The Complete History of Events that Transpired Since I've Last Written (Abridged)

I’m sure many of you have noticed the extended hiatus that the staff writers at JC-Bot have taken. I’d like to tell you that wedding planning and a busy work schedule were the driving forces behind this hiatus yet that would simply not be the truth. In actuality, the laziness that inspired the hiatus is also preventing me from offering a plausible excuse for this long absence. So let's skip the excuses and get you caught up on what has been going on around here. The following is a brief timeline of notable events:

October 16, 2010 – The writers and support staff at JC-Bot travel to Madison to see the feisty Badgers knock off the #1 ranked Ohio State Buckeyes on the gridiron. While this outcome was monumental, I still contend that the bigger upset came when those who took the under cashed in big on the “How many orders of cheese curds will the Toms consume throughout weekend: over/under 5.5” prop bet that Vegas was offering. How we didn't easily hit the over in the curd capital of the universe baffles me to this day. The highlight of the trip was certainly storming the field with tens of thousands of Wisconsin undergrads. However, for as young as I felt at that moment, sprinting joyfully towards the jubilant crowd congregated at the fifty yard line, I was harshly brought back to reality by a 12 year old girl. Unleashing an overly exaggerated eye roll and speaking in a tone of voice usually reserved for a particularly embarrassing father, this scornful tween put me back in my place saying “Put your shirt back on, old man. No one wants to see that.”

October 31, 2010 – Our first Halloween in our new house was disturbing to say the least. I like to think of myself as pretty easy-going for the most part. When a twenty-year old mother wants to use her infant child as ploy to get free candy, who am I to point out that the child doesn’t even have teeth with which to chew the candy? When two Columbine-looking teenagers want to hold a mock fight with very real sledge hammers and pitchforks, who am I to shoe them off of my lawn? However, I have to draw the line at the 11 year old boy in the Rastafarian costume. Now I’m always one for celebrating diversity, but I took exception with him completing his costume with some shoe polish. That’s right, in addition to his fake dreads and tie-died shirt, this kid was parading around our neighborhood in black face! I don’t even want to begin to explore the implications that this holds for our new neighborhood, so let’s just move on.

December, 2010 – While hosting a series of Football Sunday Fundays at the house, it finally dawns on me that our unfinished attic can be converted into a beer-pong room. Lori subsequently puts a divorce lawyer on retainer.

January, 2011 – The priest officiating our wedding ceremony uses the lion’s share of our initial meeting to tell us about his experiences heading up the church office assigned to ferret out pederast priests. Lori subsequently gets very nervous about the material he plans on using for the homily at our wedding.

February 14^, 2011 – We spend Valentine’s Day (and our anniversary) at a DePaul undergrad bar with amazingly cheap car bombs. In the last month, people have taken to calling me the Mayor at this particular establishment. I’m not sure if I should feel honored or ashamed. So long as I refrain from wearing truckers hats (real ones, not the ironic, hipster kind), flannel shirts, and a Unabomber beard, I'm confident I won’t begin to resemble the original "Mayor," the hirsute townie who holds court at T-Bones and Pie Man in Valley Cottage. If I can successfully keep from resembling the VC Mayor, then this nickname hopefully won’t devolve into one of derision for me (after examining the last two sentence it appears I’m already 1/3 of the way there. This makes me nervous). On the other hand, if I continue to beat up on 20 years old sophomores in car bomb contests, I’m pretty sure the nickname will retain positive connotations. That being said, Lori subsequently puts her divorce lawyer on speed dial.

Now March is here, and I will be forced to try to make important wedding decisions during the 20 second timeouts of college basketball games. In fact, let’s try to handle one important decision right now. We are currently trying to compile a list of “Must play” songs for the dj. While we can not guarantee that your song will make the list, we’d like to hear what your thoughts on the matter. Use the comments section to help us generate some ideas for this list!

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!