Archive for the ‘happy times’ Category

lessons from vegas

October 27, 2008

photos temporarily crappy. i will fix them later, until them check out my flickr.

  • If you get a girl hooked on gambling enough, she will forget about wanting to go to clubs, and instead find herself plopping down $25 hard way bets routinely.
  • Northwestern is not a “mortal lock” to cover an 8-point spread over Indiana, and the $50 bet I put on them to do so was not, as it turned out, “easy money.”
  • You can hit two 4-of-a-kinds and still not make money playing holdem.

  • As my companion and I leave a hold em game, we are stopped by those still at the table to settle a side bet which is how do we know each other? Loser postulates that we “just met.” Girl believes this means that he thinks she is a hooker; I believe this means he thinks I managed to get a girl to leave with me by cracking jokes at a poker table.
  • Knockoff casino names for my Las Vegas-themed Las Vegas casino: Smellagio, Skeezer’s Palace, Mandalay Gay, Suxor, Lamingo, Slopicana, MGM Crappy.

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a tale of two tags

May 21, 2008

I was tagged twice tonight.

The first tag was by Damsel in Digress, who tagged me in a meme. This is the first time I have has this happen to me, but as with my first sexual experience, I’ve seen enough of the internet to know what I am supposed to do. (In further parallel, it will probably take a long time (i was drunk), and I won’t do it that well, but I’ll be pretty proud of the results).

The second tag happened in my softball game. I was rounding second with two outs in the second inning when it became apparent that the throw was going to beat me to third by a good margin. I figured I should slide just for show even though the play was going to be well in front of the bag. I never really got to think about it because yes, the third baseman caught the ball, and yes, he applied the tag, but he applied it squarely to my package. I say package and not nuts or dick because identifying one would mean he missed the other, and that just was not the case. I went down and apparently “barrel-rolled,” to quote a team-mate, onto third base. The good news was my junk had knocked the ball out of the third-baseman’s glove (*points at the ladies and winks*), and I was safe. I actually managed to score on the subsequent hit. Then I collapsed in a heap and almost vomitted

It was not a good outing overall. My other two at-bats were chopped foul for strike-outs, the second to end the game. Added to that, n the bottom of the inning following the groin-tag incident, I took a ground ball to the shin in right field. I didn’t feel it much at the time because I was still recovering from the assault on the boys but apparently everyone including the home plate ump heard it. An hour later, I am starting to appreciate the pain.

Anyway. Let’s see which of these two tags ended up making my night suck more.

Eight Things Meme

Eight Things I Am Passionate About

Right off the bat we are in trouble. Young Pete was a passionate guy. Old Pete has mellowed and thinks that passion is for jihadists and fruits (passion fruits, not gays).

1. Photography – I have stuck with this for about a year now which means it is a much a passion as anything I do. The output is low, but this is mainly because I am very anal about the quality of the shots and what I can do in post-processing, and until I get it the best I can do it, I don’t want the picture printed or posted on the web. A lot of the time, I am not even satisfied with the best I can do, and the picture is chalked up to a learning experience, with the hopes I’ll get it better next time.

2. Beer pong – not really, but sort of. The answer is actually NOT LOSING. I really hate losing. That’s why a performance like today’s softball outing will eat away at me.

3. I don’t like this category. I have things I like. I don’t use the word passionate about anything. I quit. Next.

Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die

1. Visit Japan, China, Australia, Brazil, and Norway. Fuck Sweden.
2. Play guitar or drums on stage, with a band, and do OK.
3. Take some decent pictures.
4. Figure out why I’m here.
5. Kids? Marriage? I guess I could put it on here. Let’s face it though.
6. Score another goal in soccer, to bring my lifetime total to 2.
7. Improve my personality.
8. Beat fucking Foreplay/Long Time on Rock Band drums Hard. God damn it. DONE (Run To The Hills is now my Waterloo).

