Tuesday Top Ten: Moments from the Weekend

I meant to post this yesterday, but ended up going to play some trivia instead.  I'm sorry to keep you waiting.  Anyway, I had a pretty damn good Memorial Day weekend.  Here are the top ten moments, in chronological order.

1.  Friday afternoon, the office closed early.  That, combined with the Dexedrine, had whipped me into a frenzy, so I sprinted the three miles home rather than take the L.  People I passed on the street were in absolute awe as I breezed past them.  I should also point out that my office has moved to an all-mesh dress code.

2.  Friday night, I went to Rocks with Gregerson, his ladyfriend Colleen, and Daniel.  Karaoke was sung.  I was baffled when a dude got up there to sing "Gin and Juice" and had to stop after the first verse because he didn't know the words.  First, he broke the most important rule of karaoke:  don't sing a song you don't know the words to.  Second, who doesn't know every word to "Gin and Juice?"  To make up for his horrible performance, someone else got up there and did a flawless "Nuthin' But a G Thang" with no words on the screen.  Gregerson and I performed an eerie spoken-word version of Skid Row's "18 and Life."

3.  Saturday morning, morning I got a haircut.  Just to clear up any potential confusion, I got them all cut.  All of them.

4.  Saturday afternoon, we took the kids to Arlington to teach them how to handicap the ponies.  It was hot as balls, but the experience was worth it.  As it turns out, all you have to do to win money is correctly predict the finishing order of horses.  Here was our view.

5.  Saturday evening, my dad came to visit.  We ate Thai food, watched TV, drank different kinds of alcohol (did you know they now make white wine?), and discussed the ins and outs of interstate pet transport.

6.  Sunday afternoon, we went to my nephew's first birthday.  This happened.

 At the birthday party, we also watched the Indy 500, as Takuma Sato made what could have been an awesome last lap into a win under caution for a Scot with an Italian name married to a woman who graduated from a college with a coach who has had two (soon to be four) Final Fours vacated.

7.  Sunday evening, the kids were at my mom's house for the night, so Jester and I raged (well, that was my goal anyway).  We went to a house party/cookout, where we drank some beers and debated whether pro football will exist in 30 years.  (It will, by the way, so calm down.)  After that, we went to Old Town Ale House for a beer, then to Fireside Inn for literally 30 seconds, then to Gamekeepers for a couple drinks and a few swings at the punching bag.  Jester was having indigestion, heartburn, or some other made-up gastrointestinal malady, so we went home around 1:30, instead of 4, as I had hoped.  We hopped into a cab, when I performed what I thought was a noble act.  Jester was wearing a dress with a braided leather belt over it, since apparently chicks can't just wear dresses by themselves anymore.  After we got into the cab, she took the belt off and said something like, "Oh, I feel so much better."  This indicated to me that the belt was the source of her discomfort, so I did what any loving husband who doesn't want to see his wife suffer would do.  I held out my hand.  She gave me the belt.  I immediately dropped it out of the cab window onto Lincoln Avenue.  That was not what she wanted.  A tirade ensued, resulting in the cab pulling two mid-block U-turns so that we could retrieve the belt.  After we got the belt back, we spent the rest of the ride home laughing.

8.  Monday morning, I got my chest full of white pants out of storage.

9.  Monday for lunch, we met up with Jester's friend Beth, who was in town with her husband and his kids for the weekend.  Jester did not wear a belt.  We went to DMK, which is a fantastic burger bar not too far from where we live.  I got the Santo, which is a special burger for May on Cubs home games.  It is a burger topped with Italian beef, fontina cheese, giardiniera, and au jus.  It was delicious.  No word on whether, in order to get it on the menu, Cubs fans had to bitch about it not being on the menu for 20 years.

10.  Monday afternoon, we went to my mom's for a BBQ.   I pounded the last six bottles of Tequiza left in the world, cranked some Sabbath, and punted a mini soccer ball straight up into the air about 40 feet and didn't even move as it fell right back into my hands.  The look on Daughter and Lollipop's faces can only be described as a combination of concern and pride.

