I know, I know...I suck

But seriously, I really have been busy lately. The last chance I had to post before this was last Thursday night, but I opted instead to play online poker for six hours straight, the highlight of which came when I battled my way into the final 20 of a tournament that began with 350, and my internet decided to cut out, leaving me out of the game for a good ten minutes. I finally reconnected to find myself with such a small stack that I would have had to double up ten times in order to post the big blind without being all in. Miraculously, I survived two blinds in a row and finished in twelfth place. Not bad, but rather frustrating, considering I was as high as fourth at one point in time.

Anywho, I started improv classes last week, and I pretty much plan on it becoming my life. My classes are on Wednesday nights, and I get into all the shows for free as a student, so I plan on spending about 2-3 nights a week at the theater. This is another reason I haven't had ample time for blogging, and I'm afraid it's going to stay that way. But it'll be interesting to see how capable I am of channeling my artistic efforts in two different directions at once (that being improvisation and writing). Hopefully, they will feed off each other and provide transcendent inspiration, or (more likely) I'm not talented enough to keep them both up, and my writing will inevitably suffer. Either way, I don't plan on abandoning my fledgling project I call The Naked Truth, so I will do my best to keep it up and running. I'm also open to suggestions, so if you have an idea of something you'd like to see, I'm all ears.

Finally, March is going to be a busy month, and it already started this weekend when I went back to Ohio for Yaney's wedding, and proceeded to complete a three day circuit that went Chicago>Celina>Lima>Columbus>Celina>Lima>Chicago. The wedding was a smashing success, and only slightly less debaucherous than the preceding bachelor party. I'm afraid a running diary would pale in comparison, but suffice it to say that Jaeger bombs were done, stogies were smoked, dollar bills were stapled to the ceiling, bartenders were dragged out on the dance floor, someone slipped on the floor in a drunken mess and her mug actually bounced off the hard tile in rather comedic fashion, I slammed a seven year old kid's head into a bathroom wall a little harder than intended, Deemo and I ended up in what could have only been a crack house, and we actually heard the phrase, "I'm so excited to become a Yaney."

The happy couple is now on their way to California for the honeymoon, and we're left here with that early to mid-March weather where it gets up to the mid-forties every afternoon just to make you think that Spring is right around the corner, but don't worry, more snow is on the way. I don't know when, I don't know how much, but trust me, we will see snow again before it's officially time to break out the shorts and flip-flops. If growing up in the Midwest has taught me one thing (other than how to shotgun a beer) it's that you never say Spring until at least mid-May. Pessimistic, you say? Alright. Go ahead. Get cocky and wear those cargo shorts for the first time next week and see what happens.

By the way, have I mentioned that St. Patrick's Day is coming up? The debauchery kicks off Saturday morning at 9 am, and we'll see what kind of stones I still have in me. Especially considering that Ian and Chad's birthday party begins exactly 12 hours later at Burwood Tap. So, we're looking at a potential two-a-day this weekend. I'm going to be honest here, I'm giving myself about a 60% chance of going the distance. I'm not saying I can't, I'm just trying to give you the Vegas odds in case you're considering going to your bookie on me. I can still do it, it's just that all the stars have to align. It would be kind of like betting on Roger Clemens to throw a no-hitter next season. He's still got it in him, sure, but you don't want to put the mortgage down on it.

Sunday night in unit 532...

First off, if anyone has an idea as to why my profile and links and everything are showing up all the way at the bottom, please share; it's driving me crazy. I think it has something to do with the Internet Explorer browser, because when you open it up with Netscape or Mozilla, it looks normal.

Got a pretty big week coming up. Three chiropractor appointments, (apparently I was born with my fifth vertabra fused to my sacrum. Good times.) hearing #2 with the condo board for noise complaints, my first Improv Olympic class, and a wedding in Celina, Ohio.

You may be asking three questions right now: 1) You're taking comedy classes? 2) Why do you have a hearing with your condo board? and 3) You're getting married? To a girl from Celina? And the answers to those questions are, respectively, Yes; because they're stupid; and HELL no.

After the train wreck that was our New Year's Eve party, we received a letter from the condo management saying that we had to appear at a hearing in front of the "condo board." Talk about a room dripping with unintentional comedy. These people seriously believe that they're on a congressional committe on counterterrorism. Prior to that "hearing" I actually had an open mind, and expected that we would be dealing with reasonable people and we could simply explain what had happened, and possibly they'd be lenient on us when they saw that we're actually intelligent, respectful people.

