Try This

I don't have much time to write because I'm busy as hell today. Once again, I had the pleasure of driving to Geneva (Illinois, not Switzerland) for a hearing in which I spent about 68 seconds before the judge. An hour and a half each way with no air conditioning in 100-degree heat just doesn't seem to be justified.

On a bright note, when I got back to the office, I realized that my office had been switched. That's right, I no longer call a conference room "my office." Thanks in large part to someone else quitting, I now have a real, genuine, bona fide office. Blogger is once again not allowing me to post pictures, so let me describe my office for you: a violent shitstorm of boxes, file folders, documents, and books, strewn about with reckless abandon. The best part is that none of it is mine. All of it, except for the computer that was so graciously transported down the hall, is from the guy before me. Before, at least I had a view of an alley, with living, breathing people occasionally walking down it. Now I have an awesome view of the wall of the next-door building, which is approximately 15 feet away. It's brown, the very same color of the mixture of blood, feces, Newcastle, hopelessness, and tar that courses through my veins. If you have ever thought it might be cool to be a lawyer, let me tell you to go to hell and die.

I'll leave you with a request. Through the help of YouTube, Jessie and I have recently become acquainted with a rather exciting phenomenon: making homemade rockets using Diet Coke and Mentos. This link provides a nice "how to." Since Jessie and I live in a highly crowded area, with no good spot to conduct what would no doubt be hundreds of experiments, I am asking you to try it out so that I can once again live vicariously through someone else whose life is more interesting than mine. Anyway, if you have more space, I would love for you to give it a try and let me know if it worked, how high it went, how many casualties, etc. If possible, video tape it, send it to me at gmyhblog@yahoo.com, and I'll post it.

"Take Me to Hell"

Well, it's Hair Band Friday, but I guess all of the chicks thought I wasn't starting back up at work until Monday because there is no one here. I've been forced to ingest copious amounts of PCP and LSD just so that I can at least hallucinate that there are naked chicks in my office doing dirty things to each other and me, all the while blaring some fantastic tunes, such as the last three: "Yesterdays" by Guns N' fucking Roses, "Helldorado" by W.A.S.P., and "Let It Go" by Def Leppard. But totally kickass music and hallucinogens can only do so much to lift a man's spirits. And taking off all my clothes while I wrote a complaint and did some research did nothing to change the disappointment that today has rained down upon me. This is even more pathetic than a guy who would make shit up about banging random chicks in his office every Friday while listening to hair band music.

But onto happier subjects. In my Steely-Dan-hate-infused blog-writing frenzy I went on yesterday, I forgot to say thanks to everyone who sent me generally well-intentioned, good-spirited "good luck" emails about the bar exam. If I could share my bar certificate with you I would. Actually, I'll happily just give it away to anyone who wants it. Being a lawyer sucks.

So yesterday I did something I haven't done in nearly two months: watch TV. Oh glorious TV, how I missed thee! I have countless hours of shows awaiting me on my DVR. Yesterday I watched The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years. Horribly depressing, I thought, but a must-see for anyone (like me) who wishes they could go back in time to the Sunset Strip in the '80s.

Then I caught up on the entire season of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia that I have missed. Damn, that show is funny. Soon after that, I cried myself to sleep, realizing that I had to go back to work full time this morning.

If you hate it when hot chicks are with douchebags as much as I do, then you're sure to enjoy this site, aptly named Hot Chicks with Douchebags. Thanks to the anonymous wife of Alex for the link.

You might want to check out the following videos, thanks again to Tron, who I assume does nothing else but surf CollegeHumor.com and YouTube looking for videos to send me. The first is a pretty sweet video featuring 1970 Lyons Township High School graduate David Hasselhoff's hit (?) song "Get Out of My Car." KITT makes a prominent appearance.

The second video is too good to just have the link. This might be my favorite news blooper clip of all-time. Enjoy:


Damn that's funny. She sounds like a dying seal. The feigned concern on the part of the anchors back inthe studio is also pretty good.

Billboard Lady is a Hoax

Well, it turns out that "Emily" is a stupid fake bitch who deserved to be cheated on. Damn you Court TV.

I'm Back

This will be long because I got a lot on my mind, but it'll be worth reading every last damn sentence, except this next one. You wasted your time by reading this sentence.

Well, I mananged to survive the bar exam, and I can honestly say I'm almost positive that I either passed or failed it, and I'm 80% sure that it will be one or the other. Here are some of the highlights of my bar examination experience:

• When I got up Tuesday (the first day) at 6:15, I flipped on the tele while I was eating breakfast. Luckily Saved By The Bell is on that early, and you can take one guess as to what the 6:30am episode was. I'm not even kidding when I tell you that it was the Hot Sundae episode. Look it up. 7:30am EST/6:30am CST on Tuesday on TBS. I would have laughed, but I didn't want to puke. But it was definitely the kick I needed to get my mind to it and go for it.
• While walking around the building before the exam, I ran into a fraternity brother of mine who is a couple years older than me (and who graduated law school from IU the year before me). He informed me that he was on attempt number three at the Illinois bar exam.
  
  It seems that God has a sense of humor. You see, back in aught-three when I took the Ohio bar exam, the first person I talked to while waiting outside the exam building was some schmuck who went to that bastion of legal knowledge Cleveland-Marshall College of Law (the school who, I shit you not, had a tailgate before the bar exam -- I pray that there was no booze, although that might explain the school's passage rate). Anyway, this guy looked a bit out of sorts, and he asked me for a light. So we chewed the fat for a couple minutes while we enjoyed a cigarette. It was at that point that he felt like divulging that he was on his third try. That wasn't the confidence booster I was looking for, although I did pass the Ohio bar. I do, however, attribute much of my success on that exam to the fact that a bird shit on me the night before while I was outside my hotel smoking. Apparently that's good luck. I was not shit on before this exam, at least not by a bird.
  
  So anyway, my fraternity brother and I are talking, while smoking a cigarette, and with the hopeless misery exuding from him, he might as well have been fat mail-order bride that can't seem to find her way out of Siberia no matter how many of those creepy mail-order cruises she goes on with rich American pederasts. I could sense that he wasn't happy with his station in life, and it seemed like he was a man on the verge of doing something irrationally self-destructive. My fears were confirmed when he told me that if he didn't like how the morning session went, he was just "going to walk." "I'm only out $150," he said, referring to the fee charged to retake the Illinois bar exam. It was depressing. Thanks again God.
• One thing that was made abundantly clear during the long instructions before both sessions of the exam (as well as in the rules sent to every exam taker, as well as in BarBri) was that cell phones and other electronic devices were absolutely prohibited inside the testing rooms and that having one of these devices would result in your getting kicked out of the exam. I was talking to my neighbor (who also took the exam), and she told me that one of her friends taking the exam in a different building told her that, as the proctors were collecting the exams from the afternoon session (read: less than two minutes before you're done for the day), some guy's cell phone fell from his pocket to the ground. I bet the sound of the phone smacking the ground was a one that guy will not soon forget, as it was the sound of him failing the bar exam. That's right. He was booted. Failed.
  
  Can you imagine having to tell your family that you failed the bar exam because you couldn't follow the most unambiguous, most basic, and most repeated instruction given during the exam? Or your employer? That kind of incompetence is simply not tolerable. That kid better have one hell of a support system. Just remember, you go faster when the cuts go up the veins.

Anyway, I'm obviously glad to be done with the exam. I find out the results sometime in the first 2 weeks of October.

There has also been a paltry amount of non-bar-exam-related news floating around the world, about which I cannot help but comment:

• I signed up for what will hopefully be the first of many comedy writing classes at Second City. Should be a good time. Expect to see my name in the SNL credits sometime within the next four to six months.
• So, former 'N Sync heartthrob and aspiring astronaut Lance Bass came out of the closest. There's a shocker. Now for the other four . . .
• Pretentious, underachieving also-ran "rock" group Steely Dan is apparently pissed off at Owen Wilson for playing the role of Dupree in the recently released movie "You, Me, and Dupree." Steely Dan's musically untalented leaders, Walter Becker and Donald Fagen, claim that someone patterned the movie after their song "Cousin Dupree," which is about "a hormonal houseguest." So they posted a letter on their website addressed to Luke Wilson (who had no part in the production of the movie), asking Owen (but not the movie's writer) to appear at a July 19 Steely Dan concert in Irvine, California to apologize to the fans. Becker and Fagen actually made not-so-clever threats on the Wilsons' lives, but did offer a handsome reward if Owen showed up at the concert.
  
