It was another pretty damn good weekend.
Friday
Friday night was slightly out of hand. A little before 9pm, Jester, Gregerson, and I arrived at Messner's on Southport for yet another $35 three-hour all-you-can-drink fundraiser for the three-day breast cancer walk, this time sponsored by Kyla. I absolutely loathe anything that hurts or leads to the removal of titties, so once again I happily did my part to save second base.
Our waitress bore a striking resemblance to a pre-Friends Jennifer Aniston, possibly from the Ferris Bueller TV show era or Leprechaun. Either way, she has honed her craft. We gave her a phat tip up front, which ensured that she brought us a round every 15-20 minutes, prompting us to keep a murderer's pace.
At some point, Holt (yes, THE Holt) showed up, along with Mikey. Holt got a ride to Chicago from Katie "Too Cool for School" Miltner, who decided to come up for the weekend for God knows what reason. All I know, is that whatever it was must have been pretty fucking cool because I didn't see her the whole weekend. I learned that Katie is a horrible text messager and unable to decipher the English language when used to denote the name of a bar. Repeated attempts to find out the bar where she and her friends were hanging out Friday night were returned with "Z" or "the place with the Z" or "all your base are belong to us." Jessie was sobbing, babbling incoherently about eye patches and golden retrievers with grossly oversized heads.
To calm Jessie down, we took her to the Vu, where she found solace in erotic photo hunt. Beneath the pounding Latin rhythms and soothing acoustic guitars of The Bandoleros, Jessie could be heard faintly, muttering over and over again, "She will burn for this. Absolutely fucking burn." By the way, this is the first time I've ever seen The Bandoleros at Déjà Vu, despite the fact that there is a giant sign on the side of the building that has been there for the last few years, advertising The Bandoleros as playing there live every Friday night. Perhaps the threat of a class action under Illinois Consumer Fraud Act became all too real, as zealous Bandoleros fans kept showing up Friday after Friday, proclaiming, "¡Donde estan The Bandoleros!
An inconsolable Jessie and I left somewhere around 3, and when we arrived home, she administered one of the harshest beat downs she's ever doled out. As she rained blows upon me with what used to be a standing lamp, all I could do was scream, "I'm so sorry. I just don't think Dane Cook's that funny."
Saturday
The next thing I knew, it was 1:45pm, and Jessie was prodding me with a tire iron, saying, "Wake up you rat motherfucker. It's time to go the Sox game with the Hirsts." Thankfully, I heal quickly. There were virtually no signs of the broken ribs, shattered cheekbone, facial lacerations, and hobbled feet I had suffered at Jessie's hands less than 11 hours before.
The game itself was boiling. It was still up in the air as to whether this would be Mark Buerhle's last start for the Sox, and he didn't disappoint, pitching 8 shutout innings. Morgan and I were happy. I'm not sure if Jessie and Melissa noticed.
After the game, the four of us went to Jimbo's, which is pretty much the only bar around Comiskey to go to. Of course it's closing in a few months, so we have to take advantage while it's still available. And let me tell you, it did not disappoint.
We admired the many pictures on the walls, including some headshots of people we had never heard of. For instance, take Kelly Ann Heeter, whose picture is pictured here:
According to Google, she doesn't exist. And yes, Judson, I've looked into it, and it's not Crystal Bernard's real name.
And then there was this classic South Side move. When your hands are full, where do you put your can of Miller Lite? That's right, between the boobs.
But the ultimate highlight was when we saw none other than WFLD Fox News at 9 co-anchor Mark Suppelsa. If this picture were at all clear, you would see Mr. Suppelsa -- with the Sox beach towel he got (along with the other first 19,999 fans) draped over his shoulder -- hitting (?) on a couple women who appeared to be in their 20s and unattractive. Come on, Mark. What would Robin say? Luckily, he would not be the most famous person I would encounter that night.
After Jimbo's the four of us headed to De Cero, a taqueria (that's Mexican for "a restaurant that features tacos prominently") in the West Loop. Ari was awaiting our arrival. De Cero was pretty damn good. I highly recommend it. My only word of caution is to know your limits. "I shouldn't have had that fifth taco" was a mantra I would be repeating throughout the night.
From there, the Hirsts took Ari to their home to get her drunk, while Jester and I went home to shower and walk the dog. Jessie laid down and stayed there. I went to Piece, where Gregerson and Chenandler Bong were awaiting my arrival. They had been at the Taste of Chicago's free concert in Grant Park featuring Cracker, Soul Asylum, and Cheap Trick.
Earlier I had received word through Jessie from Bill (co-owner of Piece and Mayor of the Dog Park) that Rick Nielsen (co-owner of Piece and lead guitarist for Cheap Trick) would be at Piece. I ran into Bill as soon as I got there, and about 2 minutes later, he whisked Rick Nielsen (who was on his way out) up to meet me. The conversation went something like this:
Bill (leading Rick up to me, and insinuating that I was a cabbie): Rick, I found you a cab.
