimmy bought a really nice watch on Ebay for a couple thousand bucks.
Possibly blacktino wanksta boyfriend with an elongated head: I got a Movado.
Girlfriend: Really? You should wear it this Friday. What color is it?
Girlfriend: Oh. Nevermind.
--Chicago, crowded Brown line train at rush hour
Eavesdropper: GMYH (I didn't know Movado made a green watch)
Twentysomething girl on cell phone: Yeah, I was listening to that song I like. It's on my iPod. I can't think of the title. It was by that one guy -- oh, what's his name? -- Bob Marley. Yeah, but it's not like his son. It's like the real Bob Marley.
--Chicago, crowded Brown line train at rush hour
Hipster guy holding a pizza box: How the hell did she do 21 shots of Apple Pucker?
Girl: They were free.
--Chicago, Diversey & Kenmore
A middle-aged blind man and a twentysomething white male discuss Des Moines:
Young guy: Train service in Des Moines is terrible.
Blind man: There are no trains in Des Moines.
--Chicago, Brown line train
Early 30s mildly effeminate grad student: It's been tough for me to find anyone to date. I'm a writer, and everybody seems to like writers. Most people I talk to seem to like writers. But nobody seems to like me.
Nerdy undergrad: Man that's too bad. My best friend told me I should date a curator.
--Chicago, Purple line train
Eavesdropper: The Red Cobra
While this technically isn't eavesdropping, it's still pretty funny. Pearl Jam singer Eddie Vedder sang the 7th inning stretch at Wrigley last Sunday, and then was interviewed by Cubs' play-by-play announcer Len Kasper:
Kasper: So your new album is self-titled?
Vedder: Yeah, that's right, we titled it ourselves.
--Chicago, Wrigley Field, WGN booth
Eavesdropper: anyone who tuned in to watch the Cubs get murdered by the Padres
This conversation, between two male hippies in their early 20s, was overheard by people one row in front of them at Tuesday's Pearl Jam concert at United Center, sitting in the lower bowl in back of the floor:
Guy 1: Duuude, I am totally going to sneak up to the front row.
Guy 2: Duuuuuuuude, there's no way you're gonna be able to sneak that far up.
Guy 1: Duuuuuude, I totally snuck up to the front row for all the Phish shows, so dude don't worry about it, I'm gonna totally go.
Guy 2: Duuudde, this is PEARL JAM, not PHISH, dude, there's no way you're going to make it up there. This is PEARL JAM dude.
Guy 1: Well, dude, all I know is that Phish and Pearl Jam are my two favorite bands and I gotta see them both in the front row dude.
(After this conversation, the guys got kicked out of the seats behind the eavesdropper, which weren't theirs to begin with.)
--Chicago, United Center, Pearl Jam concert
Eavesdropper: Big Ears
Remember, if you're in the Midwest and you overhear something that's funny out of context (or in context) and you feel like sharing it with the world, email it to GMYH at firstname.lastname@example.org and it will make its way onto the weekly Midwestern Eavesdropping post.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The evening started out at a bar in Little Italy called Hawkeye's, which, despite the name, was seemingly not an Iowa bar. Anyway, the cast of characters included Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, his buddies Jeff and Kurt, and Matt "Don't Call Me Gazelle" Gsell. Also joining us at Hawkeye's, but sitting other seats at the show, were Jeff "Don't Call Me Daughter" Chambers and Andy "Not the Former Lead Singer of Mother Love Bone" Wood.
Hawkeye's had a shuttle bus to the United Center, which was great, especially since they let you drink on the bus. Aaron, our bus driver, had little respect for human life or red lights. We got to the UC in 5 minutes.
We decided to skip the opening band, My Morning Jacket. Nothing against them or anything, but the less time we had to spend $7 on a beer and the longer we could spend $6 on a pitcher, the better.
I was happy to finally see Pearl Jam. I think they are the closest thing to the Beatles for late Gen-X and early Gen-Y. I remember the first time I ever heard "Jeremy" back in August 1991. It was at about 5am and I was sleeping over at my friend -- you guessed it -- Jeremy's house in beautiful Coal City, Illinois. After a solid night of soft porn on Skinemax, we turned MTV on, where the "Jeremy" video came on. Obviously we were pumped, since it was about a guy named Jeremy.