  "Wilson, in return, would get Steely Dan merchandise and a chance to party with the group." Are you kidding me? Wow, Steely Dan merchandise! Maybe now I can look like an asshole too! AND a chance to party with the band. Party with Steely Dan? Does it get any better than that? Who the fuck would want to drink wine and not have sex with groupies while listening to members of Steely Dan brag to each other about how good they think they are and how they should have won like 30 Grammies? (If you don't recall, in 2001, Steely Dan won their first Grammy ever -- despite the fact that they've been making shitty music for over 30 years -- and the first thing they said was not "thanks," but rather, "It's about time." Wankers.)
  
  Luke and Owen should have gone the concert and explained to the 12 people in the audience -- who were no doubt washing down their Brie with some sort of vintage Pinot Grigio -- to go home because said audience members made the worst fucking decision in their lives. That is, of course, if the audience could hear Luke and Owen over Steely Dan's unsubstantiated self-righteous blabbering about how they're better than every other band ever.
  
  And then the article says that Steely Dan is touring with Michael McDonald. I almost puked all over the keyboard after I read that. Talk about one of the worst concerts in the history of the world. I wonder if they get as many elevator company execs as they expect. Holy shit, I'd rather receive 1,000 unexpected wallops in the cock with a rubber mallet at the most inappropriate times for the rest of my life than be subjected to the combination of Steely Dan's brand of pretentious shit rock and Michael McDonald's butchering of every Motown hit he can conjure up. That bearded Doobie-Brother-ruining fucker deserves to be castrated with a dull, rusty train spike. By the way, thanks to Greg "Also a Steely Dan Hater" Bohmann for sending me the link and working me up into a frenzy. I'm actually frothing at the mouth right now.
• Greg Weeser* sent me a terribly depressing article about why baseball cards have fallen out of favor and are not worth nearly as much as we all thought they would be. I hate you Greg. And my Dan Marino rookie card.
• Someone with far too much time on their hands made a pretty sweet video of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" with only clips of President Bush speaking. It's quite good. Thanks to Greg Weeser* for sending me the link. I love you Greg. And your Carlton Fisk rookie card.
• And thanks to Tron for sending me the link for a video of a dachshund DJ scrathing some record. It would have been event better if I couldn't see the human's hand behind the dog.
• Apparently the Emily of "I'm Divorcing You Steven" billboard fame has her own blog. There's some pretty hate-filled shit on there. You go girl! Embrace the Dark Side.(Although posting a picture of you spray painting graffiti on your husband's car is not advised. It turns out that "he's a cheater" is not a valid defense to criminal vandalism).
• So a jury in Texas (of all places) found Andrea Yates not guilty by reason of insanity for the murders of her five children. Here's what apparently did it for the jury (from the article I linked):
  

  Forensic psychiatrist Dr. Phillip Resnick testified that Yates believed in her heart and mind that killing her children was the right thing to do. Yates, according to defense expert Resnick, believed that Satan had taken over her body and soul and was eyeing her children's souls next. Yates told Resnick and others who evaluated her in the weeks after her arrest that she believed that if she killed her children while they were still innocent, they would be sent to heaven, and she would have defeated Satan.
  
  Yates turned herself in immediately after the drowning deaths, Resnick said, because she thought her own death would fulfill a Biblical prophecy: If she were executed, Satan would be executed.

  Well, I guess she didn't get what she wanted. It's too bad, too, because I don't believe for a fucking second that she didn't know that what she was doing was wrong. Remind me to hire this Resnick guy if I ever decide to stalk my kids like prey and ritualistically drown them one by one. Opps! Musta been possessed! Oh well! Sorry! Fuck that. I'm calling shenanigans on this one. That psycho should be spending the rest of her life in jail, not some state psych ward where there is less of a chance she will be shanked at lunch by a chick named Bubba.
• Expect Mr. 15,000's long-overdue biography to be appearing on a blog near you (probably this one) sometime soon.

Calm Down

I'll be gracing you with a hellacious post later this afternoon after I get a haircut and shit. Due to a dearth of submissions, I will be postponing Midwestern Eavesdropping until next week. I love you all. Don't ever forget it.

Good Night Sweet Prince

Given that I have to take the bar exam on Tuesday & Wednesday, this will be my last post until after the bar. I do plan on going out Wednesday night, if there is anyone out there who isn't opposed to going to work extremely hungover or still drunk next Thursday.

"But GMYH, whatever will we do to keep ourselves busy at work in your absence?" Well, sweet, loyal reader, I will not leave you empty-handed. Below is a gathering of videos, internet radio stations, and links to keep you occupied while I am dying a slow and merciless death at the hands of the Illinois Board of Admissions to the Bar.

My Pandora Stations
In case you haven't noticed (which is quite possible), I now have 9 Pandora stations, all of which are linked on the right-hand side of GMYH. Here are the stations and a brief description of each:

1. GMYH Radio - Everything random I like, including, but not limited to, classic rock, oldies, blues, hair band, '80s, new rock, alternative, metal, rap, hip hop, reggae, grunge, soul, R&B, southern rock, doo wop, and garage rock.
2. Hair Band Friday - From the New Wave of British Heavy Metal until the day before grunge took over.
3. GMYH Blues - Everything blues, from the beginning in the Mississippi Delta, to the Great Migration and its electric blues, to modern blues.
4. GMYH Instrumental - Jazz, surf rock, jam bands, rag time, guitar rock (i.e., Joe Satriani, Eric Johnson, Steve Vai). Shit without words.
5. GMYH '80s - All things '80s, no matter what genre.
6. GMYH Garage - Garage/fuzz rock.
7. Great Irewalescotzealia - Rock from the British Isles and their former prisoners' colonies.
8. R.O.C.K. in the USA - Rock from the US.
9. GMYH Rap & Hip Hop - As the name implies, this is all acid jazz, emo, and country.

Videos (with the name of the person who sent me the link afterward)

1. A pretty sweet domino exposition using household goods. (Tron)
2. "Tying firecrackers to your sleeping friend's leg is the new shaming." The title says it all. (Tron)
3. "The Story of the Stork" song about doin' it. Dirty. Hilarious. (Tron)
4. Seemingly acid-induced religious music video with a middle-aged woman "dancing" to the song, flying through space and such. (Tron)
5. What I assume is a Danish version of the Sherminator, singing a song about a girl he apparently wants named Aicha. (Tron)
6. A day in the life of Britney and K-Fed (parts may be NSFW). (Tron)
7. A Shop At Home TV guy makes an ass out of himself. (Tron)
8. A toddler breakdancing. 'Nuff said. (Tron)
9. A clip from Family Matter: Do the Urkel. Wow. (Tron)
10. The "fucking" short version of The Big Lebowski. A must see for any fan, although you may want to keep the volume down if you're at work. (Tron)
11. The Vader Sessions, using various James Earl Jones movie quotes. Good stuff. (Greg Weeser* and Nick "Darth" Klimaski)
12. A guy breaking up with a girl, and they don't know they're being taped. Hilarious. Watch the whole thing. (Tron)
13. Stevie Wonder performing "Superstition" on Sesame Street. MTV sucks. (Greg Weeser*)
14. Some 7-year-old performing various pool tricks. Asshole. (Tron)
15. Trampoline tricks. I want a trampoline. (Tron)

Links (same deal with the names)

1. Your weekly piracy reports, as well as some piracy maps, so that you know which areas to steer clear of this week while your yachting across the world. (Jesterio)
2. Lego reenactment of Old Testament: Judges 19:1-29. It's hilarious, seriously. (J-Diza)
3. Can You Establish That George W. Bush Isn't Stupid? (Tron)

Have a great rest of the weekend and week, jerks.

Def Leppard + Journey + Booze + Burrito = Hangover

I'm a smart person. I make well-reasoned decisions that affect my life in a positive manner, without any negative consequences. One such decision was to attend the Def Leppard/Journey concert Wednesday night, six days before I am scheduled to take the Illinois bar exam, and get mindfucked on alcohol in the process.

At about 4:20 p.m., while I did not smoke any weed, Jeremy "Weed" Widenhofer showed up at my apartment in a full suit, desiring to change before we went to the concert. A wise decision, I thought, given that no one in the lawn at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheater (hereinafter, "FMBA") (f.k.a. The Tweeter Center, The World Music Theater, The New World Music Theater) would be wearing a suit.

Ten minutes later, we found ourselves walking down Sheffield, trying to hale a cab to take us to McGee's, from whence a bus stocked with beer would take us to the concert in exchange for thirty-five American dollars apiece.

The busses themselves were actually much better than I was expecting. I guess I was expecting school busses, since I don't really put that much faith into anything a bar does to make a tidy profit. However, these were coach busses, so that was an added bonus.

