As I prepared to celebrate my 29th birthday this past week, I got to thinking about birthday’s past. It occurred to me that I set too high of a bar when I first entered this decade of my life and that no birthday has been able to exceed my 20th. The day of my 20th birthday I witnessed Fordham beat St. John’s at the buzzer in the Garden (and that was back when St. John’s basketball had a pulse. They won the Big East tourney that year and advanced to the Elite Eight the year before). While MSG security denied our effort to storm the court, no one could prevent us from engaging in the epic bout of drinking that we had planned for later that day at McSorleys. Even the cantankerous octogenarian waiter couldn’t temper my spirits when asking me, “How the hell do you expect me to live off of a two dollar tip in the 21st century?” The last thing I remember from that day is riding the subway back to the Bronx with my friend Eddie. Still drunk on victory and McSorley’s Dark, we serenaded the entire subway car with a rousing rendition of Fordham’s fight song. When the rest of the car refused to join in, we accused them all of being pathetic and resentful Johnnie’s fans. However, seeing as how it was still only 6 o’clock in the evening it seems more likely that they were just too tired from work to join our chorus.
While I reminisced about that birthday, I became determined to finally top it as I entered the last year of my 20s. With a diverse and fun-filled itinerary planned, I knew that this particular birthday had great potential.
Despite my best laid plans, the day got off to an inauspicious start. I somehow got it into my head that Lori had secretly flown in all my friends and family and that they’d be waiting to surprise me when we arrived at our favorite breakfast spot. You can imagine my disappointment when we arrived at the restaurant and the only group there to greet us was a threesome of cops refusing a refill of coffee because “you can’t be jittery when you got your piece drawn on a perp.” So with only Lori to keep me company, I sadly ate my Dutch pancake in silence.
While breakfast was a mild success (the disappointment over the lack of a surprise party was somewhat offset by the deliciousness of my pannekoeken), the day quickly took a turn for the better. Because Lori’s store was open late to accommodate the influx of Christmas shoppers, I was free to accept a last minute invitation to a Playboy holiday party. Our mutual friend, Kate, who works for Playboy’s website, was in need of a date, and I was happy to oblige. We both went to the party with modest goals. Kate wanted to see any model that she had personally “touched up,” so she could smugly tell me about that girl’s figurative and metaphoric warts. As for me, I was just hoping to have a simple conversation with a model which I could then outrageously embellish for the purposes of this blog. Unfortunately we would both come away disappointed. Kate never saw any such model, and when I got a chance to talk to one I didn’t even get the bat off of my shoulder.
Despite the fact that I had a few amusing anecdotes prepared for a possible convo with a Playboy Bunny (including one where I witnessed my friend get accused of being racist for ordering a white slice at a pizzeria. This episode ended with a girl chasing her friend down the street yelling “Come back Sharonda! It just means the pizza ain’t got no red sauce!”) there were several factors contributing to my inability to converse that I had failed to account for. To begin with, I like to think of myself as a seasoned veteran of the partying circuit. However, I made a rookie mistake and showed an amazing lack of foresight in my pre-party dinner decision. Armed with the knowledge that I would soon be in the presence of scores of scantily clad Bunnies, I went ahead and sagaciously decided to take Buffalo Wild Wings up on their offer of 50 cent boneless wings. Now my sister has informed me that no one wants to read about my gastrointestinal issues, but for the purposes of this story the havoc that the boneless wings wreaked on my stomach is absolutely essential and cannot be avoided. Heeding my sister’s advice, I’ll spare you the details. But I will say that it’s difficult to be charming and make good impressions when you’ve got beads of sweat forming on your forehead due to the Asian Zing, Jamaican Jerk and Garlic Parmesan sauces angrily mixing it up in your bowels.
Along with my dinner decision, Hef’s choice for the Christmas issue cover conspired to foil my conversation capabilities. This month’s issue features Dancing With the Star’s Joanna Krupa on the cover. Unfortunately for me, this is apparently the one reality show that I don’t watch, and as such, I was not equipped with a bevy of penetrating insights concerning this reality celebrity. So when a model that had been standing next to me talking to a photographer pointed to a copy of the magazine on the table in front of us and commented to Kate and me that Krupa was in hot water in her native Poland for wearing a crucifix in her pictures, I was at a loss for a response. I’m Catholic and my girlfriend is a Chicago Pollock, giving me ample room to run with her comments, yet I was too busy wracking my brain trying to figure out who the girl on the cover was. If only Hef had gone with Padma or Snookie for the Christmas cover, I would have found myself in a conversational comfort zone. I could have talked to this model for hours about deconstructed ceviche or where to get the best "sangwiches and chesseballs" in Seaside.
So with my distracting stomach and complete lack of knowledge of controversial Polish primetime dancers, I completely froze. After conversing with Kate for a few minutes, the girl turned back to her conversation with the photographer. However, there wasn’t time to worry about it, for we were off to the next phase of my birthday celebration. By this time Lori and our friends were waiting for us at a music venue in our neighborhood, and the remainder of the night is what really put this birthday on par with my 20th. We got to listen to some truly awe-inspiring funk from New Orleans, ate copious amounts of brownies, and got a chance to make our own music at a late night Karaoke bar. As usual, my memory gets a little hazy from there although I distinctly remember freezing up when it came my turn to sing “You’re the One that I Want.” It seems that coming up small in the clutch was a theme for this particular birthday. I was forced to stumble through the song from memory because my eyes were at half-mast at that point I was incapable of reading the lyrics on the little screen.
