- Quit job to do something fulfilling with life.
- Win at least one Halloween costume contest.
- Make enemies.
- Finally form that Starland Vocal Band tribute band I've been talking about called Afternoon Delight.
- Learn to fly. And no, I don't mean a plane, I mean learn to fly.
- Steal from the rich and, more importantly, steal from the poor.
- Keep drinking.
- Announce my 2006 candidacy for the Governor of Illinois.
- Smite my enemies.
- Really concentrate on improving my songwriting.
- Wager that irrepressible braggart Phileas Fogg £20,000 that he cannot circumnavigate the globe in 80 days.
- Make good on my promise to fulfill my grandma's deathbed wish that I "exterminate the gypsies."
- Marry a supermodel (sorry Jester -- it's been real).
- Get a job as an investment banker.
- Turn all enemies into friends.
- Give the Amish the gift of electricity.
- Find long lost twin and determine whether or not I am the good or the evil twin.
- Follow through on all idle threats I've made in the past 29+ years.
- Cure herpes.
- Challenge a camel to a footrace.
- Clone myself.
- Speak more about himself in the third person.
- Smite friends.
- Finally get that penis reduction surgery I've always needed.
- Master a foreign language, such as Australian or Scottish, and then take whichever country down from the inside.
- Get herpes.
- Cheat on supermodel wife with old wife.
- Smite long lost twin.
- Write a fictional autobiography detailing the seven years I spent in Tibet.
- Travel to Detroit to see IU compete in a bowl game.
- Finally begin the road to a Hall of Fame NFL career by purchasing NFL Hall of Fame.
- Smite clone.
- Hallucinate more often.
- Write better blog posts than this.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
It's About That Time
Now that I'm 29, I am officially entrenched in a quarter-life crisis (and yes, I plan on living until I'm 116). There are so many goals I have yet to accomplish before I turn 30. After extensive reflexion -- marked by periods of night terrors, catatonia, and self-inflicted knife wounds -- I have compiled a list of specific goals I have for myself for this year. Not all of them are pretty, and there are several that directly contradict each other, but I think it's important to be honest with myself and my readers in times like these. With that warning, I give you my goals for the next 363 days:
Monday, October 30, 2006
Golden Showers of Awesomeness
Just when I thought the weekend in B-town two weeks ago was the best IU weekend ever, a new one comes right along and blows it out of the water.
It all started Thursday night, when Jessie was very adamant about me opening one of my presents, even though my birthday -- my golden birthday at that -- wasn't until Sunday. You can imagine how happy I was when I opened a case of Caffrey's tallboys that Jessie had shipped from the UK. Oh sweet elixir of the gods, how I've missed thee. I took four to Bloomington and consumed them with tears of joy streaming down my face while tailgating.
Friday after work, Ari, Jessie, and I piled into The Blaab and headed down to B-town for Homecoming Weekend, arriving at some point after ten. We met up with Amy Lee, Kip, and Kip's friend Mark at The Upstairs Pub. Meanwhile, Holt was freaking out somewhere about the Cardinals winning the World Series. The AMFs were flowing, and a pretty decent number of people were in costumes, including what I assume is supposed to be a sailor on some sort of floating brothel:
When we arrived at The OSHP (which was held in a big room at what I think was an apartment complex's clubhouse), everyone in the entire room turned and looked at us, as well they should have. At some point during The OSHP, Ace Frehley started to refer to himself only in the third person. KISS won the costume contest at The OSHP. This was no surprise to Ace Frehley, as he has never lost a costume contest in Bloomington.
After The OSHP, KISS went to a party at an optometry student's nearby apartment. Some girl was making a hot drink on the stove that had a lot of rum in it. Ace Frehley had a glass of this demon punch. When asked how it tasted, Ace Frehley stated bluntly, "It tastes like AIDS." Ace Frehley does not know what AIDS tastes like.
Ace Frehley tried to call Yellow Cab to take KISS to the bars. Ace Frehley was not impressed with Yellow Cab's response. Luckily, someone was nice enough to drive KISS to the bars, Nick's in particular, which is where Jessie (a bat), Ari (a flight attendant), Amy (Amy), Holt (a Revolutionary War general), and Katie (Goldilocks) were meeting us. Ace Frehley decided that Ace Frehley doesn't wait in lines. Unfortunately, other people didn't agree with Ace Frehley, so Ace Frehley waited in line to get into Nick's.
The arrival of KISS to Nick's was akin to the arrival of The Beatles at JFK on February 7, 1964. Ace Frehley greeted Holt in an appropriate manner:
Ace Frehley found out rather quickly that random people love to buy Ace Frehley shots. Ace Frehley likes shots. Ace Frehley got called Peter Criss several times. Ace Frehley is a space man. Ace Frehley is not a fucking cat. Ace Frehley hates stupid people and is not afraid to correct them.
People like to have their pictures taken with KISS. KISS is very photogenic, even though Ace Frehley doesn't smile.
It all started Thursday night, when Jessie was very adamant about me opening one of my presents, even though my birthday -- my golden birthday at that -- wasn't until Sunday. You can imagine how happy I was when I opened a case of Caffrey's tallboys that Jessie had shipped from the UK. Oh sweet elixir of the gods, how I've missed thee. I took four to Bloomington and consumed them with tears of joy streaming down my face while tailgating.
Friday after work, Ari, Jessie, and I piled into The Blaab and headed down to B-town for Homecoming Weekend, arriving at some point after ten. We met up with Amy Lee, Kip, and Kip's friend Mark at The Upstairs Pub. Meanwhile, Holt was freaking out somewhere about the Cardinals winning the World Series. The AMFs were flowing, and a pretty decent number of people were in costumes, including what I assume is supposed to be a sailor on some sort of floating brothel:
God bless her. We also saw Cory Lidle, complete with wings and a halo:
We did not see any Steve Irwins or dead Amish schoolgirls.
After Upstairs, we all went over to Kilroy's. God I miss Kilroy's. Shots flowed. We conversed with Cory Lidle. Good times were had. Then we went to Bamba's, where I had a delicious burrito and conversed with former Hoosier linebacker Jamie Baisley.
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 8, which was fine, since it was tailgating time. I carried my 4 Caffrey's to the tailgating fields, where Holt and I met his buddy Clint and tailgated joyfully. One thing I thought was odd for a Big Ten university to do on Homecoming was to disallow vehicles from entering the tailgating fields. Granted, it was muddy, but it was still Homecoming. The fields looked barren compared to how they usually are.
The game itself was delicious, with IU pounding Michigan State 46-21 to take back the Old Brass Spittoon.
Number of victories until IU clinches Motor City Bowl berth: 1
After the game, my dad took Jessie and me to Anatolia, a new Turkish restaurant in B-town. It was really good -- probably the best hummus I've ever had. Unfortunately I was burping up adana kebob for much of the night.
Once we got back to the hotel, I transformed myself into Ace Frehley. Jester then took me to Brad "Gene Simmons" Mundy's apartment, where he and his buddy Dan (who was Paul Stanley) were getting ready. Both of them are IU Optometry School students, and we were headed to the Optometry School Halloween party (hereinafter, "The OSHP"). Both of them looked pretty awesom in their costumes. Brad, who is already 6'4", had platform boots that brought him damn near the 7-foot mark. Dan (who has never seen me out of makeup and who I have never seen out of makeup) had platform boots as well, making him probably aroun 6'6". I did not have platform boots, leaving me to wallow at the 5'9" mark. Dan's girlfriend Stephanie was dressed up as a KISS groupie. She had some sweet white patent leather platform boots, although she was not towering over me like the other two. Additionally, Brad's girlfriend Ashley was going as a female Harry Potter, and Brad's roommate Paul was going as a football player who looked very little like Peter Criss.
Before we went to The OSHP, we took several shots of some grape-flavored vodka, drank a few beers, and passed around a bottle of champagne, which was just the tip of our booze-infused iceberg. We were fucking rock stars Saturday night, and I'll be damned if we didn't act like it.When we arrived at The OSHP (which was held in a big room at what I think was an apartment complex's clubhouse), everyone in the entire room turned and looked at us, as well they should have. At some point during The OSHP, Ace Frehley started to refer to himself only in the third person. KISS won the costume contest at The OSHP. This was no surprise to Ace Frehley, as he has never lost a costume contest in Bloomington.
After The OSHP, KISS went to a party at an optometry student's nearby apartment. Some girl was making a hot drink on the stove that had a lot of rum in it. Ace Frehley had a glass of this demon punch. When asked how it tasted, Ace Frehley stated bluntly, "It tastes like AIDS." Ace Frehley does not know what AIDS tastes like.
Ace Frehley tried to call Yellow Cab to take KISS to the bars. Ace Frehley was not impressed with Yellow Cab's response. Luckily, someone was nice enough to drive KISS to the bars, Nick's in particular, which is where Jessie (a bat), Ari (a flight attendant), Amy (Amy), Holt (a Revolutionary War general), and Katie (Goldilocks) were meeting us. Ace Frehley decided that Ace Frehley doesn't wait in lines. Unfortunately, other people didn't agree with Ace Frehley, so Ace Frehley waited in line to get into Nick's.
The arrival of KISS to Nick's was akin to the arrival of The Beatles at JFK on February 7, 1964. Ace Frehley greeted Holt in an appropriate manner:
Ace Frehley found out rather quickly that random people love to buy Ace Frehley shots. Ace Frehley likes shots. Ace Frehley got called Peter Criss several times. Ace Frehley is a space man. Ace Frehley is not a fucking cat. Ace Frehley hates stupid people and is not afraid to correct them.
People like to have their pictures taken with KISS. KISS is very photogenic, even though Ace Frehley doesn't smile.
During the course of the night, Ace Frehley felt the need to randomly sing, "Everybody knows she's looking good. And the lady knows it's understood. Strutter!" Said serenades were complemented by Ace Frehley singing, "'Cause I'm back, back in a New York groove" and imploring people to shock him. Ace Frehley does not recall being shocked. On several occasions, Ace Frehley declared himself the King of the Nighttime World. Ace Frehley made a habit of telling women, "I'll meet meet you in the ladies room." To the best of his recollection, Ace Frehley did not meet anyone in any lavatory.
KISS went to The Jungle Room and Upstairs after Nick's. Ace Frehley does not know whether he went to Upstairs first or The Jungle Room first. In fact, Ace Frehley recalls a total of 45 seconds after 11pm. It is entirely possible that Ace Frehley blacked out. Ace Frehley remembers very little about the Jungle Room or Upstairs. Ace Frehley does not remember turning 29 at midnight. Ace Frehley does not remember what he assumes was outright joy when the clocks fell back an hour and he gained an extra hour of drinking time, although Ace Frehley is certain that he took advantage of that extra hour. Today, Ace Frehley would learn from Gene Simmons that a newspaper photographer took KISS's picture while we were at Nick's. Ace Frehley has no reason to doubt that said photograph was taken, although Ace Frehley has no idea what paper his picture might be in and no recollection of said picture being taken. That's fine because Ace Frehley is comfortable with how much he drinks. Ace Frehley may have killed a man Saturday night. And that man's name is Ace Frehley.
Ace Frehley vaguely remembers going to Bamba's and ordering super steak nachos even those Ace Frehley had no intention of eating super steak nachos. Ace Frehley threw away a full container of super steak nachos just because Ace Frehley could. Ace Frehley does not recall the walk back to the hotel, although Ace Frehley recalls taking what may well have been an hour-long shower back at the hotel. Ace Frehley's shower did a mediocre job of removing Ace Frehley's makeup. Ace Frehley cannot be killed, not even by himself. Ace Frehley's wife forgot her contact lens case, so she put saline solution and her contacts in two glasses in the bathroom. According to Ace Frehley's wife, she warned Ace Frehley repeatedly that these glasses were not to be used for drinking purposes. Allegations have surfaced that Ace Frehley drank one of his wife's contact lenses. Ace Frehley is in no position to confirm or deny those allegations. Ace Frehley is fearful that he will pass a contact lens quite soon, if he has not done so already. Somehow Ace Frehley woke up Sunday morning to realize that he spent less than $20 Saturday night. Ace Frehley loves Bloomington, but fears his next credit card statement. Ace Frehley was still drunk when he woke up Sunday morning and remained so for several hours. Ace Frehley rules.