Eight Things I Say Often

1. “Anyway, the point is . . .” Hence the URL.
2. “if you will” / “as it were” / “so to speak”
3. fuck and its derivatives. I never realized how much I peppered my speech with profanity until I started working as an attorney. “Your honor, plaintiffs’ legal arguments are fucking retarded” does not curry favor with the court.
4. “sorry about your cat”
5. “Good win.” This is a recent one that I’ve found myself saying after every Cubs win, like there is such a thing as a bad win or good loss.
6. “You dropped your _____” When I was in junior high George Carlin had a short-lived sitcom on Fox. In one ad, an old lady carrying two grocery bags is walking past Carlin when she drops her bags. Instead of helping her pick them up, Carlin says “Lady, you dropped your groceries.” To this day I think this is about the funniest thing ever and say it whenever somebody drops something, which makes me look like a real dick, so I feel bad, and pick it up for them, and explain what I have just explained to you. Even worse is when somebody slips and falls and I say “Down goes Frazier!”
7. Going along with #3, when I feel I’m overusing fuck for its most literal meaning, I switch off to words like “pork” or “shtup” or “boink.”
8. “Pitcher of Bud Light.”

Eight Books I’ve Read Recently
I almost never finish a book. Here’s eight I actually made a dent in recently.
1. Chances Are…
2. IV, Chuck Klosterman. That’s “four” and not “eye-vee,” as a friend of my friend apparently thought.
3. Gary Friedman’s Guide to the a100, my old camera; and my old Black and White Photography textbook from high school. The next book I read will likely be about Photoshop.
4. The Fabric of the Cosmos – Brian Greene. I started reading this after The Elegant Universe (which I actually DID finish), but then I stopped to go back to reread The Elegant Universe to see if I could actually understand any of it. Hasn’t happened yet.
5. God Is Not Great- Christopher Hitchens
6. I am America And So Can You – Stephen Colbert
7. The Alan Coren Omnibus
8. Critical Mass – Phillip Ball.

Eight Movies I Have Seen Eight Times
I’ll start with movies I’ve seen on cable recently that I’ve seen a trillion times.
1. Dr. Strangelove
2. Braveheart
3. Ghostbusters
Numbers 1 and 3 are two of my favorite movies ever. The next three are movies that are not my favorites ever, but I saw about a million times in college instead of going to class.
4. Blast From The Past
5. 10 Things I Hate About You
6. My Father the Hero
Let’s round out the list with two comedies that we all love.
7. Tommy Boy
8. Billy Madison

Eight People Who Should Do This Meme.
Should is such a strong word. That said.
1 & 2. My Drunk Friend And Me.
3. Kenny Havok
4. Gyttja
5. My Pink Shoe
That’s all I’ve got.

i am an incorrigible thug

April 14, 2008

This is the story of how my asshole behavior instigated a fight Friday night and led to me being kicked out of a bar.

I met some friends at Rebel f/k/a Ivy in Wrigleyville. Some of these friends had friends of their own in town. One of these, I noticed, was a cute female, but it was hard to miss the guy hovering around her like a dragonfly over a rancid bog. I didn’t pay much more attention to them, as a) it was obvious they were together b) I didn’t know them and c) they were on the other side of the table. At some point the girl rotated around to talk to Reedy who was sitting near me, at which point she introduced herself and another female friend of hers to me, and asked me how I knew Reedy (she went to high school with him, I went to his college).

That was about it.

A bit of time went by and her guy joined her on my end of the table.

Reedy and Sids were talking about baseball a little. I threw in my two cents to the extent I could (I don’t know much beyond what’s going on with the Cubs). At some point, the girl in question started talking to Reedy again about what work she was doing nowadays. It sounded like something about Morningstar, which is most likely a financial research firm, but is also a communist newspaper, and a nickname for Lucifer, and I thought any of those three things were more interesting than baseball so I started paying attention. The next thing that I was pretty sure I heard was that something she was doing was downtown at Washington and Randolph, and I saw Reedy looking confused.

You’ll never believe what I said next.