11.  Bonus!  Yesterday afternoon around 3:45, Roy's, a furniture store a few blocks from us, went up in flames.  It was a pretty big blaze.  You could see it from the Loop (several miles away).  Several blocks were closed off, and traffic was diverted.  This would normally not be major area news, except for the fact that it was located right next to the L tracks about two blocks from a pretty big L station that services three train lines.  Train and bus service was interrupted during rush hour, which equates to a disaster for the hundreds of thousands of people who were trying to go north of the Loop to get home.  Jester and I decided to share a cab.  There were no cabs at the usually full cab stand in front of my building, so we walked about another block and lucked into one at a hotel.  Traffic was so bad in our neighborhood because of the fire-related detours that we just got out over a half-mile from our place and walked the rest of the way.  Here are a couple photos, courtesy of Creature.

They were already tearing the rest of the building down today.  I guess we won't be getting the love seat that matches our couch anytime soon.  Our team name last night was One Day Only: Fire Sale at Roy's.  We one of about five with Roy's-related names.

No Tuesday Top Ten

I'm too distraught over last night to post a Tuesday Top Ten this week. As a result of Michigan State's bed shitting, I missed out on approximately $801 that should have been mine. Worse yet, I was in a squares pool, and my numbers were 9 and 3. Thanks to some white dude's ill-advised lay-up with a few seconds left -- instead of making a three or drawing the foul and making the free throw -- UNC won 89-72. And with that, I missed out on another $1,000. And then my name wasn't called in the Rocks drawing for a trip to Vegas. These are just the latest in a long list of near misses that have come back to haunt me:

• In '73, it was between me and Paul Rodgers for lead singer of Bad Company. Needless to say, every time I hear "Feel Like Makin' Love," I feel like making hate (and sometimes ginger snaps, which I can't really explain).
• In '77, I was almost beaten out by like a million guys just like me, but I just had to be first. The rest, as they say, is a tortured, uneventful, and largely irrelevant history.
• In '85, Doc Brown let some dude in a puffy orange vest get first choice over me, so he got to go back to 1955, while I was forced to go back to 1973 and try out to be the lead singer of a band that an eight-year-old had no business fronting.
• In '90, for $2, I could have purchased either a third-year Michael Jordan card, an Emmitt Smith rookie card, or a Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card, but, I splurged, and for an extra fifty cents, I got a Chris Sabo rookie card instead.
• In '96, I was passed up by Barry Alvarez for a scholarship that went to some overweight running back whose name escapes me.
• In 2000, I went to law school, instead of choosing a career path that didn't involve so much daily soul crushing.
• Between 2002 and 2006, I was told by no fewer than twelve law firms or corporations that "it was between you and one other person and, well . . ."
• In 2006, I sang "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" at live band karaoke at Piece, but all of the major label A&R reps in the audience got there just after I finished.

So basically, with a few breaks, my obit could have read: "Time traveling platinum-selling Heisman winner who never went to law school, but had twelve law jobs, made hundreds from baseball cards, was re-discovered by EMI at pizzeria, and won a trip to Vegas and nearly $2000 after Michigan State won 2009 NCAA title 99-13, was never conceived." But now, with last night's losses, I have nothing left to live for (aside from my beautiful wife and autistic dog, of course. Oh, and hair band music.).

"Can't We Give Ourselves One More Chance?"

I love nice weather.

"These are the days, it never rains but it pours"
During the day on Friday, I emailed several people to see if they wanted to meet up at Chi-Town Tap ("CTT") at 7 for some $1 bottles and $2 burgers. It seemed like a fairly rational and reasonable way to start the weekend. Unfortunately, I suck at most things in life, including judging the amount of time it takes to finish an assignment that I thought I would have done by 5 on Friday. So everyone was waiting -- as Tradd said, "with bated breath" -- at the CTT while I was toiling away at work until 8:15. Awesome. I love billing 12 hours on a Friday, especially when it's pretty much all my own fault. After I got done, I just went straight to the CTT, where Jessie, Ari, Tana, Kyla, Alex, Tradd, Tron, Tron's friend Joe, and several of Joe's ladyfriends had already been enjoying the shit out of buckets of $1 bottles without me (as you might imagine). Upon my arrival, the group became decidedly uneasy, probably due to my uncontrollable panting and hysterical sobbing.