Friday, October 27, 2006
"Rockin' On a Midnight, Steal Your Soul"
Today is the Hair Band Friday Halloween Party (or HBFHP for short), which means you must have a costume to enter (or if you're a chick, you can just flash us), and you must (as always) be ready to party. The office is devlishly rockin'. I cooked up a batch of Hair Band Friday Halloween Party Knockout Punch (or HBFHPKP for short), which is a once-lethal (RIP Steve) concoction of Jack, vodka, GHB, coke (not Coke), strawberry Kool-Aid, and a healthy dose of red food coloring to make it look like goat's blood. I've had a couple cups of HBFHPKP, and I've been walking around in my Borat swimsuit costume offering mustache rides. Honestly, I'm a little bit disappointed in the response thus far (only six takers, and one was a really drunk dude who said he used to be a Congressman -- I politely explained that I didn't roll that way, then kicked him out because I don't want anyone to catch gay from him). Maybe some of the ladies will be more open to suggestion once the HBFHPKP kicks in, and I won't have to fend off dudes. No worries, though, because I'm feelin' loose and "Trick or Treat" by Fastway, "House of Pain" by Faster Pussycat, and "Halloween" by Helloween just blared through my computer's speakers at decibel levels inappropriate for non-deaf children and chicks with ultrasensitive clitori. Some of the ladies are having a ball (or balls) with the HBFHP. Some of the costumes chicks are wearing include: slutty cat, slutty nun, slutty nurse, slutty marine biologist, slutty CTA employee, slutty hooker, and slutty Amish chick. Staci is dressed up as a "slutty Crocodile Hunter," wearing a khaki short-sleeve button-down shirt, some hiking boots, no pants, and a fake stingray barb protruding from her nether regions. Too soon, Staci. Too soon. Meanwhile, Kerri is dressed as a "slutty groupie," wearing nothing at all, which is kind of funny because she usually just wears four-inch clear plastic heels when she's here. She and the new guy -- who's dressed as Jesus (the messiah, not the pederast bowler) -- are going on Round 2 in the corner as I write this. Second coming indeed. Candi came (in more ways than one) as a slutty teacher, and she gave me an oral exam in sexual education, if you know what I mean. What I mean by that is that she verbally quizzed me -- quite extensively -- on the proper terminology of the male and female sexual organs, as well as the different types of sexually transmitted diseases. Did you know that you can get AIDS just from being in the same room as someone who has it? I didn't either. But now I also know, thanks to Candi, that if you have AIDS, you can get cured by having sex with a virgin, so that's a HUGE plus. Anyway, I went to a Queen concert once, so I need to go out and find me a virgin (I know for sure that there are none in the office, although I think everyone in the office now has AIDS). Who knew having AIDS could be so awesome? I don't know why it gets such a bad rap in the media. Probably because most people don't get totally laid whenever they want.
As you probably surmised, Midwestern Eavesdropping is postponed until next week.
Last night Jester and I ventured over to The Metro to see The Hold Steady. We positioned ourselves on the balcony, right along the railing, fairly close to the center. It was an excellent show. They had two opening bands. The first opening band was Catfish Haven, and they were pretty much awesome. They were like CCR meets Kings of Leon meets Black Crowes meets Joe Cocker meets Stax/Volt meets My Morning Jacket, with a pinch -- just a pinch -- of The Strokes. The lead singer was an urban Yeti who sounded like Kurt Cobain would have sounded if he liked himself and didn't write songs about antidepressants, apologizing, and coming as you are. Anyway, you should definitely check them out, and if you get a chance to see them live, do it. It was a very energetic show.
Sean Na Na (not to be confused with Sha Na Na) was the second opening band. Great name, decent band. The lead singer looked like Dr. Katz, but not as funny. It seemed like they thought a lot of themselves, imploring people to bring them shots and making seemingly sarcastic comments about the life-changing nature of their songs, but they just came off as a little desperate. I would describe their sound as Death Cab for Cutie meets The Replacements.
The headliner was The Hold Steady, fresh off the release of their new album, Boys and Girls in America (for a free listen, click here). I have liked them for a couple years now, and Jester and I saw them at Lollapalooza, where they rocked. Between the case of High Life bottles and bottle of Jamison on stage (nearly finished by show's end--they like the sauce), lead singer Craig Finn's spasmodic movements, the keyboardist's Rollie Fingers 'stache and black 3-piece suit, and guitar player Tad Kubler letting a guy in the crowd play guitar on one song while Tad just walked around the crowd and danced, it was a hell of a performance. It's clear that these guys love what they're doing (who wouldn't?), and I'm a big fan of their brand of booze-soaked, lyrically interesting rock.
On a completely unrelated note, in case you missed it, Notre Dame coach Charlie "Six Months to Live" Weis got pissed that ND got jumped by Florida and Tennessee in the latest BCS standings. Luckily, I'm not the only one who hates Notre Dame and thinks their overrated. ESPN.com's DJ Gallo and SI.com's Stewart Mandel chimed in on the subject. Well done, guys. Thanks to Christoff for the links.
Speaking of schools I hate from northern Indiana, the Purdue student section has a new gimmick: bringing giant inflatable penises to football games. I am so glad I am not kidding about this one. Why the hell would -- no, you know what, I don't even need to say anything about this one. It pretty much speaks for itself. Boiler up! Thanks to Holt for the link.
As you probably surmised, Midwestern Eavesdropping is postponed until next week.
Last night Jester and I ventured over to The Metro to see The Hold Steady. We positioned ourselves on the balcony, right along the railing, fairly close to the center. It was an excellent show. They had two opening bands. The first opening band was Catfish Haven, and they were pretty much awesome. They were like CCR meets Kings of Leon meets Black Crowes meets Joe Cocker meets Stax/Volt meets My Morning Jacket, with a pinch -- just a pinch -- of The Strokes. The lead singer was an urban Yeti who sounded like Kurt Cobain would have sounded if he liked himself and didn't write songs about antidepressants, apologizing, and coming as you are. Anyway, you should definitely check them out, and if you get a chance to see them live, do it. It was a very energetic show.
Sean Na Na (not to be confused with Sha Na Na) was the second opening band. Great name, decent band. The lead singer looked like Dr. Katz, but not as funny. It seemed like they thought a lot of themselves, imploring people to bring them shots and making seemingly sarcastic comments about the life-changing nature of their songs, but they just came off as a little desperate. I would describe their sound as Death Cab for Cutie meets The Replacements.
The headliner was The Hold Steady, fresh off the release of their new album, Boys and Girls in America (for a free listen, click here). I have liked them for a couple years now, and Jester and I saw them at Lollapalooza, where they rocked. Between the case of High Life bottles and bottle of Jamison on stage (nearly finished by show's end--they like the sauce), lead singer Craig Finn's spasmodic movements, the keyboardist's Rollie Fingers 'stache and black 3-piece suit, and guitar player Tad Kubler letting a guy in the crowd play guitar on one song while Tad just walked around the crowd and danced, it was a hell of a performance. It's clear that these guys love what they're doing (who wouldn't?), and I'm a big fan of their brand of booze-soaked, lyrically interesting rock.On a completely unrelated note, in case you missed it, Notre Dame coach Charlie "Six Months to Live" Weis got pissed that ND got jumped by Florida and Tennessee in the latest BCS standings. Luckily, I'm not the only one who hates Notre Dame and thinks their overrated. ESPN.com's DJ Gallo and SI.com's Stewart Mandel chimed in on the subject. Well done, guys. Thanks to Christoff for the links.
Speaking of schools I hate from northern Indiana, the Purdue student section has a new gimmick: bringing giant inflatable penises to football games. I am so glad I am not kidding about this one. Why the hell would -- no, you know what, I don't even need to say anything about this one. It pretty much speaks for itself. Boiler up! Thanks to Holt for the link.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Vote for This Video Again!
Hey everyone, you may recall a post a couple weeks ago about a high school classmate of mine who had entered the YouTube Snickers contest. Well, he is now in the semifinals!. Here is the link to his video. Click on the link and GIVE HIM 5 STARS. As he said, it's essentially an internet popularity contest, so the more views and the higher the votes he gets, the more likely it is that he wins.
We helped DJ Meg get a spot on RadioNow 93.1 in Indy, and we can sure as hell help Lou get a Snickers commercial or some prize money or a whole lotta Snickers or something.
Thanks,
GMYH
We helped DJ Meg get a spot on RadioNow 93.1 in Indy, and we can sure as hell help Lou get a Snickers commercial or some prize money or a whole lotta Snickers or something.
Thanks,
GMYH
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Super Neat Videos
I don't have much time to write today because I am going to get my Illinois drivers license on my lunch break. I expect to have my license sometime between 4:43 and 4:58.
I will, however, remark that -- in case you hadn't already known this -- Rush Limbaugh is officially the biggest asshole in America for accusing Michael J. Fox of hamming up his Parkinson's Disease symptoms to gain support for Democratic congressional candidates. In case you didn't just read that sentence, let me reiterate. Rush Limbaugh accused Michael J. Fox -- one of the most universally beloved actors in the world -- of faking the severity of his Parkinson's symptoms. I would like to drop Limbaugh in a forest and hunt him. I assume I would need nothing more than a compound bow, some arrows (maybe only one), and some bait (ding-dongs, a bottle of Vicodin, and a gay minority with a life-threatening illness).
Also, Midwestern Eavesdropping is a little slim (i.e., only 2 submissions), so please send in your eavesdroppings before tomorrow around noon to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.
Here are some totally sweet links to videos (contributor to link following):
I will, however, remark that -- in case you hadn't already known this -- Rush Limbaugh is officially the biggest asshole in America for accusing Michael J. Fox of hamming up his Parkinson's Disease symptoms to gain support for Democratic congressional candidates. In case you didn't just read that sentence, let me reiterate. Rush Limbaugh accused Michael J. Fox -- one of the most universally beloved actors in the world -- of faking the severity of his Parkinson's symptoms. I would like to drop Limbaugh in a forest and hunt him. I assume I would need nothing more than a compound bow, some arrows (maybe only one), and some bait (ding-dongs, a bottle of Vicodin, and a gay minority with a life-threatening illness).
Also, Midwestern Eavesdropping is a little slim (i.e., only 2 submissions), so please send in your eavesdroppings before tomorrow around noon to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.
Here are some totally sweet links to videos (contributor to link following):
- Borat being Borat (Christoff)
- Something to make Illini fans cry some more (Holt)
- One-handed Rubik's Cube mastery (Tron) (As a side note, I first laid hands on a Rubik's Cube at some point between 1983 and 1985. I have come very close to getting 2 sides.)
- Chuck Amato animated cartoon (Tron)
- Tiger Woods Nike commercial imitation, for some reason set to "Valerie" by Steve Winwood (Tron)
- Turbo drunk bitch rips on non-drinker on Blind Date (the 1:40 mark is particularly good) (Tron)
- Drunk girl asks bottle to be broken over her head. Hilarity ensues (Tron)
- Soccer balls to the face are always funny (Tron)
- It turns out Public Enemy was right: 911 is a joke (Tron)
- Girl on stripper pole (clothed) falls on head (Tron)
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
40 Things I Hate About Me
Well if Beth, Jaleh, and Bill can do it, so can I:
1. What is your occupation? Mime by day, mercenary-for-hire by night
2. What color are your socks right now? I don't understand the question.
3. What are you listening to right now? "Hot Soft Light" by The Hold Steady
4. What was the last thing you ate? Potbelly's Wreck.
5. Can you drive a stick shift? I'm not gay, if that's what you're asking.
6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Black. Like my heart.
7. Last person you spoke to on the phone? A rather unimpressive woman in the office of the Clerk of Court of Champaign County who informed me that she was not an attorney and thus could not answer my rather simple, non-legal-opinion-invoking question.
8. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Technically, I sent it to myself, so no. But I stole it from Beth's page, and I find her agreeable.
9. How old are you today? 28. Take that next Sunday!
10. Favorite drink? Caffrey's. Damn you fellow Americans for not buying enough of it to sustain its continued importation into this country. I hate you all.
11. What is your favorite sport to watch? College football, followed closely by college basketball.
12. Have you ever dyed your hair? Head? No. I'm, however, a platinum blonde below the waist.
13. Pets? A dogtistic, socially anxious, apathetic mutt.
14. Favorite food? My dead grandma's gnocchi. Thanks for bringing that up, since I will never be able to eat it again.
15. What was the last movie you watched? Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
16. Favorite day of the year? The first Thursday of March Madness.
17. What do you do to vent anger? Breathe, blog, live.
18. What was your favorite toy as a child? Probably Legos or GI Joes
19. What is your favorite fall or spring? Fall, no contest. Football, the World Series, Halloween, tailgating, my birthday, Thanksgiving, Canadian Thanksgiving, Dia de los Muertos, Columbus Day, etc., etc.
20. Hugs or kisses? Yes.
21. Cherries or Blueberries? Blueberries, unless we're talking about poppin'. Hiyoooooo! Actually, it would still be blueberries.
22. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? Yes, although this is not an email.
23. Who is most likely to respond? Jesus (the pederast bowler, not the messiah)
24. Favorite serial killer? Jack the Ripper and The Green River Killer because they are to serial killers what Elvis and The Beatles are to rock 'n' roll, respectively.
25. Living arrangements? Wigwam on the North Side.
26. When was the last time you cried? 1990.
27. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes, socks, clumps of hair from the prostitute who tried to escape before we were finished.
28. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending this to? I'm not sending this to anyone, but that would probably be Horace, my life coach. Without him, I'd still be flipping burgers and trying to make reggae records on the side. Because of him, I've really turned things around. I'm out of debt, I feel good about myself, and I'm not holding onto the false, unrealistic dreams of my Rastafarian father.
29. What did you do last night? Don't you mean "who"? Hiyooooooooo! But seriously, I worked until about 9, came home and wept openly in my wife's cold and uncaring arms -- most of my makeup rubbed off on her shirt -- before hitting the pipe. Somewhere in there, I baked an upside-down cake, eating half of it before realizing that I had a job to do on in the Ukranian Village -- nothing big, just a molotov cocktail through a storefront. That should teach those white bastards not to sell antiques.