This abysmal performance aside, it was a great birthday. It’ll certainly be hard to top next year, but I think if Lori gets started now on my surprise party filled with visiting New Yorkers, then she might be able to pull it off. So be on the lookout for that invitation!
Anyway, in other news, I’ll be in New York from the 24th to the 30th, so get in touch! Also, word out of Belmont is that an event dear to my heart may be cancelled due to lack of funds. So I encourage all of you to do your part and head out to Belmont and drop some money on the ponies so they don’t have to cancel the third leg of the Triple Crown. I will do my part by not gambling at the track because all I do is take money off the good people at Belmont!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
These Little Town Blues Are Melting Away...
In my last post I promised an account of our shorts-staining trip to Costa Rica. However, immediately after making said promise I was promptly slammed with a ton of reading for school, leaving me very little time to keep you updated on my comings and goings.
However, while I’m disappointed that school has prevented me from writing, my countless hours spent locked up in the ivory tower hasn’t been a total loss. A great benefit to being back at school is the millions of interesting tidbits that I’ve learned while skimming the thounsands of pages of reading that have been assigned. I’ve found that these tidbits are a huge hit at cocktail parties (ok…they are a huge hit at the dive bars I frequent, but I wanted to sound sophisticated). For example, did you know that the two most common crimes committed by widows in 17th century colonial society were unlicensed liquor sales and fornication? I had no idea that these colonial ladies were so down to party. It’s well-documented that Martha Washington was a hip, hip lady, but other than that I figured the puritanical partying was kept to a minimum. However, these gals actually make our modern day Cougars look rather tame.
I’ve also been busy frequenting teacher happy hours. While I enjoy half priced drinks and lukewarm trays filled with potato skins and mozzarella sticks just as much as the next educator, I’m actually not attending these functions for pleasure. My goal is to ingratiate myself with the faculty of a high school and eventually earn their trust. Once I’ve done so, I plan on getting a young, female teacher really drunk and then having one of her co-workers try to seduce and impregnate her. I’ve taken to this unorthodox style of matchmaking because it seems like the only way I will get a public school job in this city. After conception has been confirmed, I will quickly send my resume to the school’s principal, thereby being the first to apply for a job that will most certainly become available in seven to eight months. While these tactics are certainly despicable and unscrupulous, I’m willing to be as despised as the Luna guy is in Chicago in order to finally get a job. If everything works out according to my plan, I figure the Luna guy and I can buy some friends with our newfound riches. Between my teacher’s salary and the savings he got on his new flooring, we should be able to convince people to hang out with us despite our damaged reputations in this town.
My unemployment as an ESL teacher is made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are World Series M.V.P.s walking around, not knowing a lick of English after nearly a decade in this country! If anyone has an in with 2009 World Series Champions or happens to visit the Canyon of Heroes, feel free to pass along my resume!
However, while I’m disappointed that school has prevented me from writing, my countless hours spent locked up in the ivory tower hasn’t been a total loss. A great benefit to being back at school is the millions of interesting tidbits that I’ve learned while skimming the thounsands of pages of reading that have been assigned. I’ve found that these tidbits are a huge hit at cocktail parties (ok…they are a huge hit at the dive bars I frequent, but I wanted to sound sophisticated). For example, did you know that the two most common crimes committed by widows in 17th century colonial society were unlicensed liquor sales and fornication? I had no idea that these colonial ladies were so down to party. It’s well-documented that Martha Washington was a hip, hip lady, but other than that I figured the puritanical partying was kept to a minimum. However, these gals actually make our modern day Cougars look rather tame.
I’ve also been busy frequenting teacher happy hours. While I enjoy half priced drinks and lukewarm trays filled with potato skins and mozzarella sticks just as much as the next educator, I’m actually not attending these functions for pleasure. My goal is to ingratiate myself with the faculty of a high school and eventually earn their trust. Once I’ve done so, I plan on getting a young, female teacher really drunk and then having one of her co-workers try to seduce and impregnate her. I’ve taken to this unorthodox style of matchmaking because it seems like the only way I will get a public school job in this city. After conception has been confirmed, I will quickly send my resume to the school’s principal, thereby being the first to apply for a job that will most certainly become available in seven to eight months. While these tactics are certainly despicable and unscrupulous, I’m willing to be as despised as the Luna guy is in Chicago in order to finally get a job. If everything works out according to my plan, I figure the Luna guy and I can buy some friends with our newfound riches. Between my teacher’s salary and the savings he got on his new flooring, we should be able to convince people to hang out with us despite our damaged reputations in this town.
My unemployment as an ESL teacher is made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are World Series M.V.P.s walking around, not knowing a lick of English after nearly a decade in this country! If anyone has an in with 2009 World Series Champions or happens to visit the Canyon of Heroes, feel free to pass along my resume!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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!
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Let's Play Two!
