Jesus...I started this two weeks ago and I'm now just finishing it. Not that I have been working on it the whole time (obviously...could I have cut more corners), but that's still a long time to take on one goddamn post/recounting. Anywhere, here's some old shit:

(FYI: this narrative was started on 6/16/04)

Well, it was bound to happen. I got on the elevator, expecting it to go down instead of up. I then, without looking up, went to the apartment that I thought was mine and tried to fit the key into the lock...

Wait...when did 3s start looking like 5s? (Only when I'm in a bar wearing beer goggles. *rimshot*)

Thankfully, I didn't make a big fuss, jiggling the knob or what not. That could have been ugly. Or, a potential Penthouse Forum moment. Guess I'll never know.

Speaking of apartments in my building, I met the occupant of one a few doors down from me. Nice guy freshly moved in from Brazil, though, as I found out, he used to live in Rogers Park. I was just there visiting my goil EMT.

Hey! Transition! Huzzah!

(Totally unplanned, ladies and gentlemen. I'm just THAT good.)

And now, the trip.

Thursday (6/10): wake up after the second consecutive night of 5 hours of sleep, shower, throw the last things necessary for my trip into my bag, and I'm out the door. At the sound of the tone, the time will be: 8:15 am.

I get my Metro on and before I know it, I'm in glorious Ronald Reagan National Airport. I do the e-ticket check-in and am greeted with the message: "Your flight from Atlanta to Chicago is experience mechanical problems. Your new arrival time is now 3:16pm." So, I finish the check-in, give EMT (who will eventually meet me at the airport) a ring-a-ding and let her know what's what. Get to my gate, grab some breffuts (chocolate croissant and a bottle of water, bitch), and wait.

Fly to: Atlanta.

Atlanta's airport ain't bad. Easy to navigate, and I find my gate with no problem. Now I have some time to kill. About 2.5 hours, to be precise. So apres lunch (BK my way, fool!), I sit down in a primo spot for people watching, slip my headphones on, and kill time.

Ze women...they are, how you say, fizzine? That's right, French Snoop coming at ya.

Of course, just as my zone is about to board, the display now reads 3:40pm for arrival. Le sigh.

So after yet another call (voicemail), I'm back in the air, landing in Chicago sometime 'round...hey! 3:40! Good call.

(Already I've lost control of this narrative. And I'm starting to lose interest in typing it. But I shall press on...)

EMT and our cabbie Muhammad (not a joke; his actual name) pick me up just outside of where I claimed my bag. I load in and we're on the road. It's kinda rainy, but this does not deter Muhammad from playing slalom on the highway. Not in any overly dangerous way, but it was aggressive in an "out of my way, jerkass!" sort of deal. We make a stop at Superdawg for some most excellent vittles, then we're back off to EMT's where we finish our food, watch some Simpsons, then...nap. Between food and rain and travel and lack of sleep in general, sleep was inevitable. After a quick nap, more tv was watched (Game 3 of the NBA Finals), and dessert was craved. The solution: EMT bakes! Mmmmmm....pudding cake. And just as the cake finished baking, a couple of EMT's friends show up, with ice cream and cookies! Score!

So we all adjourned to the living room, the television was turned off (novel concept, that), and conversation was made. Well, the women made conversation. I kinda stared into space. But at least I wasn't the over-the-top chowderhead that I usually am. So I think, impression-wise, I broke even. After they left, EMT and I relived old times, then it was back to sleep.

That was Thursday.

Friday, I was roused from sleep by Hermione (who, with Ursula, comprise EMT's fabulous feline duo), who was nuzzling and licking the top of my head. Much to my surprise, the close proximity of said kitty did not send me into an allergic fit, which was my state for 95% of Thursday. So apres shower, we cab downtown (EMT is lugging a computer in to have cleaned by geek co-worker), drop my bags off in her office, and it's out into the city to explore.

What happened next? Lunch, walking, more walking, even more walking (all this walking, by the way, was mostly done on Michigan, Wabash, and State), and finally, some lost time in the Jazz Record Mart. Considering the amount of time spent inside this monument to all things good about music, that I walked away with only one CD seems a bit of a shame. (The CD, for those keeping score, was the Joe Morris/Mat Maneri album, Soul Search.)

By the time I finished in there, it was time to pick up my bags from Liz and get on the train to Midway, where I was meeting up with CLJO and JG, who were flying in. Said a quick goodbye to EMT (felt a bit too rushed, actually; wish I could have had more time with her) and dashed off. Well, I wasn't quite dashing, as my bags were pretty heavy. So it was really more like an amble than a dash. Anyway...

Got to the train station, made a couple of calls (returned calls to AK and CLJO), then boarded an orange line out to Midway. No wacky passengers to report, though, there was one ghetto lookin' white girl who was either wearing a thong or panties with the waistband frayed apart. (It was honestly hard to tell.) God bless her.

Arrived at Midway and was greeted by Mr. O. We exchanged pleasantries while awaiting the arrival of JG, who arrived perhaps 15 minutes after I. Soon after, our host for the weekend, GC, pulled into the parking lot. I turned to JG and said, GC "just pulling into a parking spot is hilarious." And so it we piled into the vehicle, noting that Mr. C was covered in grease, much to his dismay/chagrin/surprise. Well, not covered. But had a nice dollop of it on his shoulder, and a bit on his short pants. Totally inexplicable. (The shoulder blotch, anyway.)

And now, some fast-forward recounting of the drive:

"I'll kick you in the face!"

Fallen H on the Oaklawn Hilton.

(Formerly) one of the worst intersections ever.

Take the Reed Richards ass-cannon to that White Castle.

