Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Making a Metz of Me

Since there have been several requests for a Metz Suite recap, I'll oblige.

It all began, fittingly, on Nirvana Day -- February 15. Jester, Ari, and I left our respective workplaces a little early and headed to B-town to the Metz Suite, the penthouse suite in the Indiana Memorial Union hotel, which houses the likes of Oprah, Vladimir Putin, and some chick whose vagina hair stuck to the floor. We hadn't been there since the fall of 2006. Like Jessie never tells me, too long. Too fucking long.

We arrived Friday night around 9:30 or some shit like that. I didn't really pay attention because we had been cannonballing a handle of Rumplemintz since Lafayette. Joining us for the weekend were: TG, Spawn, Ball, Lizzie, Liz, Ashcraft, and Holt. Also, a German named Uter von Widenhofer would join us Saturday. It was a small but enthusiastic crowd.

We were floored to learn that LaBamba has CLOSED. I don't know what to think about this. My hope is that it is closed merely for remodeling. At this point, I refuse to look too far into it because I'm scared of the consequences.

Friday night we started off at Upstairs, where we downed some AMFs to start the night off right. Then we literally sprinted to the Bluebird to see the greatest band in the land, Hairbangers Ball. Tyler Steven was on lead vocals this night, instead of Vic Voxx. They switch off shows, if you didn't know.

At the Bird, behind the bar was none other than James Brown (the Pi Kapp, not the Godfather of Soul, the NFL Hall of Famer, or the NFL commentator). He hooked us up with some discounted drinks.

We drank, sang along, and avoided getting puked on. Afterwards, some people got Rockit's pizza, while others ordered a Big Ten Special from Pizza Express. For those of you unfortunate enough to have never experienced a Big Ten, it is a large one-topping pizza, an order of breadsticks, a dipping sauce -- although it is always best to order two -- and two drinks for $12.95. It used to be only $10. It is one of the best things you can order at 2:30 or 3 in the morning.

Saturday greeted us with a kraut (Uter). As he and Ball went to have lunch with the chancellor, a few of us (TG, Holt, Spawn, Jessie, and I) went to Village Deli for some breakfast, lunch, or brunch. We were told the wait would be 15 minutes. In Village Deli time, 15 minutes means 45 minutes. Groups of 7, 8, and 9 that arrived AFTER us got seated before we did. At least the food was good.

After the VD -- ha ha, VD -- we were innocently walking down Kirkwood back towards campus. We paused in front of the entrance to Steve & Barry's for no real reason, since their 2 for $19.95 t-shirt sale seemed par for the course. Then some college chick comes barreling out of Steve & Barry's, pukes a little on the landing, then proceeds to double over (with cheeks FULL of puke) and puke right into her left hand. Puke is dripping from her hand and down her left arm as she continues down the sidewalk and pukes a couple more times in her hand. After finished puking, she proceeds to carry the puke in her hand -- dripping -- to the garbage can and throws it away. How considerate! Spawn then explained that, after she threw her handful of vomit away, she licked the remnants off of her fingers. I guess she thought it would be uncouth to go back into Steve & Barry's (which she did) with stinky hands. I love college.

The main event of the weekend in Bloomington was the IU/Michigan State basketball game. Uter had a ticket, and so did Holt, but no one else did. Thus, the only legitimate option was to watch the game a Nick's -- the greatest college bar ever invented. The game didn't start until 9, so we figured we would be okay if we got there around 5. We were wrong. We got a small table in the Hump Room, which could not accommodate 10 people. However, we were lucky enough to know the guys at the booth just to the right of the top of the stairs, and they were all going to the game, so we snagged that table around 7 when they left. James Brown joined us for dinner before he had to go to work, and Cohee joined us later.

I made an educated decision to hold off on playing Sink the Bismarck until about a half hour before the game started. This turned out to be a good idea, as my hubris pushed me to purposely sink it on more than one occasion. This strategy is perfectly acceptable, except that I also had to drink it on several other occasions, thanks in large part to Ball's masterful pouring. I had to remove myself from the game at one point. Granted, this was after we had been playing for two hours, so at least I got my money's worth. At some point, IU won handily.

My hiatus from Sink proved effective, as it enabled me to be in it for the long haul, including our next and final bar stop, the one and only Kilroy's. Despite its overcrowdedness, we found a table by the back exit. Test tube shots were consumed (and the tubes broken, in compliance with longstanding tradition). The shot wheel was spun by at least one person, with negligible results (Jedi Mind Probe -- ouch).

After Kilroy's closed, Cohee implored us to come back to his house for some more drinks, but we can't handle that shit anymore, at least not at 3:30 in the morning. So instead, I got myself a hotdog from the hotdog stand outside Kilroy's. That wasn't enough. You knew it wouldn't be enough. So when I got back to the Metz Suite, I found out that some of the others had ordered some Mad Mushroom cheesesticks. These are an otherworldly combination of dough and cheese, made with a recipe handed down from Zeus himself. I decided that one large order of cheesesticks (which is the size of a large pizza) would not be enough, so I called and made a second order. Large, of course. It turns out that one large order would have been enough, but that didn't stop Holt and me from trying our best to put a dent in the second order. Eating yourself into a coma at 4:30 in the morning is never a good idea.