I've been incommunicado for the past month because July was remarkably uneventful. I've spent my days going to the gym, watching the Tour de France, and preparing Lori's lunches. The one event I have to look forward to each week is my softball game. However, my inability to transfer my meager baseball skills to the 16 inch version of the game has made this weekly event rather tortuous. In my first game I broke the cardinal sin of outfielding by taking a few steps in on a couple of fly balls. After taking these steps forward, unable to accurately judge the ball's trajectory, they inevitably sailed over my head. When I finally caught one my teammates responded with the sincere and overly-enthusiastic cheers that are usually reserved for competitors in the Special Olympics.
Even more frustrating than my level of play are the people who take the game way too seriously. These are the people who show up to the field with eye black, Oakley sunglasses, batting gloves carefully situated in the back pocket of their pinstriped baseball pants, and various assortments of wrist and forearm bands. On the Nyack Indians such players are referred to as Baseball Dicks; guys who take the greatest pains to make sure they look the part of a baseball player. However seeing as how this term doesn't apply to my new sport, I've taken to calling them Soft Dicks. Between the Soft Dicks and my chronic inability to get a hit with runners in scoring position, softball hasn't been quite the carefree activity I'd hoped it would be.
However, with the Yankees coming to town last weekend, I finally had something to look forward to other than softball. I travelled to the Southside on Thursday to see the Bombers square off against the White Sox, yet before doing so I warmed up with a Cubs day game at Wrigley. With 18 innings of baseball, six bars, and a bike crash, I figured this day was worthy of recounting in detail. So what follows is an account of my day of baseball and booze.
10:30 am - I leave my house and get on my bike to make the 2 mile ride to Wrigley.
10:32 - I run back up the three flights of stairs to my apartment to rilfle through my medicine cabinet. I find the medicine bottle containing roughly 50 immodium capsules. Generally speaking I'll drop a deuce just about anywhere, be it the porta-potties at a musical festival or the woods on the side of the Saw Mill Parkway. However, if I'm going to be drinking and eating to excess all day, I'd rather not have to make an emergency use of the facilties at Wrigley or US Cellular Field. For some reason I draw the line at deuces in ballparks. So I decide to err on the side of caution and pop four preemptive pills and put the rest of the bottle in my backpack.
10:45 - I ride into Wrigleyville and I get a text from my friend Jackson informing me that he is still 10-15 minutes away. Our plan was to get to the bleachers around 11 o'clock so as to save seats for Jackson's father and our friend Jeffrey. With the prospect of paying exhorbitant beer prices for a full two hours before first pitch, I decide its prudent to get a good buzz going before reaching the bleachers. I sit down at Sluggers and promptly order the special of the day (a Jim Beam and Coke) and an Old Stlye tall boy.
10:50 - Jackson texts me to inform that he has arrived sooner than expected and is waiting for me outside the Bleacher's entrance. I chug both the Beam and Coke and the Old Style, and I immediately regret the fact that I didn't eat breakfast.
10:53 - The bartender informs me that to pay with credit card I must spend a minimum of 20 dollars. Rather then pay cash, I order two shots of Jameson to push my bill to 22 dollars.
10:55 - I'm momentarily blinded by the sunlight after emerging from the dank and dim bar. I've always had a fondness for that sensation. Its almost as if the sunlight and my blood alcohol content combine to give me a kind of giddiness that can only come with day drinking (or morning drinking as the case may be).
11:00 - I meet Jackson on the corner of Sheffield and Addison. He tells me that the Bleachers are filling up slower than usual. This affords us the opportunity to drink some more outside of the stadium before heading in to save seats. We buy a six pack of Old Stlye tall boys and a pint of Beam and make our way to his friend's house around the corner so we can drink on his stoop. Jackson grew up in the cornfields of Iowa and has a wholesome look to him that you would expect of an Iowa farmboy. You would certainly not expect him to collaborate on one of the raunchiest hip-hop albums of all time. But alas he is indeed partially responsible for the smash single "Crazy-Ass Nympho with Daddy Issues." This song is so catchy it immediately replaced the "Go Cubs Go" as the song on constant loop in my head. Download it (track nine) for free here and give it a listen.
11:30 - As we talk Hawkeye football, I reach into the bag for my third beer only to discover that Jackson has lapped me. He claims that he needed to catch up, citing my two shots of Jameson, but I vow never to allow him to lap me again nonetheless.
12:10 - In certain circles Cubs fans have a reputation of being short on baseball intelligence and passion. Their detractors claim that Cubs fans are only interested in getting drunk and working on their tans. This stereotype is fueled by the frat-type environment that the bleachers produce. I'm excited to take part in this party atmosphere, so I'm dismayed when as many as three families take seats in our immediate vicinity. After the guy in front of me makes an off-color remark concerning the size of Carlos Lee's ass, the mother behind me instructs her daughter to "forget everything you hear today." However, I'm confident that as the game wears on and my inhibitions come under increasing attack, I'll be less concerned with offending the families. With my buzz making a swift transition to full-on drunkeness, I pray that I can just avoid making my "Can I take a picture of your kids, they'd look great on my web-site" joke (What's interesting about this joke is that parents never seem to find it quite as funny as I do. I guess all I can do is wait for the time when it is socially accepatable to joke about child pornogaphy).
12:50 - A trio of drunken white high-school students plop down in front of us. I immediately get the feeling that the bleacher creatures will antagonize these kids far more viciously than they will Lee, the Astro's leftfielder.