As soon as we got on the bus, we made a tactical decision to sit next to the beer cooler that was strategically placed in the aisle near the middle of the bus. For some reason, I felt that I needed to use this night as an excuse to get full-on bombed. Usually the fact that it was Wednesday is a good enough excuse, but combine that with Def Leppard and Journey and the fact that I haven't gone out drinking in an entire week and a half, and it's liver-hardening time.

The bus left a little after 5, and by the time we got to FMBA a little bit before 6:30, I had taken down six or seven Miller Lites. It should be noted that I hate Miller Lite because it always, without fail, gives me a skull fucking the next morning. Nonetheless, I figured that I had paid $35 for this bus ride, and if Miller Lite is all they got, I need to suck it up.

Our trusty bus driver, Virgil, before letting us free from his grasp, informed us that we would be leaving from the same spot he dropped us off a half-hour after the concert ended. "We are bus 4554," he explained. Just in case everyone was unclear, I announced several times to the bus that it was a palindrome. I'm pretty sure I came off sounding like Raymond from Rain Man, but I had no intentions of leaving any of these complete strangers behind in Tinley Park.

Upon our arrival, Jon "Armageddon It" Dudek and Tracy "Hysteria" Larsen were already there, staking out a spot in the center of the lawn for our viewing pleasure. Just so you're not confused, I was wearing my sleeveless Def Leppard Union Jack shirt, although at this time it was underneath my 1997 IU football "Keys to Victory" t-shirt. In case you haven't been paying attention for the past nine years, IU has not yet found said keys.

Just as the show was starting, Sean "Open Arms" Riesenbeck, Bridget "Faithfully" Spanbauer, and Katie "Wheel In the Sky" Wegner showed up to round out the septet (that means a group of seven people, for you Purdue grads out there).

Journey and Steve Perry, in case you haven't heard, went their separate ways (ah-thank you!). So, they hired some guy that apparently sounds just like Steve Perry. We'll call him SP2. It turns out that SP2 was unable to perform on this fair night, due to a bout with laryngitis, gout, scabies, the King's Evil, or something like that. So, they brought in some guy that apparently sounds just like SP2. We'll call him SP3.

SP3, god help him, looks like Justin Guarini of American Idol and From Justin to Kelly fame. While he did sound reasonably like Steve Perry, I was confused as to why the drummer was also signing several of the songs. Did SP3 not know all of Journey's vast and complicated catalogue? For shit's sake, they've been playing the same twelve songs every night for the past 20 years.

To test our mettle, God decided to send some rain our way. As you can see from this picture, we weren't really worried about it:



Soon enough, I was John Bonham Drunk -- or, more appropriately for the occasion, Steve Clark Drunk. (For those of you who are not Def Leppard savants, Steve Clark is their former guitarist who once registered a BAC higher than the one John Bonham had when Bonham died after taking 40 shots of vodka. Said BAC did not kill Steve Clark. Heroin did a year or so later. For those of you who don't know who John Bonham is, please stop reading this and shoot yourself in the face with an elephant musket.) I called more than my fair share of people "smelly pirate hookers." Women mostly.

Some shifty-eyed hippies tried to set up camp right in front of us, where there had previously been an unfettered line of sight to the stage. After a hippie chick nicely put her blanket down, fully spread out, she turned around toward the stage, fully expecting that her blanket would be fully spread out when she looked down. What she didn't count on was that my foot has a habit of kicking blankets of dirty hippies who try to block my view of Def Leppard. So, I flipped the blanket over a little, and then moved in a little closer so that it was impossible for them to fully spread it our again. Wisely, they gathered their patchouli-soaked belongings and went somewhere where they were less likely to anger me.

After Journey finished their set, the crowd was frothing with anticipation for Def Leppard. Jon, Bridget, and Tracy could barely contain themselves.



When Def Leppard came on, first Weed decided to tuck one arm in his shirt to pay homage to Rick Allen, who (as you may be aware) tragically lost his left arm in a December 31, 1984 car accident outside Sheffield, England. I'm guessing Rick can at least button his shirt correctly. As you can see, Bridget and I were not impressed.



When Def Leppard started, my IU shirt came off, and I got a little emotional.

Def Leppard started off with "Let's Get Rocked," then followed that up with another one from Adrenalize, "Make Love Like a Man," which I thought could have been removed and substituted for a better song. They only played two songs off of their new album, Yeah!, which is all covers of '70s British songs that influenced them, and they went with Badfinger's "No Matter What" and David Essex's "Rock On." Other songs they played (I think) were "Brining on the Heartbreak," "Rocket," "Armageddon It," "Animal," "Hysteria," "Rock of Ages," and "Foolin'." Their finale, as you might imagine, was "Love Bites" and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (which is my favorite song of all-time). Before "Love Bites" came on, Bridget arrogantly bet me $20 that the next two songs would be "Love Bites" and "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Firmly believing that she was not some sort of song-predicting gyspy, I made the bet. I lost. But in reality, everyone won.

This picture accurately portrays the overall mood during Def Leppard:



Despite what that picture may imply, I was coherent enough to make it back to the bus after the show. There was not a conceivable reason why I was one of the only people on the bus back to McGee's that was not passed out. It didn't hurt that I spent about 20 minutes talking to Greg Weeser*, who lives in LA and is also a huge Def Leppard fan. Looking back on it, I was probably that guy, but I'm not sure if it's possible to be that guy if no one else on the bus is awake.

Upon our arrival back at McGee's, Weed was certain that we needed to get burritos, as is the fashion in these parts. I concurred, so we walked from McGee's to a burrito place about a block south of LaBamba that I was sure I'd never been to before (although Greg "Bicep Deep" Bohmann has assured me that I made him go there once -- Greg, you were right). My piping hot pork burrito went down all too easily.

I'm not sure that I've ever given off the gay vibe quite like I did walking home from the burrito joint. Let me set the scene for you. Weed and I are walking from the burrito place, north on Halsted, towards Wrightwood. He is trying to convince me that he is going to just catch a cab home from where we are, while I am trying to convince him that he needs to get his suit, shoes, and briefcase the fuck out of my house.

Either way, he needs to go to the ATM, so we walk across Halsted, and we make our way toward the Chase ATM just north of Wrightwood. We are still arguing loudly, which turns out to be a very bad thing. There are two mildly attractive girl walking towards us. They ask where they can catch the Red Line. In response, I yell, "Just go that way, to Fullerton. And -- hold on a second -- while you're at it, can you please tell this guy to get his shit out of my apartment?!?!" In case you forgot, I am wearing a sleeveless Union Jack t-shirt at this point, with my red IU shirt tucked into the back of my shorts and hanging down like some sort of tail. One of the girls says something along the lines of, "Uhh, I don't want to get in the middle of that." Then I realized how gay I sounded, so I responded, "No! No! NO! I'm not gay. Neither of us are gay. Oh my God. I just want him to get his suit that he left in my apartment out of there so I can go to sleep."

This might have been even more gay than the first statement. One girl responded, "Okay, do whatever." All I could say was, "I swear to God I'm not gay, despite what I'm wearing. I have a wife. I'm wearing a ring and everything." Then I started laughing out loud at the situation. Weed, still in the ATM booth, was also laughing. The chicks had actually gone into LaBamba to ask for directions, rather than trust whatever I had told them (even though I was right). We should have toyed with them a little more, although they didn't want to hear anything that was coming out of our mouths.

Weed did get his shit out of my apartment and caught a cab back to his place in North Park (a delightful little Scandinavian and Arab neighborhood in Chicago's Northwest Side), where I'm sure his wife was overjoyed to see and smell him. I assume he made it home alright, but then again this is the same guy who once wandered off on the way home from the bars when he was visiting me in Bloomington during law school, somehow getting lost in Bloomington (where he went to school for four years), and ended up breaking into an office building and sleeping under a desk.

I crawled into bed with little fanfare and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

At 6:45am yesterday, I found myself awakened by the incessant screaming of my alarm clock. Damn Jessie and her having to go to work on a Thursday. It was at this point where I realized that I needed to fall back asleep before evil things happened to me.

My head felt like it was giving birth to a rabid porcupine. While most of the time eating a burrito after a night of heavy drinking lessens the chances of getting a hangover, sometimes burritos can come back to haunt you in the most nefarious of ways. The burrito I ate staged a surprise massive guerilla assault on my stomach lining, coming painfully close to a violent coup. The Sandinistas would have been proud.

