Let It Rock

Happy Fourth of July, you patriotic bastards.

Friday
Friday was inconsequential. At softball, I went 0-1, reaching on a fielder's choice, with 2 BB, and a run. But I did NOT pop out to the pitcher.

Saturday
Saturday was magical. I don't really remember what happened up until 3:45pm, and frankly, it doesn't matter. Around 3:45, Jester and I walked down Diversey. I was wearing my "Mighty Midwest: I Ain't Afraid of No Coast" t-shirt, and I looked glorious. At a certain point along said thoroughfare, we picked up Tim Weeser*, who was anxiously awaiting our arrival sitting on his stoop with a sixer of the Champagne of Beers. I inserted the sextet of ale into a rolling cooler I had with me. Things were all falling into place.

Several blocks later, a stop at a liquor store seemed in order. Six was not enough. A sixer of Red Stripe (hooray beer), a twelver of light Budweiser, and a bag of cubed iced water completed the necessary rations for a bus ride.

We arrived at Duffy's with vigor. Soon Sean "Don't Need A" Riesenbeck, Bridget "Bridge Builder" Spanbauer, and Katie "Don't Call Me Wagner" Wegner showed up. Sean recently broke his collarbone in a jousting accident while moonlighting at Medieval Times, or so I assume. We boarded the bus. Katie's friend Patty and Patty's boyfriend Steve showed up just before the bus hit the road. Their arrival completed the most holy of octets -- hereinafter referred to as "The Salav Eight." Where was The Salav Eight going via motor coach from a Lincoln Park tavern, you ask? To Tinley Park, of course, although Saturday night you may as well have called it Paradise.

The bus ride was a delight. Beer flowed like wine. Dreams came true. People urinated. The Salav Eight reveled. Our arrival at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre was unceremonious, but quite punctual. The excitement was palpable, as was the smell of spilt beer. It was absolutely necessary that we consume more beer in the parking lot, as it postponed the need to spend $7 inside for the exact same beer. Well, not the exact same beer, since that would be impossible, but the same brand of beer.


The Salav Eight found a nice spot on the lawn, with a clear view of the stage. After some nachos, we were ready for the soothing sounds of Lou Gramm. Foreigner played a nice six- or eight-song set, complete with all of their hits: "Hot Blooded," "Cold As Ice," "Jukebox Hero," and so on and so forth. I enjoyed myself.

Next up was Styx, a band that I have never really lusted after. While they did play "Renegade," I was more than disappointed that they did not play "Mr. Roboto." We was robbed. Dick Butkus's son was not impressed either.

And then it happened. Thundering drums from the Thunder God. A song extolling the majesty of '70s British glam and satellites of love. This, my friends, was "Rocket." The "Mighty Midwest" shirt came screaming off, revealing two 66% tanned arms and a sleeveless Union Jack shirt. It was go time.

After "Rocket" came two more from Hysteria, "Animal" and the rarely heard "Excitable." Next up was "Foolin'," followed by two lesser known songs off of High 'N' Dry, "Mirror Mirror" and "Another Hit and Run." Text messages to Greg Weeser* were being returned with outright shock and envy.

With "Love Bites," Tim fittingly tried to vampirize Sean.

The next song was their cover of David Essex's "Rock On." During "Two Steps Behind," Steve played Patty like a guitar and Bridget thought it was funny to pretend Patty was a bunny rabbit.

Next up was another High 'N' Dry song, "Bringin' On the Heartbreak," which started out acoustic and ended electric. For the first time during my attendance at a Def Leppard concert, they played "Switch 625," a guitar-driven instrumental song that follows "Bringin' On the Heartbreak" on High 'N' Dry. It's particularly remarkable because it was Steve Clark's song. As you may not know, Steve Clark died in 1991 from a heroin overdose. Needless to say, tears were streaming down my face and urine down my leg.

The last four songs of the main set were otherwordly. "Hysteria," "Armageddon It," "Photograph." By the time Joe Elliot exclaimed "Love is like a bomb" at the beginning of "Pour Some Sugar On Me," I had reached a state of nirvana. Nirvana means "really drunk," right?

Sadly, Tinley Park's noise ordinance prevented them from playing past 11pm. Thus, their encore was limited to one song: "Rock of Ages."

The Salav Eight left the Amphitheatre emotionally drained. I dropped a full bottle of High Life on the bus ride back.

Upon my return home, the edited version of Big Lebowski was on WGN, so I fried up some eggs and had a nice watch. This might be one of the best edited movies ever made, given the number of times they say "fuck" in the real version. My favorite part is when Walter is beating the red Corvette with a crowbar. In the real movie, he says, "Do you see what happens, Larry? Do you see what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass?" In the edited version, it goes, "Do you see what happens, Larry? Do you see what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps?" (not "fight," as Tradd and Christoff may lead you to believe). Good ship.

Sunday
Two things of note occurred on Sunday. One, I played some wicked cornhole on Peterson's roof deck. Two, I finally saw Flight of the Conchords, the hilarious new comedy on HBO. New Zealanders have funny accents.

Monday
Ari sent the link for this picture. If you've ever wondered what it would look like if Chris Farley was a three-year-old girl, your wait is over.

Tuesday
Some dude was hammering away on his Blackberry while taking a dump at work. Then he didn't wash his hands, either. Not cool. Seriously, there's no need whatsoever to be handling any sort of electronic device while you are taking a shit.

Trivia at Rocks was packed. We had to break into two teams because an inordinate number of players. The Tori Conundrum, comprised of me, Jesterio, the Brothers Weeser* (minus Greg, of course), Tim's new roommate (Tim), and Tim's (as in Tim's roommate, not Tim) girlfriend from Omaha, Kate. I did my part, acing the Saved By The Bell Round and getting 19 out of 20 in the music round. Sadly, we got smoked in the final general trivia round, finishing in sixth. It was a disgrace to the name The Tori Conundrum.

Disgusted with our performance, Jester and I headed up to Black Rock, on Damen, just north of Addison, where Kyla, Alex, Ari, Lynn, Peter, Luke, and probably others were enjoying forsty beverages. They had Point cans for $2.50, so that was a plus. A rain-soaked cab ride home did little to quell my disappointment from trivia.

Wednesday
Wednesday I gorged myself twice, as an homage to Joey Chestnut's world record 66 hotdogs in 12 minutes in the Nathan's hot dog eating contest. For lunch, Jester and I met Spawn, his wife Autumne, and his brother Scott at Gino's East for some pizza. Spawn was up here for a few days for shits and giggles. For dinner, we went to Rocks, where I had a Nacho Burger. Spawn ate to the point of discomfort.

Between acts of gluttony, I watched nearly all of the Back to the Future trilogy on HBO.

Thursday
Jessie informed me that she likes the move Drop Dead Fred. Sadly, there is no falsity in that statement. Meanwhile, she is battling a debilitating addiction to Smacks. Not smack (as in heroin), but Smacks (as in Honey Smacks, the cereal).