1:05 - Sure enough, the drunk high-school kids attempt to razz Lee, immediately drawing the ire of those around them. Its not so much the razzing that bothers the crowd but rather the manner in which the razzing is being conducted. The main kid, let's call him Ferris (for he is toting a cute girl and an oafish looking friend), is yelling at Lee, in Spanish, with an annoyingly high-pitched squeal. Are they teaching this kind of smack talk in AP Spanish these days? I wouldn't be surprised, what with the infusion of Latin ball players in the MLB since I graduated from high school.
Even more frustrating than my level of play are the people who take the game way too seriously. These are the people who show up to the field with eye black, Oakley sunglasses, batting gloves carefully situated in the back pocket of their pinstriped baseball pants, and various assortments of wrist and forearm bands. On the Nyack Indians such players are referred to as Baseball Dicks; guys who take the greatest pains to make sure they look the part of a baseball player. However seeing as how this term doesn't apply to my new sport, I've taken to calling them Soft Dicks. Between the Soft Dicks and my chronic inability to get a hit with runners in scoring position, softball hasn't been quite the carefree activity I'd hoped it would be.
However, with the Yankees coming to town last weekend, I finally had something to look forward to other than softball. I travelled to the Southside on Thursday to see the Bombers square off against the White Sox, yet before doing so I warmed up with a Cubs day game at Wrigley. With 18 innings of baseball, six bars, and a bike crash, I figured this day was worthy of recounting in detail. So what follows is an account of my day of baseball and booze.
10:30 am - I leave my house and get on my bike to make the 2 mile ride to Wrigley.
10:32 - I run back up the three flights of stairs to my apartment to rilfle through my medicine cabinet. I find the medicine bottle containing roughly 50 immodium capsules. Generally speaking I'll drop a deuce just about anywhere, be it the porta-potties at a musical festival or the woods on the side of the Saw Mill Parkway. However, if I'm going to be drinking and eating to excess all day, I'd rather not have to make an emergency use of the facilties at Wrigley or US Cellular Field. For some reason I draw the line at deuces in ballparks. So I decide to err on the side of caution and pop four preemptive pills and put the rest of the bottle in my backpack.
10:45 - I ride into Wrigleyville and I get a text from my friend Jackson informing me that he is still 10-15 minutes away. Our plan was to get to the bleachers around 11 o'clock so as to save seats for Jackson's father and our friend Jeffrey. With the prospect of paying exhorbitant beer prices for a full two hours before first pitch, I decide its prudent to get a good buzz going before reaching the bleachers. I sit down at Sluggers and promptly order the special of the day (a Jim Beam and Coke) and an Old Stlye tall boy.
10:50 - Jackson texts me to inform that he has arrived sooner than expected and is waiting for me outside the Bleacher's entrance. I chug both the Beam and Coke and the Old Style, and I immediately regret the fact that I didn't eat breakfast.
10:53 - The bartender informs me that to pay with credit card I must spend a minimum of 20 dollars. Rather then pay cash, I order two shots of Jameson to push my bill to 22 dollars.
10:55 - I'm momentarily blinded by the sunlight after emerging from the dank and dim bar. I've always had a fondness for that sensation. Its almost as if the sunlight and my blood alcohol content combine to give me a kind of giddiness that can only come with day drinking (or morning drinking as the case may be).
11:00 - I meet Jackson on the corner of Sheffield and Addison. He tells me that the Bleachers are filling up slower than usual. This affords us the opportunity to drink some more outside of the stadium before heading in to save seats. We buy a six pack of Old Stlye tall boys and a pint of Beam and make our way to his friend's house around the corner so we can drink on his stoop. Jackson grew up in the cornfields of Iowa and has a wholesome look to him that you would expect of an Iowa farmboy. You would certainly not expect him to collaborate on one of the raunchiest hip-hop albums of all time. But alas he is indeed partially responsible for the smash single "Crazy-Ass Nympho with Daddy Issues." This song is so catchy it immediately replaced the "Go Cubs Go" as the song on constant loop in my head. Download it (track nine) for free here and give it a listen.
11:30 - As we talk Hawkeye football, I reach into the bag for my third beer only to discover that Jackson has lapped me. He claims that he needed to catch up, citing my two shots of Jameson, but I vow never to allow him to lap me again nonetheless.
12:10 - In certain circles Cubs fans have a reputation of being short on baseball intelligence and passion. Their detractors claim that Cubs fans are only interested in getting drunk and working on their tans. This stereotype is fueled by the frat-type environment that the bleachers produce. I'm excited to take part in this party atmosphere, so I'm dismayed when as many as three families take seats in our immediate vicinity. After the guy in front of me makes an off-color remark concerning the size of Carlos Lee's ass, the mother behind me instructs her daughter to "forget everything you hear today." However, I'm confident that as the game wears on and my inhibitions come under increasing attack, I'll be less concerned with offending the families. With my buzz making a swift transition to full-on drunkeness, I pray that I can just avoid making my "Can I take a picture of your kids, they'd look great on my web-site" joke (What's interesting about this joke is that parents never seem to find it quite as funny as I do. I guess all I can do is wait for the time when it is socially accepatable to joke about child pornogaphy).
12:50 - A trio of drunken white high-school students plop down in front of us. I immediately get the feeling that the bleacher creatures will antagonize these kids far more viciously than they will Lee, the Astro's leftfielder.
