Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Fab. U. Lous.

An enjoyable weekend by any means.

After work Friday, Vandelay Industries had a game against the other 2-0 team in our softball league. I started the game off with a grounder to the right fielder that I legged out for a two-run homer. I managed to follow that up with three increasingly pathetic pop-ups, the first to the left fielder, the second to the third baseman, and the third to the pitcher. My goal for the rest of the season is to avoid popping out to the pitcher ever again.

After the game, the team headed to 7-10 Lounge (our sponsor) for some drinks and apps. It was while at 7-10 when I received a telephonic call from Holt "Gimme Some" Hedrick, who had just exited the interstate on his way to my house. He was in town for the ceremonial "wedding" of Dave "And Rae" Moore and a woman not named Rae. I quickly exited 7-10, under the auspices of an outbreak of gout, or as I called it, a "goutbreak." I sprinted home.

Once Holt was sufficiently parked and such, we headed to Kirkwood, where Ari, Jester, and Katie "It's My Last Day of Work Before I Make the Biggest Mistake in My Life By Going to Law School" Katz were awaiting our arrival. Gregerson and Christoff would eventually join us. Also in attendance with us was a crotchety old Prussian named Wilhelm.

Everyone but Wilhelm decided to go to Frank's (the bar on Clark, not the living quarters of Hall of Famer Frank Robinson, as you might have thought) to meet Holt's friends. Frank's is about as large as my package (i.e., not very). It's slender and tight, needing mirrors to give it the appearance that it's larger than it really is. And the same goes for Frank's.

The night quickly devolved, as Holt's friends had already been drinking at the rehearsal dinner. An indication of the level of intoxication was evidenced by the ornery chick who was passed out with her head lying on the bar. When confronted by a concerned Ari, the chick's response was something along the lines of, "Fuck off! Get me another shot of Pucker! And dammit, where the fuck is Wilhelm?!" Meanwhile, Jager Bombs were flowing like wine.

At a certain point in time, we became aware of the existence of food nearby, so several of us left Frank's. Our first stop was the legendary Wiener Circle, where I ordered a fucking char dog and some stupid filthy whoring cheese fries. Did I stutter, bitch? Holt order a plain god damn burger, you wretched, diseased hooker. The cheese on the cheese fries may taste like toe jam or possibly the gooey center of genital warts, but it is an undeniable cure for hangovers.

Not having shoved enough crap in our digestive systems, on the walk down Wrightwood, Holt opined that he would sure love some Bamba's. I grabbed the half-eaten burger from his hand and threw it on an unsuspecting lawn. "To LaBamba!" I yelled, as I pointed westward. Indeed, Friday night, Jessie, Holt, and I dined on both Wiener Circle and Bamba's. Granted, I only got nachos (regular, not super) at Bamba's, but this type of "double destruction" is only recommended once every six or seven months, as its harm to the body is barely reversible. Next Friday, I will attempt the "Four Coronary Corners of Lincoln Park": char dog and cheese fries from Wiener Circle, super steak burrito from LaBamba, gyro dinner from Lincoln Park Gyro, and a large deep dish pepperoni pizza from Lou Malnati's. And for dessert, I will eat a child.

I set my alarm for 10am on Saturday because I was led to believe that White Stripes tickets were going on sale at 10am "local time" (according to the White Stripes email distribution list). Perhaps they were in Edmonton or Boise at the time of the email because "local time" was actually 11am for ticket sales. Thus, I wasted a precious hour of sleep. I went back to bed and set the alarm for 11. As expected, it took me until about 10:54 to fall back asleep. Awesome. Nonetheless, I got White Stripes tickets for their Sunday 10/7 show at the Aragon. I'm pretty pumped about it.

Saturday morning I (along with many others) received an email from Tracey, explaining that she lost her phone and that the person who found it was trying to call the numbers to figure out how to return it. Or so she thought. Jessie text messaged Tracey's phone telling the person to take the phone to the Starbucks at Sheffield and Diversey and leave it with the staff (who Tracey knows very well). Here is the text Jessie got in return (verbatim, without changing spelling, punctuation, capitalization, grammar, or sentence composition):

"I bought this phone from a lady last nite for 30 dollars she told me it was hers im gonna try to find her 2 get my money back i will drop it off im sorry i did not no I stay down the street from there"

Then later, Tracey's friend Eric (who works at the aforementioned Starbucks) texted Tracey's phone, receiving a return message that explained something like, "I have to get my money back, and then I'll return the phone." It was unclear whether this meant this person was going to try to extort phone ransom money from Tracey or go hunting the streets for the "lady" (though I'd hardly call her a lady) who sold Tracey's phone to this simpleton, who apparently believed that when you buy a cell phone it comes pre-loaded with hundreds of contacts and bears the name "Tracey" on its screen. Another viable theory is that this was the work of the Symbionese Liberation Army. Needless to say, Tracey just got a new phone, rather than risk being the victim of a guerilla-style attack.

In the meantime, I taught Holt how to play the Wii. Actually, I should say, I taught Holt how to be humiliated while trying to play the Wii. Exhausted from knocking Holt out in the first round (again) in boxing, I decided that enough was enough, and Holt, Jester, Gregerson, and I went to Rocks for lunch and to watch the Sox/Cubs game. Way to go Sox.