After a while, being surrounded by 19-year-olds became old for some people, so we all left. However, we left in shifts, so as not to upset the children with a single jarring exit. Everyone else went to their respective homes, while Tradd and I headed up to Will's Northwoods Inn to make fun of cheeseheads with Jeremy "The Floppy Burrito" DeMuth and his posse. Also joining us there were by brother Reed (as opposed to my other brother?) and David "House of" Payne. The conversation ranged from Kaiser Chiefs to Kings of Leon, with little in between.

"Sat on a fence, but it don't work"
Saturday the weather was glorious (it probably was glorious Friday too, but I wouldn't know). While Jester went to the Cubs game with some co-workers, I headed to Gregerson's pad, where the rooftop deck became a cornhole (or "bags," if you're wrong) battleground. There's nothing quite as enjoyable as day drinking on a 73-degree day without a cloud in the sky, while getting the shit kicked out of you in cornhole.

Afterward, I met Jester back at the homestead where we consumed a meal of food, then headed to Bucktown to some bar called Pint, where they have the balls to charge even more for the same pint of Newcastle I already pay too much for in Lincoln Park. Already there (anxiously awaiting our arrival, no doubt) were Christoff & Tradd, Dan & Noreen, Lutzow & Katie, and Kurt & Colleen. Timmy, the littlest Weeser*, also showed up. I put $5 in the jukebox, and as I was finishing up my song selections, one of the managers comes up to me and tells me that they are about to override the jukebox. In exchange for the $5 I just wasted, he gave me a "free" pint of Newcastle, which actually ended up being a better deal than if I had just paid for it from the bar. Disenchanted with the experience at Pint, several of us led the train a couple blocks to Piece for some live band karaoke. This turned out to be a grave error.

"This is ourselves, under pressure"
The karaoke list was revised, probably so that I would never again be able to butcher "I Believe in a Thing Called Love." I would not be deterred, however. For a while I toyed with singing "Dead Flowers," one of my favorite Rolling Stones songs, and a song that I know almost entirely by heart. Instead, Kurt and I decided that we would perform Queen and David Bowie's seminal collaboration, "Under Pressure." I was to be Freddy Mercury (minus the AIDS) and he was to be David Bowie (minus the androgyny). Kurt and I were confident that we were going to blow the crowd out of the water. Along with the new karaoke list is some sort of draconian rule that they don't give out lyric sheets before you get up on stage. It didn't matter, we thought, as we mercilessly mocked a group of three guys who didn't know the words to song I can't remember, in a world I can't forget. "If you're going to sing karaoke, know the fucking words," I said to Kurt, as he agreed with laughter. Karma's a filthy bitch.

"Watching some good friends screaming, 'Let me out!'"
Colleen, Kurt's wife, was clearly tired and was begging Kurt to go home. Like Jo-Jo the Idiot Circus Boy, I told Kurt that he couldn't leave yet because we hadn't sung our song. I pleaded with Colleen to just give love one more chance. She did. She was in for a treat, I told her. It was going to be mind blowing, I told her. Kurt and I were soon to be golden gods, I told her. What neither of us knew at the time was that I was lying about everything. In fact, I would say that my lying was so abhorrent as to constitute gross negligence. She may be entitled to punitive damages. Something has to be done to punish us for what I'm about to tell you.

Kurt and I stormed the stage like two cocksure English soldiers in a Fourteenth Century Scottish village, ready to rape and murder the audience -- with song. The bass line kicked in, and I was fully erect. I think we got "Pressure, pushing down on me" out, and then after that it was an exhibition in aural hemorrhaging. It turns out that I don't know "Under Pressure" as well as I thought, and my ability to distinguish while on stage between the Freddy Mercury parts and the David Bowie parts is on par with my ability to write a short weekend recap. Adding to that, I think the lyrics sheet they gave us was wrong, or I possibly had a stroke on stage. We sang a total of maybe 3 or 4 lines of the song. It was so bad that the guys in the band started singing the lead to get us on course. It didn't help. Were it not for the music playing, I'm sure the silence in the bar would have been deafening. "Who are these fucking assholes?" is probably what I would have remarked had I been watching, or maybe "Why would you do that?" while trying to hold back tears of intense sorrow and shame.

