Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Monday, Monday

It has been some time since I last posted, and there is a good reason why: for every bizzarre evening that appears on this site, there are three or four that go unmentioned. For example, this past Wednesday night was pretty awesome by any measure, but I forgot what happened, which means that what happened was worthy of forgetting. I sat at my computer Thursday morning trying to get out a few details of the evening, but I basically forgot really important shit. For example, I could give you a list of bars that I sort of remember drinking at, but I could give few to no details as to why we chose to attend said bars, or what happened once I talked my way in. It was another no-reason night of carousing, and those don't necessarily make for great stories. Tonight's story would be a mostly mundane yet fun night, and that's just not fucking good enough in my book. I want to entertain you people with my posting selections, and I'm sorry to say that tonight didn't really fit my minimum grade of ridiculousness. I tried.

This being said, there are always kernels of fantastic to be gleaned from rather pedestrian evenings, even if the spaces lying in between were not worth mentioning. Tonight's big five take-aways:

1. I'm still recovering from hanging out at Lollapalooza yesterday. We bar crawled down the Mag Mile, then saw Panic against the backdrop of the greatest Skyline on earth, and hit up multiple bars and phatty food both during and after the show. It was very much worth the discomfort, but it's hard to come up with words to describe this past heat wave. Let's put it this way: everyone's all hung up on talking about Lance Armstrong as this amazing endurance guy. All props to that guy are well due (though I'll forget all about it by Thanksgiving) but let me ask you this: gold Ole One Ball stand out in the 102-degree shadeless heat, alternate beers and water til he runs out of money, and continue drinking until he can't find any open establishments in the the Toddlin' Town? If there were a Tour de France for livers, mine would be looping the Arc de Triomphe as the others were still bitching around in the Alps.

2. The Cubs won another game in late innings tonight, on a 9th inning Burnitz sac fly to shallow center, thanks to an absolutely perfect slide to home by Ronny Cedeno. Rich and I were sitting next to a terribly attractive slice of jail bait, which caused the game to turn into an excruciating dance of me trying to check out the girl, and the dad trying to make sure I wasn't checking out the girl. (I won--Daddy got up to take a whiz in the 7th and never returned. Your daughter has nice thighs.) Not really hot girls at Wrigley tonight. Ah well...

3. My brother laid into Seamus after the game over a mostly insignificant bar tab, as we were finishing the world's weakest margaritas. It was one of those things, one of those things that make Monday suck... There were cute girls there, but we quickly noticed that they were going to the bathroom every ten minutes (coke) and were complete butter-faces (Schaumburg). So my bro just vented frustration, and things just fell apart. Another stupid Monday... We also saw Ryan Dempster in the bar, and he too was going to the bathroom an inordinate number of times...I guess he has a small bladder too.

4. I left my scorecard at Mystic Celt. The thing that kills me: I wasn't that drunk when we left; I just dropped it and forgot to grab it. I thought it was folded up and forgotten in a cargo pocket, but I realized my mistake about an hour after we left. What take. Although I've been an assload drunker at tons of other games and have always managed to take the scorecard back to the safety of my bookshelf, this is my first scorecard-related screw-up in more than 2 years. I'm really pissed off about it. It was a total junior varsity move.

5. Next Monday, I must find myself at some club/bar on Division called Funk, because the barbiotch told me so. I'm normally not really one to take (or remember) directions, but this girl screams from the top of a mountain, "Paddy, make an exception!" I'm such a sucker for tattoos just above the ass--they make for great targets. Blonde hair, low-rise jeans, tight white t-shirt...have I described anything a penised man would ever object to???

So, as I mentioned earlier, as my editing process is centered on delivering entries of only the highest entertainment value possible, I will not go into any and all details of this random Monday's funny events. There are often nights such as last Wednesday, when I had drinks at a club/sushi/lounge place with most of the Boston Red Sox, that simply do not make the grade. There was also the Wednesday before, when my brother and I found a jazz club, and neither remembers much thereafter. Nights like that, as well as tonight for that matter, fall into a file folder of memories labeled "pretty awesome." But the stuff I put on here is only the grade-A shit, the stuff that's really funny.

And this very Monday, Monday, on the night when Debbie Gibson sang the Seventh Inning Stretch at 80's Night at Wrigley, for all the quirky exchanges and individually spectacular moments that transpired, only one thing really stands out: I cannot believe how much heat my balls are throwing off right now. Sersiously, I'm not kidding about this: If you put a small beaker of water next to my crotch right now, you could produce enough steam to power motherfucking Canada. Thank God for Gold Bond Extra Strength Lotion.

I'm off on tour, back on Thursday. Be ready for some shit that will be beyond the fucking pale...

