Calmer Than You Are

Here's the recap of my long weekend. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Friday
After rejoicing with tears of joy upon leaving the office Friday (being a lawyer sucks, by the way), I got home in time for Jester and I to do some phatty laundry. We took our washboard, tub, bar of Fels-Naptha soap, and pumice to the local creek and made an evening of it.

Once our clothes had hung dry, we returned to the homestead, dropped the clothes off, then went bowling with Ari, Klint, and Christoff. It took me one frame to get used to the Diversey Rock 'N' Bowl's strange lighting and secular music. After that, I pretty much dominated. In the second game, I even let Christoff get a 25-pin lead before crushing his ego with a blinding comeback.

Feeling saucy and morally vindicated after my victorious stint at the lanes, it was time to go to a local speakeasy. After turning down one dive bar (Lawry's) because it was too full, Christoff, Jester, and I went to Rose's Lounge, the diviest of all dive bars, which is about a block from my apartment. This place was unbelievable. It looked like someone's grandma's basement from the 1970s. Rose, the owner and bartender, looks to be somewhere between 70 and 100, and she has some sort of Eastern European accent. Behind the bar are hundreds of trinkets. The tables are not the kind you might expect to find in a bar, but rather "vintage" kitchen tables from the '70s and '80s. The chairs are the same. Some are actually leather kitchen chairs that you would have found in your parents' house before you were born. Naturally, there are couches there too, with sheets draped over them to hide what I assume are blood stains. This bar fits into Lincoln Park about as well as David Duke in Harlem. Nonetheless, it didn't stop Rose from charging $3.50 for a Bud Light.

All three of us were pretty tired, and Jester and I both had to get up early on Saturday, so we called it an early night.

Saturday
Saturday morning, Jester headed off to a dentist appointment at 9, and my dad picked me up at 9:30 to head down to Bloomington for the IU home opener against the mighty Broncos of Western Michigan.

Upon our arrival in B-town at approximately 2:30, my dad dropped me off at the tailgating fields, while he went galavanting around town doing God knows what. I made my way to a tailgate of fellow Pi Kapp alums, most of whom were several years younger than me. It was immediately apparent that I was several hours behind. Davidson had "run the gauntlet" twice (shots of Absolut, Captain Morgan, Beam, Jager, and tequila in a row) and was berating passers-by with a bullhorn. This picture of Mark "Tail Pipe" Hess, wearing an "Indiana Grandma" t-shirt and holding a turkey baster with which he passed out drinks from the "gin bucket" pretty much sums up the IU tailgating experience.



Eventually Holt and his buddy Clint found their way to our tailgating spot, right around the time we ran out of beer. This fact is not very remarkable.

The game itself was pretty good. Before kickoff, a giant football-shaped hot air balloon took off from Memorial Stadium. As you can see, there was the expected capacity crowd on hand to watch the Hoosiers dismantle Western Michigan 39-20.

After the game, Holt and I went up to Indy, first to Clint's house, where we changed out of our gameday clothes into totally pimpin' going out clothes. It was at this juncture that Holt game me the following totally sweet t-shirt:

Pretty nice, eh? You see folks, in case you didn't know, David Hasselhoff went to the same high school as I did, and his old house is merely 2 blocks from me mither's house in LaGrange. You can make as much fun of him as you want, but let's be honest, Knight Rider didn't go to your high school and you're kind of pissed off about it.

Anyway, from Clint's house, we all went to the lovely home of Kyle "Kysmille" (that's pronounced "kice-millay") Miller and his wife Laura. They live in the Broad Ripple neighborhood of Indy, which is pretty much the coolest part of town. As soon as I arrived, Laura informed me that she and Kyle were excited at the prospect of being on GMYH, and that Kyle had returned from the bars Thursday night in a tizzy because the house was not nearly clean enough for my stay. Apparently they got their acts together by Saturday night because I was unable to detect any traces of dirt, dust, carbon monoxide, or semen on any tables, couches, or floors.

After a couple "pre-game" beers at the Millers' house (incidentally, they do drink Miller Lite), we headed out to Broad Ripple, to OPTs, where we drank some more. We had a pretty decent-sized crowd: the Millers, Clint and his wife and a couple of her friends, Laura's sister, Kyle's friend Nate and his wife, Calvin and his girlfriend Abby, Holt, and me. While there, I reached a point where I was utterly disgusted with the music being played. My solution? Put $10 in the jukebox for 30 songs. There are several reasons I suggest that you not try to imitate this: (1) it's always against your best interests to do what I do, (2) it is impossible to play 30 songs in 84 minutes, as I tried to do, and (3) the damn jukebox shuffles songs as more people put money in, meaning that I heard about 8 or 9 of my songs before the bar closed. Sweet. As you can see, Laura was fine with it, but Kyle was just as pissed as I was.