When the song ended, both Kurt and I were apologizing profusely to the crowd, who for some reason had not booed us off the stage. To call it a catastrophe would be a disservice to the word "catastrophe." I apologize to anyone who was at Piece, to anyone who might have been walking by Piece while we were on stage, to Jessie for having to be married to me, to Kurt for believing in his ability to sing the Bowie parts, to Colleen for making her and Kurt stay so that we could sing, and most importantly, to Queen and David Bowie for butchering their song worse than Robert Van Winkle ever could have. It truly is the terror of knowing what this world is about. Of course now I can recite the lyrics.

"Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking"
I didn't sleep well Saturday night. The night terrors were back. I had dreams about people with handlebar mustaches and different colored eyes stabbing me in the throat, explaining that it was "for [my] own good."

Sunday morning I woke up vowing to change my image from karaoke assassin to zoo patron. Luckily it was 80+ degrees, sunny, and not humid, so Jester and I took a walk to the Lincoln Park Zoo, which is just one of the many wonderful cost-free options available to anyone and everyone in Chicago. From beaches to museums to parks to world-renowned architecture at every turn, it's no wonder that Chicago is a finalist for the 2016 Summer Olympics bid. Even if we don't get the bid, us Chicagoans will get along alright because of our easygoing, fun-loving Midwestern attitude.

The zoo was cool. I saw a huge ass camel.

On the way back, Jester and I stopped at a 7-11 to get Slurpees. It was apparently a very influential decision. In a one-block span, we convinced at least eight people to get Slurpees without even saying a word. My newfound status as zoo patron undoubtedly helped. I think I even heard one hot girl say to her equally hot friend, "Ooh, we should get Slurpees." Then her friend asked (quite fairly), "But isn't that the guy who assassinated 'Under Pressure' last night at Piece?" Then the first girl said, "That was so yesterday. Today he went to the zoo." Then they started making out.

Def Leppard, Styx, and Foreigner
Def Leppard is coming to town again this summer, bringing with them Styx and Foreigner. Last summer I saw Def Leppard and Journey. I wore a sleeveless Def Leppard Union Jack t-shirt. I had a great time. Two summers ago I saw Def Leppard and Bryan Adams. I wore a sleeveless Def Leppard Union Jack t-shirt. I had a great time. This year's show is Saturday June 30 at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre in Tinley Park. I will wear a sleeveless Def Leppard Union Jack t-shirt. I will have a great time. Lawn seats are $13.50. Can't beat that with a . . . Styx. Ah-thank you.

First Three Albums of the Day
-Led Zeppelin - III
-Kaiser Chiefs - Yours Truly, Angry Mob
-Mötley Crüe - Too Fast For Love

Quite a Weekend

It was a whirlwind of adventure this past weekend. Here is the day-by-day recap.

Friday
Morgan, Jessie, and I ate some dinner at Witt's and then headed up to St. Alphonsus for their Oktoberfest fest, where Maggie Speaks was playing (the lead singer was in our fraternity). We had a couple beers there, staying long enough to hear them cover "Jessie's Girl" and The Outfield's "Your Love." Good times.

Then we headed to Roscoe Village Pub, which is where Kyla works a couple nights a week. It was fairly empty, but the local mailman decided that he needed to sing some karaoke, even though it wasn't karaoke night. And so it began.

Kyla made us each a Sloppy Hooker (Absolut Ruby Red, tonic, cranberry juice, lemon juice -- it tastes more like a grapefruit than grapefruit juice), and she made them extra sloppy. In fact, she made them increasingly sloppy as the night wore on, which was not good because, like a cranberry juice and vodka, the taste is not effected when obscene amounts of alcohol are added. My last Sloppy Hooker -- which I have now nicknamed The Widow Maker -- was pretty much just a pint of vodka. And she made us do shots of some German liquor that tasted like honey and probably some others as well. Her suggestion that the Sloppy Hooker be renamed to the Special Ed Teacher was taken into consideration. Upon further review, I think that the only alternative name for the Sloppy Hooker will be the Retard Sandwich.

My desire to sing karaoke increased at a geometric rate in proportion to the number of Sloppy Hookers I sucked down. Morgan and I belted out "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi. I have a strong feeling that I sang something else, but I will have to be reminded of that that was. I think we can all be relieved that there is no video or photographic documentation of said performances.

I'm under the impression that I was transported home by some sort of livery driver. After I got home I puked for the first time in a while. Thanks Kyla. In case you're wondering, when coming back up, a Sloppy Hooker tastes a lot like vomit.