30. Favorite smells? Uhh, no comment.
31. What inspires you? A paralyzing fear of mediocrity.
32. What are you afraid of? Being trapped without a parachute in a hot air balloon several thousand feet in the air with a hungry komodo dragon that talks like Suzie Kolber.
33. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? Since "spicy hamburgers" don't exist, I'll have to go with "cheese hamburgers." I sure do love cheese hamburgers. If only there was a way to shorten the name.
34. Favorite dog breed? Is "dead" a breed?
35. Number of keys on your key ring? 12 (in addition to my work as a mime and a mercenary, I steal keys)
36. How many years at your current job? 1/2, which means I've been here about 6 months longer than I should have been.
37. Favorite day of the week? Saturday.
38. How many states have you lived in? Five: Minnesota, Texas, Illinois. Indiana, Ohio, or Minnexillianio as I call it.
39. Favorite holidays? Halloween
40. Ever driven a motorcycle or heavy machinery? Driven? No. Stolen? Yes and yes.
1. What is your occupation? Mime by day, mercenary-for-hire by night
2. What color are your socks right now? I don't understand the question.
3. What are you listening to right now? "Hot Soft Light" by The Hold Steady
4. What was the last thing you ate? Potbelly's Wreck.
5. Can you drive a stick shift? I'm not gay, if that's what you're asking.
6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Black. Like my heart.
7. Last person you spoke to on the phone? A rather unimpressive woman in the office of the Clerk of Court of Champaign County who informed me that she was not an attorney and thus could not answer my rather simple, non-legal-opinion-invoking question.
8. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Technically, I sent it to myself, so no. But I stole it from Beth's page, and I find her agreeable.
9. How old are you today? 28. Take that next Sunday!
10. Favorite drink? Caffrey's. Damn you fellow Americans for not buying enough of it to sustain its continued importation into this country. I hate you all.
11. What is your favorite sport to watch? College football, followed closely by college basketball.
12. Have you ever dyed your hair? Head? No. I'm, however, a platinum blonde below the waist.
13. Pets? A dogtistic, socially anxious, apathetic mutt.
14. Favorite food? My dead grandma's gnocchi. Thanks for bringing that up, since I will never be able to eat it again.
15. What was the last movie you watched? Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
16. Favorite day of the year? The first Thursday of March Madness.
17. What do you do to vent anger? Breathe, blog, live.
18. What was your favorite toy as a child? Probably Legos or GI Joes
19. What is your favorite fall or spring? Fall, no contest. Football, the World Series, Halloween, tailgating, my birthday, Thanksgiving, Canadian Thanksgiving, Dia de los Muertos, Columbus Day, etc., etc.
20. Hugs or kisses? Yes.
21. Cherries or Blueberries? Blueberries, unless we're talking about poppin'. Hiyoooooo! Actually, it would still be blueberries.
22. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? Yes, although this is not an email.
23. Who is most likely to respond? Jesus (the pederast bowler, not the messiah)
24. Favorite serial killer? Jack the Ripper and The Green River Killer because they are to serial killers what Elvis and The Beatles are to rock 'n' roll, respectively.
25. Living arrangements? Wigwam on the North Side.
26. When was the last time you cried? 1990.
27. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes, socks, clumps of hair from the prostitute who tried to escape before we were finished.
28. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending this to? I'm not sending this to anyone, but that would probably be Horace, my life coach. Without him, I'd still be flipping burgers and trying to make reggae records on the side. Because of him, I've really turned things around. I'm out of debt, I feel good about myself, and I'm not holding onto the false, unrealistic dreams of my Rastafarian father.
29. What did you do last night? Don't you mean "who"? Hiyooooooooo! But seriously, I worked until about 9, came home and wept openly in my wife's cold and uncaring arms -- most of my makeup rubbed off on her shirt -- before hitting the pipe. Somewhere in there, I baked an upside-down cake, eating half of it before realizing that I had a job to do on in the Ukranian Village -- nothing big, just a molotov cocktail through a storefront. That should teach those white bastards not to sell antiques.
30. Favorite smells? Uhh, no comment.
31. What inspires you? A paralyzing fear of mediocrity.
32. What are you afraid of? Being trapped without a parachute in a hot air balloon several thousand feet in the air with a hungry komodo dragon that talks like Suzie Kolber.
33. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? Since "spicy hamburgers" don't exist, I'll have to go with "cheese hamburgers." I sure do love cheese hamburgers. If only there was a way to shorten the name.
34. Favorite dog breed? Is "dead" a breed?
35. Number of keys on your key ring? 12 (in addition to my work as a mime and a mercenary, I steal keys)
36. How many years at your current job? 1/2, which means I've been here about 6 months longer than I should have been.
37. Favorite day of the week? Saturday.
38. How many states have you lived in? Five: Minnesota, Texas, Illinois. Indiana, Ohio, or Minnexillianio as I call it.
39. Favorite holidays? Halloween
40. Ever driven a motorcycle or heavy machinery? Driven? No. Stolen? Yes and yes.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Hiscock & Pusey, Attorneys at Law
I'm not even sure if you'd believe what happened to me this weekend. Okay, so Friday I worked until about 7 because the man has a habit of dragging me down and kicking me in the head repeatedly with a steel-toed boot. When I arrived home, I could sense that something was amiss. Immediately, I realized that both Jessie and I had not yet eaten dinner. Guys, I'm not even kidding. Jessie started flipping out and throwing shit all over the place -- vases, plates, Harley, TVs -- all while singing "Kiss You All Over" by Exile. Every time I tried to interrupt, she would yell, "not while I'm singing 'our song' dammit!" which I thought was odd because "our song" is, has always been, and will always be "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley. I did the only thing I could do in that situation: ordered carryout from Penny's and prayed for a quick, painless death.
I practically sprinted to Penny's, arriving soaked in sweat and panting like a hell hound on the trail of a fresh corpse. I muttered something to the petite Asian woman behind the counter about being a couple days early for the marathon. Unamused, she gave me my food and informed me that the police would be arriving in less than five minutes.
By the time I returned home, Jessie's condition could only be described as ravenous and unstable. The puffiness around her eyes told me that she had been sobbing, and the knife and small doll carved from an onion sitting on the now-broken coffee table told me that she had once again been dabbling in voodoo. I handed Jessie her tub of fresh ramen, and locked myself in the bathroom with my chicken lad nar.
The food satiated me, but did little to calm Jessie's bloodlust. After killing a pigeon with her bare hands, she and Harley began to fight. Only the soothing voice of Bob Saget on NBC's new hit show One Vs. 100 finally brought Jessie up from the floor (mind you she was covered in a combination of feathers, pigeon's blood, and dog's blood). While visibly shaken, Harley was physically well enough that we spared a trip to the vet. I spent the next several hours vigorously cleaning the apartment (thank God for microfiber) while Jessie soaked in a warm milkbath I had drawn for her.
At around 11:30, "NaviKate" Rohrer and her boy toy Mike "The Ulltimate Warrior" Ullmer arrived at the nearby (as in a block away) apartment of their friends, the Stickrods. By this time, the PCP had worn off and Jessie was back to her normal self. The six of us went to Lawry's, the dive bar that is equidistant between our apartment and the Stickrods' apartment. After closing the place down, we all went back to our respective places. I found out that VH1 Classic has a "show" called Metal Mania that runs in the wee hours of the morning. Essentially, it shows hair band videos. Knowing that I had to get up somewhat early the next morning, I taped it, since it was on until 5.
Saturday morning we woke up around 10. I tried to talk to Jessie about her erratic behavior from the previous evening, but she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. In fact, she vehemently denied that any of what I was telling her actually happened, saying outlandish things like, "What are you talking about?", "That never happened," "You're making this up," and "This is all in your head." Poor girl.
A bunch of us went to Rocks to watch the IU/Ohio State game. When we got there, it was 3-0 Hoosiers. I should have just turned around and not watched any more, leading myself to believe that we had held on to defeat the #1 team in the nation on the road, keeping intact IU's Rose Bowl dreams. In reality, those were the last points IU would score, yielding 44 to the Buckeyes. OSU managed to beat the 31.5-point spread, thanks in part to some questionable no-calls by the refs. I'm not saying that IU would have won, but I am saying that the hand of the #1 team in the land seems to be firmly planted in the pockets of the Big Ten referees, leaving not only cash, but also some pretty disgusting stains.
After Rocks, we met up with Tron -- who failed to tell anyone he was going to be in town until 2pm Saturday -- at Ivy on Clark. He was beaming (as he should have been) after MSU's 35-point comeback win over Northwestern, thus saving John L. Smith's job for at least one more week. In fact, he had been at the game, but left at halftime because Northwestern was so far ahead.
While there, we watched Notre Dame barely defeat a mediocre UCLA team at home with a last-minute touchdown by Howard Stern. The refs seemed to miss a holding call on the winning TD pass that everyone in the bar noticed. Although no ND fan will admit it, this is just another game that proves ND is overrated.
On a related note, the Text Message of the Weekend award goes to Holt, for the following: "Samardzija may be the best lookin' chick at ND." He's right, you know.
After Ivy, everyone went home, took naps, and then The Six Pack (as I am now -- and only now -- referring to NaviKate, Mike, the Stickrods, and me and Jessie) headed to Grand Central for some dinner. Apparently Grand Central is doing some sort of community outreach program because several of the waitresses appeared to be current or former hookers. God bless 'em and their short shorts.
After Grand Central, we went to Alive One, where we drank beer. In this weekend's most random sighting, as Jessie and I were about to leave, who walks by us, but Kelly "Formerly Lynch" Jones. After having a kid not too long ago, she was getting one of her first real nights out, which I assume was awesome, although I'm not sure if I would trust Mike to care for an infant by himself, since I don't think his breasts can produce the requisite volume of milk. I could be wrong, though.
Saturday night ended once again with me watching Metal Mania and taping the rest of it. I highly suggest flipping over to VH1 Classic late night if you have the chance. '80s hair band videos are some of the best ever made. Among other things, I saw and/or heard W.A.S.P. get transported back in time to an old Texas frontier saloon, Ronny James Dio freak the hell out of some people, Mick Mars look like he was only 40 (he was actually about 35 at the time), Danger Danger (I'm pretty sure the video I saw was the last time anyone has seen any of them), Rick Allen's left arm, the demure harmonies of Slayer, and Jason Bonham's shitty-ass band.
Yesterday I worked from noon to 5:30, which is nearly as awesome as it sounds. Then I had my Second City class until about 9. Then I met the Stickrods, NaviKate, Mike, Ari, Klint, and the Jester at BW-3, where it was clear to me they had been drinking for hours. We had a great conversation about terrible full names or last names that we have heard or seen. Among those discussed were: Penix, Dickinsheets (not sure if that's spelled correctly), Phil Hiscock, Pusey (pronounced "pussy") (by the way, Hiscock and Pusey both work at the same law firm), Hitler, Jack P. Knauf, Tapan Buch (pronounced "tappin' bush"), Mike Hunt (seriously), Richard Head (seriously). I think there were others, but I might not have heard them because they might have been drowned out by my deafening laughter. Please feel free to post any hilarious actual names, or if you were there, please post any of the ones I forgot.
I practically sprinted to Penny's, arriving soaked in sweat and panting like a hell hound on the trail of a fresh corpse. I muttered something to the petite Asian woman behind the counter about being a couple days early for the marathon. Unamused, she gave me my food and informed me that the police would be arriving in less than five minutes.
By the time I returned home, Jessie's condition could only be described as ravenous and unstable. The puffiness around her eyes told me that she had been sobbing, and the knife and small doll carved from an onion sitting on the now-broken coffee table told me that she had once again been dabbling in voodoo. I handed Jessie her tub of fresh ramen, and locked myself in the bathroom with my chicken lad nar.
The food satiated me, but did little to calm Jessie's bloodlust. After killing a pigeon with her bare hands, she and Harley began to fight. Only the soothing voice of Bob Saget on NBC's new hit show One Vs. 100 finally brought Jessie up from the floor (mind you she was covered in a combination of feathers, pigeon's blood, and dog's blood). While visibly shaken, Harley was physically well enough that we spared a trip to the vet. I spent the next several hours vigorously cleaning the apartment (thank God for microfiber) while Jessie soaked in a warm milkbath I had drawn for her.
At around 11:30, "NaviKate" Rohrer and her boy toy Mike "The Ulltimate Warrior" Ullmer arrived at the nearby (as in a block away) apartment of their friends, the Stickrods. By this time, the PCP had worn off and Jessie was back to her normal self. The six of us went to Lawry's, the dive bar that is equidistant between our apartment and the Stickrods' apartment. After closing the place down, we all went back to our respective places. I found out that VH1 Classic has a "show" called Metal Mania that runs in the wee hours of the morning. Essentially, it shows hair band videos. Knowing that I had to get up somewhat early the next morning, I taped it, since it was on until 5.
Saturday morning we woke up around 10. I tried to talk to Jessie about her erratic behavior from the previous evening, but she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. In fact, she vehemently denied that any of what I was telling her actually happened, saying outlandish things like, "What are you talking about?", "That never happened," "You're making this up," and "This is all in your head." Poor girl.