1:05 - Sure enough, the drunk high-school kids attempt to razz Lee, immediately drawing the ire of those around them. Its not so much the razzing that bothers the crowd but rather the manner in which the razzing is being conducted. The main kid, let's call him Ferris (for he is toting a cute girl and an oafish looking friend), is yelling at Lee, in Spanish, with an annoyingly high-pitched squeal. Are they teaching this kind of smack talk in AP Spanish these days? I wouldn't be surprised, what with the infusion of Latin ball players in the MLB since I graduated from high school.
1:15 - The shrieking Spanish smack talk continues.
1:20 - As the crowd grows increasingly restless with these kids, Jackson leans over and offers them some sage advice. He suggests that there are still 8 innings to go and that they may want to consider conserving some energy.
1:21 - Jackson's advice goes unheeded.
1:45 - The shrieking continues.
1:55 - Eating my first brat of the day, I compliment the Abe Froeman impostor on the quality of his encased meats.
2:15 - Security comes to see why Ferris and his crew are so rowdy. While escorting the intoxicated youths out, the security guard notices a bulge in Jackson's pocket. He confiscates the Beam that we had been saving for after beer sales ended and Jackson's double-header is immediately in jeopardy.
2:20 - Jackson's father is forced to vouch for his son so he can remain in the stadium. The following conversation ensues:
"Is this your son?"
"Yes."
"Are you gonna keep him in line?"
"Of course! I'm gonna whup the sh*t out of him when we get home! I can't believe he bought that swill. He should have tried to sneak in something better than Beam."
2:30 - With the Beam gone, we decide to intensify our beer drinking efforts before last call.
2:30 - 4:00 - With Ferris and his crew gone, the rest of the game passes without much incident. The Cubs thumped the Stro's and I broke out a great John Sterling impression "Yankees win, thhhheeeeeee Yankeeeeeeeeeessssssssss win," prompting Soriano to look up at the scoreboard, only to discover that the Yanks are playing a night game. I think I saw tear in his eye, obviously recalling his days as Jeter's double-play partner.
4:00 - 6:00 - Jackson goes to have dinner with his parents while Jeffrey and I continue to drink at a German bar in Wrigleyville called Uberstein. I drink a bunch of ubersteins and soon feel like an ubermensch.
6:00- 1:00 am - Things start to get a little fuzzy at this point. I know for a fact that A-Rod's purple lip gloss is visible from the right field foul pole, the Yankees lost a heartbreaker, and I saw more mullets at U.S. Celluar field than at the try-outs for a Saskatchewan Junior League hockey team.
So all in all, it was successful day and by far one of the highlights of my Summer. However, August should prove to be far more interesting with Lollapalooza, a Phish show, and a vacation in the works. More to come on each of these events in the coming weeks.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Can you spare me a rib?
After soliciting reader input and carefully weighing my options, I opted to forego the opportunity to fraternize with undergrads in order to stuff my face at Ribfest. I decided that the undergrads at school weren't ready for my brand of all-day quad partying. After all, I'd already blown their minds by introducing snorkeling and the bomb squad (this entails doing car, jager, cherry, and dr. pepper bombs consecutively) to a bar near campus. Furthermore, if I had gone to dance with 18 and 19 year olds on the quad, there was a strong chance that I would feel as awkward as my friend Bill or his little brother for that matter.
Having decided to attend Ribfest, I set about preparing myself both physically and mentally. That morning I opted to skip both breakfast and lunch while also taking the time to relish in the fact that for once I would not be the largest person at an event. I imagined that I would resemble a svelte, pre-teen Swedish boy in comparison to the other rib-loving festival-goers. Therefore, it came as a cruel and shocking twist of fate when I quickly realized that Ribfest is no place for those with an insatiable appetite. While making my way down the street, I noticed that the fest was not dominated by men of girth but rather by wannabe foodies and other waifs who were perfectly content to stand on impossibly long lines just to get a "sampler," a small plate of 3 or 4 ribs.
After skowering the grounds and failing to find a line that was less than 45 minutes long, my friend and I opted for the longest line possible, figuring that if we were going to have to wait, we may as well wait for ribs that were creating the biggest buzz amongst the crowd. Luckily, with two of us, we were free to drink as much beer as possible as one of us held our space in line while the other repeatedly went to refill our cups. So with this system in place the line actually turned out to be quite pleasant (As the beer runner, I was reminded that I am very much a rookie when it comes to summer festivals in Chicago, for while I was purchasing beer in chintzy 16 oz cups, there were other guys drinking from the enormous plastic steins that are distributed during Maifest. I don't know if these guys were convincing the beer vendors to fill their steins or if they were purchasing 4 or 5 beers at time and pouring those beers into the steins. However they were filling the steins, it was abundantly clear to me that I have a lot to learn when it comes to maximizing my fun at these events).
Eventually we made our way to the front of the line and promptly devoured our diminuitive portion of ribs in roughly sixty seconds. So with sixty minutes of waiting resulting in a minute of pleasure, I decided that rather than wait on another line I would instead continue to nurse the buzz I had going and make my way over to the stage where a raucous blue grass band was playing. Since I was fueled by several pints of beer and was not weighed down by a stuffed stomach, I was able to enjoy Ribfest in a way that I hadn't anticipated. I was able to engage in, not gluttony as I had assumed I would, but rather my other favorite pastime...drunken dancing. The band was particularly appreciative of my moves for up until that point other people had been too preoccupied with their ribs to cut a rug, or the concrete as it were. So while it didn't live up to my expectations with regards to the ribs, I would have to say that this festival was a resounding success and I am now excited to see what else the festival season has in store.