Saturday
I got up around 10 because I had a flag football game at 11. I learned that I have the ability to play flag football still a little drunk from the night before. Actually, that's not true. My usual sure hands were about as reliable as an American-made automobile. Worse yet, we started the game without a full team, so the first play of the game was a near-full-field-length TD pass by the other team. We regrouped pretty well, and we were up by 5 with 7 seconds left. The other team was at about the 3 yard line. They pitch it left, the guy falls to the ground as I'm trying to remove his flag. His arm with the ball is extended forward to about a half-yard short of the endzone. Apparently the rules that day were the little-used "Horseshoes & Hand Grenades" rules because close to a touchdown was given the weight and effect of an actual touchdown. As the final whistle blew, the other team won by one. On the bright side, one of the guys on the other side was in the same fraternity as me, but at Illinois. I didn't have the heart to tell him that our fraternity's CEO once told me that their charter got pulled because they weren't strong enough. Not because they had bad grades. Not because they hazed. Because they sucked.

Our team is sponsored by Rocks, so we headed there afterward, just in time for Wisconsin to score their sixth touchdown of the day against IU. The game was so bad that ESPN2 switched to another game midway through the 3rd quarter. Way to go Hoosiers.

After Rocks, I went home to prepare myself physically and mentally for the LTHS Class of '96 10-year reunion. Props must go out to Kellene C. for organizing (or organising, for you British readers) a pre-reunion happy hour at the Jefferson Tap, which was a couple blocks from the actual reunion, which was at the East Bank Club. There were probably 100 to 150 people that showed up to the happy hour, and it was definitely an environment more welcoming of socializing than the actual reunion room (which reeked of a stuffy wedding reception room). People are used to hanging out in bars anyway, so I thought it was a good call.

Overall, the reunion was a lot less awkward than I ever could have hoped. I actually had -- dare I say it -- fun. As far as I could tell, whatever pretension people may have had in high school (and there probably wasn't as much as we've convinced ourselves to remember) was gone. Everyone was just there to have a good time and catch up with people they haven't seen in a while. And honestly, there were people there who I had nothing to say to and who had nothing to say to me. Those are the people that got a simple "hi" in passing and gave one in exchange, rather than forcing ourselves into an awkward conversation. That being said, I did have several lengthy, non-awkward conversations with people I didn't know all that well in high school, so that was good. In addition to the non-awkwardness, what surprised the hell out of me was that everyone looked pretty much the same, although I will say that facial hair should be banned at high school reunions, if only for recognition reasons. Several people said that I looked "the exact same" as I did in high school. I wasn't sure if they were insulting me or not.

I was most impressed with the showing made by my fellow Cossitt Elementary School alumni. While I overstated it Saturday night that it seemed like 20 out of the 30 Cossitt Class of '90 grads were there (it was more like 12 out of 50 or 60), it was still a pretty good showing. Because I know you care, here are the Cossitteers who showed up, as well as what I found out about them (last names abbreviated so as to protect their identities from association with this abortion that I call a blog):

• Trupti P. - Nurse practitioner at Rush Medical Center here in Chicago; was mistaken by Graham A. at the happy hour for his boss's daughter, who did not go to LT
• Nate A. - Owns his own graphic design firm here in Chicago
• Jennifer P. - Works in sales for Career Builder; does not play any part in putting monkeys in suits
• Chris S. - In grad school at UIC for psychology; teaches a couple classes there and coaches track; married
• Katie M. (even though she only went to Cossitt for a year or so) - Lives in the ATL, where I think she said she was a paralegal, but in all likelihood I'm wrong on that one
• Jessica W. - Stone-cold pimpin' in LA working in music promotions; gets a free trip to the Dominican Republic to go to some convention about DJ equipment
• Maria T. - Teaches elementary school in the western burbs; used to teach social studies (I think), but now teaches PE and seems to thoroughly enjoy it
• Erin M. - Is capable of saying "hi" in passing
• Eric B. - Teaches 8th grade social studies in the western burbs; still hilarious; married to fellow LT Class of '96er Megan H.
• Kammy C. - Still has red hair
• Mike V. - Married; was told by someone there that he "looked healthy," apparently implying that he looked sickly in high school
• Me - Married

At about 11, Jessie decided that she had had enough. As she said, it felt like a six-hour interview for her, since she didn't really know anyone there. So, like the good husband that I am, I put her in a cab and went back to the reunion.