In general, I hated alternative and grunge music when it came out because it threatened the sanctity of hair band music. So I wasn't really that much into Pearl Jam for their first several albums, save for a couple songs ("Alive," "Yellow Ledbetter," for instance). Finally I came around when I was in late high school/early college, which I think made me appreciate their music more than I would have if I liked it when it was first released.
Anyway, I was glad to finally get the chance to see them live. The show was great. "Release" was the first song, which was a pretty solid start.
Our seats were in the club level, about even with the stage. Even better, we were right behind a railing that was overlooking the seating for the differently abled, which was right next to the section entrance, which meant that there was no one in front of us to obstruct our view. There was about a 5-foot drop, which meant that we didn't have to walk to get to the entrance. Ryan's first drop ended with him on his back, having fallen onto the braces of the nice man with MS who was in the disabled seating. Way to go, Ryan.
But I digress. The band was looking a bit unkempt. Eddie Vedder, bless his heart, was sporting a beard that made him look like Charles Manson. Jeff Ament was wearing capri pants, which I'll let slide once since he plays a totally wicked bass. Mike McCready was overenthused for the whole show (coked-up, I assume), despite the fact that his hair looked like a bird had shit on it.
Despite the ban on smoking in the United Center, many people were lighting up, including at least one person with us. In other news, during the time between the first set and the first encore, I went to the bathroom (on my way, I did not fall onto anyone's braces or crutches), where there was actually a guy taking a shit. Must have been dire straits. Everyone in the bathroom felt for him.
The first encore started with an Eddie-only version of "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," before which he said that his favorite Beatle was Yoko. A chorus of boos ensued.
The second encore included a rousing rendition of "Baba O'Riley," and I think Ryan creamed in his pants. They turned the lights on somewhat during the song, which made for a great view of everyone totally rocking out.
After the show, we boarded the bus back to Hawkeye's, and Aaron continued his reign of terror on red lights. We had another pitcher and Ryan inhaled some dang quesadillas (which are made with cheese, Kyla).
Jeff then headed back out to Naperville. Ryan and I caught a cab back to the LP. Meanwhile, Kurt, who lives in Bucktown, made his way back to the Blue line, but fell asleep and almost woke up at O'Hare (for those of you unfamiliar with the Blue line, that's about 12-14 stops too far). Luckily he was not robbed, raped, or stabbed in the chest by a co-worker.
When I returned home, I was greeted by a lovely little note left from my adoring wife. It read:
"Good night hon,
And if you're drunk, don't wake me up and tell me about the concert . . . I don't care. I'll hear about it tomorrow.
Love you too, Jester.
Apparently my firm represents some company who is owed money from a small construction company, which was founded and run by a guy named Gary. Yesterday, an attorney in my office was about to ask Gary for said money when found out that Gary had been stabbed to death by an employee. I'm not even kidding. The Tribune had a story about it in today's paper. Apparently the murderer was an appraiser and bidder at the company, and he had recently received a less-than-glowing performance evaluation from Gary, which said that the murderer's work was not "up to par" and, thus, he was going to get a pay cut. So the guy stabbed Gary in the chest with an 8-inch knife, killing him nearly instantly and sending a message to employers everywhere.
I guess our client's going to have to wait a little while to get that money. Hallmark doesn't make a "sorry your owner got stabbed in the heart, now give us our money" card, and there's not a much bigger dick move than sending a demand letter along with the sympathy flowers. Then again, we are lawyers.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
- The Utah Supreme Court missed a huge opportunity to increase the state's tourism and population, and the interest/enrollement in Mormonism. Frankly, I would have liked to visit Swinging Utah, as it would have been called in national tourism ads.
"Ski by day. Swing by night. All it takes a one-way flight. Experience Swinging Utah."
"Wife got you down? Just get another one. A whole world of possibility awaits you in Swinging Utah."