While Jessie was getting ready for work, I readied myself for what I assumed was the inevitable sprint to the bathroom to pray to the porcelain gods. I tried several times to get her attention, but my pathetic, muted screams of "Jessie" could not be heard five feet away, much less downstairs. Eventually she came back upstairs and I was able to muster the strength to ask her to please bring be a glass of water and a couple Advil. I would have asked for Excedrin Migraine, which we all know to be the cure-all for hangovers, but it has caffeine in it and I refused to believe that being awake would benefit me in any way.

Through a minor miracle I did not puke, and I was able to fall back asleep after Jessie left for work around 8:30, awaking around 10:30 or 11 with no headache and only minor gastral issues. I did, however, look like a big bag of pale shit. No matter how bad you think you had it yesterday morning, at least you didn't have to wake up and look at this in the mirror:

I look like I was given several pounds of Valium and then knocked around with a frying pan. Somewhere there is a dead hooker who's in better shape than I was yesterday morning. I'm surprised I found the strength and ability to put on a t-shirt and actually hold my camera phone up. Rock on!

No HBF

There will be no Hair Band Friday this week, although in its stead will be a delightful recap of Wednesday night's Def Leppard/Journey concert as soon as Blogger wants to cooperate and let me upload the pictures that are necessary to portray the event in an accurate manner. Hold tight.

Reason #728 Not to Cheat on Your Spouse

Thanks to Ari for sending me the picture.

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 7/20/06

Here you go:

White Sox color commentator Darrin Jackson, discussing the upcoming "Mullet Night" at U.S. Cellular Field: "If you've still got a mullet, there are some problems. We've gotta talk."
--WGN, White Sox vs. Yankees, 7/16/06
Eavesdropper: GMYH (and whoever else was watching the game in the top of the 6th)

10-year-old son: "I sneezed on him twice and then I punched him in the neck."
Father: "Well, to me that sounds incredibly . . . rude."
--Chicago, Madison Street Bridge
Eavesdropper: RobD

Cool, independent radio station in Columbus, with the only good morning host who doesn't lead a 'Morning Zoo' team of retards. They also have Dawn, the stoner chick who tells listeners what bands are playing, where she'll be getting drunk each night, etc.
DJ: "Hey Dawn, check and see if the Jazz and Ribs Fest is this weekend."
Dawn: "What's it called?"
DJ: "The Jazz and Ribs Fest."
--Columbus, Ohio
Eavesdropper: Ulltimate Lactose Hater

Sixtysomething, somewhat snooty woman is trying to pick up a book she ordered from a book store, and the twentysomething female clerk can't seem to find it:
Clerk: "What was the name of the book?"
Snooty woman: "Book A" [I don't remember the name of the book]
Clerk: "It's already been picked up."
Snooty woman: "Well that's not possible because I haven't picked it up."
Clerk: "Did you send anyone or authorize anyone to pick it up?"
Snooty woman: "No."
Clerk: "What about [Book B]? Is that what you mean?"
Snooty woman: "No, I picked that up months ago."
Clerk: "I'm sorry, but we have no record whatsoever of your order."
Snooty woman (becoming obviously peeved): "Well I don't understand. I specifically remember ordering it downstairs."
Clerk: "Uh, we don't have a downstairs. It's just this one floor."
Snooty woman (having an epiphany): "What do you mean? I specifically -- Oh my goodness, I ordered it from Borders!" [then walks away]
--Chicago, Barnes & Noble, on Diversey just west of Clark
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Fortysomething soccer mom, traipsing through the lawn at a concert with her kids in tow, screaming: "I'm so drunk! Where are we?!?!"
--Tinley Park, Illinois, Def Leppard/Journey concert
Eavesdropper: J-Diza (I think)

Associate: "Looks like you've got yourself quite a lunch there."
Partner: "I don't fuck around."
--Chicago, Law office, Lyric Opera Building
Eavesdropper: RobD

28-year-old female pauses from singing along to "Faithfully" by Journey, honestly believing herself when she says: "I feel like I'm right on key."
--Tinley Park, Illinois, Def Leppard/Journey concert
Eavesdropper: Never Been Any Reason

28-year-old former Indiana University trustee on the phone with his wife: "Richard Allman? Oh, 'Dick and Balls.'"
--Springboro, Ohio or somewhere within a 50 mile radius
Eavesdropper: Tron

Fortysomething, red-headed, leprechaun-looking attorney, nonchalantly to a group of attorneys, offering no subsequent explanation: "It was 10 years ago today I got struck by lightning."
--Geneva, Illinois, Kane County Courthouse
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Attorney sitting on waist-high air conditioning vent. Paralegal passes.
Paralegal: "Is your office that hot, or did you just need some wind on your ballsac?"
Attorney: "What, you think the two are somehow mutually exclusive?"
Paralegal: "Ahh, so you're going for a little flying squirrel action."
--Chicago, Law office, Randolph & LaSalle
Eavesdropper: RobD

As is the style sometimes, here is something that really isn't "eavesdropping" per se, but is nonetheless worthy of inclusion:
While walking across the street after getting off the L on my way to work, in a puddle behind a parked car on Wells, I saw a light green post-it note, with the following words clearly written, in all caps, with a blue Sharpie: "ELVES ROCK!"
--Chicago, Washington & Wells
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Thanks for the submissions. If and when you have more, email them to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. I love you all.

Don't Forget . . .

Midwestern Eavesdropping is tomorrow. Submissions are currently a little thin. Email yours to me at gmyhblog@yahoo.com.

Envy Me

Rather than study for that little two-day exam that I have in 6 days that will determine whether or not I can practice law in Illinois, tonight I will be going to see none other than Def Leppard and Journey, together in concert at the First Midwest Amphitheater in lovely Tinley Park, Illinois.

The last time I saw Def Leppard was the last non-30-in-8 time I puked (from alcohol, that is -- I'm sure we all remember the less than desirable results of my trip to Panes several days after I moved to Chicago). It was August 9, 2005, and the Def Leppard/Bryan Adams train had pulled into Fifth Third Field in Dayton for what would I'm sure be an unforgettable experience for both entities. The Dayton Daily News documented my presence at the concert.
Yes, I am wearing a sleeveless Def Leppard Union Jack t-shirt. The very same one I will be wearing tonight. I might die.

Hot Sense of Humor

Despite Ferris Bueller's seminal comment that "you can never go too far," you never know how people are going to take things. Like say when you mercilessly satirize a random band because they bear the same name as a fake band from a 15-year-old episode of a TV show with which you're grossly and perversely obsessed.

You can imagine my anxiety when I checked the ol' GMYH email account this morning to find an email from Amos Caley. Yes, THE Amos "Q-Tip" Caley who is the lead singer of the Huntington, Indiana-based band Hot Sundae. I would have expected the email to start "hey asshole, prepare to be murdered," save for the fact that they are a Christian band. Regardless, I was still at least expecting a request to take the post down.

Needless to say, I was overwhelmingly relieved to receive the following email, which, I shit you not, is the verbatim email I received from none other than Amos "Q-Tip" Caley:

***********************************************************
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2006 09:05:00 -0400
From: "Amos Caley"
To: gmyhblog@yahoo.com
Subject: hilarious

Hey man,
you don't know me, but my name is Amos... better known as "Q-tip" :)

dude, jeff (amsterdam) and i just stumbled onto your site via a traffic tracker, and you're truly a gifted writer. the post was really well-done... i honestly laughed out loud!

we started the band as a joke, and it kinda turned into more than that, but we feel the same way about the name... we just like saved by the bell, so we stole it.

and if you know of any good wiccan clubs or jewish venues, we're there... minus kyle, who WAS actually killed by renegade menonites.

Amos
************************************************************

Amos, I'm glad to hear that you guys have a good sense of humor about it. And I'm especially glad that you named the band Hot Sundae because of your love for Saved By The Bell. I think I speak for everyone when I say, "Put your mind to it. Go for it. Get down and break a sweat. Rock and roooooll. You ain't seen nothing yet."

(And in case any of you loyal GMYH readers are wondering, yes, I did ask his permission to post the email.)

Recommended Reading

For those of you who know me, you know that I hate to read. For me, "reading for pleasure" is as much of an oxymoron as "compassionate conservative," "good handjob," or "Cubs win." Call it laziness. Call it ADD. Call it a side effect of having to read through hundreds of meaningless pages of cases, statutes, documents, and correspondence each godawful day at my job. Nonetheless, I recently began to read books on the L to and from work, so that I would have something to do other than stare at the same buildings and leer vexatiously at people talking on their cell phones.