After the official reunion ended, many of us went back to Jefferson Tap. I drank some more, caught up with some more people, and ended up leaving at 5am (which is apparently how late Jefferson Tap is allowed to stay open). Then the few of us that were still standing, wandered around the empty streets looking for cabs and taking pretty hilarious drunken pictures that Blogger is preventing me from uploading (I'll post them later, when Blogger is more cooperative). I eventually found myself a cab, and I "slept" for nearly the whole ride home.

Sunday
It turns out that going to bed at 5:30am affects the body adversely, especially when you get up before 11. For the second day in a row I woke up needing some Excedrin Migraine. Whoever invented that stuff should win an eternal Nobel Prize for his/her lifesaving work in the field of hangover cures. Jester and I took Harley for a squirrel-chasing-filled trip over to Lincoln Park. Jessie promised me turtles, and this time she came through. Big time. I saw 4 turtles in one of the ponds in the Park. Those little guys have no idea that they saved a librarian's life.

After that, I hurriedly wrote my sketch for my Intro to Comedy Writing class at Second City, and then went to class. It was the last class. Everyone presented their sketches. Laughs were had. Class got done early. I start the next class in 2 weeks. Good times.

And because we got done early, I got to see a greater chunk of the Bears game than I would have been able to do otherwise. It's safe to say that the Bears are good this year.

Monday
At the behest of Holt "Gimme Some" Hedrick, I checked to see if the Illinois bar exam results were posted. Sure enough they were. The 11344 applicant number that showed up on the screen indicated that I had indeed passed the bar exam, as did the guys sitting on either side of me. Only 48 more states until I reach my goal.

Not So Much

Well, I asked for it and I got it. Adam "Don't Call Me Troy" McClure took a video of part of what seemed like a completely revolutionary live band karaoke performance of "I Believe In a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness, performed last Saturday (9/23). He posted it on YouTube. It's fairly embarrassing, but I'm not afraid to share it with the world. After all, now that I've seen how bad it is, I'm going to push myself even harder. Jester, the only birthday present I want is a karaoke machine and voice lessons and a couple grand and a few CDs. Most of you will not see me for several months, as I will be self-exiled in my apartment, strengthening my diaphragm and singing for nearly 16 hours a day. I will emerge sometime in early February, unannounced. You will know the time has come when you hear a shrill wail, not unlike that of Justin Hawkins. It will be heard for miles. At that point, you shall travel by pack mule or hovercraft to Piece. And then, my friends, redemption will be my concubine.

Piece Out, Part 2

Finally Blogger is cooperating. Here are the remainder of the pictures.

This one was relatively early in the night, when the shots first started to rear their sweet, delicious, ugly heads. Jessie's already so drunk she can barely keep her eyes open. Tana seems quite excited about the whole situation.
As you can see, the shots took their toll on Tana and Ari, so they switched back to beer. I assume they are trying to sing along to the guy who butchered Def Leppard's "Photograph." Brian can do nothing but laugh.

Here are a couple more shots of my earth-shattering performance of "I Believe In a Thing Called Love." The first merely shows me mesmerizing the crowd with a shrill wail. The second seems to be circumstantial proof that Jessie approved of my antics. Hoop earrings on the left there, however, seemed not to even notice me. That hurts.

After Ari, Alex, and Brian's roommate finished their version of Folsom Prison Blues, Reed did his best Johnny Cash impression. Frankly, I thought it was a little too alive to be realistic.
This picture is an accurate summary of later in the night. An undoubtedly fast-warming giant glass of dunkel-weizen was resting precariously in my hand, while the anonymous wife of Alex attempted to take a bite out of my shoulder. Christoff looks like he just got smacked in the nuts with a lead sap, while Katie B. honestly thought she was changing the channel on a giant TV. Jessie was simply smiling through the whole situation, too drunk on life and alcohol to care what anyone else was doing.
Here's the best picture of the evening: the anonymous wife of Alex and Katie W. with the captain of the Black Pearl himself, Jack Sparrow. I know what you're thinking: "You gotta be fistfucking me, GMYH?" No, no I'm not. Frankly, I don't think it would fit, and neither of us would really enjoy it. Notice Sparrow's gangly (and no doubt urine-soaked) pirate fingers ever-so-subtly creeping up to cop a cheap pirate feel. The anonymous wife of Alex is visibly upset that it was not her boob being groped by this Bucktonian swashbuckler. Katie, however, appears to be enjoying herself, as evident by the head lean, touching Sparrow's Vitamin-C-deficient pirate hair without regard for the hundreds of little crabs that were undoubtedly jumping onto her head. It's nice to know that Sparrow is the captain of his own boat, but when it comes down to it, he'll swab Jesus's deck any day of the week, as evident by the bling around his neck that he probably swiped from some lilly-livered land lover. Not this evening, though, because this evening was about stealing hearts. With the Black Pearl apparently anchored safely in Lake Michigan, Sparrow and his garish band of scallywags and rogues took to the streets of Chicago in search of any young wench who would be willing to fall for a guy that was for some reason purposely (and unabashedly) dressed up like a famous movie pirate on a September Saturday.