"Jane is your best friend, but ugly as sin. Tara is your fuck buddy, but she can barely put together a sentence. Can't figure out which one to court? You can have them both, here in Swinging Utah."
"You've been married to the same woman for 30 years, your mid-life crisis has got you down, and 19-year-olds have never looked so good. Build a trophy case in Swinging Utah."
- Yesterday at the Beekse Bergen Safari Park in Amsterdam, a couple sloth bears chased down, mauled, and ate a Barbary macaque monkey in front of horrified zoo visitors who were most likely stoned out of their clog-wearing minds. The monkeys and bears had apparently co-existed peacefully up until this point, when the monkey must have done something to piss the bears off. In trying to escape, it ran into an electrical fence. Researchers are now more than 99% certain of the species of monkey from which Kevin Federline evolved. Thanks to Greg Weeser* for sending the link.
- Which brings me to my next point: Do you think the Ewoks had hookers?
- I totally forgot to tell you about another weird dream I had a few nights ago. I was walking around my hometown when I came across this house a couple blocks from me (for those of you from the LG, it's that big house at the corner of Waiola and Maple) that Bob Dylan had apparently bought. Yes, the Bob Dylan. In addition to the house being his residence, he added a recording studio, a restaurant, and a coffee shop/discoteque (because he couldn't sell booze in the disco). In the dream, it made perfect sense that he could serve coffee but not alcohol at his discoteque--it also didn't seem weird that Bob Dylan would own and run a discoteque on a residential street in suburban Chicago.
Luckily, as I was walking past the house (feeling somewhat upset that it wasn't zoned for alcohol sales), Madonna and Sharon Stone were walking out of the restaurant together. They had apparently moved just down the street where they had bought a house together. Guy Ritchie was nowhere to be seen. Anyway, Madonna and Sharon were quite nice. They were also upset that there was no booze at the new Dylan Disco, so they invited me over to their place for some drinking. We drank, chatted about various current events and possible mates for Sharon, and thankfully did not practice any Kabala. There was no sexual tension or undue pressure from Madonna to strike a pose. It was a very pleasant experience. I hope to do it again some day.
- Last night I watched some National Geographic Channel specials about the Freemasons and the Knights Templar. There's some crazy shit going on with those two groups. You don't believe me? Well then why is the White House at the tip of a giant pentagram made of DC streets? Oh, that would be because DC was designed by some French Freemason named L'Enfant, who was working under the watchful eye and orders of some other Freemason who went by the name of George fucking Washington. I'm not even kidding. Look it up. These people rule the world and we don't even know it.
- I can't remember who I was having this conversation with in the past few days, but I said that the NBA was fixed and he asked me why I thought that. Well, here you go:
Since the 76ers captured the 1983 title, there have been only 6 NBA teams that have won championships: Boston ('84, '86), LA Lakers ('85, '87, '88, '00-'02), Detroit ('89, '90, '04), Chicago ('91-'93, '96-'98), Houston ('94, '95), and San Antonio ('99, '03, '05). Of those teams, the Celtics are the only one that resides in a city outside the 11 biggest US cities (Boston is the 24th biggest city according to the 2000 Census). However, the Celtics are one of the all-time great NBA franchises and have a fanbase (and marketing appeal) much larger than just the Boston area. Hence, my theory is that the NBA makes sure that at least one large-market team is in the finals each year so that TV ratings are boosted. And a large-market team wins each year because that means more people will be buying their merchandise.
Not since the Syracuse Nationals held off the Ft. Wayne Pistons for the 1955 title has there been two teams in the finals from cities outside the 25 biggest cities in the US. This year should be no different. Of the 8 teams left, 6 are within the Top 11 largest: Dallas (#9), Detroit (#11), LA Clippers (#2), New Jersey (which plays in East Rutherford, which is less than 10 miles from New York, which is #1), Phoenix (#6), and San Antonio (#8). Only Cleveland and Miami are not (they're not even in the Top 25), but both of those teams have huge stars (LeBron and Shaq/Wade) that will fill the NBA merchandise pockets. It's all a fucking ruse. And if Miami or Cleveland does make it to the finals, don't be surprised when a team from the Western Conference beats them. But not in 4 games. That's an NBA finals no-no.