Well, it was obvious about two minutes in that they had absolutely no interest in what we had to say, and that this "hearing" was merely a facade to make it appear that they have some form of judicial process. There were four units cited for the night of New Year's Eve, and each one of them received the exact same fine of $500. Yeah. Looks like a lot of thought went into that one. How much is it going to cost to fix the broken lamppost by the way? $2,000? Hmm. That's a coincidence. Well, maybe if you're going to extort money from your tenants based on false charges that you have no obligation to prove, you could go ahead and fix the damn lampppost. Dicks.

So, that'll be fun. I don't know who I'm more excited to see again. The dude who's so old they have to practically prop him up in his chair, the fat bitch to whom the meeting was so important she dressed up in her best Bears sweatshirt and ponytail holder, or the slightly effeminate guy who gave us a left-handed, backwards, limp-wristed handshake. I should have punched that guy in the mouth just for the way he shook my hand. Never mind that he sits on a condo board and thinks he's a memeber of the House Ways and Means Committe.

Moving right along, Wednesday marks two exciting beginnings. The first day of March, which Mark and I have determined is the "new October", and my first day of class at the Improv Olympic. Yes, it's true, I'm finally following through on my ambition that was born two to three years ago. Finally, I'm actually doing something that I always said I was going to do whenever I was drunk. For those in the dark, the Improv Olympic is a comedy club in Wrigleyville that performs its own original long-form improvisation. It boasts famous alumni such as Mike Meyers, Bill Murray, Amy Poehler, and Danny Bonaduce. (Ok, I made that last one up.) They also offer improv training; five levels of classes, two months a piece. So this time next year, with some determination, a little luck, and the money I tucked away for tuition not falling prey to an emergency raid, I could be on stage performing. I know, I know, pretty cool. But don't get too excited. I haven't really done anything yet.

So, with all that ahead, I should probably get some sleep. Mikey and I's weekly Sunday Night Conversation is over with, so I don't really have anything else to stay up for. (If recorded tapes of the Sunday Night Conversations ever surface, Mikey and I are screwed. I'm serious. We'd be finished. We'd never be able to secure a wife or run for public office ever again. [Wait, did I say again?] We'd probably just pack up and head for South America; start all over. In fact, I think I'm going to pull up Expedia and start looking for flights right now, just to be safe.)

Insomnia, vertigo, and green beer...

So, I sat down with a blank sheet of paper last night to write ya'll an update, and twenty minutes later I was sound asleep. This was 9:45 PM, by the way. It might have had something to do with the fact that we went to the Improv the night before, then next door to Bar Louie for a drink, and for some reason I still think I'm capable of staying out after midnight on a weeknight and not making my life miserable the next day, and I ended up going to bed at 1:30.

Anyway, my rock solid night of sleep lasted till just shy of 4 AM, when the flagpole in my back that I call a spine woke me up yet again. That's right, I'm 25 years old and I have back problems. Good times. I'm going to the chiropractor this Saturday to get my world rocked, and hopefully that'll help. If not, the chiropractor's receptionist is really hot, so I got that going for me. For the moment, here I am, updating the blog at 4:30 in the morning because when I lay down it feels like someone's playing accordian with my backbone.

I wrote a few weeks ago about how lame the month of February is, but I forgot one thing about it: it goes by in about twenty minutes. It just occurred to me that tomorrow is the 24th already. March of course brings with it the basketball tournament, the beginning of a teasing of thinking about starting to get warm weather, but most of all, St. Patrick's Day! I never fully appreciated the greatness of this holiday until I moved to Chicago. Last St. Patty's Day was clearly one of my top three weekends of 2005. The way this city comes alive for that day is unbelievable. I mean, we dye the freaking river green! That's bringing the intensity.

For a while I kind of found the idea of everyone celebrating St. Patrick's Day kind of silly. I just wondered how actual Irish people felt about the fact that it was a day meant to honor a saint, but everyone just kind of took it upon themselves to get steamin' piss drunk and act like they're Irish for a day. Then I realized we're talking about Irish people here. Last year sealed the deal too, because as part of my first Chicago St. Patty's Day celebration, I met an actual Irishman, straight from Dublin (whom I later discovered to be a co-worker, but that's neither here nor there). I asked him how he felt about people exploiting this Irish holiday, and he just laughed and said, "I think it's great, man. Everybody's Irish today." Only he said it with that really cool Irish accent that I can't really effectuate in print. So, I feel like I have official indemnification straight from Ireland.