“Washington and Randolph don’t intersect.”

I know. What an ass. At least that’s what I was informed by this cheerful young lady — a couple of times, in fact. “Why do you have to be an ass?”, “you’re being a real asshole.” etc. As I later told Reedy, I’ve been an ass – intentionally- enough times in my life to know when I’m being an ass, and I really wasn’t trying to be an ass. She said it enough to catch the attention of her guy, who immediately got into my face with a very angry “what did you say to her?”

You’d think the fight would start here, but it didn’t. I gave him the “Whatever dude, relax, you’re being crazy” look and he backed off and nothing happened. After the girl’s reaction to the Washington/Randolph thing, I decided I didn’t care if she really WAS working for Lucifer, I’d rather go back to talking about baseball, which I did.

Two minutes go by and this guy just shoves me in the back. All of a sudden my mind flashed back to several minutes before the Washington/Randolph incident, when he was bringing her a drink and gave me notably more of a push than was necessary to get by me to get to where she was standing – at the time, it was noticeable enough to justify me making a “did you see that” kind of face to other people standing near me, but not enough for me to confront the guy or even give him a funny look. And it just became clear that this guy was a complete d-bag who was so insecure about god knows what (I’ll casually speculate that it’s his penis size) that he felt threatened by just about any male that his girlfriend had the most casual interaction with.

So now that he clearly intentionally pushed me – in the back – I had had it, and so I turned around and pushed him in the front the way that most non-pussies do it.

I don’t have an angel and devil on my shoulder. I only have lawyer me and college me. Lawyer me has a professional career to think of, as well as knowledge of the law of self-defense and the duty to retreat. College me once chased a guy out of the frat house with a baseball bat. So I was torn between just walking away and punching the douche in the teeth.

The compromise of course was the frequently-seen poking->shoving->shirt-grabbing progression that was broken up pretty quickly by a bouncer. And OK, I kind of grabbed him by the neck for a second. The psycho would not let go of me even after the bouncer stepped in between us. It was that last grab as the bouncer intervened that led to the only real damage – the loss of a button on one of my favorite shirts.

Here’s a picture of me with the button in happier times, keeping my shirt together while my friend Jenny and I battle scurvy.

I just noticed that I do this one-eyed squint-wink thing in a lot of my pictures.

It pisses me off that the fight would have been a draw except I am down one button. I wanted some Old Testament retribution. If I recall my Deuteronomy, it’s an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, and a bloody nose for a button. I’ve been fuming about the button for two days now.

Anyway.

I volunteered to leave, at which point douche yelled at me “YEAH. FUCKING GO” which got me pissed again, and made me want to stay. Finally the manager came over and said we both had to go, which is all I wanted, and I cheerily paid my tab and left. I got some goodbye waves from the fat chicks at the next table, who had asked me to take their pictures about a half hour earlier. Outside the bar, a friendly homosexual informed me that I looked good with the extra button missing. I told him I liked his scarf.

That’s the end of the story.

* * *

The last time I got thrown out of a bar was shortly after I graduated from NU and I had a little bit of what you might call a drinking problem since I had no job and was about to move back in with my parents, which was not an ideal situation. I think we were playing caps at my fraternity house and we ran out of beer, but not tequila. I drank a good chunk of a bottle of Cuervo and then went to visit my girlfriend who was working part-time as waitress at the 1800 Club. I recall getting up from the Pallarino, going downstairs, █████████████████████████, stumbling into the 1800 Club, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ with my head down, ██████████████████████████ the sorority quads face-down, ███████████████ all over a garbage can in Willard, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████.

I woke up the next day feeling great and probably wouldn’t have figured out anything had happened if it wasn’t for the gum stuck to my ass, grass stains on my pants, and dirt under my fingernails. And of course the reports from those who were around me, including an absolutely thrilled girlfriend.