Rick: Okay.
Bill: Rick, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Andrew.
Me: Hi, nice to meet you.
(Rick and I shake hands)
Rick: Nice to meet you too.
Bill: I know Andrew and his wife from the dog park.
Rick: Oh, that's nice.
Me: Yeah.
And then Rick headed out the front door, into a vehicle driven by someone whose profession is to drive other people around in vehicles. Guys, it was magical. I know our meeting was brief, but I could feel a connection. It was as if when he said "Oh, that's nice," he meant, "I wrote 'Dream Police' about your many disturbing and vivid dreams, even though you were not yet two when I wrote it. I knew, man. I fucking knew."
After Rick left, I went back to hanging out with my non-Cheap-Trick friends, Gregerson and Chenandler Bong. Later, Morgan, Ari, and Tim Weeser* showed up. The Fifth Taco Syndrome, as I'm now calling it, was only exacerbated by the bubbling of beer. I was in gastric discomfort to the point where I could only handle a half a beer while at Piece. It didn't help that we were watching the 2006 and 2007 Nathan's hot dog eating contest.
Meanwhile, Morgan, who is famous for "trap dooring" when he's at bars, pulled his best trap door yet. In the middle of a sentence while talking to Ari, Morgan turned around, put his glass down, and left the bar. Well done, sir.
At around 1:15, the rest of us went to Hidden Shamrock to meet Holt and Mikey. We were relieved that the sign on the bar said it was open until 3am. The Fifth Taco Syndrome had subsided to the extent that I could handle a couple beers. For some reason, several of the TVs in the bar were playing the Sly Stallone and Estelle Getty vehicle, Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot. From what I gathered, it's not a very good movie per se, but probably a laugh-a-minute, knowing Estelle's wry wit.
You know what pisses me off? When bars advertise that they're open until 3, and then call last call at 2:15 and kick everyone out by 2:30. That's what Hidden Shamrock does, apparently because they hate making money. That's bullshit. I wish you ill Hidden Shamrock.
After that, Holt headed to Bamba's alone, Gregerson to the Vu alone, and the rest of us to our respective homes. Once again, no Miltner. Great to see you this weekend, Katie. Jessie sends her regards, and by that I mean that you're dead to her. And by that I mean I mean that you should fear for your life because she's on her way to Dayton with a coat hanger, a katana sword, and an inordinate amount of electrical tape. And by that I mean that she's at a book club meeting getting hammered and talking about a book with other like-minded women of similar a demographic.
Sunday
Jester and I headed out to LaGrange in the afternoon to have dinner with my mom. For anyone interested in purchasing a piece of history, David Hasselhoff's high school home is up for sale. For only $1,990,000, it can be yours! Its MLS number is 06534614, and it's magnificent.
Monday
For anyone who thinks smoking is bad for your health, try to think of the last time you met a smoker with Parkinson's Disease. Pretty tough, huh? Well, there's a reason for that. I'm actually surprised that anyone was ever allowed to release results that showed positive effects of smoking, but bravo.
Fearing Parkinson's, I smoked an American Spirit after my Second City class, thereafter hopping in a cab, in which I found a pink Razr phone. Remembering the extortionist tactics of the woman who bought Tracey's lost phone a few weeks ago from "a lady," I decided that I wouldn't let the same thing happen here. It wasn't hard, since someone whose handle is "Hide BB" kept calling. Once I was out of the cab, I broke the phone in half and threw it away. I didn't want to deal with that shit.
But seriously, within 20 minutes, the woman who lost the phone met me at the corner of Sheffield & Diversey with one of her friends. She offered to buy me a drink, but I declined, since she was not attractive. Instead, I told her, "Just do the same thing for someone else if it ever happens." Pay it forward, my friends.
Tuesday
In an attempt to bury the hatchet, Katie sent me a link to the story about the guy from Oregon who flew 193 miles in a lawn chair tied to helium balloons. While I thought it was a nice gesture, since she knows how much of a lawn chair flight fanatic I am, frankly it wasn't enough. What do I look like, a Welshman?* Nice try, Katie.
So, I'm watching the MLB All-Star game, and Paula Cole is singing "America the Beautiful." Not that she was much of a looker before, but Jesus Paula, where have all the cowboys gone? Was Shawn Colvin not available?
Friday
Friday night was slightly out of hand. A little before 9pm, Jester, Gregerson, and I arrived at Messner's on Southport for yet another $35 three-hour all-you-can-drink fundraiser for the three-day breast cancer walk, this time sponsored by Kyla. I absolutely loathe anything that hurts or leads to the removal of titties, so once again I happily did my part to save second base.