Piece Out

[Note: Blogger would not let me upload all of the pictures from the weekend, so there will likely be a follow-up post with several more pictures, including a totally awesome one of the anonymous wife of Alex, Katie W., and Captain Jack Sparrow.]

The weekend was a whirlwind of emotion. It started off rather morosely, as Joe "The Original Goni" Malangoni infomed me via electronic mail that Danny Flores, writer, saxophonist, and singer on The Champs' classic '50s roadhouse anthem "Tequila!", died, apparently from complications with pneumonia and surprisingly not from alcohol-related conditions. Somewhere Paul Reubens was either weeping or masturbating, or both.

Given the news, Jessie and I decided to stay in on Friday night and reflect on what tequila meant to us. Deciding that both the drink and song meant very little to us on an existential level, we retired early to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

After 9-10 hours of sleep, we awoke on Saturday with a renewed lease on life, having already forgotten about Flores's passing. Aside from a rain-soaked dog walking, we watched IU score 7 fewer points than UConn in a horrible football game. I think I've figured out IU's problem: a lack of talented athletes.

After the game is when things started to get crazy. First, out of nowhere, Chris "The Red Cobra" Ball calls me and says he's in town. He then headed over to our place, and then the three of us headed to Piece Brewery & Pizzeria in Bucktown, which is where Jessie and Ari's birthday gala was to be held.

Piece is owned by Rick Nielsen (guitarist for Cheap Trick) and our friend Bill from the dog park (Bill and Rick are shown to the right at Piece with none other than Rachel Ray, who was unable to make it Saturday due to previous commitments, or so I assume). Bill and his staff hooked us up, whether it was a discounted bill, Piece t-shirts for the birthday girls, or birthday cake. When Bill arrived, he explained to me that his purpose for coming to the bar that night was to buy us beers and get us drunk. I thought that was good.

The night started off innocently enough with some pizza, beer, and MSU drubbing Notre Dame. Piece brews their own beer, and I quickly became addicted to their dunkel-weizen, as it reminded me of my childhood in Munich. Plus it was served in really big glasses, so that was neat. Here's a picture of Jester and me, taken at the beginning of the night. Normal.

Then everyone started showing up, and the night devolved quickly. Among the well-wishers were: the aforementioned Ball, Klint, the anonymous wife of Alex, Alex, Tom, Courtenay, Morgan, Melissa, Eric, Bohmann, Adam, Katie W., Sean, Bridget, Katie B., Julie J., Tana, a couple of Tana's friends, Brian, Brian's roommate, Dan (another friend from the dog park), a couple of Dan's friends, Christoff, Reed, Sarah, one of Ari's former co-workers and her boyfriend, and probably some others. Drinks were consumed. Pizza was devoured.

By the time dinner was done with, I was feeling pretty good. We made our way from our reserved area (which would later be the live band karaoke stage) to the bar area where more drinks were consumed, including smaller, more powerful drinks that the bar referred to as "shots." At some point, MSU conveniently gave up a 16-point lead to Notre Dame. I think I figured out MSU's problem: the Catholic Church pays refs quite handsomely.

By the time the Karaoke Dokies started, everyone was good and lubed and ready to sing. As soon as I got the list of songs, I went straight to "D." Staring me in the face were the words "The Darkness - I Believe In A Thing Called Love." That's all I needed, so I signed myself up.