Having decided to attend Ribfest, I set about preparing myself both physically and mentally. That morning I opted to skip both breakfast and lunch while also taking the time to relish in the fact that for once I would not be the largest person at an event. I imagined that I would resemble a svelte, pre-teen Swedish boy in comparison to the other rib-loving festival-goers. Therefore, it came as a cruel and shocking twist of fate when I quickly realized that Ribfest is no place for those with an insatiable appetite. While making my way down the street, I noticed that the fest was not dominated by men of girth but rather by wannabe foodies and other waifs who were perfectly content to stand on impossibly long lines just to get a "sampler," a small plate of 3 or 4 ribs.
After skowering the grounds and failing to find a line that was less than 45 minutes long, my friend and I opted for the longest line possible, figuring that if we were going to have to wait, we may as well wait for ribs that were creating the biggest buzz amongst the crowd. Luckily, with two of us, we were free to drink as much beer as possible as one of us held our space in line while the other repeatedly went to refill our cups. So with this system in place the line actually turned out to be quite pleasant (As the beer runner, I was reminded that I am very much a rookie when it comes to summer festivals in Chicago, for while I was purchasing beer in chintzy 16 oz cups, there were other guys drinking from the enormous plastic steins that are distributed during Maifest. I don't know if these guys were convincing the beer vendors to fill their steins or if they were purchasing 4 or 5 beers at time and pouring those beers into the steins. However they were filling the steins, it was abundantly clear to me that I have a lot to learn when it comes to maximizing my fun at these events).
Eventually we made our way to the front of the line and promptly devoured our diminuitive portion of ribs in roughly sixty seconds. So with sixty minutes of waiting resulting in a minute of pleasure, I decided that rather than wait on another line I would instead continue to nurse the buzz I had going and make my way over to the stage where a raucous blue grass band was playing. Since I was fueled by several pints of beer and was not weighed down by a stuffed stomach, I was able to enjoy Ribfest in a way that I hadn't anticipated. I was able to engage in, not gluttony as I had assumed I would, but rather my other favorite pastime...drunken dancing. The band was particularly appreciative of my moves for up until that point other people had been too preoccupied with their ribs to cut a rug, or the concrete as it were. So while it didn't live up to my expectations with regards to the ribs, I would have to say that this festival was a resounding success and I am now excited to see what else the festival season has in store.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Summer Time...Time to Sit Back and Unwind
Before I moved to Chicago I was told that the Spring and Summer festivals make suffering through the Winter worthwhile. After being trapped inside for several months, everyone comes out en masse to attend the myriad of outdoor activities that the city plans. For example, just last weekend my neighborhood hosted "Maifest," a contrived German holiday intended to fill the coffers of my dirty alderman (The corruption of my alderman and my impending campaign to unseat him will have to be addressed at a later date). He decided that Oktoberfest is such an economic boon, why not subject the neighborhood to another raucous fest in the Spring. So all last weekend we couldn't get into our local bars because the throbbing Frat faction guzzling beers and brats spilled out of the square and into the surrounding watering holes. I know what you're thinking, "Is he complaining about a huge party? That seems rather unlike him." Well, my only response to that is that I'm equally baffled myself. To my reckoning (mourning outghn't last no longer than grief. Sorry...I couldn't resist a little NHS AP English humor for those that survived Antoine's class), the fact that I didn't get to pre-game sufficiently is what led to my cranky disposition while at Maifest. Prior to making my way over to the square, I was busy preparing two huge presentations on the origins of World War I and another on the hetero-normativity that dominates exhibits at Ellis Island. So I didn't have time to have a few drinks to put myself in an amiable mood before dealing with the crowds.
I think my aversion for the fest also stemmed from the adverse effect it had on the bums in my alley. Apparently the Spring thaw doesn't just bring out Frat revelers, but it also brings out those inclined to sit around alleys, sharing 16 oz cans of Old Style. Our alley in particular seems to attract such people due to the amenities that we offer. For example, our apartment shares its alley with a movie theater that features some comfortable concrete steps leading from its backdoor. Since the theater is closed during the day, these bums have the run of the alley, drinking with impunity, knowing that there are no employees to chase them away. My balcony overlooks these steps, and I enjoy straining to hear their conversation. I'm particularly fascinated by these bums because, aside from the fact that they are splitting a can of beer between them at 11:00 in the morning, they don't conform to your standard image of a street person. Their clothes appear somewhat clean from a distance and their goatees are carefully manicured.
Until Maifest started it didn't seem like anything could dislodge these bums from the comforts of our alley. A couple of weeks ago they hit the bum lottery when the furniture store next to the theater closed down. After holding a clearance sale, some of the items that went unsold ended up in the alley. So my friends got to trade their cold concrete slabs for a cushy sectional sofa. On my way from the EL through the alley, I spotted two of the bums fully recumbent on the L-shaped sofa. They looked happier than pigs in slop, but apparently all their worldly desires were not satiated because they still asked for some change as I passed by. Now normally this plea for charity would have moved me to rummage through my pockets, but the fact that they expected me to move across the alley and place the money in their outstretched hands while they remained comfortably laid out on the couch really irritated me. I told them I had no change, that they might have some luck by going through the cushions, and went on my way.