A bunch of us went to Rocks to watch the IU/Ohio State game. When we got there, it was 3-0 Hoosiers. I should have just turned around and not watched any more, leading myself to believe that we had held on to defeat the #1 team in the nation on the road, keeping intact IU's Rose Bowl dreams. In reality, those were the last points IU would score, yielding 44 to the Buckeyes. OSU managed to beat the 31.5-point spread, thanks in part to some questionable no-calls by the refs. I'm not saying that IU would have won, but I am saying that the hand of the #1 team in the land seems to be firmly planted in the pockets of the Big Ten referees, leaving not only cash, but also some pretty disgusting stains.
After Rocks, we met up with Tron -- who failed to tell anyone he was going to be in town until 2pm Saturday -- at Ivy on Clark. He was beaming (as he should have been) after MSU's 35-point comeback win over Northwestern, thus saving John L. Smith's job for at least one more week. In fact, he had been at the game, but left at halftime because Northwestern was so far ahead.
While there, we watched Notre Dame barely defeat a mediocre UCLA team at home with a last-minute touchdown by Howard Stern. The refs seemed to miss a holding call on the winning TD pass that everyone in the bar noticed. Although no ND fan will admit it, this is just another game that proves ND is overrated.
On a related note, the Text Message of the Weekend award goes to Holt, for the following: "Samardzija may be the best lookin' chick at ND." He's right, you know.
After Ivy, everyone went home, took naps, and then The Six Pack (as I am now -- and only now -- referring to NaviKate, Mike, the Stickrods, and me and Jessie) headed to Grand Central for some dinner. Apparently Grand Central is doing some sort of community outreach program because several of the waitresses appeared to be current or former hookers. God bless 'em and their short shorts.
After Grand Central, we went to Alive One, where we drank beer. In this weekend's most random sighting, as Jessie and I were about to leave, who walks by us, but Kelly "Formerly Lynch" Jones. After having a kid not too long ago, she was getting one of her first real nights out, which I assume was awesome, although I'm not sure if I would trust Mike to care for an infant by himself, since I don't think his breasts can produce the requisite volume of milk. I could be wrong, though.
Saturday night ended once again with me watching Metal Mania and taping the rest of it. I highly suggest flipping over to VH1 Classic late night if you have the chance. '80s hair band videos are some of the best ever made. Among other things, I saw and/or heard W.A.S.P. get transported back in time to an old Texas frontier saloon, Ronny James Dio freak the hell out of some people, Mick Mars look like he was only 40 (he was actually about 35 at the time), Danger Danger (I'm pretty sure the video I saw was the last time anyone has seen any of them), Rick Allen's left arm, the demure harmonies of Slayer, and Jason Bonham's shitty-ass band.
Yesterday I worked from noon to 5:30, which is nearly as awesome as it sounds. Then I had my Second City class until about 9. Then I met the Stickrods, NaviKate, Mike, Ari, Klint, and the Jester at BW-3, where it was clear to me they had been drinking for hours. We had a great conversation about terrible full names or last names that we have heard or seen. Among those discussed were: Penix, Dickinsheets (not sure if that's spelled correctly), Phil Hiscock, Pusey (pronounced "pussy") (by the way, Hiscock and Pusey both work at the same law firm), Hitler, Jack P. Knauf, Tapan Buch (pronounced "tappin' bush"), Mike Hunt (seriously), Richard Head (seriously). I think there were others, but I might not have heard them because they might have been drowned out by my deafening laughter. Please feel free to post any hilarious actual names, or if you were there, please post any of the ones I forgot.
Friday, October 20, 2006
"Daddy Says She's Too Young, But She's Old Enough For Me"
Hair Band Friday is upon us, and the office is crazy today. First off, "Give It All" by Ratt, "Seventeen" by Winger, and "Without Warning" by Dokken just blared from my speakers, probably causing permanent damage to everyone in a three-block radius. But who cares, man? They're rockin' out. If it's too loud, you're too old. Meanwhile, this morning I finished up a wicked appellate brief appendix. That motherfucker was so clear and concise that Cassandra wanted to know if I'd take her out. I was nervous as shit -- I mean, she's only like the most popular girl in the firm -- but I croaked out a "yeah sure." I picked her up at 7, and her dad said she had to be home by 12, which I thought was fair. We ate a meal of food at Fuddrucker's, and then we saw some movie called "About Last Night . . ." at the new Cineplex out by the mall. Man, the girl in that movie was hot, but I didn't want to say anything about it to Cassandra because I didn't want her to think I was a total hard-on, even though I was at half mast for most of the movie. On the drive home, I didn't even think anything was going to happen, even though I totally wanted the night to end with some heavy petting and possibly a hickey. I pulled up to her house, and then she made the move and kissed me. On the lips, no less. I couldn't even believe it! I was flabbergasted, and I didn't really know what to do in that situation, so I just did what I know best: railed her six ways from Sunday (actually seven, if you count leapfrog style as its own separate and distinct way). She's probably still coming. What? You think I sold 'em all?
Since I punted on my Midwestern Eavesdropping responsibilities and promises yesterday, I am making it up to you today. That's right, my friends, Hair Band Friday and Midwestern Eavesdropping all in one post. If I hadn't posted it with my own hands, I wouldn't believe it. It's like having sex while you're watching a football game and eating ice cream -- and not just any ice cream; it's like moose tracks or cookie dough or some shit you wouldn't even believe.
After workish, lady in what looks like her pajamas, pumping gas, yelling at her husband/boyfriend in the front driver's seat: "God, I can't believe I'm fucking doing this! You said that if I fucked you last night and did whatever you wanted, I wouldn't have to pump your gas anymore. Ugh!"
--Kettering, OH, Speedway station
Eavesdropper: NaviKate
Stoner: "Dude, where the fuuuuuuhhhhck have you been? How you doing, mannnn?"
Drunk: "Motherfucker I had an empty stomach, and then I had fifteen drinks. And I didn't realize I'd had that second Xanax. That's how I'm 'doing,' mannnn."
--Chicago, The Vic Theatre , Belmont & Sheffield
Eavesdropper: RobD
Random drunk freshman girl approaches devlishly handsome 28-year-old attorney outside a Big Ten football stadium after a game:
Girl: "What's your name?"
Guy: "Andrew."
Girl: "Wait, how tall are you?"
Guy: "Five nine. Why?"
Girl: "I'm five seven. [pause] You're cute."
Guy: "Are you serious?"
Bloomington, IN, East side of Memorial Stadium
--Eavesdropper: GMYH
Different random drunk freshman girl nervously approaches debonair 27-year-old attorney outside a Big Ten football stadium after a game while her friend is hitting on the guy's friend: "My number is 317-XXX-XXXX. You can call me up. We can go on a date. I love to go on dates. I'd like to go on a date with you."
Bloomington, IN, East side of Memorial Stadium
--Eavesdropper: Holt
Groggy Fratty: "Hey, man. Lotta blood."
Suit: "What? "
Groggy Fratty: "Lot of blood in the toilet this morning. "
Suit: "Are you serious? "
Groggy Fratty: "Yeah. "
Suit: "Why?"
Groggy Fratty: (shrugs) "That's how I roll."
--Chicago, Einstein Bagel, North & Wells
Eavesdropper: RobD
Two attorneys who don't know each other very well discuss over the phone when to have a meeting, and Attorney 1 tells Attorney 2 that he can't meet today because his son is having an as yet undisclosed type of surgery:
Attorney 1: "How about tomorrow at 10?"
Attorney 2: "That works for me."
Attorney 1: "Okay, great. See you then."
Attorney 2: "Okay, and I hope your son's surgery goes well."
Attorney 1: "Well, you know, how well can a second circumcision go?"
(Attorney 1 kind of laughs, and Attorney 2 gives a very hesitant, awkward, too-much-information type half-laugh)
Attorney 2: "Yeah. [pause] I guess that would be bad. See you tomorrow."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Suit: "Are you ready to drive me to work?"
Home businessman: "I'm ready like a . . . little Filipino boy in a warm summer's breeze."
--Chicago, North & Sedgwick
Eavesdropper: RobD
Extremely bitter 26-year-old male who recently quit smoking, to female who was trying to tell him that he did a good thing and he should resist the urge to smoke: "I don't want a pep talk. I want a cigarette."
--Bloomington, IN, Nick's English Hut
Eavesdropper: GMYH
GMYH Reader #1: "Do you think he makes up his Midwestern Eavesdroppings?"
GMYH Reader #2: "Who the fuck cares? They aren't funny anyway"
--Chicago, dog park, Sheffield & Schubert
Eavesdropper: RDC
There you have it. If you have any hilarious eavesdroppings, email them to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in Midwestern Eavesdropping. Have a great weekend.
Since I punted on my Midwestern Eavesdropping responsibilities and promises yesterday, I am making it up to you today. That's right, my friends, Hair Band Friday and Midwestern Eavesdropping all in one post. If I hadn't posted it with my own hands, I wouldn't believe it. It's like having sex while you're watching a football game and eating ice cream -- and not just any ice cream; it's like moose tracks or cookie dough or some shit you wouldn't even believe.
After workish, lady in what looks like her pajamas, pumping gas, yelling at her husband/boyfriend in the front driver's seat: "God, I can't believe I'm fucking doing this! You said that if I fucked you last night and did whatever you wanted, I wouldn't have to pump your gas anymore. Ugh!"
--Kettering, OH, Speedway station
Eavesdropper: NaviKate
Stoner: "Dude, where the fuuuuuuhhhhck have you been? How you doing, mannnn?"
Drunk: "Motherfucker I had an empty stomach, and then I had fifteen drinks. And I didn't realize I'd had that second Xanax. That's how I'm 'doing,' mannnn."
--Chicago, The Vic Theatre , Belmont & Sheffield
Eavesdropper: RobD
Random drunk freshman girl approaches devlishly handsome 28-year-old attorney outside a Big Ten football stadium after a game:
Girl: "What's your name?"
Guy: "Andrew."
Girl: "Wait, how tall are you?"
Guy: "Five nine. Why?"
Girl: "I'm five seven. [pause] You're cute."
Guy: "Are you serious?"
Bloomington, IN, East side of Memorial Stadium
--Eavesdropper: GMYH
Different random drunk freshman girl nervously approaches debonair 27-year-old attorney outside a Big Ten football stadium after a game while her friend is hitting on the guy's friend: "My number is 317-XXX-XXXX. You can call me up. We can go on a date. I love to go on dates. I'd like to go on a date with you."
Bloomington, IN, East side of Memorial Stadium
--Eavesdropper: Holt
Groggy Fratty: "Hey, man. Lotta blood."
Suit: "What? "
Groggy Fratty: "Lot of blood in the toilet this morning. "
Suit: "Are you serious? "
Groggy Fratty: "Yeah. "
Suit: "Why?"
Groggy Fratty: (shrugs) "That's how I roll."
--Chicago, Einstein Bagel, North & Wells
Eavesdropper: RobD
Two attorneys who don't know each other very well discuss over the phone when to have a meeting, and Attorney 1 tells Attorney 2 that he can't meet today because his son is having an as yet undisclosed type of surgery:
Attorney 1: "How about tomorrow at 10?"
Attorney 2: "That works for me."
Attorney 1: "Okay, great. See you then."
Attorney 2: "Okay, and I hope your son's surgery goes well."
Attorney 1: "Well, you know, how well can a second circumcision go?"
(Attorney 1 kind of laughs, and Attorney 2 gives a very hesitant, awkward, too-much-information type half-laugh)
Attorney 2: "Yeah. [pause] I guess that would be bad. See you tomorrow."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Suit: "Are you ready to drive me to work?"
Home businessman: "I'm ready like a . . . little Filipino boy in a warm summer's breeze."
--Chicago, North & Sedgwick
Eavesdropper: RobD
Extremely bitter 26-year-old male who recently quit smoking, to female who was trying to tell him that he did a good thing and he should resist the urge to smoke: "I don't want a pep talk. I want a cigarette."
--Bloomington, IN, Nick's English Hut
Eavesdropper: GMYH
GMYH Reader #1: "Do you think he makes up his Midwestern Eavesdroppings?"
GMYH Reader #2: "Who the fuck cares? They aren't funny anyway"
--Chicago, dog park, Sheffield & Schubert
Eavesdropper: RDC
There you have it. If you have any hilarious eavesdroppings, email them to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in Midwestern Eavesdropping. Have a great weekend.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
MWE Up Later
Busy today at work. Will post Midwestern Eavesdropping later today. Working through lunch. Knawing through arm. On edge. Feel lethal.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Rose Bowls and Costly Elbows
Ladies and gentlemen (and Christoff), what would you do if I were to tell you that the Indiana Hoosiers football team controls its own Rose Bowl destiny? You would probably do nothing, but it's true. As some smartypants sports guru noted, if the Hoosiers win the rest of their regular season games, they will finish a startling 9-3 and 7-1 in the Big Ten, clinching a spot in the Rose Bowl. All that stands in their way are five measly games, including an away game this weekend at the #1 ranked team in the country, a home game in a few weeks against the #2 ranked team in the country, another home game against a Michigan State team that finds ways to blow out IU no matter how bad the Spartans are, and two away games at stadiums (Minnesota and Purdue) in which they haven't won in 13 and 10 years, respectively. Personally, I'm going to go ahead and book my arrangements for New Years in Pasadena. I'll be the guy saying, "I told you so."
