P.F. Diehl of dport7 fame just headed out for O'Hare and Brooklyn, NY. Hedonism is only a vague and, ultimately, inaccurate way to describe what was experienced in Chicago this weekend. Details follow, I cannot corroborate the accuracy of these events and, yes, my head is killing me, that's simply the price you pay for fun.
11:00 am. Paul arrives. We go to Threadless, where I copped the freshest tee I've bought in years. Let me also give a shout out to the gorgeous sales girl. "Stalking" is such an ugly term, I like to think of what we have as a one-sided and persistent fondness.
12:30 pm. Hot Doug's where we gorged on the most delicious sausages available - no homo! I went with the succulent pheasant sausage with cheese-stuffed sweet peppers. Paul nabbed the BLT sausage. It looked good.
1:30 pm. Let the drinking commence! Strut into the Bob Inn and after four hours, indeterminate amount of beers, and eight? [Presumably eight, we're not entirely sure.-Ed.] shots later, strut on out. Seriously, we were the only customers the bartender, Kristen had for the first hour and a half. Her to us, "If I'm getting drunk at my job, you guys are getting drunk with me." Malort, Jaeger, Beam all shot down and all gratis. Thanks!
5:30 pm. New bar. Somehow we're still up and able to ride our bikes. Bike lock "somehow" got "broken" between bars. Transsexual bartender graciously allows us to bring bikes in bar. More beers, more shots. Paul burned his finger playing with matches and a nurse next us at the bar wrapped some ice in a bag and, in general, was far too concerned with his pinky's well-being. I suggested that he "clean the sand out" and continue on with the drinking. The nurse felt otherwise.
-Time Indeterminate- Taqueria on Kimball and Armitage. Dinner/Burrito fight.
Burrito fight? Heed the advice of a foppish, pink mountain lion and exit post haste.
-Time Indeterminate- At the suggestion of a fellow sot we, after, "Exit, Stage Left." from the taqueria went to his house and indulged in other substances. Paul then passed out at friends house for the next 13 hours.
-Time Indeterminate- With Paul passed out, the remaining members of our adventursome burrito dinner and I marched to one of the many Logan Square speakeasies. I, in my altered state of mind, felt that the best course of action was to act like I was deaf around some awful women, who were waaaay to fucking adamant about me dancing with them. And as an aside, why is it that only the nastiest women ever have the gall to actually approach a dude about dancing? or doing shots? or ... it boggles the mind. In any case the "Plan: Act Deaf!" worked for about five minutes. [Ed. You can't actually listen to what they're saying. You're supposed to be deaf! Imbecile!] Brain ceased to function shortly after that exchange.
Mind still reeling from Saturday ... Pumpkins were carved. Beer, shots, going to sleep at six am. Taqueria without burrito fights. That sounds about right.