The second to last time I got thrown out of a bar was probably the 1800 Club in Evanston ca. 2001, when my friend Beerski pissed on the floor mid-karaoke. My pledge son Matt and I were interrupted in the middle of what was shaping up to be a rip-roaring rendition of “No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature” by the Guess Who when the music was cut off and we were unceremoniously ushered off the stage. We were informed that Beerski was getting kicked out, and we were going with him.

I feel like I must have been booted from other bars over the past decade, but I can’t think of any.

egg-haters, mount up

February 21, 2008

I’ve never been a fan of eggs. I’m not really certain why. I like to say it’s because eating eggs is like eating an abortion, but I mostly just say that for shock value. Whether they are hard-boiled, fried, scrambled, or whatever, I have always found eggs to be disconcerting.

It’s not limited to poultry eggs either. I’m relatively new to sushi and I do not like the radioactive-colored things they stick on all my rolls. I also don’t like that there’s a million names for this stuff. They need a million names for it so they can trick you into eating it. “I am avoiding eggs, roe, and caviar,” you say to yourself. “I’ll just get this roll with tobiko on it.” Which for some reason I confused with daikon radish. I am not particularly cultured.

I would imagine that a good part of my aversion to fish eggs comes from a fun day in junior high science class. The task was cutting up a fish and identifying all its various fish parts. (As an aside, I don’t really understand the point of dissection. The fish was particularly useless, but a few years later I cut up a cat and I can’t think of any insights into mammalian anatomy that I couldn’t have gotten out of a book except for the following 1) i know what a colon full of catshit feels like 2) DO NOT CUT OPEN A COLON FULL OF CATSHIT 3) cats have cholesterol too and 4) formaldehyde smells awful) Anyway. The fish was hard as a rock of course, having been soaked in formaldehyde since the 50s, and all we had to equip ourselves with was a scalpel blade the size of a Chiclet. Eventually my partner Paul (my jamaican friend who wasn’t allowed at my house notbecausehe’sblackbutbecauseithinkhisfamilyisinvolvedinsomethingshady, thanks mom) jabbed the blade in there and just ripped the belly open, only to find that this was in fact a would-be mama fish, and her bright yellow fish eggs sprang forth as though they were Athena springing from Zeus’ head, if Athena was tiny and yellow and just thoroughly disgusting, and instead of one of her, there were millions. The stuff got all over Paul, and a lot of it on me too. The best part was trying to identify the organs after this. To borrow something from a pop song I heard once, they were all yellow.

sushi

Here is the inspiration from tonights post, when I thought a simple california roll would be devoid of fish eggs, but was wrong. Thanks for nothing, Bistro Pacific. (Don’t worry this was not my entire order). Btw I ordered from Bistro Pacific because it’s the only sushi place on CEO Deliveries and I’m too lazy to actually pick up the phone. And to be honest I’m not that big a fan of sushi. It’s just that I am headed for an early grave if I keep eating cheeseburgers and chicken parm as often as I do.

MY Super Sweet 16

April 23, 2006

If only MTV was airing My Super Sweet 16 in the spring of 1996, audiences everywhere could have been treated to the tale of my sixteenth birthday.

Mom made a cake. It had strawberry and kiwi in it. She makes this cake for every birthday of mine, even when I am not home for it. I am not going to lie to you. This cake is delicious.

That was more or less it for the birthday celebrations, though I’m sure I got a sweater or something like that. The real treat was that I was working on my English Honors Project at the time, and doing very poorly. This lead to a general malaise which would result in me getting an incomplete (temporary F) in my Journalism class, which I would later bump up to a C. My parents were overjoyed when that letter came home (it was ambiguous as to whether the F was permanent or not). Mom almost put me in military school. Those were happy times. The thing I can’t remember is whether more of my fantasies back then were devoted to blowing up the whole school, or just offing myself. You can’t buy memories like that.

Oh, and since I was turning 16, I got to go get my license. Then I got a car, but that didn’t happen until nine years later, and I had to buy it myself. I’m sure MTV can use time-lapse footage to compress those nine years into a half-hour show.