Ever have one of those weekends where you're so proud of your liver for not failing that you want to honor it by giving it a name? This is such a weekend. My Friday night was documented in the previous post, but a whole bunch of other shite has happened since then. Saturday night began with a $22 all-you-can-drink great idea from 8-11 at a bar called Duffy's. I can safely say that I drank $22 worth of beer in that time. I was joined by several mates,
Chris "Gemkeezi" Gemkow, Greg "Joey Bates" Bohmann, Mike "The Malangoni Bologna Pony" Malangoni, Jeff "Chambre" Chambers, and Andy "Uhhh" Wood. There were also some pro volleyball players there, in town for the AVP tournament at North Avenue Beach. There's something extremely unsettling about seeing a woman who is nearly a foot taller than me. I felt like an Ewok.Anywho, after Duffy's, Gemkeezi, Bohmann and I met up with "Cryin'" Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff and "Super Rad" (or "Superad," in AbbreviNation) Tradd "Superad" Fromme. Our walk down Diversey was seemingly normal for the first block. And then all hell broke loose when I blew out my flip flop. The flip became detached from the flop. So there I was, not drunk enough to go home, and not sober enough to prevent myself from buying some super glue at Walgreen's to fix that mutha. Interestingly, this would not be the last time this weekend where the flesh on the bottom of my feet would meet the cold, disease-ridden sidewalks of Diversey.
So we end up going to Peg Leg Sullivan's, a nifty little bar on Halsted, just south of Diversey. $8 picthers, or something like that. No big deal. While there, the super glue finally congealed, and I was home free, or so I thought. After Peg Leg Sullivan's, Cryin' and Superad decided to go to the bar Beaumont's, which is the bar in Lincoln Park with the highest probability of catching airborne herpes or getting into a fight with drunk DePaul frat guys (not that there's anything wrong with frat guys). Bohmann heads home, and Gemkeezi and I head to Dunkin' Donuts on the walk home. I couldn't have been more satisfied with myself for that decision. It turns out I was hungry enough to eat 2 breakfast sandwiches (interestingly, this would not be the last time this weekend where the flesh of my tongue would meet the delicious components of a Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich). As soon as we get back to Ari's apartment, I blew out my other flip flop.
Sunday is sometimes a day of rest. This Sunday was not one of those times. I got up around 10, and Gemkeezi, Ari, Jessie, and I went to Dunkin' Donuts for my 3rd breakfast sandwich in 8 hours (a personal record I look to one day break). A good beginning to a great day. Gemkeezi went back home to the OP, Ari and Jessie went back to Ari's place, and I hopped in a cab to go to the new home of Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst, from which we would take the elevated train (seriously!) to Comiskey for a day baseball match between the Chicago "White" Sox and the Detroit "Wish There Was a Time in the Past 18 Years When We Were as Fierce as" Tigers. We met a couple of his friends there and got into the park about 90 minutes early so that we could get seats in the right field bullpen bar. I highly suggest doing this. We had our own waitress, which meant that we could drink more efficiently than usual and we had a greater selection of food at our fingertips.
After the game, all of us went to a bar named Kasey's in the South Loop, which was surprisingly empty for a Sunday afternoon. If you've never had a pizza delivered to a bar, do it. It's even more awesome than the edited-for-TV version of Die Hard ("yippie ki-yay Mister Falcon"). I played more games of Golden Tee in a 3-hour period than I had previously played in my life (i.e., 5). It turns out I suck at Golden Tee. Morgan and I were a team and lost every single round. On the bright side, I left Kasey's fuller and drunker than when I arrived. And that's really all you can ask.
Night had fallen on the City of Broad Shoulders, and from there, we went to the Burwood (see previous post). Sundays at the Burwood are called Hillbilly Sundays, and they play only country music. I hate country music more than I hate the Danes and Germans combined. But there's something about Hillbilly Sundays that makes me tolerate what would otherwise make me want to kill. Perhaps it's that fact that I'm drinking on a Sunday night. Perhaps it's that I'm guaranteed to get free shots of Beam from the bartenders. Perhaps it's that I know I'm only a block from LaBamba. Perhaps it's because I know I'm in a city where I don't have to worry about coming across rednecks. Whatever it is, I have a good time at Hillbilly Sundays.
Morgan left at some point after saying something along the lines of "I need to close my eyes before I puke." The rest of the night is mainly a blur, since the bartenders refused to cut me off, despite my constant pleading. I remember dancing the twist (the only dance I can do) to Rocky Top. And I've been told there were times when I looked close to death. For the record, I never lost consciousness or my dinner.
There was at least one other thing I do remember: Ari challenging me to a race from the Burwood to her apartment (about .45 miles). Anyone who knows me knows that there are 3 and only 3 personal abilities I have pride in: my footspeed, my grasp of random knowledge, and my drinking ability. Combine any of the three, and you're in for a treat. The kind of treat that kicks your ass. I gladly accepted her challenge, on one condition: the race would begin from Bamba's after I had a steak burrito.
At the corner of Wrightwood and Halsted, a crowd gathered in anticipation of what was already being deemed the Race of the Century. I was so confident that I didn't even stretch. As the race began, I built a quick and insurmountable half-block lead by the time I hit Home Depot. Apparently Ari had doubled over laughing and had yelled "Truce!" but I didn't hear her, and I wouldn't have trusted her even if I did hear her. It's a rare sight to see a 27-year-old sprinting down a busy street barefoot at 2:30 in the morning. As such, whenever I would approach someone, I would explain, "I'm not gonna let her catch me." Not that they could hear me, since I was running so damn fast right by them. At the end, my feet hurt, I was out of breath, and several tears of pride began to well in my eyes.
Then came Monday (pun intended) and the Jimmy Buffett concert at Wrigley. Our seats (which cost $103 each, face, ensuring that he can buy yet another plane-boat) were in the top row of the upper deck. At first, this did not seem like a good thing, but it turns out that the constant breeze ensured that we were the only row of people at the concert without swass. Also, it meant shorter beer and bathroom lines, both of which are crucial to any concert-goer's eternal happiness. The concert was a good time. I had never been to a Buffett show--it was about what I expected. Aside from Hugh Hefner, I think that Jimmy Buffett must have the best job in the world. I was also intrigued at how much he looks like Larry David. I kept expecting him to put himself in an extremely awkward situation.
As if that wasn't enough damage to Spot, we went to a bar (The Union) after the concert for some $1 drafts and $1 burgers. Luckily the madness stopped soon thereafter, as we went to Cryin' and Superad's old apartment to help them move about 4 things to their new place, which is pretty pimpin' and still within walking distance of the Burwood.
All in all, it was definitely a weekend that had to make Jessie think twice about her decision to marry me. I'm going to have to give Spot some time off the recouperate. He's tired, I'm tired, Jessie's tired, and I know Ari's tired of us being at her apartment. I'm leaving Chicago approximately 5.6 pounds heavier than when I arrived 4 days ago, and with about 845,179 fewer healthy brain cells. Healthy cells make 845,179 fewer brains. Brain cells are healthy days. Four.
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