Saturday evening, while Holt was at the wedding and reception, Christoff was nice enough to have Jester and I and Dan and Noreen Weeser* over for some pork chops. Afterward, we headed to the Kerryman in the Gold Coast for a $35 all-you-can-drink "Save the Ta-Tas" fundraiser for Lutzow's wife and sister-in-law, who are going to be participating in the 3-day walk for breast cancer. I've always been a fan of boobs, so I was glad to help out. My favorite line from their Evite was "Help save second base!" Anytime. If you, too, want to help save the ta-tas, here is the website for the online catalog of ta-ta-related apparel. Go nuts (or should I say, go tits).

While at the Kerryman, two dudes showed up wearing nearly matching sweaters with fat horizontal stripes. Unfortunately my camera phone was unable to capture this, but take it from me, this was hilarious and pathetic and weird.

After doing our damnedest to drink $35 worth of breast-saving booze in three hours, we all went to Butch McGuire's on Division. Once again, I was reminded why I never go to Division to drink: because while there, Christoff growls at me constantly and I am forced to smile in a manner that only gain me chins.

We stayed there for a beer or two, at which point Christoff, Jessie, and I headed back up north to Frank's (despite vowing never to go there again the previous night), which is where Holt was. After a few drinks there, we decided that yet another trip to Bamba's was in order.

After enjoying some burritos, Holt and I played some Wii. I finally let him win so I could get some damn rest.

After Holt left on Sunday, a bunch of us went to the Gay Pride Parade. It was easily the gayest parade I've been to in like a year. You may recall the Onion article from a few years back, "Gay-Pride Parade Sets Mainstream Acceptance of Gays Back 50 Years." I'm pretty sure this guy is what they were talking about.

Or maybe topless male cheerleaders who are cheering for no team in particular.

Or maybe guys dancing to blaring techno music while wearing only hot pants, thongs, bikinis, sashes, or angel wings on some sort of floating tribute to bacchanalia.

Or maybe floats for vet clinics that imply that their employees engage in anal sex while administering kennel cough shots.

Or maybe passing out Trojans, and magnums at that. Actually, Tana looks pretty happy about it.

And wouldn't you know it, who decides to make an appearance at the parade and show off his lovely post-op breasts? That's right, it's Wilhelm!!

Dudes with tits are funny. That's a simple fact, my friends.

Monday was a black day, as it marked the closing of the Diversey L station for a year for construction. Apparently the fact that cripples can't get up the stairs means that I have to alter my commuting plans for the next year, either walking (no pun intended) up to Wellington or down to Fullerton if I want to take the L, or taking the bus (never a preferable option). What's next, we give them a special federal law to enforce their rights?

In other news, did you guys hear about the 40-year-old high school track coach who married a 16-year-old student? If not, read this article (thanks to Christoff for the link). I love how the parents signed the consent form pretty much because they didn't want their daughter to have a tantrum. Guys, reading stories like this makes me pray to Zeus that I don't have a daughter. If I do ever spawn one, however, you can bet that if she asked me to sign a consent form to allow her to marry her high school track coach, I would incinerate her. Literally, I would burn her to death. There's not a jury in the world who would convict me because, let's face it, no one wants to be part of "the jury who thought it was okay for a 16-year-old girl to get drilled by her 40-year-old teacher."

I decided to give the #11 Lincoln/Sedgwick bus a try Tuesday morning, and it wasn't bad at all. I got a seat, and it only took a few minutes than when I walked up to Wellington to take the L on Monday.

Morgan sent me a link to Page 2's 101 Things Every Sports Fan Must Experience Before They Die. Little 500 comes in at 26. Pretty good for an intramural event, considering it beat out the Indy 500, the Kentucky Derby, the Daytona 500, the Running of the Bulls, and every professional sports all-star game.

My return to trivia at Rocks was less than triumphant. We'd Still Take Rod Beck Over Scott Eyre (comprised of Christoff, Gregerson, Tradd, and me) started off strong, but faltered in the late rounds to end up tied for third. There were two bright notes, however. First, Bears linebacker Hunter Hillenmeyer was playing trivia. I don't know how well his team did, but I don't think that Vanderbilt degree ended up being much of an advantage. Second, and more importantly, the second place team chose Saved By The Bell as the category for next week. I practically shit myself with excitement. Do they know who the fuck I am? Have they not been paying attention to my television-watching habits for the past 18 years? Good morning, Miss Bliss. Prepare to get ravaged.

Day 2 of trying the bus out was less than spectacular. It turns out the bus is about as reliable as you would expect a bus to be, taking about 7-8 minutes longer today than yesterday. Thus, I had to rush to the office and then to court in a suit in 85 degrees and 95% humidity. Once again, thanks CTA.

So when I opened up Yahoo this morning, one of the top "In The News" headlines was "British rock band the Verve reunites." True as it may be, I fail to see how a one-hit wonder reuniting merits any attention. Now if T'Pau or Marcy Playground were to reunite, then we'd have something to talk about.

As if that wasn't enough, Katie "My Dog's Head Is HUGE" Miltner forwarded me a troubling story: legendary hot dog eating contest champ Takeru Kobayashi has been diagnosed with an arthritic jaw. Thus, he will not be competing for his seventh straight "Yellow Mustard Belt" at next week's infamous Nathan's hot dog eating contest. You would think that a man who continually shoves 50+ hot dogs into his mouth within a 12-minute period would have no jaw problems whatsoever. Er, I mean, would be dead by now.

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