After slowly but surely making my way through Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho, and creeping out my fellow Brown Line riders in the process, I was in search of something else to fill the void. Upon the recommendation of Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff and Greg "Gregerson" Peterson, this past Sunday I bought I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max. Over the past two days, I've already read half of the book's 270+ pages. This pace may not seem blinding for many of you, but please consider that this is only the second book I've read for pleasure in the past 15 years. Also, I had to go to Geneva (Illinois, not Switzerland) the past two days for court hearings, and the book helped me pass the time while waiting for the judge to call my case. (By the way, for the hour and a half it took to drive each way and the several hours total I spent waiting for my respective cases to be called both days, I spent a grand, two-day total of 90 seconds in front of the judge. Luckily for the client, it gets billed for travel time and waiting time, so that 90 seconds comes to at least a cool 9 hours.)

But back to the book. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell is scathingly hysterical. It's definitely male-oriented, as it recounts many of the author's drunken encounters with the opposite sex, although women with a good (read: open-minded) sense of humor will appreciate it as well. The description on the back of the book says it all:

"My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women than is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a raging dickhead. But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way: I share my adventures with the world."

Max is a very good writer (University of Chicago undergrad and Duke law school), which certainly helps the readability. Any drunk idiot with a pen can write "I got drunk in Austin and my buddy got arrested," but Max makes what could have been mundane stories into hilarious stories that nearly any guy can relate to. Several times I've found myself laughing out loud while reading it, which is fine on the L, but not such a good thing in Judge Colwell's courtroom. If you are easily offended, don't read it. Then again, if you are easily offended, you probably wouldn't be reading GMYH. If you have a sick, dark, yet reasonably intelligent sense of humor like I do, then you will love it. Anyway, check it out.

"No, I'm Not Michael Jordan. But I Am Suing Him for $832 Million."

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Scary

Hide your babies and nukes, 'cause Condi's comin', and this time she's hungry.

Saved By The Bell Fans, Revolt!

Loyal GMYH reader Laura "Break a Sweat" Terry, through her intermediary Greg "Rock and Roooll, You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet" Veeser, asked whether I would be "willing to blog on why a boy band would actually name themselves Hot Sundae?" The answer, Laura, is a resounding "hell yes."

The Hot Sundae to which she is referring is NOT the dynamic trio of Kelly Kapowski, Jessica Myrtle Spano, and Lisa Turtle that nearly broke through with their hit "Put Your Mind to It (Break a Sweat)" (the link is to the video, which is awesome) -- lyrics and music by Zachery Morris, as Laura pointed out -- an uplifting song about getting out there and putting your mind to it (whatever "it" may be), going for it, getting down, breaking a sweat, rocking, rolling, and telling the world "you ain't seen nothin' yet." Had Spano kept her hand out of the pill bottle, Hot Sundae could have been the worldwide sensation that they were so goddamn capable of becoming.

Sadly, perhaps because of the original Hot Sundae's failure to make it, a new and less exciting Hot Sundae has reared it's ugly head. This one, however, is not comprised of two hot chicks and a pill popper from Bayside. Rather, this Hot Sundae is comprised of 5 DUDES from -- HNHS grads (go Vikes, by the way), you're gonna love this -- Huntington University in Huntington, Indiana (mere miles from where my lovely wife Jesterio went to high school).

What self-respecting straight males name their band Hot Sundae? A simple visit to their website helped shed some light on the subject.

I like to be presented with hideously easy targets, so you can imagine how hard it was to contain myself when I went to their website to find this statement of purpose on their homepage:

"A band with a purpose, Hot Sundae seeks to connect with all audiences through high energy originals and popular covers that everyone loves. Beyond the music, Hot Sundae loves to share what they're all about, following Christ. Through a combination of cutting edge music and quality relationships, Hot Sundae aims to meet the musical needs of groups pursuing their spiritual needs."

Sometimes it's too easy. It's as if God himself put this band on Earth just for our amusement. But for the sake of comedy, let's dissect their statement:

"A band with a purpose" This implies that other bands do not have a purpose. However, the last time I checked, most, if not all, bands are formed and continue to exist for the purpose of playing music.
"Hot Sundae seeks to connect with all audiences through high energy originals and popular covers that everyone loves." (emphasis added) That must mean that, aside from various gigs in Huntington, Indiana, they probably play Compton, Spanish Harlem, and a variety of Wiccan festivals with regularity. After all, they do seek to connect with all audiences. As far as their "high energy originals," frankly I didn't hear anything energizing on their website. Maybe they save their thrash metal or ecstacy-induced turbo techno for their live shows (where chicks are so fucking worked up and moist they almost break into dance). When it comes to cover songs, they only play popular covers that everyone loves. This statement is even more idiotic than their statement about seeking to connect with all audiences, unless of course their only cover song is "Put Your Mind to It (Break a Sweat)" by the original Hot Sundae. There's not a soul on Earth who is capable of not loving that song.
"Beyond the music, Hot Sundae loves to share what they're all about, following Christ." Being a stickler for grammer, I think they meant to have a colon instead of that second comma (unless they simply meant that they love to share what they're all about while following Christ around, in which case, the comma was proper, although someone should inform them that Christ has been dead for at least 100 years). Aside from Huntington University's lagging English education, this statement is yet another unbelievable overstatement. First off, we know that following Christ is not what they're all about. For Christ's sake, they're in a band, which means that they are at least in part about music (as discussed above in their "purpose"). Their lies are further exposed in their individual bios (discussed in detail below), where they unabashedly admit to being about things other than Christ. And if they are so into Jesus, why wouldn't they name the band Hot Sunday instead of Hot Sundae? It's clever, less blatantly homosexual, doesn't rip off SBTB, and relates to JC more so than the image of ice cream.
"Through a combination of cutting edge music and quality relationships" Again, this "cutting edge" thing is a bit of an overstatement. They're pretty much the same "screamo" Blink 182/Lit rip-offs that have plagued the music business for the past 5-6 years, but with a hankering for JC. The "quality relationships" claim is more of a mystery to me than anything else. I have yet to find any factual evidence to substantiate this claim.
"Hot Sundae aims to meet the musical needs of groups pursuing their spiritual needs." Even Satanists?

What kind of man allows himself to be in a band called Hot Sundae, you ask? Well, I asked the same question, and because the Lord likes to humor me, he commanded these five of his servants to put bio pages on their website. It turns out that, despite their band's name, none of the band members themselves are gay. Why don't we take a further look into who makes Hot Sundae just so damn lovable?

Amos "Q-Tip" Caley - Vocals/Piano
Despite what the picture may lead you to believe, Amos does not always stick his thumb into his poopchute for a cheap thrill when the camera is pointed his way. And why he's wearing a Notre Dame shirt is baffling, since he went to Huntington University and is from Grand Rapids. He has a wife, which isn't very "rock 'n' roll," if you ask me. He says that he gets "paid to hang out with kids and go to their sporting events and teach them about Jesus." That seems borderline illegal, and also, not very "rock 'n' roll," but then again, that's what people said about Gary Glitter. While most rock stars become addicted to cool things like Jack, heroin, coke, fucking nameless groupies in the shower night after night, etc., Amos admits that he has but one addiction: "using Q-Tips." Not those store-bought generic brands -- he's talkin' 'bout the real deal! At least we can assume he has clean ears, if not a clean thumb.

Jeff "Amsterdam" Edgel - Guitar
As the picture shows, Jeff is kind of the "wildman" of the group. Perhaps unmarried and apparently well-traveled (just look at his shirt), Jeff describes working at Huntington University as the "real world." Always a jokester, he says, "The 'real world' isn't such a bad place after all." This statement is quite telling, considering Huntington has only one movie theater and even fewer minorities. And ladies, he's also a bit of a sweetheart, admitting that at 24, his voice still cracks, but it'll be a cold day in hell before he lets that get him down. For Christ's sake, he's in a Christian rock band. If that's not enough to make him happy, then I don't know what would. Probably a hooker wearing a below-the-knee dress.

Kyle "Chrippie"* Brenneman - Bass
Despite what his shirt implies, Kyle is older than 16. Kyle's mop haircut has caused quite a stir with the little ladies of Huntington (but not with their fathers!). Not to mention his necklace, which many at conservative HU thought might be some sort of badge of homosexuality. But it's not all about misleading t-shirts, unkempt hair, and gay necklaces for Kyle. After listing Jimi Hendrix, Phil Keaggy, and Victor Wooten as some of his influences, he admits that he "wouldn't be anywhere musically, though, without the influences from back home." Yes, I think we would all be worse off without the many musical talents that have emerged from Spencerville, Ohio.
*"Chrippie" is a word I just made up for a hippie who abstains from mind-altering substances, takes regular showers, votes Republican, and who follows Jesus around instead of Jerry (if either were alive). Clearly Kyle is a dirty fucking Chrippie.