In other news, in one of the biggest "oh shit" moments in recent memory, casino kingpin Steve Wynn managed to puncture a $139 million Picasso painting that he had just sold to a collector. Apparently, Wynn -- drunk on his own sense of self-righteousness -- was showing the buyer something (probably the penis-shaped upper face on the chick's head, or maybe the partially exposed boob) when he fell backwards and put his elbow through the canvas. He then said, "Oh shit. Look what I've done. Thank goodness it was me," which essentially meant "You gotta be fucking kidding me. Five more minutes and this monstrosity was out of my life for good. So that's what it feels like to lose $139 million in 2 seconds." At least Wynn was nice enough to release the buyer from the agreement and keep the painting for himself.
In yet more news, here are some videos for your enjoyment (with who sent me the link after the description). I tried embedding the videos, but CollegeHumor.com movies automatically start running, so it would have been aural chaos:
In other news, in one of the biggest "oh shit" moments in recent memory, casino kingpin Steve Wynn managed to puncture a $139 million Picasso painting that he had just sold to a collector. Apparently, Wynn -- drunk on his own sense of self-righteousness -- was showing the buyer something (probably the penis-shaped upper face on the chick's head, or maybe the partially exposed boob) when he fell backwards and put his elbow through the canvas. He then said, "Oh shit. Look what I've done. Thank goodness it was me," which essentially meant "You gotta be fucking kidding me. Five more minutes and this monstrosity was out of my life for good. So that's what it feels like to lose $139 million in 2 seconds." At least Wynn was nice enough to release the buyer from the agreement and keep the painting for himself.
In yet more news, here are some videos for your enjoyment (with who sent me the link after the description). I tried embedding the videos, but CollegeHumor.com movies automatically start running, so it would have been aural chaos:
- The premiere of The Hold Steady's new video "Chips Ahoy!" (me)
- Mr. Rogers being his usual creepy self (Tron)
- Waking someone up with fireworks tied to his shoe (Tron)
- Australian Idol tryouts with Satan (Tron)
- Drunk VT girl trying to put sweatshirt on (Tron)
- Pretty solid belly flop (Tron)
- Guy smacking head into car hood (Tron)
- Ragtime requiem for Goose (Reed)
Oh, and please send me your submissions for Midwestern Eavesdropping (gmyhblog@yahoo.com). Right now we are in jeopardy of having to skip a week, which means that I have to actually come up with something to say tomorrow. Save me from myself.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
A Couple Videos
Here are a couple videos, links courtesy of Tron and Weez, respectively:
Slowly, but surely, I'll get through the remaining fiftysomthing videos in my inbox, but I have too much shite to do right now. Good day.
Slowly, but surely, I'll get through the remaining fiftysomthing videos in my inbox, but I have too much shite to do right now. Good day.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Greatest IU Weekend Ever
Holy Toledo, talk about a great weekend to be in Bloomington.
Friday
Jester left for Seattle to visit Leslie "Dulie" Dulin for the weekend, which left me to my own devices with no one to limit my self-destruction.
Pissed Off Christoff and I left Lincoln Park in The Blaab at approximately 6:15pm CST, giving us 4 hours and 45 minutes to make it to Bloomington in time for Midnight Madness, which was to be attended by the newest IU supercommit, Eric Gordon. God and the Indiana Department of Transportation had other plans for us, however. On I-65, just south of Lafayette (read: worst smelling city in Tippecanoe County, and possibly the world), we slowed to a crawl. A 7-mile back-up before going down to one lane stole at least 45 minutes from us, although it did give me the ability to be driving slow enough to capture The Blaab's first milestone with me: 45,000.
When I woke up on Sunday morning, I had a horrible feeling that the burrito I had 7 hours earlier was going to be soon finding its way out of my body, although I was not sure of the path it would take. A couple Excedrin Migraine and some water did little to help. Lying in the fetal position for an hour barely staved off whatever awful thing was going to happen to me. Sadly, my gastrointestinal condition assured that I would not be able to handle biscuits and gravy from Ladyman's, so I'll have to wait until my birthday in a couple weeks to enjoy the greatest breakfast in B-town.
Holt arrived at the room around 11 with a still-drunk Jacob, who gathered most of his stuff and was whisked by Holt back to the other hotel where he would leave with the other guys. Upon Holt's return, he told me that Jacob stayed with him and the other guys at the other hotel. In the middle of the night, Jacob puked what Holt described as a "black, tar-like substance" all over the sheets, which resulted in the sheets being tossed off the balcony. Then later Holt woke up to find Jacob kneeling in front of the little table in between the beds and pissing into the opening. Wow. I might be sitting in jail on murder charges if Jacob had come back to our room that night.
Christoff and I left a little after 1 local time, and it did not take us five and a half hours to get back to Chicago, thankfully. On the way home, we saw two things of note. The first was a sign outside a pawn shop in Martinsville (aka Martintucky -- sorry Shepley):
If I were to ask you where the most dreams in the world were caught, what would you say? Vegas? Paris? New York? LA? Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong. The location in which the largest number of dreams are caught is a truck stop just off Exit 193 on I-65 (the Wolcott/Chalmers exit). To say that it was peppered with dream catchers would be as much of an understatement as saying Cory Lidle should have kept his ass on the ground. It was overwhelming. And disturbing. This type of stalagtite pattern has not been seen since Drini's bunk bed his senior year. Look at this shit:
Friday
Jester left for Seattle to visit Leslie "Dulie" Dulin for the weekend, which left me to my own devices with no one to limit my self-destruction.
Pissed Off Christoff and I left Lincoln Park in The Blaab at approximately 6:15pm CST, giving us 4 hours and 45 minutes to make it to Bloomington in time for Midnight Madness, which was to be attended by the newest IU supercommit, Eric Gordon. God and the Indiana Department of Transportation had other plans for us, however. On I-65, just south of Lafayette (read: worst smelling city in Tippecanoe County, and possibly the world), we slowed to a crawl. A 7-mile back-up before going down to one lane stole at least 45 minutes from us, although it did give me the ability to be driving slow enough to capture The Blaab's first milestone with me: 45,000.
Another backup on I-465 took even more time from us. By the time we arrived at the Days Inn in B-town, it was 12:53am local time. The gents we were supposed to be going to Midnight Madness with (Holt, Jacob, Sean, and Matt) were obviously not there, so I managed to convince the pod working the front desk to give me a room key to Jacob's room. The room itself smelled like someone had smoked between 60 and 342 Benson & Hedges 100s in it each day for the past 40 years. The bathroom (which had no window, fan, or other ventilating feature) smelled like someone had recently hotboxed it with said B&H's. Bottom line: the room fucking reeked.
No worries, though, because we were in B-town and we had about 2 hours left to drink. Despite Holt's pleading that we come to Nick's immediately, Christoff and I caught a cab to the Upstairs Pub so that we could at least try to catch up for lost time by starting off with an AMF. While in line to get into the bar, we listened to a guy who obviously didn't go to IU try to criticize another guy in line for wearing a Bears jersey that wasn't a Rex Grossman jersey. Here's the stupifying conversation Christoff and I had to listen to:
Drunk guy: "Hey why aren't you wearing a Rex Grossman jersey?"
Bears fan: "Uh, I don't know."
Drunk guy: "Well you go to IU, don't you?"
Bears fan: "Yeah."
Drunk guy: "So you should have a Grossman jersey."
Bears fan: "Why?"
Drunk guy: "'Cause he's went to IU."
Bears fan: "Uh, Grossman didn't go to IU. He went to Florida State." (Grossman actually went to Florida, not FSU)
Drunk guy: "Yeah, but he's a hometown hero. How can you not have a Grossman jersey?"
Bears fan: "I'm wearing an Ogunleye jersey. He went to IU."
As Christoff asked, "Are we really listening to an argument about whether Rex Grossman went to IU or Florida State?"
We arrived inside Upstairs at 1:17. I will reiterate my stance that smoking bans in bars are a horrible idea. Upstairs smelled like a fraternity basement, mixed with vicious flatulence, BO, and dog vomit. I would much rather stink of smoke at the end of the night that have to smell everyone's ass.
But I disgress. At 1:30, we had both finished a big AMF (for those of you unfamiliar with an AMF, it stands for Adios Mother Fucker, and it's big, blue, has 6-8 shots of various spirits located within it, and tastes better than a pair of sopping wet breasts). It was around this time that I got the following text message from Holt: "Sink the biz. Areola is here - be cool."
My heart started to race with anticipation. That's right, I was soon going to be playing Sink the Bismark with Are-fucking-ola. Christoff seemed less than impressed. Nonetheless, we went over to Nick's. And there she was.
Last I saw of her, her vagina was firmly planted, velcro-style, on the floor of the side room of the Metz Suite, with a man's hand gently placed on her exposed ass cheek, wearing only a t-shirt that she had so graciously been given when the good folks at 
Kilroy's found her puking topless in the bathroom at 3:30am. From what I could tell, not much had changed with young Areola. The style of her outfit Friday night could be described as Post-modern German Prostitute. Both her shit and "shorts" were black. The shirt was a button-down shirt, conveniently buttoned about one notch too low, thus allowing the world to see her ample bosom. Her shorts came down slightly below her aforementioned vagina. The refined scent of lager billowed from her mouth, and the sweet stench of mettwurst and kraut emanated from between her legs. I did not notice whether or not she was wearing clear plastic spike heels, and I assume that the last pair of underwear she owned was that purple pair she left behind last year to infest the Metz Suite with crabs.
Christoff made little effort to hide is utter disdain for this "woman," often mocking her to her face or boobs. Whether it was naivete, ignorance, or nonchalance, she seemed to brush the insults aside, much in the same way she did with her morals on that fateful November 2005 morning.
Unfortunately, the pictures I took with my camera phone are of a quality unbecoming to a camera. However, I assure you, one of those shapes in those two pictures is Areola.
Once the bars closed, we hit LaBamba for what would be the second-best burrito I had during the weekend. Then Jacob, Christoff, and I caught a cab back to our hotel room (it was the 3 of us in one room at the Days Inn, with the other guys at the Country Hearth a few blocks away). We watched some very interesting TV before going to sleep. I don't know how we stumbled upon the greatest informercial of all-time (kudos to Christoff for finding the link to the review), but we did. It was for Dual Action Cleanse, which apparently does wonders for the "length and girth" of your bowel movements. The man peddling this product is named Klee Irwin, and it became very clear that he has measured nearly every bowel movement he and his family members have had over the past several years. At one point, he explained that his daughter (who was 11, I think he said) had a shit (my word, not his) that was as thick around as his wrist and as long as her arm. I think that's called a Snake Charmer by proctologists. What was amazing is that she didn't even use Dual Action Cleanse, so I'm not sure how that story fit into anything he was attempting to do, except perhaps to (1) tout his daughter's dumping ability, (2) prove that he is a fucking lunatic, or (3) embarrass the shit (pun intended) out of his daughter. While his delivery and message seemed more than impressive, apparently you shouldn't buy Dual Action Cleanse.
Saturday
We awoke at 8 to make preparations for tailgating. A quick trip to the liquor store ensured that we would have far too much beer for what we needed. Only Holt, Christoff, and I were able to drag ourselves out of bed to tailgate.
We arrived at the tailgating fields around 9:30 (in Holt's car -- don't worry Jessie, The Blaab was safely parked at the hotel). The next several hours are likely to have occurred, but the details are hazy. I know I saw fellow Pi Kapp Drew Phillips while I was in the tailgating fields getting a halftime beer. Oh yeah, and at one point, I remember that the Indiana Hoosiers football team came back from a 21-7 first-half deficit to defeat the No. 13/15-ranked Iowa Hawkeyes, thus giving IU its first victory over a top 15 team since defeating No. 9 Ohio State in 1987 in what OSU head coach Earle Bruce referred to as "the darkest day in Ohio State football history." Until this coming Saturday Earle. Die slow motherfucker. IU 23 OSU 21. Biggest upset in Big Ten history.
While the victory over Iowa was huge, it only made the two 7-point home losses to SIU and UConn while Coach Hep was out even that much more painful. We're a brain surgery away from being 6-1. Frustrating, but I guess IU football will gladly take 4-3.
Number of victories until IU clinches Motor City Bowl birth: 2
After the game, we went to Yogi's, then Christoff, Holt, and I went back to our hotels to take much-needed naps. Christoff and I also ordered and consumed some much-needed Dagwood's. I think this was around 6. We woke up at 9:30.
Once we got cleansed (not dual action style) and dressed, it was off to Nick's with Holt. The other guys had stayed out the whole time. That decision would come back to haunt them.
When we arrived at Nick's, it was clear that IU was collectively drunker than I have seen it probably since IU beat Duke in the 2002 Sweet 16. Everyone was sloppy. But it was a happy sloppy. The kind of happy sloppy that ensured Planned Parenthood would be getting plenty of visitors in the near future. We got into the room upstairs with the pool tables, and nearly the entire room was singing along to "Fat Bottom Girls" on the jukebox.