Some friends of ours here in Chicago host what's becoming an annual St. Patrick's Day kegs and eggs party, beginning at 9 am. It just got moved from Saturday the 18th to Saturday the 11th, so I need to start mentally preparing. The 9 am kickoff was hard enough to do in college, but these days I've got two to three per year in me at best, and there has to be a damn good reason. Well, trust me, St. Patty's Day in Chicago is a damn good reason. Expect the text messages and drunk calls to abound that day. I smell running diary...

Windsor: Part Deux

If you're just joining us, scroll down and read the previous post first, as this is part deux of the weekend recap...

6:00 PM: Deemo and I don’t even bother going to the hotel, choosing instead to park at the casino. Little do I know that we would not be returning until it was time to leave on Sunday, not even to take our bags out of the car.

6:03 PM: Let me just say real quickly that I think it’s hilarious how much we make fun of Canada for absolutely no reason. In fact, I think that’s the reason we make fun of them so much, because we really have no reason to dislike them at all. They’re one of the most peaceful cultures that has ever lived on the planet. Speaking of which, do you know why Canadians only have sex doggy-style?

6:04 PM: So they can both watch the hockey game.

6:09 PM: We start off with some horse races on the nickel slot floor, to get our gambling blood flowing. I have two hundred Canadian dollars in my pocket. It’s extremely dangerous when you’re carrying money that looks to you like Monopoly money. This could very well set the world indoor record for the fastest $200.

6:33 PM: I’m sitting down at my first real casino table. Oh, yeah. This can’t miss. Three card poker is the game, ten dollar minimum bet. Hey, I’ve got Wagner by my side. What could possibly go wrong?

6:48 PM: Down to my last five bucks out of eighty. Well, that was fun.

6:49 PM: Straight! 6 to 1 payout on my pair plus bet! We’re back in business…

6:51 PM: Another straight! I think I could used to this…

6:59 PM: We had agreed to meet up at 7 pm to determine a plan. Hitting three card straights like it’s my job sounds like a plan to me, but this weekend is about Yaney. So I stroll to the cashier, and somehow, by the grace of the gambling gods, I’m up $225. Ok, then.

7:42 PM: Beer towers at The Honest Lawyer. Oh yeah, it would probably be smart to eat dinner too, huh? Details, details…

8:46 PM: Shots of Jaeger on the house for the whole bachelor party. No, not Jaeger bombs. Shots of Jaeger. Oh, yeah. This can’t miss.

8:49 PM: It hasn’t occurred to me yet that Becky is the only girl at the bachelor party.

8:51 PM: It just occurred to me that Becky is the only girl at the bachelor party.

8:56 PM: I just dropped my cell phone in the toilet! Nooooooooooo!!!!! I immediately open it up to see a blank white screen. Son of bitchfaces. This very nearly ruins my weekend. Not the least of which because I was taking notes in the phone’s digital notepad for this very column. So, if the rest of this sounds confusing, or like I made it up, that’s why...right. That’s why.

9:38 PM: The hour is upon us. Time to hit up a local den of iniquity. Jason’s is the destination. I’m glad some people know where the hell they’re going this weekend, because I’m pretty much worthless to the group as a whole.

9:53 PM: Believe it or not, this is my first time entering a strip club. I like what they’ve done with the place.

9:59 PM: Since I’m at a high-class joint and all, I feel the need to order an amaretto on the rocks. Two minutes later, the waitress hands me a four ounce shot glass full of ice, with amaretto filling in the cracks.
Waitress: “That’ll be $8.25.�
Me: “Um, you can go ahead and bring me a Molson while you’re at it, because I’m going to be done with this before you get back to the bar.�
Seriously, I’ve taken cough medicine in bigger doses.

10:15 PM: We’re taking up a collection to get Yaney on stage. Oh, yeah. This can’t miss.

10:23 PM: I’m officially in money-is-no-object mode. Beers and lap dances for all.

10:28 PM: Just put the battery back in my cell phone, trying the “let’s see if it’ll dry out and magically work again� method. A brief glimmer, then a blank white screen. Damn it all.