- Just a reminder, the first installment of Midwestern Eavesdropping is coming up this Thursday. If you have eavesdropped on a hilarious conversation, send me said conversation at email@example.com, along with where you head it, a description of the conversants, and an eavesdropping nickname you would like to be known as.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Several of us were staying at a hotel that was a combination of the Overlook Hotel from The Shining and a McDonald's Indoor Playland. In one of the hotel's decadent lounges, I was playing a spirited game of Duck Duck Goose with Jester, Ari, Lizzie, this kid named Ricky that I went to grade school through high school with that I can't stand, and of course, Roger Ebert. For some reason, whenever it was Ebert's turn, he would make me the "goose." This wasn't a big deal, since it wasn't too hard to catch him. What pissed me off, though, is that I made Ricky the goose and I was totally out-running him when the rest of the crew said that he could cut through the middle, which he did, thus tagging me with ease.
I felt that it wasn't fair, so I decided to call it a night. I headed off to the lobby to go up to my room. But there were no stairs or elevators--just a maze of slides, plastic tubes, and random pits full of plastic balls, not unlike the now-defunct Discovery Zone. To make it more adult-friendly, there were also couches here and there.
It was at this point that the dream unfortunately ended. Needless to say, I am going to look into building a hotel amazingly similar to the one in my dream. I shall call it Heaven.
Friday, May 12, 2006
As part of the report, the SSA also released the most popular twin names of 2005. Jacob and Joshua led the boys (and the overall) list with 78 instances, while -- get this -- Hope and Faith led the girls list. Are you kidding me? What better way for 49 sets of parents to immortalize the butt of some network television execs' horrible joke than by naming their twin daughters after a TGIF show that couldn't hold a candle to Full House (or Family Matters, for that matter). Damn you Ripa, damn you. Other twin highlights include:
- Taylor and Tyler (#6) or Christian and Christopher (#33) - As if having twins wasn't confusing enough, 62 sets of parents decided to torment countless future teachers, coaches, and would-be friends by giving their kids names that are almost identical. Who gets to be called Chris? Would Christian get Chris and Christopher get Topher? If so, does Topher resent the hell out of Chris because Chris got the better nickname? Why not go with Ryan and Bryan, Hal and Sal, Ronald and Donald, Brian and Bryan, John and Jon, or Simon & Simon?
- Isaac and Isaiah (#7) or Elijah and Isaiah (#14) - Might as well have gone with Jesus and Jesus.
- Mackenzie and Madison (#16) - Way to set up your twin daughters to be stuck-up bitches. "But daaaaddy, you gave Mackenzie a Range Rover." My guess is that the majority of these 27 sets of twins were born in Hinsdale, IL, Carmel, IN, Bloomfield Hills, MI, Westchester County, NY, Long Island, The OC, or anywhere in Connecticut but Bridgeport.
- Alexander and Nicholas (#17) - I guess it's cool. If you want your kids to be Tsars.
- Jaden and Jordan (#37) or Jayden and Jordan (#79) - So we have a basketball player and a hooker. You should only name your daughter Jaden (or Jayden) if you want her to be penetrating herself on the internet in 18 years.
- Brian and Brianna (#91) - How many times are local hoodlums going to mockingly call Brian Brianna? Or vice versa? Ten bucks says we see a lot of female softball players named Brianna in 18 years.
- Jada and Jaden (#96) - Another one where the names sound too similar. If they had triplets, would the 3rd have been Jade? Or maybe Jabba if it was a boy? Or Jader?
- Reagan and Riley (#105) - Another pretentious pairing, but one that will no doubt make for some hilarious contrasts between the conservative, reserved Reagan, who preaches about supply-side economics, and the foppish, flamboyant, and flaming Riley, who has an ascot to go with every outfit. Oh nevermind, that's only if it's Reilly.
