We're the Savages

The weekend was a pretty good one, I think.

Friday, I headed out to the burbs to my dad's house. He is retiring to Bloomington (holla) in a month or so, and he needed some help moving some of his big items to the curb for the annual big-item garbage pick-up. I've never seen more pick-up trucks in Western Springs than I did on Friday night, as hundreds of trucks were trolling the streets, hoping to be the first ones to spot that perfect slightly worn love seat. Seriously, these people were scavengers. My dad put his grill out, and it was gone within 30 seconds. I guess that makes less work for the garbage men, and I think we can all agree that's a good thing.

Reed also came out to the WS, challenging me to a game of one-on-one basketball. Leave it to Reed to challenge me to a game of one-on-one when I haven't played basketball in three years (not that I was ever any good) and he plays weekly in a rec league. For the second time ever, he beat me, despite my Rodman-esque 9-point, 27-rebound performance.

Saturday, after going back into the city, I cleaned myself with water and soap, and headed to the South Side for the bachelor party of Mr. 10,000 himself, Jon "J-Diza" Dudek, who will be getting married next week in Fiji (the island in the South Pacific, not the fraternity of privileged douchebags at IU). We began the festivities with some tailgating before the Sox/Angels game, after which we attended the Sox/Angels game, after which we went to the soon-to-be-closing Jimbo's for a beer and a shot. The next several hours may or may not have occurred. The only documentation that time did not stop is this picture, which may be completely fabricated, probably by the government or certain Guatemalan militia men. We resurfaced at the Jefferson Tap at around 2 in the a.m., where we unabashedly consumed more beer for another couple hours, defying logic and our livers. After struggling to keep my eyes open during the cab ride home, I crawled into bed somewhere around 5 fearing retribution and concerned as to why there was a rather large horned mammal native to the Serengeti lurking in the corner, but I was far too tired to investigate, so I threw a clump of wet grass in its general direction, hoping it would suffice. It didn't.

I was awakened early Sunday afternoon by the smell of what I presumed was the rotting carcass of a wildebeest -- perhaps the same wildebeest who so thoughtlessly trampled my skull while I slept. As I searched for the source of this rather unpleasant stench, I came to the horrifying realization that it was not a wildebeest carcass at all, but rather my own breath. What I also soon realized is that 14 hours of alcohol consumption without any water is one of the least effective ways of staving off a hangover. I had one of those once-or-twice-a-year, God-is-punishing-me-for-everything-I-have-ever-done-wrong hangovers that not even Excedrin Migraine can cure. After getting up, I moved carefully to the couch, where I muscled down some Propel while I waited for the apocalypse. Instead of the four horsemen, I got the two Pope twins, who managed to convince me that going to Kirkwood for lunch was a good idea. Seeing as though I finally felt well enough to walk more than thirty paces, I agreed. While the service was mediocre (as usual), the bacon cheddar burger I had was exactly what I needed to face the rest of the day. And to top it off, while we were there we had the pleasure of watching the Bulls finish off the Heat.

Sunday was also my half birthday, which means I'm a mere six months from 30. Quarterlife crisis, engage. Speaking of quarterlife crises, my brother bought a motorcycle on Sunday, thereby ensuring that my children will never know their Uncle Reed. Because he'll be dead. Because of the motorcycle. More than anything, I'm pissed because he didn't buy a sidecar.


Sunday also represented the one-year anniversary of the move from Dayton to Chicago. It seems like just yesterday that Ryan and Tradd were sitting on my couch in my alley rather than moving it.


Jessie doesn't believe in Mormons.