But my annoyance was fleeting, and I grew concerned for their comfort due to the onslaught of people during Maifest. There'd be no hope for peaceful relaxation in the alley. So I'm not sure where they ended up on this particular weekend, but I just hope they return soon.
So while the bums and I didn't enjoy Maifest to the fullest, I hope to continue to attend the various activities planned by the city to reward its citizens for braving the Winter. After doing so, I will provide the JC/Bot audience with a review of each festival. To this end, I need your help. This weekend there is actually a conflict. Ribfest is taking place in the neighborhood just south of us. Unfortunately, DePaul is also having its Spring Weekend/Spring Fling/Dolphy Day (whatever you want to call it) on the quad. So I'd like the JC/Bot faithful to weigh in with opinions as to what event I should attend. Should I stuff myself with ribs alongside some of the most obese people that the Midwest has to offer, or should I dance and twirl uncontrollably, sans shoes, on the grass with some young co-eds?
I think my aversion for the fest also stemmed from the adverse effect it had on the bums in my alley. Apparently the Spring thaw doesn't just bring out Frat revelers, but it also brings out those inclined to sit around alleys, sharing 16 oz cans of Old Style. Our alley in particular seems to attract such people due to the amenities that we offer. For example, our apartment shares its alley with a movie theater that features some comfortable concrete steps leading from its backdoor. Since the theater is closed during the day, these bums have the run of the alley, drinking with impunity, knowing that there are no employees to chase them away. My balcony overlooks these steps, and I enjoy straining to hear their conversation. I'm particularly fascinated by these bums because, aside from the fact that they are splitting a can of beer between them at 11:00 in the morning, they don't conform to your standard image of a street person. Their clothes appear somewhat clean from a distance and their goatees are carefully manicured.
Until Maifest started it didn't seem like anything could dislodge these bums from the comforts of our alley. A couple of weeks ago they hit the bum lottery when the furniture store next to the theater closed down. After holding a clearance sale, some of the items that went unsold ended up in the alley. So my friends got to trade their cold concrete slabs for a cushy sectional sofa. On my way from the EL through the alley, I spotted two of the bums fully recumbent on the L-shaped sofa. They looked happier than pigs in slop, but apparently all their worldly desires were not satiated because they still asked for some change as I passed by. Now normally this plea for charity would have moved me to rummage through my pockets, but the fact that they expected me to move across the alley and place the money in their outstretched hands while they remained comfortably laid out on the couch really irritated me. I told them I had no change, that they might have some luck by going through the cushions, and went on my way.
But my annoyance was fleeting, and I grew concerned for their comfort due to the onslaught of people during Maifest. There'd be no hope for peaceful relaxation in the alley. So I'm not sure where they ended up on this particular weekend, but I just hope they return soon.
So while the bums and I didn't enjoy Maifest to the fullest, I hope to continue to attend the various activities planned by the city to reward its citizens for braving the Winter. After doing so, I will provide the JC/Bot audience with a review of each festival. To this end, I need your help. This weekend there is actually a conflict. Ribfest is taking place in the neighborhood just south of us. Unfortunately, DePaul is also having its Spring Weekend/Spring Fling/Dolphy Day (whatever you want to call it) on the quad. So I'd like the JC/Bot faithful to weigh in with opinions as to what event I should attend. Should I stuff myself with ribs alongside some of the most obese people that the Midwest has to offer, or should I dance and twirl uncontrollably, sans shoes, on the grass with some young co-eds?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Take Me Home, Country Roads
As most of you have surely noticed I’ve haven’t been able to keep you apprised of my comings and goings for the last month. I apologize for this for this lack of communication, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me when you hear my explanation. With the start of the baseball season, I’ve been privy to witnessing quite a few Cub victories. Now, I don’t have a problem with a Cub win in and of itself. The problem arises when the final out is recorded and the entire stadium breaks into a celebratory rendition of this song. I defy you to listen to all three minutes of this tune and not have it stuck in your head for the rest of the day. When it is on a constant loop in your head for the afternoon, just be thankful that you’re not me. I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head since the season began. It’s really disturbing my study, sleep, and most importantly blogging habits. So if you have any suggestions as to how I can get this song out of my head, I’d love to hear it.
In the month since I’ve last been in contact, I’ve continued my search for a new hobby to filly my days in my new home. Unfortunately this quest hit yet another snag. I’d hoped that the new hobby would be something somewhat active, but such pursuits were compromised when Lori came down with a debilitating injury. I came home from work one night to find Lori in bed, rocking out to a re-run of an Usher performance on Saturday Night Live. Apparently she had failed to stretch prior to getting into bed, for she pulled a hamstring in the convulsive fits that pass for bed-dancing (Unfortunately this is an odd term that we must use a lot in our household. On another occasion I came home to find her once again dancing under the covers of the bed. This wouldn’t have been so bad had our new laptop not been balanced precariously on her stomach, the cheap speakers statically blaring a 30 year old Queen video that she found on Youtube).