This move is a good one, I think, since GMYH has readers spanning the Midwest. No need to alienate anyone, and, let's be honest, there are people saying stupid things all over the place. Ergo, it would be foolish to limit it just to Chicago.
So, if you live in or are visiting Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota -- hell, I'll even throw in the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas -- and you hear something hilariously inane, send it to firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll put it on Midwestern Eavesdropping. I love you all.
Well, it's a real piece of shite day here in Chicago: upper 40s, rain, wind. It feels a bit like London, but with better teeth, shittier beer, a less sophisticated sense of humor, and a noticeable lack of pensioners complaining about how the younger generation doesn't speak the Queen's English. Tally ho!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
On an otherwise happily silent train, they spark up a conversation loud enough for almost everyone to hear. The girl innocently asks, "Do you think we should make kebobs?" The guy responds, "Oh, you're my little kebob." Then the guy kissed the girl and she said, "I'm talking about for dinner tonight." Then he leaned in and whispered something dirty in her ear (probably about cutting her into pieces and putting all of the pieces, along with onions and green and red peppers, on a giant skewer that would then be charred over an open flame). Then they kept playing what can only be described as "kissy face." It wasn't what anyone wanted to deal with at 8 in the morning. PDA is bullshit.
PDA aside, we here at GMYH think that random people saying random things is funny. Therefore, we're starting Eavesdropping in Chicago, a once-a-week post of the random things that GMYH readers here in Chicago overhear in our fair city. I would call it Overheard in Chicago, but I don't want to get the shit sued out of me by the Overheard in New York people. Plus, it probably won't be nearly as good, so I wouldn't want to tarnish the "Overheard in" name.
This is where you come in. Whenever you overhear strangers say something completely hilarious, stupid, random, etc., email me at email@example.com with the following information:
-what you heard
-where you heard it
-a description of who was saying it
-your eavesdropping handle (i.e., I am GMYH), if you so wish (you can remain anonymous if you want, but such glory should not go unclaimed)
For instance, my encounter this morning would be:
Small Asian girlfriend: Do you think we should make kebobs?
White hipster boyfriend: Oh, you're my little kebob.
Small Asian girlfriend: I'm talking about for dinner tonight.
--crowded morning Brown line train
This should be a good time for all, but it won't work without your meddling ears, so get out there and start eavesdropping. Again, send it to firstname.lastname@example.org. Don't be shy.
In other random news, my cooing (yes, cooing) ability is so remarkable that my lovely wife Jesterio commented that she thought there "might be a pigeon roosting in our kitchen."
In yet other random news, belated birthday wishes go out to loyal GMYH readers Beth-O-Rama, Tron, and Gemkeezi.
Monday, May 08, 2006
- I learned that Jester is a total David Blaine hater. I, myself, find his little alchemic ruses quite delightful and entertaining.
- Speaking of alchemy, Saturday night, I had the pleasure of seeing the Sox stomp on the Royals (yes, I know, the Bad New Bears could stomp the Royals), along with J-Diza, Trey-C, Matthew Spring, and 38,000+ others. Thanks to JD, the seats we had were awesome. They were 4 rows up along the right field foul line. Sure enough, in the bottom of the 8th a towering Paul Konerko foul ball landed in the aisle less than 3 feet from a cowering Jessie (who had the aisle seat). Needless to say, someone else is the proud owner of said ball. When it hit the ground (after ricocheting off some teenager's leg), it sounded like a slightly overweight pre-teen's stomach smacking the pristine surface of a pool in a well-executed belly flop.
- Speaking of getting randomly douched with water, on Friday night in the area around the intersection of Halsted and Diversey, there was an unknown man terrorizing sidewalkers with a Super Soaker.
- Speaking of Super Soakers, apparently the geniuses at Hasbro have decided to combine a Super Soaker and facials with the well-thought-out Oozinator. It's a squirt gun that, as far as I can tell, has one nozzle that squirts water and one nozzle that squirts a sticky milky white substance. I couldn't make up something this dumb. Well, I could. In fact, I can dream up a whole boatload of stupid shit. However, it's not blogworthy if I make up a squirt gun that jizzes. But when some corporate execs actually give the okay to a toy this ridiculous, well that's definitely blogworthy. Check out the commercial. Special thanks to Jenn "Don't You Dare Call Me a Rookie" Weisgerber for sending me the link, as well as the link to the hilarious customer reviews for the Oozinator on Amazon.com.