Soon after, Pete "Shrockstar" Shrock, Drew Phillips, Brad "Gene Simmons" Mundy, his girlfriend, and one of her friends arrived, and we all sat down for a game of Sink. Shrock had somehow obtained one of IU star wide receiver James Hardy's gloves from the game, and he kept it on his left hand the entire night, meaning that his left hand accounted for 1.5 TDs against Iowa.
Again, the next few hours are a haze. The one thing I do remember is Mundy saying that he and a friend were going as Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley the Saturday before Halloween (which is usually a big costumes-at-the-bars day, even if the bars aren't having costume contests that Goni and I would undoubtedly win), and they were looking for an Ace Frehley and a Peter Criss. Enter drunken Andrew. I will now be parading around Bloomington the night of Saturday 10/28 as The Spaceman, breaking into random fits of "Shock Me."
As Christoff and I discussed on the drive back to Chicago on Sunday, I must now find someone to play the part of Vinnie Vincent's Egyptian Ankh. He won't show up until about midnight, about 30 minutes after I'm caught signing "New York Groove" in a different part of the bar from the other guys. Once Vinnie shows up, I'll go to another bar, making derogatory comments about Creatures of the Night under my breath as I'm leaving. Then I'll go hang out with some other guys at another, less popular bar. About 30 minutes after I leave, someone dressed as Mark St. John (i.e., in street clothes) will make his way to the first bar, and Vinnie will leave. Less than 5 minutes later, someone dressed up as Bruce Kulick (i.e., also in street clothes) will show up and Mark will leave. At about 2, I'll return to the first bar. Without a word, I will walk up to Bruce, grab the beer out of his hand, and he will leave quietly while I drink the rest of his beer. Around 3, someone dressed exactly like me (only with slightly different hair), who is supposed to be Tommy Thayer (not to be confused with former Bears offensive lineman Tom Thayer), will arrive. We will exchange pleasantries, and then I will go home.
In addition to the non-Simmons/Stanley/Frehley members mentioned above, currently we don't have a Peter Criss. Nor do we have an Eric Carr to replace him. Crazy Fox, God rest his soul. Nor do we have an Eric Singer to replace Criss the second time around and be dressed exactly like Criss. If you are interested in any of these openings, please submit an essay no longer than 500 words to gmyhblog@yahoo.com, describing why you think you would be the best Peter Criss, Vinnie Vincent, Mark St. John, Bruce Kulick, Eric Carr, or Eric Singer. You are free to apply for more than one position, although you are only allowed to submit one essay. After I receive what I assume will be zero essays, I will post them on GMYH, and you -- the fans -- can vote who gets the honor of parading around Bloomington on the night of 10/28 with other jackasses who are dressed up in full KISS regalia. It will be the highlight of your life.
After another trip to Upstairs, it was another trip to Bamba's for what turned out to be the best burrito of the weekend, even though it was essentially the exact same as the burrito I had the night before.
Christoff and I then got a ride back to our hotel, and Jacob never came back to the room, which turned out to be a good thing, as we learned the next morning.
SundayWhen I woke up on Sunday morning, I had a horrible feeling that the burrito I had 7 hours earlier was going to be soon finding its way out of my body, although I was not sure of the path it would take. A couple Excedrin Migraine and some water did little to help. Lying in the fetal position for an hour barely staved off whatever awful thing was going to happen to me. Sadly, my gastrointestinal condition assured that I would not be able to handle biscuits and gravy from Ladyman's, so I'll have to wait until my birthday in a couple weeks to enjoy the greatest breakfast in B-town.
Holt arrived at the room around 11 with a still-drunk Jacob, who gathered most of his stuff and was whisked by Holt back to the other hotel where he would leave with the other guys. Upon Holt's return, he told me that Jacob stayed with him and the other guys at the other hotel. In the middle of the night, Jacob puked what Holt described as a "black, tar-like substance" all over the sheets, which resulted in the sheets being tossed off the balcony. Then later Holt woke up to find Jacob kneeling in front of the little table in between the beds and pissing into the opening. Wow. I might be sitting in jail on murder charges if Jacob had come back to our room that night.
Christoff and I left a little after 1 local time, and it did not take us five and a half hours to get back to Chicago, thankfully. On the way home, we saw two things of note. The first was a sign outside a pawn shop in Martinsville (aka Martintucky -- sorry Shepley):
If I were to ask you where the most dreams in the world were caught, what would you say? Vegas? Paris? New York? LA? Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong. The location in which the largest number of dreams are caught is a truck stop just off Exit 193 on I-65 (the Wolcott/Chalmers exit). To say that it was peppered with dream catchers would be as much of an understatement as saying Cory Lidle should have kept his ass on the ground. It was overwhelming. And disturbing. This type of stalagtite pattern has not been seen since Drini's bunk bed his senior year. Look at this shit:
And the worst part is that this picture doesn't even show half of the dream catchers that were available for purchase. Some of these things were $70. Who the hell is paying $70 for one of these? Apparently not nearly enough people.
So, all in all, it was a pretty sweet weekend. I hope Jessie likes her new two-foot-diameter dream catcher.
Unfortunately, I'm now watching the Bears get beat like rented mules by the fucking Arizona Cardinals. So much for 16-0.
Weekend Recap On Its Way
It will involve driving, football, drinking, and possibly areolas. Yes, areolas.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Give This 5 Stars
Hey all,
Fellow LTHS Class of '96er Louis Yoelin and an attractive girl named Marissa (not Cooper -- she's gone forever, OC fans) have entered some sort of YouTube song/video contest for Snickers. Here is the link. Watch it. Love it. Give it 5 stars. Hopefully you will then see it on TV one day (or whatever might be the prize).
Thanks,
GMYH
Fellow LTHS Class of '96er Louis Yoelin and an attractive girl named Marissa (not Cooper -- she's gone forever, OC fans) have entered some sort of YouTube song/video contest for Snickers. Here is the link. Watch it. Love it. Give it 5 stars. Hopefully you will then see it on TV one day (or whatever might be the prize).
Thanks,
GMYH
"The Ceremony Flames Ignite"
It's the first Hair Band Friday in the new office, and there's not a more fitting day for this blessed occasion than Friday the 13th. Shit is maccabre today. The girls really take the day to heart. Earlier Sindy and Candi killed a bottle of Jager mixed with deer's blood, then performed a duet dance on the newly installed stipper poles to "Night Prowler" by AC/DC, "There Will Be Blood Tonight" by Lizzy Borden, and "The Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden. After I told them that I would let them watch me conduct a privilege review of some documents, they carved pentagrams into each other's stomachs and got crazy with some Ben Wa balls. Missi has been walking around the office wearing a hockey mask. And nothing else. Is it fucked up that I'm unbelievably turned on by that? Maybe it's just the X-laced margaritas. No matter what it is, she better leave that on later when she "rewards" me for the unbelievable Lexis-Nexis research I've been doing. Meanwhile, Wendi ingested what would seem to be an unhealthy amount of PCP. I only say "unhealthy" because she's been getting friendly with a goat horn for the past five hours, and whenever anyone comes within ten feet of her or attempts to talk to her, she swears her allegiance to "Capra Magna" and begins chanting loudly at a fervent pace, switching effortlessly between Latin and Aramaic while writhing in ecstasy on top of what used to be an HIV-free horn (don't worry, I pull out whenever she and I do the deed). Given that she is a Capricorn, this development wouldn't normally concern me. However, Wendi didn't graduate from high school because she couldn't pass English, and her erratic behavior is severely dissuading me from asking her to make good on that post-memo-writing BJ she promised. Plus now I'll pretty much have to throw away that goat head.
I'm off to Bloomington this weekend for what looks to be a hell of a couple days. Hopefully I will make it to Midnight Madness in time to get a seat to witness Eric Gordon's all-but-certain commitment to IU, thus shattering the hopes and dreams of Ill-annoy fans everywhere and once again proving that Illinois is not quite the elite program that it wishes it were. Somewhere Marcus Liberty is crying -- probably a homeless shelter. And before Illini fans get their panties in a bunch (or at least a bigger bunch than they're already in), let me remind you of the fact that Sergio McClain and Marcus Griffin were verbally committed to IU up until the minute they signed with Illinois on the first day of the signing period. At least Gordon isn't pulling that shady of a move.
I'm off to Bloomington this weekend for what looks to be a hell of a couple days. Hopefully I will make it to Midnight Madness in time to get a seat to witness Eric Gordon's all-but-certain commitment to IU, thus shattering the hopes and dreams of Ill-annoy fans everywhere and once again proving that Illinois is not quite the elite program that it wishes it were. Somewhere Marcus Liberty is crying -- probably a homeless shelter. And before Illini fans get their panties in a bunch (or at least a bigger bunch than they're already in), let me remind you of the fact that Sergio McClain and Marcus Griffin were verbally committed to IU up until the minute they signed with Illinois on the first day of the signing period. At least Gordon isn't pulling that shady of a move.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
New Addition to the Family
Just when you thought that our world was crowded enough in our little apartment with me, Jester, and Harley, our family is welcoming a rather unexpected addition. Tonight we found out that we will be adding another member to the GMYH family, which came at the expense of another member. No, I didn't kill Harley and adopt a prostitute. No, I didn't kill Jessie and adopt a prostitute. No, Harley didn't kill Jessie and adopt a prostitute. And no, Jessie isn't pregnant -- I'm still as barren as Jamie Lee Curtis.
Rhonda -- sweet Rhonda -- is no longer with us. In the short five years she was mine, she served me well, giving me over 90,000 miles in that span. Whether it was getting tires blown out on I-70s by F-4s, refusing to start in temperatures over 70 degrees, surpassing the 200,000-mile mark, or the cute chainsaw sound the antenna made every time it tried to go up or down but just grinded the gears instead, it was always an adventure with Rhonda. She will be sorely missed. Good night sweet princess.
With that, I've gone against nearly everything I've ever believed: car payments, owning a car made after 1991, automatic transmission, a non-Japanese car, buying a new or used car. It's madness, and I'm still coming to grips with it. Nonetheless, I have bestowed upon our new car a name in the tradition of Blackura (my black Acura) and Rhonda (my red Honda).
I give you . . . The Blaab:
Rhonda -- sweet Rhonda -- is no longer with us. In the short five years she was mine, she served me well, giving me over 90,000 miles in that span. Whether it was getting tires blown out on I-70s by F-4s, refusing to start in temperatures over 70 degrees, surpassing the 200,000-mile mark, or the cute chainsaw sound the antenna made every time it tried to go up or down but just grinded the gears instead, it was always an adventure with Rhonda. She will be sorely missed. Good night sweet princess.
With that, I've gone against nearly everything I've ever believed: car payments, owning a car made after 1991, automatic transmission, a non-Japanese car, buying a new or used car. It's madness, and I'm still coming to grips with it. Nonetheless, I have bestowed upon our new car a name in the tradition of Blackura (my black Acura) and Rhonda (my red Honda).
I give you . . . The Blaab:
Yes, I know it's a wagon. Yes, I'm completely fine with that (now I can finally haul all those 2x4s). Yes, I am aware that I am now a country club membership away from officially being a yuppie. But dammit, I bought a car that I can legitimately call The Blaab, and that's a good enough reason for me.
Now the goal is to convince Jessie to let me put a "Mark It 8 Dude" bumper sticker on The Blaab. I hope to God you know that I'm not kidding.
Midwestern Eavesdropping - 10/12/06
Here are this week's lovely submissions:
Several people describing the taste of a shot of Malort:
Male 1: "It tastes like a shot of earwax."
Male 2: "You know those jogging suits that wrestlers wear to help them lose weight? Well, imagine someone was jogging in one of those for five miles, then they lifted one of the pant legs and gathered leg sweat into a shot glass."
Female 1: "Oh God, it tastes like melted plastic."
Female 2: "It tastes like pre-puke."
--Chicago, Roscoe Village Pub, Leavitt & Addison
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Girl: "Yeah, she ran into some guy she hooked up with on spring break her senior year of high school."
Guy: "Yeah, she said they made out or something."
Girl: "Ha ha! When Jenny says she made out with a guy, she's lying."
Guy: "Really. What does it mean then?"
Girl: "She sucked him off. Jenny doesn't make out. Jenny straight sucks - guys - off. Jenny sucks everyone off."
--Chicago, Schoolyard Tavern, School & Southport
Eavesdropper: RobD
Trader #1, having a bad day screaming across the pit: "Go ahead take my car, my house, my wife, my kids."
Trader #2 (with 2 daughters and no sons) on the other side of the pit screams back: "I'll take an athletic boy."
Trader #1 "That sounded a little creepy, Congressman Foley"
--Chicago Board of Trade bond option pit
Eavesdropper: Catfish
Attorney deposes idiot:
Attorney: " So, you don't have any military experience, do you?"
Idiot: "No, but I used to be in the Navy."
--Dayton, OH
Eavesdropper: The Farty Moose (via Holt)
Girl to guy at bar: "I want to suck your sack."
Random guy then turns head and stares at girl until she walks away, completely cock blocking the potential sack suckee.
--Cincinnati, RP McMurphy's
Eavesdropper: Tron
Nerdy Girl 1: "Oooh! Vishnu!"
Uppity Skank: "No, it's Kalki, you dunce."
Nerdy Girl 1: "Oh. Whatever, I can't tell, all those motherfuckers have eight arms."