Our waitress bore a striking resemblance to a pre-Friends Jennifer Aniston, possibly from the Ferris Bueller TV show era or Leprechaun. Either way, she has honed her craft. We gave her a phat tip up front, which ensured that she brought us a round every 15-20 minutes, prompting us to keep a murderer's pace.
At some point, Holt (yes, THE Holt) showed up, along with Mikey. Holt got a ride to Chicago from Katie "Too Cool for School" Miltner, who decided to come up for the weekend for God knows what reason. All I know, is that whatever it was must have been pretty fucking cool because I didn't see her the whole weekend. I learned that Katie is a horrible text messager and unable to decipher the English language when used to denote the name of a bar. Repeated attempts to find out the bar where she and her friends were hanging out Friday night were returned with "Z" or "the place with the Z" or "all your base are belong to us." Jessie was sobbing, babbling incoherently about eye patches and golden retrievers with grossly oversized heads.
To calm Jessie down, we took her to the Vu, where she found solace in erotic photo hunt. Beneath the pounding Latin rhythms and soothing acoustic guitars of The Bandoleros, Jessie could be heard faintly, muttering over and over again, "She will burn for this. Absolutely fucking burn." By the way, this is the first time I've ever seen The Bandoleros at Déjà Vu, despite the fact that there is a giant sign on the side of the building that has been there for the last few years, advertising The Bandoleros as playing there live every Friday night. Perhaps the threat of a class action under Illinois Consumer Fraud Act became all too real, as zealous Bandoleros fans kept showing up Friday after Friday, proclaiming, "¡Donde estan The Bandoleros!
An inconsolable Jessie and I left somewhere around 3, and when we arrived home, she administered one of the harshest beat downs she's ever doled out. As she rained blows upon me with what used to be a standing lamp, all I could do was scream, "I'm so sorry. I just don't think Dane Cook's that funny."
Saturday
The next thing I knew, it was 1:45pm, and Jessie was prodding me with a tire iron, saying, "Wake up you rat motherfucker. It's time to go the Sox game with the Hirsts." Thankfully, I heal quickly. There were virtually no signs of the broken ribs, shattered cheekbone, facial lacerations, and hobbled feet I had suffered at Jessie's hands less than 11 hours before.
The game itself was boiling. It was still up in the air as to whether this would be Mark Buerhle's last start for the Sox, and he didn't disappoint, pitching 8 shutout innings. Morgan and I were happy. I'm not sure if Jessie and Melissa noticed.
After the game, the four of us went to Jimbo's, which is pretty much the only bar around Comiskey to go to. Of course it's closing in a few months, so we have to take advantage while it's still available. And let me tell you, it did not disappoint.
We admired the many pictures on the walls, including some headshots of people we had never heard of. For instance, take Kelly Ann Heeter, whose picture is pictured here:
According to Google, she doesn't exist. And yes, Judson, I've looked into it, and it's not Crystal Bernard's real name.
And then there was this classic South Side move. When your hands are full, where do you put your can of Miller Lite? That's right, between the boobs.
But the ultimate highlight was when we saw none other than WFLD Fox News at 9 co-anchor Mark Suppelsa. If this picture were at all clear, you would see Mr. Suppelsa -- with the Sox beach towel he got (along with the other first 19,999 fans) draped over his shoulder -- hitting (?) on a couple women who appeared to be in their 20s and unattractive. Come on, Mark. What would Robin say? Luckily, he would not be the most famous person I would encounter that night.
After Jimbo's the four of us headed to De Cero, a taqueria (that's Mexican for "a restaurant that features tacos prominently") in the West Loop. Ari was awaiting our arrival. De Cero was pretty damn good. I highly recommend it. My only word of caution is to know your limits. "I shouldn't have had that fifth taco" was a mantra I would be repeating throughout the night.
From there, the Hirsts took Ari to their home to get her drunk, while Jester and I went home to shower and walk the dog. Jessie laid down and stayed there. I went to Piece, where Gregerson and Chenandler Bong were awaiting my arrival. They had been at the Taste of Chicago's free concert in Grant Park featuring Cracker, Soul Asylum, and Cheap Trick.
Earlier I had received word through Jessie from Bill (co-owner of Piece and Mayor of the Dog Park) that Rick Nielsen (co-owner of Piece and lead guitarist for Cheap Trick) would be at Piece. I ran into Bill as soon as I got there, and about 2 minutes later, he whisked Rick Nielsen (who was on his way out) up to meet me. The conversation went something like this:
Bill (leading Rick up to me, and insinuating that I was a cabbie): Rick, I found you a cab.
Rick: Okay.
Bill: Rick, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Andrew.