- Speaking of terrible corporate marketing moves, just when I thought life couldn't get any worse, I hear Verizon DSL's new commercial with the uber-annoying voice of Michael McDonald, aka the man who ruined the Doobie Brothers, aka the king of butchering Motown songs. You would think that after the 40-Year-Old Virgin, the world would know how hated Michael McDonald's voice is. You would think.
- Speaking of 40 year olds, I was in the Gap near North and Sheffield, and there was this 40-year-old dad wearing a pink polo shirt with a popped collar (and he was wearing sunglasses indoors). Those of you who know me know that I can't stand the fucking Gap, and I've probably been inside the Gap less than 5 times in my life. This guy is why. As if popping his collar wasn't bad enough (that's castration grounds in most circles, especially circles comprised of those older than 19), some song comes over the speakers and he starts playing air guitar, rather adamantly at that. Then he starts snapping (with both hands), dancing, and singing the song to his kid, who is still in a stroller and not old enough to realize that his dad is a complete embarrassment. To top it off, the guy grabs his wife and starts dancing with her in the middle of the store, then they start making out. Much to my chagrin, she found nothing wrong with any of his behavior. Jessie would have smacked me in the dick with a lead sap -- and rightly so -- if ever attempted to pull anything like that. I had to get the hell out of there before I actually said something to him. Not that it would have made any impact, since he would have just packed the fam back into the Volvo wagon and rocked some jazz hands on the way back to their Old Town brownstone.
- Speaking of 40-year-old douchebags in polo shirts, there must be a 24-hour douchebag virus going around the city because I was walking to the L after work and saw who I assume was the Gap man's older brother. Living in Dayton for so long, I forgot that there are people called "tourists." So I see this guy whose look screamed "I am a naive rich man from parts elsewhere. Mug the shit out of me." His hair was neatly combed so as not to flap in the wind. His almost nerdy glasses said, "I spent $700 on these glasses, I have mutual funds, and I voted for Bush. Twice." He was wearing a perfectly pressed red high-end polo shirt, tucked perfectly into his well-pressed pleated khakis. Draped symmetrically over his shoulders was a navy blue sweater, with both arms hanging down, wrinkle- and crumple-free. To top it off, both of his hands contained large (full) bags from Brooks Brothers. He crossed the street, got to the corner, stopped and whirled himself around, looking up at the skyscrapers as if to say, "I am happy to be unfamiliar with my surroundings, and I have a very respectable disposable income. It should be a crime not to rob me."
- Speaking of my new Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, I'm gonna look good tomorrow at work.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Here's what we found out:
- Volchok's first name is Kevin. I was expecting something more along the lines of Igor, Ivan, or Valery.
- After Ryan finds out that Kevin stole some post-prom money from Taylor, Ryan goes to Volchok's underground lair and finally beats Volchok within an inch of his life. We're talking your old-fashioned, bleeding-from-the-ears-mouth-nose-and-eyes, Ryan Atwood ass kicking. Rather than finishing Kevin off, Ryan takes him to the hospital, where the theory is that the workers there will try to mend his severely disfigured face and skull to a point where he can at least sit hunched over on a street corner with a sign propped up against him that says "I used to look like a total badass with tattoos and everything. Then I met Ryan Atwood. If I could talk, I would ask you for money. But because of Ryan Atwood's gilded fists, my vocal chords will never work again. Every day I pray for death. Thank you for your kindness and generosity." Personally, I think Ryan should've finished him off. It's not like anyone would have found or missed Volchok, since his family is 8,000 miles away in Belarus (and dead). Plus, his dungeon is airtight and several hundred feet below Earth's crust, so it's not like the smell would escape.
- We have yet more proof that the writers of The OC read (and love) GMYH. What is this proof you ask? Well, we have a new word for the AbbreviNation dictionary, describing groupies for upscale boarding school lacrosse team members: Lacrosstitutes. Bravo.