--Bloomington, IN, IU School of Law, Room 124
Eavesdropper: RobD
Partygoer #1 to Partygoer #2 after being told a story involving #2's questionable moral behavior with his college girlfriend: "In some ways you're my hero. In some ways you should be in jail."
--Brookfield, IL, house party
Eavesdropper: RDC
Here's to Jenny and to everyone who contributed. As always, if you overhear something hilarious, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in next week's Midwestern Eavesdropping. Oh, and fuck snow (not Snow, of "Informer" fame -- he's the bee's knees -- but actual snow).
Several people describing the taste of a shot of Malort:
Male 1: "It tastes like a shot of earwax."
Male 2: "You know those jogging suits that wrestlers wear to help them lose weight? Well, imagine someone was jogging in one of those for five miles, then they lifted one of the pant legs and gathered leg sweat into a shot glass."
Female 1: "Oh God, it tastes like melted plastic."
Female 2: "It tastes like pre-puke."
--Chicago, Roscoe Village Pub, Leavitt & Addison
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Girl: "Yeah, she ran into some guy she hooked up with on spring break her senior year of high school."
Guy: "Yeah, she said they made out or something."
Girl: "Ha ha! When Jenny says she made out with a guy, she's lying."
Guy: "Really. What does it mean then?"
Girl: "She sucked him off. Jenny doesn't make out. Jenny straight sucks - guys - off. Jenny sucks everyone off."
--Chicago, Schoolyard Tavern, School & Southport
Eavesdropper: RobD
Trader #1, having a bad day screaming across the pit: "Go ahead take my car, my house, my wife, my kids."
Trader #2 (with 2 daughters and no sons) on the other side of the pit screams back: "I'll take an athletic boy."
Trader #1 "That sounded a little creepy, Congressman Foley"
--Chicago Board of Trade bond option pit
Eavesdropper: Catfish
Attorney deposes idiot:
Attorney: " So, you don't have any military experience, do you?"
Idiot: "No, but I used to be in the Navy."
--Dayton, OH
Eavesdropper: The Farty Moose (via Holt)
Girl to guy at bar: "I want to suck your sack."
Random guy then turns head and stares at girl until she walks away, completely cock blocking the potential sack suckee.
--Cincinnati, RP McMurphy's
Eavesdropper: Tron
Nerdy Girl 1: "Oooh! Vishnu!"
Uppity Skank: "No, it's Kalki, you dunce."
Nerdy Girl 1: "Oh. Whatever, I can't tell, all those motherfuckers have eight arms."
--Bloomington, IN, IU School of Law, Room 124
Eavesdropper: RobD
Partygoer #1 to Partygoer #2 after being told a story involving #2's questionable moral behavior with his college girlfriend: "In some ways you're my hero. In some ways you should be in jail."
--Brookfield, IL, house party
Eavesdropper: RDC
Here's to Jenny and to everyone who contributed. As always, if you overhear something hilarious, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in next week's Midwestern Eavesdropping. Oh, and fuck snow (not Snow, of "Informer" fame -- he's the bee's knees -- but actual snow).
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Boratious
Last night, courtesy of Pissed Off Christoff's connections, Tradd, Kara, Christoff, and I saw a free sneak preview of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. Fucking hysterical. If you like to laugh, you should see it. If you hate to laugh, you should kill yourself. But not until after seeing this movie. Additionally, if you like to see real life southerners unknowingly mock themselves and reinforce every horrible sterotype you could think of, then I highly suggest you see Borat.I've been lagging on posting the videos that people send me, so I'm going to try to post a couple a day to catch up. Here are today's features (with the contributor in parentheses):
- The worst Price is Right contestant of all-time. Bob is pissed off enough to fondle the shit out of one of the Beauties. Or maybe two. Where's Dian when you need her? (Tron)
- Video of a Notre Dame tailgate. Just try to count the attractive women. Seriously. Try.(Ian "Tuna" Taronji)
- This one is entitled "One of many reasons a pro-life rally isn't a great place to pick up women." But apparently it is a good place to pick up a retard -- er, I mean differently mentally abled. (Tron)
- Beer pong table gets knocked over by drunk guy. Hilarity ensues. (Tron)
- Great montage of NFL hits set to -- who else -- Prodigy. (Tron)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Malortious
This weekend was somewhat lowkey, compared to the liver-hardening weekends I've grown accustomed to over the past 10 years.
Friday night, Kyla's bar, the Roscoe Village Pub (hereinafter "RVP"), was having a "Return to Hee Haw" night (or something like that), which was essentially an attempt to create a Hillbilly Sunday-type ambience. As far as I could tell, the attempt was a successful one.
The night's specials included: (1) vats of Skippy Go Naked, a sweet, yet powerful mixture concocted in the RVP's basement by Alex and possibly an evil henchman named Igor; (2) $2 Old Styles; and (3) $2 shots of Malort.
When Christoff saw that shots of Malort were on special, it was kind of like in It when the kids are all grown up and they see Pennywise again. He described it as the worst tasting alcohol he's ever had, having tried it once while in high school. Personally, I have never consciously experienced the taste, although according to Alex, I did a shot of it last Friday (9/29) in the midst of my barrage of Sloppy Hookers (or Retard Sandwiches). I've been told I did not enjoy it.
From what I can tell, "Malort" is Flemish for "self-induced vomiting." While I will save the various descriptions of Malort for Midwestern Eavesdropping, here's what the label on the back of the bottle says: "Jeppson Malort has the aroma and full-bodied flavor of an unusual botanical. Its bitter taste is savored by two-fisted drinkers." No drink should come from a botanical, much less an unusual one. And thank you, but I prefer to be fisted one at a time.
As I'm sure you all know, this story wouldn't be complete without giving unsuspecting victims shots of Malort. Victim #1 was Jessie (who was not privy to Christoff's rage-filled soliloquy on the various downsides of Malort). The culprit was Alex. I wasn't there for the actual shooting, but Jessie soon returned to our table with a look on her face that suggested she had just had cat urine sprayed into her nose with a pressure washer.
Victim #2 was Katie "The Birthday Girl" Bohaty, and the culprit was Christoff (who was nice enough to take a shot of it himself). This nearly viewable post-Malort-shot picture of Katie exhibits the Jekyll-to-Hyde frenzy that seems to accompany doing a shot of Malort.
Friday night, Kyla's bar, the Roscoe Village Pub (hereinafter "RVP"), was having a "Return to Hee Haw" night (or something like that), which was essentially an attempt to create a Hillbilly Sunday-type ambience. As far as I could tell, the attempt was a successful one.
The night's specials included: (1) vats of Skippy Go Naked, a sweet, yet powerful mixture concocted in the RVP's basement by Alex and possibly an evil henchman named Igor; (2) $2 Old Styles; and (3) $2 shots of Malort.
When Christoff saw that shots of Malort were on special, it was kind of like in It when the kids are all grown up and they see Pennywise again. He described it as the worst tasting alcohol he's ever had, having tried it once while in high school. Personally, I have never consciously experienced the taste, although according to Alex, I did a shot of it last Friday (9/29) in the midst of my barrage of Sloppy Hookers (or Retard Sandwiches). I've been told I did not enjoy it.
From what I can tell, "Malort" is Flemish for "self-induced vomiting." While I will save the various descriptions of Malort for Midwestern Eavesdropping, here's what the label on the back of the bottle says: "Jeppson Malort has the aroma and full-bodied flavor of an unusual botanical. Its bitter taste is savored by two-fisted drinkers." No drink should come from a botanical, much less an unusual one. And thank you, but I prefer to be fisted one at a time.
As I'm sure you all know, this story wouldn't be complete without giving unsuspecting victims shots of Malort. Victim #1 was Jessie (who was not privy to Christoff's rage-filled soliloquy on the various downsides of Malort). The culprit was Alex. I wasn't there for the actual shooting, but Jessie soon returned to our table with a look on her face that suggested she had just had cat urine sprayed into her nose with a pressure washer.
Victim #2 was Katie "The Birthday Girl" Bohaty, and the culprit was Christoff (who was nice enough to take a shot of it himself). This nearly viewable post-Malort-shot picture of Katie exhibits the Jekyll-to-Hyde frenzy that seems to accompany doing a shot of Malort.
Jester and I left somewhat early because I had to get up at 6am Saturday to go to the IU/Illinois game in Champaign. Tradd and I met my dad out in the LG, dropped Rhonda off for a new muffler, and headed down I-57.
The game itself was a rollercoaster. Shortly after the start of the 2nd quarter, the Illini had built a seemingly insurmountable 25-7 lead. It was at that point, I theorize, that the Illini players became haughty, indulging in meade, the finest of pork shanks, and the fairest of wenches. All the whilst, the Hoosiers quietly chipped away at the lead, slashing back to 4 down at halftime. As Tradd and I were indulging our own hunger on the concourse with some wurst, the second half kicked off. Seven seconds and 98 yards later, IU had the lead, thanks to the trusty legs of woodsprite Marcus Thigpen. In the end, the Hoosiers got a field goal as time expired to come away with a 34-32 victory, their first victory in Champale since the once-successful Lee Corso era, and their first road Big Ten victory since 2001's vaunted 5-6 team led by Antwaan Randle El.
Number of victories until IU clinches Motor City Bowl berth: 3
Saturday night, I did nothing, due to the lingering sleep deprivational effects of staying out until 5:30 last Saturday night. I slept for nearly 12 hours Saturday night, which was nearly as glorious as the reign of Gustav II. For those of you who are confused, the "II" means "2."
In a bout of irony not fit for Alanis Morissette's lips, Sunday I watched Illinois alum George Halas's Chicago Bears dismantle IU (and LTHS) alum Lou Saban's Buffalo Bills. I came away from it feeling somewhat irritated by the fact that it was not a shutout. Being a Chicago sports fan, I know better than to expect excellence from my teams, but this Bears team is pretty fucking ridiculous. Assuming everyone stays healthy, I will be disappointed if there is not another 46-10-esque result arising from the muggy Dolphin Stadium air on the first Sunday in February, Peyton Manning's tattered and lifeless body having been carted off the field after a particularly disconcerting encounter with Brian Urlacher (and another playoff choke), leaving Jim Sorgi to play the role of Steve Grogan.
And I would be remissed if I didn't give a birthday shout-out to Anton Szandor Zumpano, who turned 28 yesterday.
Friday, October 06, 2006
No Hair Band Friday Today
My firm is moving offices today (which is a fucking blast to deal with while trying to write a mediation brief, by the way), so the stripper poles, cases of Jack and Dom, kilos of narcotics, bent spoons, leather straps, bongs, coke mirrors and straws, ceiling mirrors, leather chaps, spurs, industrial-sized tubs (not tubes, tubs) of Astroglide, wall tapestries featuring pentagrams and naked chicks (or both), latex body suits, silk sheets, cock rings (not that I need them), and vats of goats' blood are all packed up in various storage crates and containers. Granted, I'm still blaring hair band music (last three songs: "Too Young To Fall In Love" by the fucking Crue, "Women" by Def Leppard, and "Big City Nights" by The Scorpions) and banging random chicks that walk by, but I have to wear rubbers because the bowl of RU-486 -- the Freedom Bowl, as we call it -- is packed up, so it's not really a full-fledged Hair Band Friday. Next week, though, will be a christening. Well, that's all for now because the bastards are coming soon to move my computer. It should be really interesting to see how I get this mediation brief done, given to the partner, edited, and out to the client by the end of the day. I love my job.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Midwestern Eavesdropping - 10/5/06
This week's submissions may be few, but they pack a powerful punch:
Twentysomething girl in Chicago for her first time sees Edgar Bellefontaine on Michigan Ave. on a Sunday afternoon:
Girl: "Would you care to elaborate on your signs?"
Edgar: "No, I am sorry."
He then proceeds to hand her a business card.
--Chicago, Michigan Ave.
Eavesdropper: Klank
Music teacher to a kindergarten class: "Does anyone know what a banjo is?"
Boy: "Is it an old dirty bitch?"
Music teacher (in shock): "I was asking what a banjo is, and no, that is not right."
Boy : "OHHHHHH, I thought you asked what a ho is."
--Chicago, one of the many excellent Chicago Public Schools
Eavesdropper: AlyK
During discussion of odd fetishes, wife says to husband: "I would never want to be peed on. Unless I had hypothermia. Then it would keep me warm."
--Chicago, Kenmore & Diversey
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Preppie: "A friend of mine used to say he only fucked fat chicks because they appreciated it more."
Coughing Dude: "It's true. Why do you think I've been making out with fatties?"
Preppie: "Because it's easy."
Coughing Dude: "Fuck no, dude, it makes their life. It's my community outreach program."
--Bloomington, IN, IU Health Center Waiting Room, 10th & Jordan
Eavesdropper: RobD
Two male co-workers who did not go to high school together randomly see each other at Male 1's wife's 10-year high school reunion:
Male 1: "So how do you know my wife?"
Male 2: "Uh, we went to high school together."
--Chicago, East Bank Club
Eavesdropper: Anonymous (I can't remember who told me about it)
Twentysomething male speaking of annoying drunk girl: "I wish I could spike her drink with something that would make her dead."
--Chicago, some bar
Eavesdropper: RDC
Thanks again to those who submitted. Everyone else, bollocks to you, or, alternatively, send me submissions at gmyhblog@yahoo.com. I love you all.