Micah "Don't Call Me Jared" Beckwith - Drums
The ladies man of the group, Micah has more Bible studies with random hot chicks than anyone else in the band. His coy looks and girlish figure are owed in significant part to the fact that he frequents the lone Subway located in Huntington. After all, no morally upstanding girl wants to be courted, treated nicely, and not fucked in the ass until marriage by an overweight suitor. He lists as an influence "Dell Pakston," a horribly weak attempt at harkening the fictional Dell Paxton, who was Wonders' (or Oneders') drummer Guy Patterson's hero in the 1996 Thomas Everett Scott-Steve Zahn vehicle, That Thing You Do! While he lists his love of water skiing, snow skiing, wakeboarding, snowboarding, and playing golf as "little known facts" about him, he forgot to mention breaking hearts. Wait a minute, everyone knows that! Oh Micah, you are the living end!

Zac "Black Diamond" Hill - Guitar
Unlike the others, Zac is well into his 40s and lives in "the big city" (Ft. Wayne) with his wife Amanda, who is probably not a stripper. Only through his virtuosic guitar playing has the rest of the group been able to overcome the fact that he is not a member of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, but rather, gulp, a Methodist. Or maybe it was an Episcopalian. Or a Presbyterian. Shit, I don't know. Those Protestants are all the same. No matter what you call 'em, they're all going to hell anyway. Not wanting to be confused with the original Hot Sundae's manager, Zac dropped the "k" off the end of his name a couple years ago. "I didn't want to be associated with that devil-worshipping, voodoo music," he once told no one. He dares you to "Believe it or not" that he had never snow skied until he was a freshman in college. I believe it.

So there you have it. Hot fucking Sundae. Despite their gay name (and I mean "gay" in both the American sense and the Ozzie Guillen Venezuelan sense) and their discernible lack of resemblance to the real, original Hot Sundae, it seems that these five guys from Northeast Indiana just might make it. By "make it" I mean "predictably not make it." Nonetheless, not since, well, anyone has a band come out of Huntington. Look for them at a church fair or fete near you. And whatever you do, just remember that it's alright to laugh when Jeff's voice cracks! Rock on guys!

Whatcha Doin'?

I'm sitting here typing my Secured Transactions outline for bar review purposes -- yet another topic I did not encounter in 3 years of practice in Ohio and am 99% sure I will not encounter during what will likely be a mindnumbingly painful 30-40 years of practice in Illinois. I'm also trying to think of new and creative ways to stab myself to death. You'd be amazed at what you can accomplish with a hammer and a ceramic goose.

How about you? What are you up to this weekend? Let me know what or who you're doing tonight and/or tomorrow, so that I can at least have some vicarious fun. Please. For the love of God. The drunker the comment posted, the better. Weekend life without alcohol is as painfully boring as it sounds. I'm currently like the Branson to my former self's Las Vegas. Take me back.

"Gimme a Taste of Your Kitty"

Hair Band Friday is absurdly tawdry today. Upon hearing that I am able to compose formal motions in a satisfactory manner, Doris assured me that if I were able to write a demurrer in less than a fortnight, she would expose to me a portion of her undergarments, an unusual admission for the normally coy Doris. Perhaps it was the dram of absinthe she consumed. Or perhaps it was the last three incantations emanating from the Victrola: "Kissin' Kitty" by Bulletboys, "Cumin' Atcha Live" by Tesla, and "Talk Dirty to Me" by Poison. Whilst Doris was contemplating a demurrer, Esther and Florence had been sharing an herbal jazz cigarette, which I have since been informed was comprised in whole or in part of marihuana. Their inhibitions relaxed, they both scurried to the top of a table to perform the Charleston! As if that was not enough to invoke feelings of exhiliration, Millicent, who had earlier shared a quantity of ether with me, quietly informed me, in a vernacular normally unbecoming of a proper woman, that she would like retire to boarding room with me so that she might loosen her corset to allow me to view and caress her bountiful bosom. Although I am nearly in hysterics, I plan to oblige, though I shall try not to let Millicent become aware of my exhuberant state of mind.

Just when you thought there was hope for humanity and that maybe humans are inherently good rather than inherently evil, you come across a story like this: a 15-year-old boy's prosthetic leg was used by a group of rapscallions to beat up the kid's friend, while the kid stood (or, more likely, hopped) there helplessly watching. In case you haven't heard about this, here are the details. Dominic Choate (hereinafter "DC") lost his leg 3 years ago from the knee down and has had to wear a prosthetic leg. Sunday night, DC and two friends were shooting some hoops outside DC's Burbank, Illinois residence when a car drove by and nearly hit one of his friends. DC and crew yelled at the car to slow down. The car drove backwards, 6 guys got out (speaking Polish, according to DC, which I assume means that they were driving backwards the entire time) and proceeded to beat the piss out of DC's friends. In an effort to get these street toughs to leave, DC took off his prosthetic leg, hoping they would show some mercy. In retrospect, this was a bad move. Apparently not believing that the 6 of them could take three teenagers (one of whom was completely unable to get any footing to stand his ground), the hoods used the prosthetic leg to beat one of DC's friends unconscious. Beating someone up with a 15-year-old's prosthetic leg. Unfuckingbelievable. I saw a bit on the local NBC news about this last night. I guess DC's insurance will pay for a new leg only once every 5-10 years. Now, I'm not one for vigilante justice -- wait a minute, yes I am. Someone needs to find these six cowards and hang them from their scrotums, assuming they have scrotums. And while they are hanging in this most painful manner, DC and his friends will have the opportunity to chop off each one's leg below the knee and then beat them into unconsciousness with the severed limb. Only then will there be peace and justice.

On a lighter note, I'm legitimately excited about the upcoming (8/18) release of "Snakes on a Plane," which I believe to be the greatest title for a movie in the history of cinema.

For you French nationals, expats, or descendants, Joyeux Jour de La Bastille!! Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité!! Fuck Louis XVI and his lettres de cachet!! I was in Paris for the 200th anniversary, and I plan on being there for the 300th. Yes, Holt, when I'm nearly 112.

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 7/13/06

Thanks to everyone who submitted, and let's keep it rollin'.

Commercial district of affluent Dayton suburb, approximately 7pm on a beautiful sunny day. Dozens of people walking around. A twentysomething unattractive male begins sprinting down the sidewalk barefoot, screaming a women's name. The woman, who originally appeared to be his mother (looks 45), stops but is probably also twenty something. The two are standing approximately 20 feet apart. She is silent.
Male (tearfully sobbing): "I die a little more every day, Stephanie. I die a little more every day."
She says nothing. He is crying as he mopes back to his still-running car, complete with its sweet super spoiler (it's as if he saw her on the side of the road and suddenly pulled over to chase her down). She is silent as he slams his car door and peels away.
--Oakwood, Ohio, Far Hills Ave.
Eavesdropper: Bull in a China Shop

Girlfriend to Boyfriend, regarding his inability to eat a Ricobene’s breaded steak sandwich with giardenera on top: "You're Mexican, you should be able to handle it."
--Chicago, Taste of Chicago
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

White Female Customer: "Excuse me. I need to retake my picture. This one is hideous."
Black Female Clerk: "The camera only takes what it sees"
White Female Customer: "Are you fucking serious?"
Black Female Clerk: "Mmmmm hmmmmm . . ." (walks away)
--Chicago, Department of Motor Vehicles, Clark & Randolph
Eavesdropper: RobD

Stupid 5-year-old kid, pointing and staring upward at what can only be described as the tallest building in North America, asking his father: "Is that the Sears Tower?"
--Chicago, Adams & Wacker
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Emcee to Hostess: "I'm sorry. I can't help it if I turn you on. You WILL have your chance."
Hostess to Emcee: "Please stop molesting me with your eyes."
Emcee: "I'm way past that point."
Hostess: "Ew!"
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

Extremely drunk twentysomething, upon hearing a beer vendor with a particularly grizzled voice: "He's just a pirate who sells beer."
--Chicago, U.S. Cellular Field
Eavesdropper: Jesterio