- Marissa poses as a lacrosstitute (dressing in a fantastic Catholic school girl outfit) to get something back from some lacrosse guy for Kaitlin. Basically, the whole scenario was written into the show so that Josh Schwartz and McG could get Mischa Barton into a slutty Catholic school girl outfit. Touche.
- Seth apparently got into RISD, and I guess Summer wrote some note about all of Seth's lies, which she for some reason put on Sandy's desk. Of course he eventually finds it and it helps him realize that he has become a monster.
- Sandy turns down the Riviera Magazine Man of the Year award because he realizes that he has become a monster. He's no longer Sandy Cohen, but more akin to the late Caleb Nichol. And that, my friends, is a monster. Anyway, he is also selling Dr. Griffin up the river by cooperating with the DA, thus effectively ending the future of the hospital that the Newport Group was going to build. But at least he's not a monster.
- Seth finds Kirsten passed out after a standard drinking-vodka-straight-out-of-a-coffee-mug bender. Then he gets pissed at Sandy, mentioning something along the lines of Sandy being a monster. Then Sandy sends Seth to the Newport Group office at night to get some sort of large drawing. On his way out of the office, Seth decides to smoke a doob, as is the fashion in Newport. Then he forgets about the doob, which falls into a trash can, eventually igniting the Newport Group on fire, which I assume is bad. Somehow the cops knew that Seth did it, and they show up at the Riviera Magazine gala and arrest Seth. I'm worried.
We now have two weeks to ponder what will happen in the season finale. According to the preview scenes, someone may die. The rumors around Hollywood are that it will be Marissa Cooper. Here are the unresolved questions that better be answered, at least partially, in the final episode:
- How will Marissa die? My hope is that it involves a slutty Catholic school girl outfit, a hell of a lot of booze, a bunch of other hot chicks, and my video camera. What? Either that, or she accidentally eats not one but two baby carrots and hemorrhages instantly.
- Will Teresa finally tell Ryan that her kid is his? We all know it's coming.
- Will Seth get the shit raped out of him in jail? New fish never tasted so sweet.
- Now that Sandy is back to his old self, will his laughable public defender salary force the Cohens out of Newport? Or will he get some sweet insurance money from the Newport Group's destruction by fire? My guess is no and no.
- Now that we know how the gang is going to stay in The OC (Marissa will be in the cemetery, Seth will be in jail, Ryan will be supporting his son by working on the open sea, and Summer will be so fucked up by all of it that she will be turning girl-on-girl tricks under the docks for meth money, or so I assume), will it ever be the same again?
- Is Kaitlin coming back for good? I hope not because I can't deal with someone who says "obvi" in everyday conversation and isn't instantly smited by Zeus.
- Is there anyway that Volchok, in a hilarious turn of events, gets into Brown? By "Brown," of course, I mean "jail for stealing a Mercedes out of a Newport garage."
Unfortunately, we will have to wait an extra week to find out the answers. Hold tight, folks.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
By Monday evening, I felt pretty good about myself. The apartment was beginning to take shape. There were far fewer boxes than in the morning. I was getting things put away. All in all, it was a fairly productive Monday.
Jessie returned home from her first day of work with a smile on her face, which is always a good sign. Since our fridge was completely empty, we decided to grab a bite to eat at a local sandwich/pasta place called Panes. I knew that this was to be my first visit to Panes, but little did I know that it would be my last.
I ordered one of the daily specials, a cajun chicken sandwich. It was pretty good, going down at least. After Panes, we went to Jewel to fill the aforementioned empty fridge. Within about five minutes of leaving Panes, I began to experience some abdominal pain. It felt like the beginning stages of the dreaded "bowling ball stomach" that I get when I eat guacamole or avacado.
While at Jewel, I informed Jessie of my discomfort and desire to exit quietly and expeditiously. Despite my warnings, Jessie continued to drag on her shopping experience. Finally, I explained that I was "nearing the vomit point," which apparently got her attention. Ever the caring wife, she told me to go find a bathroom. I told her that my desire to ralph in a Jewel bathroom was about the same as my desire to send my kid to Purdue. After some prodding, she finally agreed to leave.