Twentysomething girl in Chicago for her first time sees Edgar Bellefontaine on Michigan Ave. on a Sunday afternoon:
Girl: "Would you care to elaborate on your signs?"
Edgar: "No, I am sorry."
He then proceeds to hand her a business card.
--Chicago, Michigan Ave.
Eavesdropper: Klank
Music teacher to a kindergarten class: "Does anyone know what a banjo is?"
Boy: "Is it an old dirty bitch?"
Music teacher (in shock): "I was asking what a banjo is, and no, that is not right."
Boy : "OHHHHHH, I thought you asked what a ho is."
--Chicago, one of the many excellent Chicago Public Schools
Eavesdropper: AlyK
During discussion of odd fetishes, wife says to husband: "I would never want to be peed on. Unless I had hypothermia. Then it would keep me warm."
--Chicago, Kenmore & Diversey
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Preppie: "A friend of mine used to say he only fucked fat chicks because they appreciated it more."
Coughing Dude: "It's true. Why do you think I've been making out with fatties?"
Preppie: "Because it's easy."
Coughing Dude: "Fuck no, dude, it makes their life. It's my community outreach program."
--Bloomington, IN, IU Health Center Waiting Room, 10th & Jordan
Eavesdropper: RobD
Two male co-workers who did not go to high school together randomly see each other at Male 1's wife's 10-year high school reunion:
Male 1: "So how do you know my wife?"
Male 2: "Uh, we went to high school together."
--Chicago, East Bank Club
Eavesdropper: Anonymous (I can't remember who told me about it)
Twentysomething male speaking of annoying drunk girl: "I wish I could spike her drink with something that would make her dead."
--Chicago, some bar
Eavesdropper: RDC
Thanks again to those who submitted. Everyone else, bollocks to you, or, alternatively, send me submissions at gmyhblog@yahoo.com. I love you all.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
En Vino Veritas
I'm sure by now most of you have heard about the lurid sex scandal permeating the halls of Capitol Hill involving recently outed former US Representative Mark Foley. If not, here's a brief recap: Foley gave booze to, and sent sexually suggestive emails and instant messages to, several House pages (all of whom were underage at the time) a couple years ago. These emails and messages have come to light over the past week or so. Foley resigned. Foley announced he is an alcoholic. Foley announced he is gay. Foley announced he was sexually molested 40 years ago by a priest. (For a slightly more detailed timeline, click here).
No big deal right? So a US Rep wanted to shag a couple minor males. Part of the job, right? That's not the part of the story that pissed me off. Sure, it's illegal and in no way appropriate, but some people have problems.
What really pissed me off was the fact that several days after he resigned, he claimed that he is an alcoholic and that he sent the emails and messages when he was drunk (then he backtracked and said that the ones he sent on Capitol Hill were sent sober). I'm going to go out on a limb here and call shenanigans. Pardon me for not believing a fucking word, but that's bullshit. "Please forgive my actions, for it was not Mark Foley who initiated contact with these boys and sent them lewd and lascivious emails and instant messages. It was not Mark Foley who asked them to send pictures of themselves to me. It was the booze that made me a pederast, but not my insatiable urge to sodomize underage boys. Oh, and my lawyer told me to tell you that I'm not a pedophile." According to one article, I'm apparently not the only one who thinks this alcoholism thing is a sham.
I absolutely love it when public figures and celebrities royally fuck up and then try to blame their actions on substance abuse. Two other shining examples that come to mind are Rush Limbaugh and Mel Gibson (this isn't meant to be a knock on conservatives -- these are just the best examples I could think of). Notice the similarites.
A couple years ago, some crack-smoking ESPN exec decided that it would be a good idea to put Rush Limbaugh on Sunday NFL Countdown. As you probably recall, Limbaugh made some racially infused remarks about Donovan McNabb (after which it looked like Tom Jackson was going to murder Limbaugh -- now that would have been justified). Rush's excuse? "Oh, I don't hate black people. It's just that I'm addicted to pain killers. These horrible drugs -- the use of which I have vigorously derided in the past -- have made it so that I say obnoxious things that I don't really mean, which are not to be confused with the obnoxious things that I really do mean."
And who can forget the Mel Gibson fiasco from several months ago. Mel gets pulled over while driving with enough booze in his system to kill Mark Foley. Rather than try to downplay how drunk he is, Mel claims to own Malibu. Then for good measure, he blurts out, "Fucking Jews . . . the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world," to a Jewish cop no less. The reason, however, was not anti-Semitism. No, no, how could it be? It was because Mel's an alcoholic.
Call me crazy, but when I'm drunk -- which is approximately 12-16 hours out of every day -- my belief structure and sexual orientation don't change. Sure, I might sing some karaoke horribly, but I have no desire to insert that mic into my anus and find 16-year-old boys who want to do the same. Nor do I suddenly develop an intense hatred for other races or nationalities. Everyone knows I hate 2 sets of people: Germans and Danes. That number sure as shit doesn't decrease or increase in relation to the substances running through my bloodstream.
As if Foley's little saga couldn't get any better, now he's claiming that he was molested by a priest when he was a teenager. That's a pretty horrible accusation, and conveniently, Foley won't name the church or the priest. I'm not the most religious person in the world, but the Catholic Church takes a lot of shit about the whole priest sexual abuse thing. Much of that is deserved, but, again, pardon me if I call shenanigans on this one too.
According to Foley's attorney, "Mark does not blame the trauma he sustained as a young adolescent for his totally inappropriate [emails and instant messages]. . . . He continues to offer no excuse whatsoever for his conduct." No excuse, huh? Of course not. All of these revelations just happen to magically coincide with Foley's resignation from the House amid complete scandal. "Now, I'm not saying what I did was excusable, but you have to understand that I'm a gay alcoholic who was sexually abused 40 years ago by an unnamed priest. Under those circumstances, I offer no excuse as to why I repeatedly got drunk and made sexual advances on underage boys. Did I mention that I have a problem with alcohol and that a priest molested me and that I love having sex with men? Good, because that has nothing to do with my actions."
No big deal right? So a US Rep wanted to shag a couple minor males. Part of the job, right? That's not the part of the story that pissed me off. Sure, it's illegal and in no way appropriate, but some people have problems.
What really pissed me off was the fact that several days after he resigned, he claimed that he is an alcoholic and that he sent the emails and messages when he was drunk (then he backtracked and said that the ones he sent on Capitol Hill were sent sober). I'm going to go out on a limb here and call shenanigans. Pardon me for not believing a fucking word, but that's bullshit. "Please forgive my actions, for it was not Mark Foley who initiated contact with these boys and sent them lewd and lascivious emails and instant messages. It was not Mark Foley who asked them to send pictures of themselves to me. It was the booze that made me a pederast, but not my insatiable urge to sodomize underage boys. Oh, and my lawyer told me to tell you that I'm not a pedophile." According to one article, I'm apparently not the only one who thinks this alcoholism thing is a sham.
I absolutely love it when public figures and celebrities royally fuck up and then try to blame their actions on substance abuse. Two other shining examples that come to mind are Rush Limbaugh and Mel Gibson (this isn't meant to be a knock on conservatives -- these are just the best examples I could think of). Notice the similarites.
A couple years ago, some crack-smoking ESPN exec decided that it would be a good idea to put Rush Limbaugh on Sunday NFL Countdown. As you probably recall, Limbaugh made some racially infused remarks about Donovan McNabb (after which it looked like Tom Jackson was going to murder Limbaugh -- now that would have been justified). Rush's excuse? "Oh, I don't hate black people. It's just that I'm addicted to pain killers. These horrible drugs -- the use of which I have vigorously derided in the past -- have made it so that I say obnoxious things that I don't really mean, which are not to be confused with the obnoxious things that I really do mean."
And who can forget the Mel Gibson fiasco from several months ago. Mel gets pulled over while driving with enough booze in his system to kill Mark Foley. Rather than try to downplay how drunk he is, Mel claims to own Malibu. Then for good measure, he blurts out, "Fucking Jews . . . the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world," to a Jewish cop no less. The reason, however, was not anti-Semitism. No, no, how could it be? It was because Mel's an alcoholic.
Call me crazy, but when I'm drunk -- which is approximately 12-16 hours out of every day -- my belief structure and sexual orientation don't change. Sure, I might sing some karaoke horribly, but I have no desire to insert that mic into my anus and find 16-year-old boys who want to do the same. Nor do I suddenly develop an intense hatred for other races or nationalities. Everyone knows I hate 2 sets of people: Germans and Danes. That number sure as shit doesn't decrease or increase in relation to the substances running through my bloodstream.
As if Foley's little saga couldn't get any better, now he's claiming that he was molested by a priest when he was a teenager. That's a pretty horrible accusation, and conveniently, Foley won't name the church or the priest. I'm not the most religious person in the world, but the Catholic Church takes a lot of shit about the whole priest sexual abuse thing. Much of that is deserved, but, again, pardon me if I call shenanigans on this one too.
According to Foley's attorney, "Mark does not blame the trauma he sustained as a young adolescent for his totally inappropriate [emails and instant messages]. . . . He continues to offer no excuse whatsoever for his conduct." No excuse, huh? Of course not. All of these revelations just happen to magically coincide with Foley's resignation from the House amid complete scandal. "Now, I'm not saying what I did was excusable, but you have to understand that I'm a gay alcoholic who was sexually abused 40 years ago by an unnamed priest. Under those circumstances, I offer no excuse as to why I repeatedly got drunk and made sexual advances on underage boys. Did I mention that I have a problem with alcohol and that a priest molested me and that I love having sex with men? Good, because that has nothing to do with my actions."
Well, That's The End of Me
Thanks to Holt for sending me the picture. Stay tuned later today for some non-shark-related commentary on the whole Mark Foley situation.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Reunion Pics
Here are some pictures from the LT Reunion and post-reunion drunkfest at Jefferson Tap. Thanks to Peg T. for sending me the pictures. Since it was her camera that took most of these pictures, she and Maria are featured prominently.
First I'll start with the normal pictures. Here is Jessica W., Katie M., and Peg striking a pose at the reunion in front of some blue and gold balloons. Go Lions!
Here are fellow Cossitteers Jessica W., Trupti P., and Erin M. With lovely ladies like this, who wouldn't have loved grade school?
Speaking of grade schools in District 102, this picture features Ogdenites Peg, Jason B., Jeff ("JJ") B., and Peter Z. By the way, Cossitt rules over Ogden.
Here is Julie B. and Maria at Jefferson Tap.
Here's the one picture not taken by Peg. As you can see, my camera phone is awesome. Through what appears to be frosted glass covered by a smokescreen, that's me and Jessica.
Now things are starting to get a little bit out of hand. Peg and Chris W. appear slightly intoxicated, but not quite there yet.
But it was a slippery slope. Out of nowhere, Chris became very emotional about Joe R.'s shirt, Maria started advancing on Peg, and Jason just simply refused to allow himself to be impressed with any of it, despite Maria's obvious giddiness. It was mayhem.
And then everyone had to leave because the bastards at Jefferson Tap had to close. Somehow fellow (yet absent) Class of '96er Greg Weeser* got a hold of the picture on the right, taken of Maria and me at approximately 5:03am before everyone parted ways, and Greg felt the need to put it side-by-side with the picture on the left. I thought it was funny, especially if you consider that Katie -- oops, I mean Kate -- Holmes is about the same height as I am. Man, Tom and Kate look like they're dressed for an Amish funeral (too soon?).
Since Blogger never let's me post all of the pictures that I try to post, I may have a follow-up post with a couple more pictures.
First I'll start with the normal pictures. Here is Jessica W., Katie M., and Peg striking a pose at the reunion in front of some blue and gold balloons. Go Lions!
Here are fellow Cossitteers Jessica W., Trupti P., and Erin M. With lovely ladies like this, who wouldn't have loved grade school?
Speaking of grade schools in District 102, this picture features Ogdenites Peg, Jason B., Jeff ("JJ") B., and Peter Z. By the way, Cossitt rules over Ogden.
Here is Julie B. and Maria at Jefferson Tap.
Here's the one picture not taken by Peg. As you can see, my camera phone is awesome. Through what appears to be frosted glass covered by a smokescreen, that's me and Jessica.
Now things are starting to get a little bit out of hand. Peg and Chris W. appear slightly intoxicated, but not quite there yet.
But it was a slippery slope. Out of nowhere, Chris became very emotional about Joe R.'s shirt, Maria started advancing on Peg, and Jason just simply refused to allow himself to be impressed with any of it, despite Maria's obvious giddiness. It was mayhem.
And then everyone had to leave because the bastards at Jefferson Tap had to close. Somehow fellow (yet absent) Class of '96er Greg Weeser* got a hold of the picture on the right, taken of Maria and me at approximately 5:03am before everyone parted ways, and Greg felt the need to put it side-by-side with the picture on the left. I thought it was funny, especially if you consider that Katie -- oops, I mean Kate -- Holmes is about the same height as I am. Man, Tom and Kate look like they're dressed for an Amish funeral (too soon?).
Since Blogger never let's me post all of the pictures that I try to post, I may have a follow-up post with a couple more pictures.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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):
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.
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
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.
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