There was a time not too long ago where I found myself in Chicago, drinking the greatest Jungle Juice in Chicago at the apartment of the wonderful Aaron "Jewish by Nationality and, apparently, association" Weinberg and I wound up getting the crazy idea that I wanted to go to a bar with his equally wonderful cousin Gayle and her roommates.
Never mind that I tend to not like bars.
It sounded like a good idea at the time, based solely on the fact that Gayle and her friend, who were the most interesting people at Aarons*, were leaving. I went. It was a good time, but we were there for too long.
Too long.
The bar closed, and by that time I was so tired of being there, I was sitting next to a guy in a Nascar-embroidered, nice-and-dressy Western shirt and a giant cowboy hat. We had hijacked one of the the bar's TVs, and were watching Ernest Goes to Camp with the closed captioning on.
The real trick was getting home, though now I'm not sure why. It was a lot like being drawn and quartered: everyone was pulling in their own direction. One girl wanted to get a ride home in the SUV of a guy she'd just met (A.K.A. The Least Safe Way to Get Home.) One girl wanted to pile us all into a cab, despite the fact that there were six of us and I was the only one with money, a whopping five bucks. (A.K.A. The Least Likely Way to Get Home.) Still another girl wanted to just walk to the train station and take the freakin' train, the same way we'd come to the bar in the first place (A.K.A. The Least Popular Way to Get Home.)
So, still a little woozy from the Miller Lights my Nascar-and-Ernest buddy had fed me, I was given the charge of following the two girls who went on the train home. I honestly don't know what the others did, I just followed Gayle's instructions and we all made it back.
I don't have a moral for the story, but I do have a bizarre reason to tell it. On the way home that night, the two girls I was with were pissed off to the point of silence. None of us said a single word on the way home. Not that I was the one imposing the silence--I would've talked. Anyway, we're standing on the underground train platform somewhere in Chicago. An out-of-place hobo looking guy and two girls who look like Alpha Phis (no offense, Amanda) and one of their cell phones rings.
It's "Clocks." The Ringtone.
I absolutely have to fight laughter, almost to the point of tears at this whole situation. See previous post o' Clocks-Hating. It was just the final nail in the Coffin of Not Belonging Where I Was.**
Now, Why would I tell you that whole story? Just to post this? Yes. Because I just can't get over it. Here ends the reading.
*No disrespect to Hannah and Sarah, should they read this. But they don't count, I came with them.
**Though, to Gayle's credit, she did make me feel welcome there the whole time, and was genuinely worried about whether I had any fun. I did.
Never mind that I tend to not like bars.
It sounded like a good idea at the time, based solely on the fact that Gayle and her friend, who were the most interesting people at Aarons*, were leaving. I went. It was a good time, but we were there for too long.
Too long.
The bar closed, and by that time I was so tired of being there, I was sitting next to a guy in a Nascar-embroidered, nice-and-dressy Western shirt and a giant cowboy hat. We had hijacked one of the the bar's TVs, and were watching Ernest Goes to Camp with the closed captioning on.
The real trick was getting home, though now I'm not sure why. It was a lot like being drawn and quartered: everyone was pulling in their own direction. One girl wanted to get a ride home in the SUV of a guy she'd just met (A.K.A. The Least Safe Way to Get Home.) One girl wanted to pile us all into a cab, despite the fact that there were six of us and I was the only one with money, a whopping five bucks. (A.K.A. The Least Likely Way to Get Home.) Still another girl wanted to just walk to the train station and take the freakin' train, the same way we'd come to the bar in the first place (A.K.A. The Least Popular Way to Get Home.)
So, still a little woozy from the Miller Lights my Nascar-and-Ernest buddy had fed me, I was given the charge of following the two girls who went on the train home. I honestly don't know what the others did, I just followed Gayle's instructions and we all made it back.
I don't have a moral for the story, but I do have a bizarre reason to tell it. On the way home that night, the two girls I was with were pissed off to the point of silence. None of us said a single word on the way home. Not that I was the one imposing the silence--I would've talked. Anyway, we're standing on the underground train platform somewhere in Chicago. An out-of-place hobo looking guy and two girls who look like Alpha Phis (no offense, Amanda) and one of their cell phones rings.
It's "Clocks." The Ringtone.
I absolutely have to fight laughter, almost to the point of tears at this whole situation. See previous post o' Clocks-Hating. It was just the final nail in the Coffin of Not Belonging Where I Was.**
Now, Why would I tell you that whole story? Just to post this? Yes. Because I just can't get over it. Here ends the reading.
*No disrespect to Hannah and Sarah, should they read this. But they don't count, I came with them.
**Though, to Gayle's credit, she did make me feel welcome there the whole time, and was genuinely worried about whether I had any fun. I did.
posted by Brian at 10:48:00 AM
2 Comments:
good to hear from you. Just so you know, I check this thing at least twice a day as I absolutely love reading anything and everything that any of my friends has to say...please post more. If not for me, then for the children. Because if I don't get at least a little outside insight I am a real jerk to the students. Ha. By the way, what is Ruth URL? You mentioned it, but did not give it up. What the dilly-yo? Take care. Love ya.
http://students.uwsp.edu/rheck499/
There's some Ruth URL love. It's not the sort of curse-filled blog that you'd expect. Dude, I just can't be havin' my mom and Mary reading these blogs. It'd be wierd.
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