In my last post I mentioned that August would be jam-packed with fun activities, and these dog days of summer certainly did not disappoint. In the past few weeks I got a chance to hobnob with musical icons, soil myself throughout several death-defying stunts, join a fictitious Bon Jovi cover band named Non Jovi, and visit the finest house of ill-repute in Central America.

The hobnobbing with musicians came courtesy of the Retar Crew (check out their new video and my debut as a hip-hop filmmaker. I shot many of the scenes in this video, and I must say I display a keen cinematic eye. If you haven’t done so, check out their free album). Through the Crew’s connections Lori and I were able to finagle two all-access passes to Lollapalooza. However, before we could take advantage of these passes, I first had to tend to a pressing legal matter that Friday afternoon. Now that the case against me has been resolved, my lawyer has informed me that I can freely discuss the details of the incident in question. My troubles began during a raucous night of mid-week drinking. A grad school friend and I started our night at our usual undergrad watering-hole, doing our best not to appear to be the leering, dirty old men that we actually are. From there the night took us to another bar with a line out the door. Already filled with copious amounts of beer and red bull, both of our bladders were about to burst and we could not afford to wait on the line. Therefore, with Lori as lookout, we both proceeded to relieve ourselves in an alley behind the bar. Just as I finished, I spotted the familiar blue and white of a CPD patrol car turning down the alley. I guess we weren’t quick enough to zip up because the next thing I know we’re being handed tickets for public urination. I would have been happy to simply plead guilty and pay the fine through the mail because I was fearful of discussing our transgressions in open court. However, this particular violation demanded a court appearance, and sure enough, there we were, side by side, as the judge read the complaint against my friend and me. I could just see the gears in the judge’s head turning as the full ramifications of the situation dawned on him. “Ok let’s see he said,” as he perused our tickets simultaneously, “Both of you are here for the same offense…on the same night. Hmm interesting. In the same alley? Oh. Oh! Ohhhhhhhh! I see…” Afraid that he was quickly conjuring mental images of a sordid nature, I quickly interjected with my carefully crafted defense strategy, which came to be known as the Stage Fright Defense.

“Your honor,” I said. “I couldn’t not have urinated in public because I have a crippling fear of relieving myself in the near vicinity of others. I tried to go…I did…but it was too much pressure. I couldn’t do it.” I then went on to challenge the officer to produce physical or pictorial evidence that I had indeed urinated in the alley. In the absence of a urine sample linking me to the crime, I strenuously objected to the accusation and demanded that all charges be dropped (ok…in all honesty I didn’t actually go through with the Stage Fright Defense. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face and then the judge would sternly accuse me of making a mockery of the court and hold me in contempt. However, he did give us a knowing smirk when he realized that we were standing side by side exposing ourselves in the alley).

So in opting against the Stage Fright Defense, I simply paid my fine and made my way over to Grant Park to collect my all-access pass. While the Retars were tirelessly entertaining children on the Lolla Kidz stage, Lori and I were free to relax in the artist lounges. Here, rather than throw elbows for dancing space in the mud along with the teeming masses, we availed ourselves of the free booze and cushioned couches in the lounges that were strategically placed behind the two main stages. With the headlining acts performing just a few feet away, we found no reason to leave these bastions of comfort for three straight days. Of course the massive and pristine porta-potties also played a significant factor in our decision not to stray too far away from the lounges. Upon entering one of these tractor-trailer sized carpeted commodes, I knew that I could drink and, more importantly, eat without worrying about the gastrointestinal consequences, for I had a clean and safe haven in which to take care of business.

With our booze, bathroom, and lounging needs taken care of, I set about trying to accomplish my two goals for the weekend. My friend Melvin, who attended a particularly stuffy Ivy League University, had a friend in college who once said, “During my four years here I beat up a Rockefeller and hooked up with a Carnegie. I’d consider my college experience a success.” This sentiment crept into my mind when thinking about Lollapalooza. I decided that the weekend would indeed be a success if I could pull off two feats: I wanted to smoke with Snoop Dogg and destroy Asher Roth in a game of Beer pong. I quickly realized that the first goal would not be attained when, immediately after his set, Snoop sped away in a caravan of golf carts. The fact that he didn’t want to mingle with anyone was driven home when his cart plowed into a screaming fan. The driver, dressed in an impeccable mustard yellow suit, seemed unperturbed by the fact that the girl was propelled into a ditch, for he kept driving as if nothing had happened. Remembering what happened last time someone consumed too many beers and then crashed a Snoop party, I decided to keep my distance.

My second goal was spoiled even before it was even attempted. In the lounge I had mentioned my desire to challenge Asher Roth to a game of beer pong, but it was pointed out to me that this was about as original as asking Julia Stlyes to save you the last dance. Not wanting to feel like a redundant fool in a front of the dorky college-educated version of Eminem, I settled for telling Brandon Flowers that his feather epaulets and black tights weren’t gay at all as he passed by on his way to the stage. While this wasn’t as cool a moment as potentially watching Roth’s face as I sank the last cup, I took solace in the fact that several people, noticing my flowing locks, sandals, and miraculous ability to make beer disappear, told me that I was their own Personal Jesus during Depeche Mode’s set.

Check back in a few days to see what transpired later in the month, including our petrifying experiences in Costa Rica!