Upon our return to the apartment, it felt like there were several major battles going on in my stomach, and I was losing all of them. I staved off the inevitable for about 10 minutes, at which point I entered our only lavatory with fear and anticipation. Then all hell broke loose. Without question, I ushered in a new low point in my life, surpassing the time in Boston when I was hammered and I busted through the bathroom door only to find out that McClure was in there, thus forcing me to puke in the bathtub while both of us were laughing our asses off.
Anyway, this was much worse. One of my worst nightmares came true. I don't know how else to say it, so I'm just gonna say it: I shuked. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, just know that I love word combinations. Think about it for a second. What two vile words must you combine to get the word "shuke"? Needless to say, we are now short one small trash can.
Now that you have undoubtedly reached the "oh my God, that's fucking disgusting" point, I will say that no matter how bad the visual may be for you, it pales in comparison to experiencing it firsthand. I would not wish such a thing on my worst enemy. Hell, I wouldn't even wish this on Kevin Federline. Well, that's not true. K-Fed deserves to shuke at least once a day, that is, if he can be pulled away from his Newports and burgeoning rap career long enough to make it to the bathroom for some PopoZao.
But I digress. After the shuking, I immediately went to bed, although I returned to the restroom a couple more times over the next few hours (not to shuke, thank God). Finally around 2am, I managed to get some non-vomit-interrupted sleep. I woke up around 10:30, at which point I took the dog for a nice little walk, after which I returned to bed. At about 11:30, I got a call from the Direct TV installation guy, who was early for his "between 1pm and 5pm" appointment. I must have looked like a hundred dollars because he asked me if I was alright, and I explained that I thought I got food poisoning. I sat/lied quietly on the couch while he set everything up. The last thing I wanted was for him to be able to go back to his Direct TV buddies bragging about "some asshole who was puking while [he] robbed the guy blind."
Anyway, I didn't puke, but as soon as he left I went right back to bed, where I stayed until Jessie got home around 6. Jessie proceeded to yell at me about how little I had unpacked, failing to notice that I looked like Powder (with more hair and less deer-life-saving ability) and smelled like an old folks' home. I got up, ate a couple pieces of toast, drank some Gatorade, got yelled at some more, moved a couple things around, and then fell back asleep around 9:30, waking up around 8 this morning.
In case you're counting, in the past 36 hours, I have been awake for about 6 to 6 1/2 of them. I'm feeling 1000 times better today, although that is sure to change when I realize that I have to pull double duty today to make up for yesterday's lack of productivity. I sure as shit don't want Jessie to be pissed when she gets home tonight. The last thing I want to do is accidentally fall down the stairs again or, worse yet, for her to make me go back to Panes.
It turns out professional movers are awesome. Had some been available in Chicago on two-weeks notice, I would have hired them. They took about 2 hours to get everything into the truck.
Jester drove the car, and I drove the big rig. Holt "Why Did I Agree to This?" Hedrick drove with me, as he was visiting some peeps in Chicago. It topped out at 71 mph, so at least I didn't have to worry about getting a ticket.
Saturday morning, we got to the new place around 9. The list of people who came out to help us move read like a who's who of people I owe dinner: Ari, Christoff, Tradd, Kyla, Alex, Klint, Bohmann, the Floppy Burrito, Reed, and Sarah.
With a small army, we were able to get 95% of it done in about 2 hours. Sarah won the award for best mover, while Ryan and Tradd found new ways to be lazy.
We didn't even attempt to get our entertainment center in, and it turns out that no stairway in our building was made to fit a queen box spring, so that didn't make it. We also had to unhinge several doors in order to get the two pieces of our couch inside. But all in all, it wasn't too bad of a move.
Saturday night, much to Jessie's chagrin, I went to Chris "Gemkeezi" Gemkow's bachelor party. I will say nothing about it, except that I took this awesome picture of a guy pissing on an L platform.