The melancholy I experienced could only be cured by a trip to LaBamba. While Holt and I were standing in line, there was some jackass a few spots in front of us wearing a Notre Dame Joe Theismann jersey. It is my wholehearted belief that Notre Dame fans are the most expendable demographic on the face of the earth. My belief was only solidified when I saw that this guy (who looked to be in his mid 30s) had a Jeff Samardzija (that's pronounced "over-rated") autograph across the upper part of the "7" on the jersey. For those of you unfamiliar with Jeff Samardzija, he is not the same person as Joe Theismann. Also, for those of you unfamiliar with social norms (read: Notre Dame fans), it is never acceptable for someone over 12 to wear an autographed jersey anywhere, much less to a bar and then to a late-night burrito joint. All of this was too much for me to handle.

Holt and I began cracking wise about limping to the counter, referring to Theismann's most spectacular exit from the NFL thanks to Lawrence Taylor. The Golden Boy began talking smack back about IU, which is kind of like a bully trying to pick a fight with a blind kid. By this point, we were right behind him and his hulking wife in line. I said something along the lines of "Oh, I see you got the Samardzija autograph -- nice," as I mockingly slid my index finger across the autographed portion of his jersey. The tone of my voice suggested that I thought his choice of jersey and autograph and wearing of the autographed jersey in public was questionable. He took it well, although I think his wife was less convinced that I should live. He made some comment about how she could probably kick my ass. I had no doubt in my mind that she could, but I guarantee that I could outrun that bitch.

Tempers subsided when she was able to order her burrito. I went with the Super Steak Nachos, which were not as good as they are at the LaBamba at Halsted & Wrightwood because at the one in Indy, they gave the cheese on the side, instead of spreading its luscious goodness all over the nachos. Bush league.

Speaking of bush league, check out the door to LaBamba, inviting you to "PUHS" in order to exit the restaurant.

Sunday
My dad picked me up at the Miller house around noon on Sunday, and dropped me off back in Chicago around 2:30 or 3.

Two significant events happened Sunday. The first was a BBQ at Kyla and Alex's and the second was Hillbilly Sunday. The BBQ is significant because what was said there will ensure that Midwestern Eavesdropping will not have to wait until next week. Plus, this nice family portrait was taken of me, Jester, and our autistic dog Harley (note: I did not wear the Hasselhoff shirt 2 days in a row. The previous picture of the shirt was taken on Sunday.).

I left the BBQ a little early to take the dog home and secure a spot at the Burwood for Hillbilly Sunday. When I arrived at the Burwood, it was the strangest thing. I heard no country music and I saw no sign of John the bartender. Since I hate country music, I let it slide. Morgan and a couple of his friends soon arrived. They had been drinking since 11am and were hell-bent on me catching up to them. Thus, Morgan fed me shots of Beam and Jack, RBVs, and beers for the next hour or so until I was sufficiently sauced.

Also making appearances were Christoff, Gregerson, Chambers, Wood, Gsell, and a whols host of other people. We found out that John was let go by the Burwood, despite his 15 years working there, and that he was doing Hillbilly Sunday at Chi-Town Tap. I tried to turn it into Hair Band Sunday at the Burwood by putting $5 (15 songs) into the jukebox, assuming that all of my songs would be played in a row. It seems I don't learn lessons.

Eventually we all went to Chi-Town tap, but not until sending the anonymous wife of Magellan and Jessie ahead to scope it out. Legend has it that they were about a block away from the Chi-Town Tap when the door of the bar swung open and the sound of country music escaped onto Lincoln Avenue (where it doesn't belong). At that point, Kyla and Jessie sprinted to the Chi-Town Tap.

John was indeed there, as you can see from this picture (he's the one in the sweet Texas polo shirt). We like to drink beer.

At one point, Jessie and Ari started doing the polka, and I'm still not sure why.

Then Jessie explained to Wood, "And then I stuck my entire hand, flat as a pancake, right into that freezer, and I took out that frozen dead bird and played with it until it got mushy." Wood seemed to enjoy it.

While my back was turned, Ari and Gregerson apparently engaged in some sort of blunt smoking contest. Looks like Ari won, dude.

Since Chi-Town Tap is only a block from our apartment, Jester and I did not make the trek to LaBamba. Thus, I will have to wait until another time to attempt the "2 Bamba's in 2 Different States on 2 Nights in a Row" feat.

Instead, we just went back to out place, and she at some leftover spaghetti, while I was baffled at how little Tostito's nacho cheese dip was left. I was so distraught by this development that I accused Jessie of infidelity. It was the only explanation: some philanderous bastard was eating all my queso. Unamused, she went to bed. I then finished off the remaining queso while watching Fresh Prince reruns.

Monday
Jester and I woke up around 1. That's awesome. After that, we did some shopping and played some tennis. Then I cried myself to sleep when I realized that I had to work on Tuesday.

Good weekend.