So this is where the Bill Swerski and the Superfans would be.

And so much more. See, this is one of the drawbacks of waiting nearly 2 weeks to recount this trip. So many fun details are lost. Next time, I'm bringing Edie McClurg to take notes. (Yes, that's a Back to School reference.)

Get back to GC's spot and just kinda crash. No, not nap time or anything. We just get ourselves situated and chill for a bit. But not long, as we're soon out the door to fill our bellies with delicious pizza, courtesy of...wait, let me think. Nino's, yes? (Correct me if I'm wrong, fellas. Damn my memory.) Wherever, it was mighty tasty. Much beer was consumed, I ogled me a nice young employee of this fine eating establishment, we spoke ill of the dead (the Reagan funeral was in full effect), and overall had ourselves a helluva good time. And if you eat there, I recommend the garlic bread. Now that's buttery!

After this, it was time for dessert. The answer? Why, a combo Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins, of course! Ice cream and donuts? You betcha! And all served to us Ganesh twins. Delicious. But the best part happened in the parking lot, where a line floored me (and would continue to crack me up) for the duration of my stay:

"Check out Johnny Southside."

Mr. O, you have bested me yet again.

And it was true. Total Johnny Southside. The mustache, the open shirt, the shameless swagger, all there in spades.

We put away our desserts and roll back to the spot for some rest. I don't remember if we napped briefly, but I do remember going through Mr. C's music, as well as some solid Shotgun Charlie. (I'd explain, but I don't even know the genesis of this particular character. Let me just say it's fuh-diddly-uckin' hilarious.) Finally, it was back out into the night for some drunken fun at Bourbon Street. Met up with MD and his girl (okay, boys, do it with me: flip through the rolodex!) and started the drinking. That place is sweet, and I wish DC had something similar. Unfortunately, DC crowds don't know really know how to have fun and such an establishment would be lost on them. Anyway, we started at a table outside, but then the rain clouds came a-rollin' in, so we moved the fun into the enclosed portion of ze beer garden. We spent some time trying to free Mr. C when he indicated that he may have some sort of history (I forget the story) with one of the women in attendance. Alas, he did not fly in and find out. A shame, that. Her ass, if memory serves, was vurr' nice.

Eventually, we were done drinking, and so we hopped into the ride and proceed (through some heavy rain) to get some terrific Mexican grub at...some place whose name escapes me. (C'mon...it's been three sleep-deprived weeks.) And while all of the food was good, the best part in my somewhat inebriated state were the fries. Oh lordy, those fries. We took the food home and housed them in the dark, as the place had lost power. Then, we slept.

And now, Saturday:

Woke up, sat and scratched our asses. Actually, Mr. O made a food dash, which Mr. C turned into a delicious, delicious breffuts. Eggs, bacon, donuts, hash browns, biscuits...you know, if I take anything else away from this weekend (other than the naked bodies, which of course are first and foremost), it will be the food. We sat around and watched some quality television (well, with the aid of the DVD player): The Best of Chris Farley, Old School, and Arsenic and Old Lace. Chris Farley, Will Ferrell and...Cary Grant? You bet your ass. Oh, and in between the movies, we got out and played some mini golf (I fell apart on the back nine in a most magnificent fashion) as well as made a stop at Juniors (that's the name, right?) where I had my first Jr-ito, sans tomato. Eventually, it was that time. We made our way to the groom-to-be's place, toasted his fleeting bachelorhood, watched a little baseball, then finally descened upon the fine establishment that would play host to The Bachelor Party.

I don't even know where to begin here. It was open bar from 8pm to 1am, and boy did we make it count. The pizza ordered for the party was supoib. The first stripper was late (and, as it turned out, never showed), but the second stripper made up for it. She came to play and I thought she did her job well. After taking good care of the groom (and the father of the groom, and the best man), she opened up shop to the rest of the boys. This was all legal, so don't let your imagination go too far. My boys paid for a little "feed the kitty/pie in the sky" action for yours truly (which involved a dollar bill and whipped cream being cleaned off of me with the stripper's naught parts) and I treated myself to an "around the world," where I did the whipped cream cleaning. Word is that I made the stripper blush, but you know, that could have been crazy drunk talk.

After the entertainment left, we (and I don't know how this started...I believe one of the groom's uncles was responsible) roped in this hot (and when I say hot, I mean hot in that totally trashy, fake-tits kinda way), could-have-easily-been-a-stripper-at-a-hotel-strip-club, twenty-two year old blonde to join the party. In my very hammered state, I totally tried to break her off, but it didn't happen. Digits and some kisses is the extent of my action that night. We also tried to get her to bring more girls upstairs from the bar downstairs, with mixed results. After the open bar closed, it was time for the strip club. Sadly, the story does not pick up here. Needless to say, a last minute change in destination proved to be a big mistake. I did see some quality titties, but after some shoddy treatment and likely being labeled as "the cheap guys," I got no lap dance. I believe this is the first time I've been in a strip club that offered private dances without actually receiving one. Oh well...there will be more. After last dance was announced, we ended the night. Got back to Mr. C's spot after 3, slept for about three hours, and then it was time to get up and get my ass to the airport. Yes, my flight was insanely early, but at least I made it back on Sunday. CO and JG could not make the same claim.

And that's it. That was Chicago. Food, titties and beer. Top notch. Worth taking all this time...well, no. But it had to be told, if only so I wouldn't feel like a colossal blogging failure. Now I can start blogging about more recent events, like the Barbecue Battle ("ve are barbecuing aren't ve not?"), my job search (maybe), new music (well, if not here, then on the other blog), and other random silliness.