The Night of 1000 Arguments

The weekend was a bell curve of activity. Friday night Jessie and I laid low, deciding to go to Penny's for dinner and then take Harley on a long walk in lieu of something more fulfilling.

Saturday I went to the Sox game at 12:20 with Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst. I met him and his wife Melissa at 10:15 a.m. at McGee's, a local dram shop that also serves food. Before I got to McGee's, I witnessed a yelling match that I thought was fairly strange. Two men, who appeared to be in their early thirties, we yelling at each other from across the corner of Sheffield and Webster. This was not fun yelling, like the kind I engage in when I'm drunk at 10 in the morning. This was some hate-filled yelling, like the kind Jessie engages in when I'm drunk at 10 in the morning. One guy was standing on the southwest corner of the street bashing the hell out of a pay phone with the phone's receiver, as if the person on the other end of the line had just told him his dog was ritualistically murdered by a pack of ravenous Satanic midgets, and then they banged his mom and slashed his tires. Then the dude starts yelling at this guy in an orange shirt standing kitty corner across the intersection. Here is a very close approximation of what he said: "So what?! So now I'm abusing public property. But what about ME?! I was someone's property, and no one cared when I got abused." His argument made little sense, given that I had no context. I'm sure it's nothing that a little masturbation can't cure.

I made my way into McGee's as quickly as possible so that I didn't get murdered. I ordered a Bloody Mary as soon as I got there, taking my first sip at approximately 10:19. The next 16 hours are somewhat of a mystery to me. Here is what I do remember:

• On the way to the game, while we were stopped at one of the Red Line stops in the Loop, there was a group of geriatric women on the platform who were all decked out in pinks and lavenders. This picture doesn't really do it justice, but I think you can make out several of the ladies. I assume they were part of one of those clubs that bored old women form that revolve around wearing stupid-looking pastel hats.
• Our seats at the game were pretty good. They were on the left field foul line, about 5 rows up. While the seats did not bring us any foul balls, I did come home with a t-shirt that was thrown into the crowd by some Chevrolet-related band of rogues. When others were unable to catch a balled-up configuration of cotton softly thrown into the first several rows of the stands, I was there to grab it off the ground.
• After the game, Morgan and I did not get back home via an elevated train. Instead, we met up with one of his buddies who drove to the game in style, in his nineteen-sixty-something Cadillac convertible. Despite the fact that I was unable to locate a seatbelt in the back seat, the ride home was undeniably more enjoyable than it would have been on the L. Here are a couple shots of the car. The first is an action shot from the drive home, and the second is a shot of the car in its final resting place in its owner's garage. It's a pretty sweet fucking car, eh?
• We went back to McGee's. Against their better interests, Jessie and Melissa met us there. I had a weird tasting grilled cheese sandwich there. Their waffle fries taste like stupid.
• While at McGee's, I was introduced to the O-Bomb, a dangerously delicious shot forged by Loki and Satan and sent to Earth from the depths of the netherworld to destroy me. Based on my calculations and discernible lack of memories, I estimate that I had somewhere between 40 and 60 O-Bombs.
• I must have been well aware of my level of intoxication because I left an absurd number of voice memos for myself on my cell phone. This is an extremely fun and effective way of reliving what would otherwise be a forgotten night.
• According to a voice memo, I explained to myself that Morgan thinks "Badge" is a better Cream song than "White Room." The tone of my voice suggested that I disagreed vehemently at the time.
• According to another voice memo, I explained to myself that there was some sort of argument as to what was a more important album, Sticky Fingers by The Rolling Stones, or The Joshua Tree by U2. As if I wouldn't know what my side of this argument would be when I was sober, I explained to myself that I thought Sticky Fingers was the obvious choice. I vaguely remember touting the opening riff of "Can't You Hear Me Knocking" as the greatest riff in rock and roll history and that alone was enough to make Sticky Fingers more important than Joshua Tree.
• Yet another voice memo was four seconds, and in a sullen, muted voice, I said, "Just saw Countryman." And I just now remembered that I saw a guy whose last name is Countryman who is very good friend's with a former roommate of mine.
• Another voice memo informed me of another terribly unwinnable argument for either side: who is more important to modern culture, Tolstoy or The Beatles? I said, and I still say, The Beatles. My friends didn't die face down in the muck so this strumpet, this whore, could -- I don't know where this is going, so I'm just going to stop it.
• Jessie found out that her family got a new dog, Nancy (shown below). Nancy is a boy. When I inquired as to why Lizzie was referring to Nancy as "he," she explained that "he is a sissy."
• At some point we went to Morgan and Melissa's hizzie. Based on the time stamps on my voice memos, this journey took place sometime between 9 and 10. I do remember buying beer on the way there and paying $20.57 for a 2 6-packs and a 2-liter bottle of 7Up. If a clerk from a liquor store on Halsted somewhere between Webster and North is found bludgeoned to death with a full bottle of Amstel Light, this may be my last post.
• While at Morgan and Melissa's pad, we went up onto their 3rd-story deck, where we listened to some Beatles while drinking champagne and the aforementioned hideously expensive beer. At one point I think a champagne bottle made its way from the deck to the ground, and the only detail I can be sure of about that is that it wasn't me. It was around this point where the whole Beatles/Picasso argument started. At one point, the back of Jessie's head intercepted an errant flip-flop, poorly thrown by Morgan, that was supposed have connected with my head. She was not amused.
• A voice memo time stamped at 10:56 p.m. revealed that I had this profound statement to say: "If there's one I know more about in my life, it's things. Er, more about my life than my wife." Think about that next time you try to argue with me that Picasso was more important than The Beatles.
• At some point, we left Morgan and Melissa's place. On the way home, I got Super Steak Nachos from LaBamba, and I am almost certain that I enjoyed devouring them while stumbling home.
• At 12:29 a.m., I posted the previous post about The Beatles/Picasso argument. After that, I surfed MySpace for anywhere between four minutes and two hours, and then I went to bed.
• In my near-comatose state, I apparently came to the conclusion that I could not have any written account of my night. I got up Sunday morning with hopes of reading the many text messages I undoubtedly sent and received. For some reason, I was actually excited about this prospect. My excitement turned to sheer terror when I turned on my phone to realize that I had deleted every text message in both my inbox and my outbox. Thus, I have no idea who I might have texted or the subjects of said texting. I'm sure it was profound.

Yesterday I was somehow not hungover. Jester and I hung out. She explained that I was an asshole the night before. After pausing to throw up some blood, I explained that I was right, no matter what I said. Then we did some laundry, and I went to my class at Second City. Bell curve.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 70-46 --
2. Boston 68-48 2.0
3. Minnesota 68-49 2.5

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 61-57 --
2. San Diego 60-57 0.5
3. Arizona 59-58 1.5
4. Colorado 57-60 3.5
4. Astros 57-60 3.5
6. Philly 56-60 4.0