Happy Casimir Pulaski Day, you Polish bastards.
I have to say, all in all, it was a pretty good weekend. Friday night Jester and I went to Sapori for dinner with Christoff, Jodie, Jodie's roommate Brie (I don't know if that's spelled right; I suppose it could be Bree, Brei, Bri, or Bre), and Brie's boyfriend (?), whose God-given name is apparently Jet (or possibly Jett or Gyet). Being an Italian restaurant, Sapori offered a wide array of Lent-compliant dishes. I had one of the daily specials, zuppa de pesce, which was linguini in a light red sauce, with eight different types of seafood. It was awesome.
After Sapori, Jester and I went home, where Lizzie was waiting for us. The three of us just watched some TV and went to bed fairly early, as we had a big day ahead of us on Saturday.
Saturday morning came, and Jester, Ari, Lizzie, and I headed up to Edgerton, WI to their dad's house, since he is soon moving and they wanted to get some stuff before he moves. Jester and I got the prize: her and Ari's old oak bunk bed. Lizzie, however, did take home a cookbook that looked to be from the '70s that was devoted entirely to sausage. Better yet, the book's introduction contained the following quote, which I assume is some sort of German proverb: "Without sausage, without bacon, purpose in life would be forsaken." Kind of extreme, but I think it rings true.
We got back to Chicago in the early evening, in time to catch the IU/Penn State game. On Senior Night, the Hoosiers atoned for their too-close-for-comfort win over Northwestern by dropping 17 3s on Penn State on their way to a 94-63 victory.
Before the game ended, we headed up to the Waterhouse for a surprise party for Alex "The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian" Bailenson. It was a $25 all-you-can-drink from 9-1 deal, so that's always a good thing. The attendees are too numerous to name, but I will say that Tron, Christoff, and I had a hell of a time watching the Top 20 dunkers of all-time on ESPN Classic. I thought Chocolate Thunder deserved to be a little bit higher.
We also were watching the Nevada/New Mexico State game. New Mexico State, as you know, is coached by former NBA All-Star Reggie Theus. This immediately prompted a discussion of the T-NBC show Hang Time, which centered around the Deering High School Tornados, whose star player was -- gasp! -- a girl, Julie Connor. Reggie Theus played DHS head coach Bill Fuller, replaced in 1998 by Mike Katowinski, played convincingly by Dick Butkus. Christoff and I convinced ourselves that the co-star of Meet the Parents, Pamcakes herself, Teri Polo (left), played Julie on Hang Time. I even boldly stated, "I'm 99% sure of this," even though I hadn't seen Hang Time in at least nine years. Turns out it was some chick named Daniella Deutscher (right). We really though we were onto something. Damn.
For reasons that are now clear, we decided not to go to the Vu after the Waterhouse. Instead, on our way home from the Waterhouse, Christoff, Jodie, Lizzie, Jester, and I went out of our way to go to what Christoff and I refer to as Red Line Burrito (because it's under the Addison Red Line stop), although I'm sure it has a real name. Christoff and I got in first, while the ladies lagged behind, which apparently gave them enough time to get into a verbal pissing match with three douchebags, who ended up standing right behind us in line. Christoff and I bit our tongues while Jessie and Jodie said things that nearly put us into a position to fight three douchebags. Similar to Fletch ("six-five, six-nine with the afro"), the leader of the douchebags was five-five, five-eight with the fauxhawk, and he was wearing a skin-tight white shirt and a smug grin. It should be noted that there were no women accompanying these douchebags.
It's funny how douchebags hate to be called douchebags to their face, especially by pea-headed 27-year-old female librarians. In fact, in most instances, they will flatly deny that they are douchebags, saying things like, "You think we're douchebags?" and acting genuinely surprised when the answer is "Yes." The lack of self-awareness is astounding, especially considering the reasonable inference that they looked at themselves in the mirror before leaving their apartments.
Not even douchebags, however, could ruin my steak burrito. It's been a while since I had a burrito, much less one as delicious as this. Afterward, we headed back home.
Once at home, I realized that we were too late to catch Metal Mania on VH1 Classic, having to settle instead for the less hair-band-centric The Vault. I was falsely excited when I turned it on and saw Bad English's "Heaven Is a Four-Letter Word" (I don't get the title either), but I turned the TV off immediately after that when a non-hair-band video callously made an appearance. I then headed upstairs to change into my silk pajamas and cap, thinking that no harm could come of leaving Jessie to her own devices.
Quick question: how many seconds should you microwave frozen sugar cookies in order to thaw them sufficiently enough to be consumed? We found out the hard way that the answer is definitely less than 40. While I was upstairs changing, Jessie popped a couple cookies in the microwave for 40 seconds, and then went to the bathroom. Lizzie noticed that something looked awry in the microwave. Upon opening the microwave, smoke billowed out, carrying with it a horrid stench that filled the apartment. I never knew something so sweet could produce an odor so foul. Actually, that's not true. Once I took a tour of the Imperial Sugar plant in Sugar Land, Texas. The choking burnt molasses smell still haunts me. While Jessie's sugar cookie incineration experiment wasn't quite as bad as when I smoked us out a few months ago, the apartment does still smell a little like charred sugar cookie.
Yesterday was spent eating breakfast at S&G, assembling a bunk bed, writing a hilarious sketch (our assignment this week was satire, so I wrote a sketch about an ad agency coming up with a mascot to replace Chief Illinwek; their choices are just as, if not more, offensive than a white man dressing up in face paint and nondescript Native American regalia and prancing around in a manner that bears little to no resemblance to traditional Native American dance -- how wacky!), and watching Duke's Gerald Henderson throw a 'bow into UNC's Tyler Hansbrough's nose, slicing it pretty good across the bridge and breaking it in the process. The announcers (Packer and Nantz, I believe) seemed to think it was unintentional. Bullshit Walter. I don't really like either team, so I can say without bias that it sure looked like Henderson swiftly moved his elbow in a manner that suggested he was not going for the ball. I did think Hansbrough was going to kill someone when he got up, face covered in blood. He looked like he was about to cry (which is a given any time you get hit in the nose), and he had that look in his eyes that kids have when they get cheapshotted -- the "someone hurt me, now I must hurt someone" look. Unfortunately, he was escorted to the locker room before a full-scale brawl broke out, which undoubtedly would have resulted in injuries to several players from both teams, hurting their chances of success in the NCAA tournament. Henderson did get called for a flagrant foul, which means he will be suspended for one game. This begs the question: if Henderson gets suspended for one game for what is not entirely clearly an intentional foul, how in the hell did Christian Laettner not get suspended for at least one game when he STOMPED ON AMINU TIMBERLAKE'S CHEST during the infamous Elite Eight game against Kentucky in 1992? Oh, I know why. It's because it was the NCAA tournament and it was Christian Laettner. This still stings because Laettner hit what is now his career-defining shot later in that game, and his Blue Devils went on to beat IU 81-78 in the Final Four the next weekend (during which Knight-hating ref Ted Valentine called a T on the IU bench for celebrating a big shot). I'm confident IU would have fared better against UK in the Final Four, and then beaten Michigan for the second time that year to claim national title number 6, and then for some reason, this would mean that Alan Henderson would not blow out his knee the next year and the #1 Hoosiers would not lose in the Elite Eight to Kansas and would have claimed their second national title in a row over Michigan (who they had beaten twice that year). But I'm not still bitter or anything.