Stoner to bouncer: "Hey man, is it cool if I bring my skateboard in here?"
Hostess: "No, man, you can't. It's considered a weapon."
Stoner: "Seriously, oh well. You'd be amazed what people can do with ordinary things."
Hostess: "I'm just kidding."
Bouncer: "Man, I need your ID."
Stoner: "Cool, cool.
Hostess loses interest until she hears the following:
Stoner to bouncer: "Hey, man, I have a proposition for you."
Bouncer: "Okay."
Stoner: "So my friend's in there, waiting for me. And if you don't want to let me in, he can come out. We were planning on smoking a bowl. And, if you're down, we'll let you in on it."
Bouncer: "I don't think that's such a good idea."
The two hostesses whisper in the corner:
Hostess 1: "Uh, yeah, it's kind of illegal."
Hostess 2: "Yeah, let's smoke weed in front of a nightclub while there's cops driving around this entire area. That's really smart."
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

Extremely drunk, stumbling, barely coherent fiftysomething man (possibly homeless), talking to dashing twentysomething male (possibly a lawyer) who was wearing a White Sox hat backwards:
Drunk man: "Why do you wear your hat backwards?"
Twentysomething guy: "So I can see. If I wear it forward, my line of sight isn't so good."
Drunk man (in an accusatory tone): "You can see. You can see. . . . [pauses to collect his thoughts] . . . Cubzzzzzz. Cubzzzzzz."
--Chicago, Moxie, 3517 N. Clark
Eavesdropper: GMYH

40something attorney, exasperated, clueless: "When can I set this for hearing?"
Clerk1: "You tell me what date you want. I'll tell you if it's available."
Attorney: "How can I tell you what I want if I don't know what's available?"
Clerk1: "You tell me what you want. I'll tell you if it's available."
Attorney: "Okay, fine, sir. Tomorrow."
Clerk1: "That's not available."
Attorney: "Well what is available?"
Clerk1: "You have to give me a date. I'll look it up, tell you if it's available."
Attorney: "I want to talk to your supervisor."
Clerk1: "You tell me when you want to talk to him. I'll tell you if he's available.
Attorney: "Now!"
Clerk1: "He's not available."
Attorney: "Well when is he available?"
Clerk1: "Step over to that counter and he'll be with you when he's available.
(Attorney steps over to the other counter)
Clerk2: "That punk bitch gon' rat you out dawg."
Clerk1: "I don't give a fuck, he ain't shit. . . . [turns to next in line] . . . Can I help you?"
--Chicago, Daley Center
Eavesdropper: RobD

Security guard at a bar taps hostess on the leg to move over so he can reach down and get his drink.
Hostess: "Hey, that was rude, you're trying to reach around me to get your drink. Why don't say excuse me, I need to get my drink."
Security guard: "Well, I actually wanted to tap you on your ass to move you out of the way."
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

A drunk yuppie guy outside of a neighborhood bar on a weeknight talking in an annoyed voice to whom I assume to be a wife or girlfriend (using a "I think girls are stupid" tone): "Listen, I'm out with friends and drinking, just tell me what you need from me. [pause] If you really need me to come home just tell me that. [pause] Jesus, how big is the fire?"
--Chicago, outside Wrightwood Tap, Wrightwood & Seminary
Eavesdropper: Jesterio

A twentysomething couple is working out together. The wife stops in the middle of doing what is assumed to be her first ever set of triceps extensions.
Wife: "This makes the backs of my arms sore." (pointing to the back of her right arm)
Husband: "Yeah, you mean your triceps?"
(Wife laughs, realizing that indeed, the exercise she was doing was working the muscles it was designed to work)
--Chicago, Lincoln Park Athletic Club, Sheffield & Diversey
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Loveable and flamboyantly gay host: "Honey, when life hand you lemons, throw 'em at the bitch you hate."
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

Thanks again to everyone who contributed. Keep up the good work, and for you others, keep those ears tuned and send your eavesdroppings to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.

Just Some Links

I'm too busy to discuss the various things going on in today's world, but rest assured, I will provide you with some links to keep you entertained whilst you wait for tomorrow's Midwestern Eavesdropping. Here you go:

• Here's a blog called The World of Jarvis Tahi, about a stay-at-home Aussie dad who tools around Sydney with his son, who resembles a young Art Garfunkel. I hope to one day be a stay-at-home dad myself, banking on Jessie's library money, which I assume will start rolling in when the older generation of librarians die off, leaving younger, hipper librarians in extreme demand. And you thought that MLS wouldn't pay off. Thanks to RobD for somehow finding the link.
• As usual, Tron Wiescinski has provided me with a wide array of video links, including all of the videos linked here today. Gracias Tron. The first video, entitled "Parknastics!," shows several guys doing various gymnastics-type aerial dismounts from swings and other playground equipment, quite impressively I might add. This would be your classic "don't try this at home" video that parents and Plaintiffs' lawyers love to bitch about.
• A bicycle accident montage. Classic physical comedy.
• For those of you into this kind of thing, here's a video of a guy taking a shot of vodka. With a freshly picked scab in it.
• What do you get when you combine guys interviewing people on the streets about bilingualism in Canada and a drunk/high middle-aged woman? A video that's hilarious and disgusting all at once, but certainly NOT SAFE FOR WORK.
• And finally, a Japanese on-the-street gameshow (?) where women have to slap each other in the face. I don't get it either, but it's funny.
• Before I leave you, think about this: Evil is just live spelled backwards. Take that to mean whatever you want it to mean.

A Startling Discovery

For months now, I have been watching Hyundai commercials knowing that the spokesman looked and sounded familiar. Tonight, it all came together, due in sickening part to my unhealthy knowledge of all things Saved By The Bell. You see, in the less-than-impressive College Years, there was a young professor at Cal U who, for a brief time, stole Kelly's heart and invaded her nether regions. His name: Professor Jeremiah Lasky (shown to the right, mere seconds from copulation). His job: teaching anthropology and breaking hearts. His real name: Patrick Fabian. His real job: pawning Hyundais off as decent cars. It's true. Below is a current picture of Fabian, courtesy of www.patrickfabian.com. Sometimes it really hurts to be so right. Godspeed Professor Lasky. Godspeed.

The Senter of Attention

I don't have much time to write, due to an obscene amount of work, bar review, sobbing, and such, but I did want to give you this precious little nugget. Friday night I attended the White Sox-Red Sox game at nearly beautiful U.S. Cellular Field, along with Messrs. 4000, 6000, and 10,000, Volleyball Katie, and Jesterio. Apparently White Sox centerfielder Brian Anderson's .182 average angered the scoreboard operator so much that when Anderson made his first plate appearance, the operator relegated Anderson to the position of "Senter Field," a little known 10th position (now abolished), which, according to an early baseball rulebook, was reserved for the player on the team "with a reputation unbecoming of a civilized man, known for his unkempt physical appearance, a stench not unlike that of an Irishman, and frequent and unabashed consultation with harlots and the like, and whose vile, nefarious, and haughty tendencies have absconded with any sense of moral righteousness." This giant slap in Anderson's face was up for 15-30 seconds before the scoreboard operator changed it, which was long enough for Katie to snap this lovely picture:
Burn! Maybe now Anderson will start trying to get 2 hits in every 10 at-bats.

Studying for the Bar Sucks

Despite what you may have heard, studying for the bar exam is not something fun, exciting, or in any way sexually arousing. Last night was my last night of drinking before the exam (which is about 2 weeks away), except of course for the Def Leppard/Journey concert I'm wisely attending July 19, less than a week before the exam. It should be an interesting little experiment to see whether my borderline alcoholism will allow such scant reliance on the nectar of the gods, or, instead, whether my body will reject the absence of toxins.

Currently I'm outlining Commercial Paper, a sexy subject that I never encountered in nearly 3 years of practice in Ohio, and I assume I'll never encounter in what I hope will be at least four months of practice in Illinois. After said outlining, I will proceed to write answers to various Commercial Paper essay questions from previous exams, until the point of exhaustion. Sometime later -- after a period of extensive crying, incoherent screaming, and violently punching myself in the head and neck -- I will go to bed sober, a concept with which I'm relatively unfamiliar on weekends, and frankly, it's something I hope to never again experience after July 26.

Anyway, I should get back to studying, while at the same time wishing I was in a locale in which toucans were native and abundant, being fed grapes by a nubile 13-year-old, er, I mean 18-year-old, boy, er, I mean girl, er, I mean my wife. Man, I need a drink.