I had some time between my sign-up and performance. During that time I was fed shots and beer by my so-called friends and Bill, respectively. Also during that time, several other things happened.

The Birthday Girls pretended to like each other for at least 2 seconds:

Jessie auditioned her new character, The Boob Monster, to rave reviews. The beauty about this is that Katie B. and the anonymous wife of Alex had no idea that The Boob Monster was lurking. And that's kind of The Boob Monster's thing: lurking in the shadows and then pouncing on boobs.

Jessie kept accusing me of having gum in my mouth. As you can see, I did not. Jessie could barely contain herself when she found out I had been telling her the truth the whole night.

Dan performed a spoken-word version of Motorhead's "Ace of Spades."

Then it was my turn. As I walked up to the stage, the crowd came to an anxious hush. "Who is this jackass in the polo shirt?" they thought. "Go back to Lincoln Park, yuppie," was yelled at only a level that I could hear. I refused to be dissuaded. Once the mic was in my hand, I was electric. I explained to the crowd, "I'd like to dedicate this song to my beautiful wife Jessie. It's her birthday. Honey, I just found out I lost my job, so this is your only present." Jessie, of course, didn't hear a word I said, but I did get some "awws" from the otherwise rabid crowd, most of whom could see me about this well:

Then the opening riff kicked in, and it was on. Aside from my footspeed, random trivia knowledge, the only thing about myself that I am proud of is my falsetto. Give me a Four Seasons or Darkness song, and I will go Scott Peterson all over it. You won't even know what hit you. I hesitate to call myself a golden god, mostly because I was wearing red. But for those three minutes I felt alive for the first time in my life. Later on, as I was settling my $4.50 bar tab (yes, $4.50), an attractive girl tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Were you the guy that sang that Queen song?" I replied, "You mean The Darkness?" Probably believing that "The Darkness" was the title of the Queen song that she thought I sang, she said, "Yeah. You were great. With what you're wearing, you're completely unassuming, and then you got up on stage and totally rocked." Having never been complimented on my singing ability, I didn't exactly know how to take it. Despite my repeated requests, Jessie did not think a threesome would be a "great birthday present."

In other news, Alex, Ari, and Brian's roommate busted out "Folsom Prison Blues," or at least that's how I remember it. As you can tell, the drummer decided at some point in the night that his shirt was no longer a necessity. Meanwhile, some guy in the front was wearing a stupid hat.

Katie B. was impressed with the effort. Ryan and I were not.

Reed and I posed for a picture with our special lady friends, which turned out about how you would expect for 1:30am, after drinking for 7 hours. I look like I just ate a couple children. At least Sarah tried to grab my wife's boob.

Soon thereafter, Jester and I headed home, and for the third night in a row I got more than 8 hours of sleep. I don't think I've had a run this good since the legendary "Last Winter Break" run of December 2002 to January 2003.

Meanwhile, Greg was nice enough to drive Adam, Katie W., Sean, and Bridget back to Lisle (since he now lives in the DG). Apparently after dropping them off, the four of them had a bit of an adventure. Here is an email I received from Bridget:

"Yea, that dude, Greg, I think, drove us to the Lisle train station where Katie's car was so she and Adam drove Sean and I to Naperville. On the way, she got pulled over for what the cop said was speeding although I don't think she was or actually I was drunk so I wasn't really paying attention. So anyway she pulls over into a parking lot and another cop comes, which I am assuming is the DUI unit. The cop comes to talk to Katie and says it reeks of alcohol. Well duh, we were all drunk. So Katie totally kept her cool and had to get out of the car and do an eye test which she amazingly passed. The cop let her go and suggested she stop and get some coffee. So when we got to Sean's she had a few glasses of water and they hung out for a little bit. It was scary and close, but Katie did a good job."

I'm glad my friends are DUI dodgers. Overall, the night can be summed up with two fingers:

Weekend Recap Soon Enough

I will hold off on a full recap of the weekend's events until I receive all of the necessary photographs from those who were at Piece on Saturday. Just to keep you intrigued and itching for more, I will leave you with this picture.

The circumstances that gave rise to this picture have to be good, right? Tune in later tonight or tomorrow to find out. Assume nothing.* Assume everything. Expect the expected. Expect the unexpected.

*It is safe to assume that "I Believe In a Thing Called Love" was on the karaoke band's list.