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Hiya Sheehan!

Tonight my buddy Sheehan and I enjoyed a low key night in Lincoln Park. We had some pizza at a b.y.o.b. pizza joint near his house, and polished off the 12-pack on his fantastic back deck.

I mentioned to him that I started this blog a few months back, and his immediate reaction was, "Oh no, Paddy. That sounds like a really bad idea." I told him that I may or may not have changed his name, and that he'd laugh his butt off.

So, hiya Sheehan!

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

A Recipie for Disaster

Ingredients:
1 obsessively moronic personality
1 golf course owned by you and your family
20 beers of choice (Old Syle preferred)
1 decent steakhouse
1 buddy's house suitable for sleeping
2 large dogs (angry preferred)
1 outfit (navy Grateful Dead t-shirt and light khaki shorts)

1. Walk out of your apartment wearing above-referenced clothes, opting to choose not to wear underwear.

2. Get really drunk with friends at your golf course all afternoon.

3. Continue drinking at a steakhouse near the course.

4. Pass out on your buddy's couch.

5. Get awoken repeatedly by your buddy's dogs who, for whatever reason, have declared war on any and all males.

6. Spend a small portion of the following day at the course with a slight case of sleep depravity and massive Old Style shits.

7. Upon arrival at your apartment, look like a homeless man with a wrinkled, dog-haired shirt, greasy-slick hair, and visibly poo stained shorts.

Serves one.

Mix-and-match details to (bad) taste.

Monday, July 04, 2005

Celebrating the Birth of Our Nation

Tthe cubs lost in 12 innings today. take. is it stranger that they keep shitting the bed, or that i keep thinking that they won't?

-i had on my awesome mark prior team usa jersey. prior wore 26 as an amateur, but when he was drafted by the cubs, he changed to 22 because hall-of-famer billy williams was 26. so...

i stopped at a convenience store on the way over to bill's, (i was already overserved by that point, but what else is new?)

I turned down bill's street, and a girl and three guys were standing at the corner. one of the dudes says, "hey, cool jersey! but, wait! mark prior's 22, idiot, not 26! you fucked up!" and i said, "he was 26 before he got drafted by the cubs, and then he changed to 22, because of williams." and the guy guffaws and says, "oh yeah? well, you'd be good on the jim rome show! ha ha ha!" then i fired back, "oh yeah? well, you'd be good on a G.M. assembly line." i prepped myself for a punch to the back of the head, but the morons weren't going to try anything. On one hand, it's probably true that they were some menially employed cockbreath, who performs tasks that their companies were either on their way to, or otherwise blocked by unions, performing functions more easily executed by robots. on the other hand, they might not have actually understood what i meant by words i said to them, which actually categorizes them in a category below "about to be supplanted by a few cuts of steel."a If it weren't for labor unions, some work might get done around this country.

i met bill sarkof's son, liam, today. too bad i was too drunk to hold him. (i was all for keeping the kid the fuck away--i wanted to hold him, but i thought it most important to minimize potential danger.) was meeing a peer's offspring a maximum reality check? oh yeah it was, big time. as the sun was setting in the early evening sky on a pleasant sunday afternoon, bill found himeself holding a freakin' baby. Meanwhile, at that exact same moment, I found myself staring blankly at three cups of old style light, trying to form some sort of plan for chugging them in the five minutes before they lock up the stadium. chew on the difference between the thought processes driving those two alternate realities, and you'll understand the abyss into which i stared at this barbeque. though bill is now responsible for the life of a defenseless person, he sure as fuck can't drink a lick anymore, so i guess that i should be ready and will to pick up his slack now that he's dropped the torch.

I think (though i'll never be sure) that i drank a cigarette butt out of a beer bottle in front of bill and kate's place. i have yet to puke; i take this as a good sign considering how crappy i feel. i;d prefer to blame my current state of incoherence is the result of an innocent (and, possibly even imagined) cigarette butt, rather than the twenty to thrirty units of alcohol i consumed at a the cubs game and the barbeque around the corner. what the hell does that say of my current state?

I need a big change, in a hurry. I either need a girlfriend, a new apartment, or to move far away for a while. I need space from the things that are close to me--I know that sounds like crazy-talk, but I'm serious. I'm desperate for a change.

And, I'm sick of the girls here. They ALL have pretty faces and nice boobs, but a three-ton tank-ass. Inform me as to what's going on between March 1 and June 1 that's preventing them from getting their butts into desirable form before it's practically too hot to wear clothes? I love the girls who, on a 90-degree day, will wear blue jeans AND a sweater tied around her waist. The ass-skirt makes thing a whole lot easier from a guy's point of view, let me tell you. They make it infinitely easy to immediately write off a large ass.