Me: Hi, nice to meet you.
(Rick and I shake hands)
Rick: Nice to meet you too.
Bill: I know Andrew and his wife from the dog park.
Rick: Oh, that's nice.
Me: Yeah.
And then Rick headed out the front door, into a vehicle driven by someone whose profession is to drive other people around in vehicles. Guys, it was magical. I know our meeting was brief, but I could feel a connection. It was as if when he said "Oh, that's nice," he meant, "I wrote 'Dream Police' about your many disturbing and vivid dreams, even though you were not yet two when I wrote it. I knew, man. I fucking knew."
After Rick left, I went back to hanging out with my non-Cheap-Trick friends, Gregerson and Chenandler Bong. Later, Morgan, Ari, and Tim Weeser* showed up. The Fifth Taco Syndrome, as I'm now calling it, was only exacerbated by the bubbling of beer. I was in gastric discomfort to the point where I could only handle a half a beer while at Piece. It didn't help that we were watching the 2006 and 2007 Nathan's hot dog eating contest.
Meanwhile, Morgan, who is famous for "trap dooring" when he's at bars, pulled his best trap door yet. In the middle of a sentence while talking to Ari, Morgan turned around, put his glass down, and left the bar. Well done, sir.
At around 1:15, the rest of us went to Hidden Shamrock to meet Holt and Mikey. We were relieved that the sign on the bar said it was open until 3am. The Fifth Taco Syndrome had subsided to the extent that I could handle a couple beers. For some reason, several of the TVs in the bar were playing the Sly Stallone and Estelle Getty vehicle, Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot. From what I gathered, it's not a very good movie per se, but probably a laugh-a-minute, knowing Estelle's wry wit.
You know what pisses me off? When bars advertise that they're open until 3, and then call last call at 2:15 and kick everyone out by 2:30. That's what Hidden Shamrock does, apparently because they hate making money. That's bullshit. I wish you ill Hidden Shamrock.
After that, Holt headed to Bamba's alone, Gregerson to the Vu alone, and the rest of us to our respective homes. Once again, no Miltner. Great to see you this weekend, Katie. Jessie sends her regards, and by that I mean that you're dead to her. And by that I mean I mean that you should fear for your life because she's on her way to Dayton with a coat hanger, a katana sword, and an inordinate amount of electrical tape. And by that I mean that she's at a book club meeting getting hammered and talking about a book with other like-minded women of similar a demographic.
Sunday
Jester and I headed out to LaGrange in the afternoon to have dinner with my mom. For anyone interested in purchasing a piece of history, David Hasselhoff's high school home is up for sale. For only $1,990,000, it can be yours! Its MLS number is 06534614, and it's magnificent.
Monday
For anyone who thinks smoking is bad for your health, try to think of the last time you met a smoker with Parkinson's Disease. Pretty tough, huh? Well, there's a reason for that. I'm actually surprised that anyone was ever allowed to release results that showed positive effects of smoking, but bravo.
Fearing Parkinson's, I smoked an American Spirit after my Second City class, thereafter hopping in a cab, in which I found a pink Razr phone. Remembering the extortionist tactics of the woman who bought Tracey's lost phone a few weeks ago from "a lady," I decided that I wouldn't let the same thing happen here. It wasn't hard, since someone whose handle is "Hide BB" kept calling. Once I was out of the cab, I broke the phone in half and threw it away. I didn't want to deal with that shit.
But seriously, within 20 minutes, the woman who lost the phone met me at the corner of Sheffield & Diversey with one of her friends. She offered to buy me a drink, but I declined, since she was not attractive. Instead, I told her, "Just do the same thing for someone else if it ever happens." Pay it forward, my friends.
Tuesday
In an attempt to bury the hatchet, Katie sent me a link to the story about the guy from Oregon who flew 193 miles in a lawn chair tied to helium balloons. While I thought it was a nice gesture, since she knows how much of a lawn chair flight fanatic I am, frankly it wasn't enough. What do I look like, a Welshman?* Nice try, Katie.
So, I'm watching the MLB All-Star game, and Paula Cole is singing "America the Beautiful." Not that she was much of a looker before, but Jesus Paula, where have all the cowboys gone? Was Shawn Colvin not available?
*Actually, I am part Welsh. Cymru am byth, motherfuckers!
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2 comments:
If Kelly Ann Heeter is not actually Crystal Bernard as you say, did she at least perform a duet with Peter Cetera? Her hairstyle in the photo seems to mandate it.
1. I'm glad you finally understand just how cool I am.
2. When I am drunk I have difficulty articulating. The "z" bar was very descriptive -- it obviously meant Zelia's. Duh.
3. Talk like a pirate day is coming up -- get excited.
4. If I tell you about Marty's unit will you forgive me?
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