I am convinced that Dr. Metz haunts the master bedroom. Every time I sleep in that particular room, no matter how many or few Red-Bull-infused shots or drinks I consume, only get like four hours of sleep, awoken by my heart pounding. It happened both nights this trip. Having watched Paranormal State (which I recommend) several times, I now have no doubt it was Dr. Metz's ghost causing my problems, likely upset about the effects my late-night binging would have on my digestive system.

We managed to make it out alive -- barely. Ari, Jessie, and I then met my dad at Irish Lion for some breakfast, lunch, or brunch. For reasons that are still unclear to anyone, as soon as we sat down, he started into a diatribe about the pattern of plates that he had as a child (all of which were given to him at some point in the early '90s by his mother, for reasons that are also unclear). I don't know the point of the story or why it was necessary to tell us anything about it. More than anything, it left me confused. Is he looking to sell the plates? Maybe. Does he want to buy more? I don't fuckin' know. Does he want to recreate that scene in Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead where they're shooting plates and that dude says "the dishes are done, man"? There was nothing said to indicate that it's not a possibility. The point is, I have no fucking clue. It went on for a half hour, even after his friend and friend's ladyfriend joined us and I audibly said, "For some reason, we're talking about salad plates."

He did totally redeem himself later, however, with several Bronson-esque stories about a guy he knew from the Air Force. This dude was at my wedding. He is lanky and wore a bowtie. He is mild-mannered and extremely courteous and unimposing. His name is Allen, for Christ's sake. Keep that in mind.

So Allen at one point way back when (I think after he returned from being stationed in Turkey with my dad) lived in a garden apartment in a less-than-stellar area of St. Louis. He had a large Husky and a .357 Magnum for protection. So one day, someone knocks on his door. Allen senses something ain't right because, in order to get to the individual apartment doors, someone would have to get through the main door, which requires a key. I guess Allen must not have known his neighbors very well because he assumed it wasn't one of them, grabbed his Magnum, held it behind his back, grabbed the dog, and coolly made his way to the door. When he opened it, there was a dude on the other side who had been hoping to burgle. The would-be-burglar stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the dog, not even really noticing that Allen precariously had his other hand behind his back. The following conversation (more or less) ensued:

Burglar (stunned, confused, and a little scared): "Is that a wolf?" (although he apparently pronounced it "woof" -- see Kate, you're not the only one!)
Allen: "Take another step and you'll find out."
Burglar (still taken aback): "Is, is that a wolf?"
Allen (more drawn out and pointed): "If you take another step, you will find out."
Burglar (realizing he has bitten off more than he can chew and still unsatisfied with the previous answers): "I think I'm going to just go. Is that a wolf?"
Allen (cold and steely, looking down at the dog): "When you leave, don't run."

The burglar backs away slowly. When he gets near the main door, Allen gives his dog the command to bark, which sends the burglar into a tizzy. The next thing Allen sees are shadows of feet sprinting by his windows. At the local grocery store, he later overheard someone talking about a guy in the neighborhood "who has a wolf."

In addition to being Charles Bronson, Allen is also Chuck Norris. Apparently, he is (or was) a black belt in several martial arts. While living in the same area of St. Louis, he did what any badass with a wolf to feed does: he went to the grocery store and, in particular, to the meat counter. While deciding what cut of steak to get for his wolf, someone came up behind him and shoved something in his back that was supposed to be a gun. The guy demanded Allen's wallet. Since Allen is a ninja, he could tell that it wasn't a gun. He didn't know what it was exactly, but he knew it wasn't a gun. So, without turning around, Allen made one swift backwards movement with his elbow and broke the guy's nose. This story sent me over the top, and I immediately imagined the various badass movie scenes that could be made to sensationalize this moment:

Meat counter clerk (to Allen): "Can I help you?"
Allen: "I'll have a pound of ground chuck. Oh, and one of those ribeyes for my wolf."
[Meat counter clerk gets the meat, puts it on the counter.]
Meat counter clerk: "Anything else?"
[Robber approaches Allen and sticks fake gun in Allen's back]
Robber: "Give me your wallet, Poindexter."
Allen (to meat counter clerk, who is ducking behind the counter): "Oh, and a roll of paper towels for this guy."
Robber (shoving fake gun harder into Allen's back): "I'm not fucking around here, man. Give me your wallet or I'll fuckin' take you down, man."
Allen: "You first."
[Allen swiftly breaks the robber's nose with his elbow. Blood splatters everywhere. The robber falls to the ground in pain. Allen kicks him in the ribs, then grabs the intercom.]
Allen (through intercom): "Clean up at the meat counter."
[Allen then slaps exact change for the meat on the counter, grabs his chuck and ribeye, and walks out of the store, passing a group of grade school kids who are sitting outside the store on their bikes, but saw the whole thing through the window and, thus, are in complete awe of Allen as he walks past them.]
Kid #1: "Hey mister, aren't you the guy who has a pet wolf?"
Allen (to the kids): "You can't believe everything you hear. But yes."
[Allen flips each of them a quarter.]
Allen (to the kids): "Stay in school."

Aaaaannnnnndddd, scene!


RDC said...

For the record, I feel that the Avers 8 deal is superior to the Big Ten. If somehow Avers could get their hands on Pizza Express' recipe for breadsticks, then there would be no doubt.

Although Avers does have the distinct disadvantage of not handing out condoms from the back of a van, so it's really a toss up.

Kate said...

i'm hungry like a "woof" or maybe even many "wuves"