"I've Seen a Million Faces, and I've Rocked Them All"

Today is a rare Hair Band Friday outside of the office. I decided to take the party to my bar review class, and it's unbelievable. Some chick named Heather totally just made out with this other chick named Kristi, just because I told them I scored 14 points higher than the average on our practice multistate multiple choice exam. Oh, and I forgot to mention that they were buck naked, on top of a lectern, rubbing honey and torn-out pages from BarBri books all over themselves (including places from whence babies come -- yes, Holt, the cabbage patch). Anyway, you'd be amazed at how much knowledge you can retain when you've downed a fifth of Jack, eight mini-thins, and nearly a half an ounce of hash, not to mention when you combine that with banging between twelve and eighteen chicks an hour (sometimes up to four at a time -- believe me, it's possible given the right number of appendages) during the lecture. No worries, though, because the music coming from the speakers I attached to my iPod Shuffle drowned out the unbelievably loud and constant screaming orgasms (I'm a screamer, what can I say?), blasting the likes of "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi, "Sex" by Kix, and "Lesson Well Learned" by Armored Saint. By the end of it, the lecturer gave in to what I knew she wanted, and she started stripping, as expected. I told her I'd let myself do her only if she once again explained the difference between delegation and assignment. Let's just say she delegated her poonanny's duties under the deal to her massive ta-ta's, and I assigned all of my wang's "proceeds" from the deal to her face, neck, and hair.

In other news, former Enron CEO Kenneth Lay died the other day, as Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff said, "taking the easy way out." My favorite quote from the AP article was from Lay's pastor, who said, "Apparently, his heart simply gave out." That's funny because I didn't know that it was possible for a heart to give out when it was already cold and black, pumping not human blood, but rather a black sludge, thick as molasses, comprised of crude oil, pureed dead puppies, and innocent employees' pensions. To top it off, Lay actually thought he didn't do anything wrong. Fuck that guy. Good riddance. I hope Hitler and John Wayne Gacy (in full clown regalia) are tag-teaming him in hell as we speak.

Speaking of death, apparently there's more in Vermont than just hippies, cheese, ice cream, and civil unions. You can now add weed-smoking teenage grave robbers. It turns out that a teenager by the name of Nickolas Buckalew (not to be confused with Nicholas Buckalew) decided that his bong made of glass just wasn't tight enough. So, rather than go down to the local head shop (which I assume are on every corner in Vermont), he went to the local graveyard to shop for a head. This guy dug up a grave, sawed off a corpse's head with a hacksaw, took the head home, and planned to bleach it so that he could make it into a bong. I'm sure there's a "Dead Head" joke in there somewhere. Holy shit, are you kidding me? Then, to top it off, he tells a bunch of people what he did. I guess that's better than showing up to a party with bunch of herb and a bong made of a human skull. "But you guys can hit it from its lips and the nose is the carb. I'm dark and disturbed." That's a party foul, even if his parents didn't hug him enough when he was a kid. Thanks to Christoff for sending me the link.

To leave you on a lighter note, check out this short film entitled "80s Ending," which does a delightful job of spoofing every cheesy '80s movie ending all at once. Thanks to Greg "Weez" Veeser for the link.

Have a great weekend, and for you Spaniards out there, Feliz San Fermin!

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 7/6/06

Thanks for the great response and submissions this week. Enjoy:

Art Director for a large Advertising/Promotions agency: "Let me tell you one thing: being on fire fucking sucks."
--Chicago, Central Bar, 3446 N. Clark
Eavesdropper: RDC

Blinged-out black woman on a nearly empty L train singing softly to appease the wailing of her infant daughter in the presence of her 6 or 7 year old son: "I love my bitch . . . I love my bitch . . . I love my bitch . . . I love my bitch."
--Chicago, Red Line train
Eavesdropper: RobD

Twentysomething, somewhat nerdy looking guy: "I don't believe in science or God."
--Chicago, Clark & Wrightwood
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Drunk Guy (obviously somewhat aggravated with his friend): "Come on man, everyone else is outside already. Close your tab or whatever you need to do and let's go!"
Completely Wasted Guy: "Ok. I just have to get this girl's number before she sobers up and knows who I am."
--Cincinnati, "somewhere on a hillside"
Eavesdropper: NaviKate

Door guy at bar: "I need to see your ID, please."
Crazy patron obviously on some form of illegal substance: "Here." [shoves wallet in door guy’s face]
DG: "Sir, can you please take it out of your wallet?"
CP: "Here." [Shows ID again but will not let go of the ID]
DG: "Sir, I need to be able to see it."
CP: "No, I'm not going to let go of it. This is my property. Do you know what people do for identity theft? There is light above me, that could be a camera."
CP's friend: "Let's go, it's not worth it."
DG: "I am just trying to do my job. You are being rude and that is not a good way to try to get into this place."
Manager: "What's going on? Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside." [Attempts to escort CP out]
CP: "Don't you touch me. "
[Outside of the night club, CP harasses other people outside while security assembles around him. CP keeps getting into people's faces and screaming obnoxious things at them. One of the security guards (who happens to be Asian) tries to maintain the situation all the meanwhile having CP scream, "I know you, you, Chun Li. Try and get me, Chun Li." CP spots someone who was on a dance reality show. ]
CP: "You, there, I can fade you. I'm a better dancer than you. You ain't shit."
Dancer: "Mmm, hmm, sure." [Smiling the whole time CP is up in his face] "Okay, okay."
[CP starts to walk away, flicking everyone off in the general vicinity. Something erupts and he comes racing back, slams down his bag and takes off his shirt.]
CP: "I know all of you, I'm looking at all of you in the eye and seeing you ain't shit. You, Chun Li, You, dancer, I know you."
[Everyone in the area unsuccessfully controls their laughter. CP's friend finally convinces him to go across the street to another bar.]
CP comes back about a half hour later and steps up to the dancer: "Hey, man, you are really one of the best dancers I have ever seen. You can dance."
[CP finally gets his ass into a cab while his friend comes into the club and apologizes profusely to everyone.]
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

Petite blonde yelling into cell phone: "My mom? I told you, it's Barb . . . No . . . no . . . no! No bleachers and no Barb! Just alcohol and going out! . . . Allergic my ass!"
--Chicago, Clark and Monroe
Eavesdropper: RobD

2 guys who I pray are studying for the bar exam:
Guy 1: "Hey man, do you wanna go do some essays?"
Guy 2: "FUCK YEAH!"
--Chicago, Clinton & Adams
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Three seemingly well-off, floppy haired twenty-somethings lounging around a pool on the Fourth of July, speaking loud enough for everyone within a thirty-foot radius to hear them, including three girls I can only assume were their girlfriends:
Floppy 1: "Man, you know that one STD test where they take the Q-tip and stick it about this far [gesturing about an inch and a half with his fingers] up the end of your penis?"
Floppy 2: "Yep. "
Floppy 1: "Yeah dude, well that one really sucks. Bigtime."
Floppy 2: "Yep."
--Atlanta, some pool (I know it's technically not the Midwest, but Holt's from the Midwest, so I let it slide)
Eavesdropper: Holt

Flamboyantly gay host 1: "Don't try to start shit with me. I know where you live."
Flamboyantly gay host 2: "You don’t know where I live."
FB1: "Yes, I do. I came up to your crib where you had the little old Weber grill in your front yard. I brought you some macaroni and cheese and some mustard potato salad.
FB2: "It wasn't a Weber."
FB1: "Yeah, it was a Wober grill."
FB2: "No, it was a Wuber grill. Honey, I bought that thing at Big Lots."
--Chicago, Funky Buddha Lounge, 728 W. Grand
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

As is becoming the norm, we have another hilarious submission that technically isn't eavesdropping, but must be shared with the world. Here is an email I received from a loyal reader/submitter:
"Last Nov my roommates and I woke to find a pair of glasses, cell phone, PDA-phone and a shoe lying right outside the front door of our apartment, discovered the following text message exchange within the PDA:
Jackoff: "My guy got some of that mass murda wow"
Douchebag: "Wat u mean, dat killer dope?"
Jackoff: "Def aint no g13 hash plant"
Douchebag: "Black afgan?"
Jackoff: "Yo them bitches just now got here. There's no way ill be able to make it bro."
Douchebag: "yo pimp can u grab any killer"
Jackoff: "Wat up?"
Douchebag: "Shit...wats good"
Jackoff: "Laid up, u?"
Douchebag: "Bout to goto this class"
Jackoff: "Me too folks"
Douchebag: "That hundino pac is prolly gunna b here today"
Jackoff: "Fuk all that"
Douchebag: "haha big balln smashn makin!"
Jackoff: "lol...we from richard manor & idle creek..."
Douchebag: "jk get at me later"
Jackoff: "We run shit like young hov and bleek..."
Douchebag: "haha"
Jackoff: "I pop my collar and i swing my chain...u can catch da club pimpin doin my thang!"
--Bloomington, IN
Eavesdropper: RobD

Thanks again everyone for your submissions. Keep up the good work. Email your inanities (even if that's not a word) to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.