So with an active hobby out of the question for the time being, I sought out some pursuits that were more sedentary in nature. I decided that I might try my hand at being a big buck hunter. I first became interested in this sport when helping a friend train for an up-coming tournament he was going to be participating in. By agreeing to give up a Sunday afternoon of reading about the fatal flaws of the Schlieffen plan for a trip to a bar in Wriggleyville, my friend provided unlimited wings and 22 oz Miller Lite drafts. Needless to say I was hooked on this brand of hunting immediately. However, the game quickly became more than just a Sunday Funday excuse to indulge my gluttonous nature. I found that I enjoyed picking off vast quantities of large game while tightly gripping the orange toy rifle with hot sauce-stained hands. The tournament the following week proved to be equally entertaining. Having received a predilection for big buck hunting too late to enter, I had to make the tournament interesting by running numbers amongst the spectators (Ok…so it was really just me and one other guy gambling. But our prop bets were fun nonetheless. For example, we did an over/under on the number of expletives hurled by the guy who was taking things way too seriously. We also had a bet concerning what brand of dip the winner would be packing. The finals came down to a Kodiak man shooting against a Skoal user with the Bear taking the title).
This affinity for Big Buck Hunter coincided with another new hobby, a desire to enter the world of competitive mustache growing. As a graduate college student who dropped out of the work force, I’ve rediscovered the joys of wearing my facial hair any way I want, regardless of society’s or my principal’s mores. However, while preparing to shave my beard down to my favorite go-to ‘stache, the thick handle bar, I came to a profound realization. When in New York, my mustache drew rave reviews partly because it was awesome and partly because it was ironic. However, while here in the Midwest, it would still be awesome yet it would cease to be ironic. I’d be just another hill-billy with a great mustache.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with razor in hand, I suddenly had a disturbing mental image: There I was, back at the Big Buck Hunter tournament, mowing down unsuspecting wildlife, with a striking mustache and a huge wad of dip packed tightly in my lip. Was this to be my future? After all, hadn’t I just slipped up and ordered “pop” the other day at a restaurant? Didn't I tell Lori I was going to the deli to pick up "lunch meat"? It’s only been nine months! Could I be losing my East Coast roots already? This was indeed a troubling revelation. I needed something to chase this image from my head. I dropped the razor and turned to the only thing I knew that could rid me of these painful thoughts.
In the month since I’ve last been in contact, I’ve continued my search for a new hobby to filly my days in my new home. Unfortunately this quest hit yet another snag. I’d hoped that the new hobby would be something somewhat active, but such pursuits were compromised when Lori came down with a debilitating injury. I came home from work one night to find Lori in bed, rocking out to a re-run of an Usher performance on Saturday Night Live. Apparently she had failed to stretch prior to getting into bed, for she pulled a hamstring in the convulsive fits that pass for bed-dancing (Unfortunately this is an odd term that we must use a lot in our household. On another occasion I came home to find her once again dancing under the covers of the bed. This wouldn’t have been so bad had our new laptop not been balanced precariously on her stomach, the cheap speakers statically blaring a 30 year old Queen video that she found on Youtube).
So with an active hobby out of the question for the time being, I sought out some pursuits that were more sedentary in nature. I decided that I might try my hand at being a big buck hunter. I first became interested in this sport when helping a friend train for an up-coming tournament he was going to be participating in. By agreeing to give up a Sunday afternoon of reading about the fatal flaws of the Schlieffen plan for a trip to a bar in Wriggleyville, my friend provided unlimited wings and 22 oz Miller Lite drafts. Needless to say I was hooked on this brand of hunting immediately. However, the game quickly became more than just a Sunday Funday excuse to indulge my gluttonous nature. I found that I enjoyed picking off vast quantities of large game while tightly gripping the orange toy rifle with hot sauce-stained hands. The tournament the following week proved to be equally entertaining. Having received a predilection for big buck hunting too late to enter, I had to make the tournament interesting by running numbers amongst the spectators (Ok…so it was really just me and one other guy gambling. But our prop bets were fun nonetheless. For example, we did an over/under on the number of expletives hurled by the guy who was taking things way too seriously. We also had a bet concerning what brand of dip the winner would be packing. The finals came down to a Kodiak man shooting against a Skoal user with the Bear taking the title).
This affinity for Big Buck Hunter coincided with another new hobby, a desire to enter the world of competitive mustache growing. As a graduate college student who dropped out of the work force, I’ve rediscovered the joys of wearing my facial hair any way I want, regardless of society’s or my principal’s mores. However, while preparing to shave my beard down to my favorite go-to ‘stache, the thick handle bar, I came to a profound realization. When in New York, my mustache drew rave reviews partly because it was awesome and partly because it was ironic. However, while here in the Midwest, it would still be awesome yet it would cease to be ironic. I’d be just another hill-billy with a great mustache.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with razor in hand, I suddenly had a disturbing mental image: There I was, back at the Big Buck Hunter tournament, mowing down unsuspecting wildlife, with a striking mustache and a huge wad of dip packed tightly in my lip. Was this to be my future? After all, hadn’t I just slipped up and ordered “pop” the other day at a restaurant? Didn't I tell Lori I was going to the deli to pick up "lunch meat"? It’s only been nine months! Could I be losing my East Coast roots already? This was indeed a troubling revelation. I needed something to chase this image from my head. I dropped the razor and turned to the only thing I knew that could rid me of these painful thoughts.
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