10:37 PM: This really is a unique experience. I’m sitting in a club with friends, drinking beers, chatting away as if everything is normal, and then I look up and a woman is on stage taking her clothes off. Meanwhile, for a mere twenty dollars, I can see any one of these women walking by naked in a private room. Maybe Canada isn’t so bad after all.

10:59 PM: Becky definitely needs a lap dance. That much is clear now. Let’s see, the Spanish-looking one in the teal dress will do.

11:04 PM: I’ve got to hand it to Becky. She’s taking this pretty well.

11:06 PM: Wow. That was priceless. Best twenty Canadian dollars I’ve ever spent.

11:23 PM: Yaney is now up on stage in a giant stiletto heel-shaped chair awaiting his fate at the hands of four curvaceous Jason’s employees.

11:25 PM: Yaney now has his hands on the chair and pants down, getting whipped by four strippers. Good luck explaining that one to the fiancée. Let me emphasize here that the only time I ever want to see Yaney’s ass is with four strippers surrounding him, whipping him with a belt. And I mean FOUR strippers. Not three.

11:43 PM: Somehow we’re at a different strip club now. Not too sure how that happened. It’s getting to be blur time again. I think the thing that fascinates me most about these places is the way you’ll see one of these girls just walking around the floor nonchalantly, just another employee, then you turn your head, and they’re naked and straddling someone who’s sitting three feet in front of you. How many places can you see something like that?

11:49 PM: I think I’m in the middle of one of my drunken philosophical ramblings with Becky. God, I’m a dick.

12:00 AM: Somehow we’re back at the casino. Not too sure how that happened either. Now I’m in possibly an even worse situation than I was before. I already won money, so not only am I confident, but now I’m drunk, so money means even less to me. Diving into probably my thirteenth Molson of the night.

12:05 AM: Back to horse races. The horse race game isn’t about the money. It’s about making bets with seemingly meaningless Windsor Casino tokens, then standing up in your seat and screaming at the top of your lungs for your horse as he comes around the bend. For some reason, I feel the need to tell Becky at the beginning of every race, “If these two horses win…we’re going to be rich people.�

1:00 AM: Becky and I wander the casino floor for a while looking for everyone, because I think we’re heading back to the hotel. For some stupid reason, I’m getting the bright idea that it’s time for me to take my winnings back to the poker table. Easy, Rod…

1:15 AM: Well, that was a quick sixty bucks.

1:46 AM: I’m pretty sure everyone left, but it just dawned on me: I’m at the casino. I’m in Windsor. This isn’t the real world. Nothing bad is going to happen. I can just sit at the table and keep playing all night and somehow everything will work out. That’s what the Molson is telling me anyway.

1:52 AM: Just got this text message from Mark: "You guys need to leave town more often." I know exactly what that means.

2:13 AM: Back at the Three Card Poker table and I’ve just been informed that the casino stops serving beer at 2:00. Wait a minute…I’m in the middle of Canada’s answer to Sin City, where I can gamble on whatever I want, give women money to get naked, and I can’t have a beer because it’s after 2 in the morning? In what way does this make sense?

2:14 AM: Actually, on second thought, this is probably the best thing that could have possibly happened to me right now.

2:30 AM: Apparently my luck from earlier was only the beginning. I really like this game.

2:47 AM: Are the odds of drawing a three card straight 1 out of 6? Because the way I'm hitting, it sure as hell seems like it.

3:00 AM: I just looked down and saw four $100 chips in front of me, along with a stack of $25 chips. Somehow, I’m up about $600. Alright, then. Now if only the girl sitting next to me that I’ve been hitting on isn’t with some huge guy that’s about to step out of the shadows and snap my neck, I’ll be all set.

3:12 AM: Well then, apparently she’s here on a date. I’ll be waiting for my neck to snap any minute now.

3:43 AM: Trying to guess the Arab-looking dealer's country of origin, and I'm just spitting out random Middle Eastern countries. I'm sure she appreciates that. God, I'm a dick.

4:27 AM: Finally meet up with the few people that are left to head back to the hotel. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say back to the hotel, considering we haven’t been there yet. I cash out for $677 American. Subtract the $200 I started with, along with the money I spent in five hours at the bar and strip clubs and…WOW. What the hell just happened? I don't know, but I'm getting the hell out of here before they change their minds.

5:00 AM: So, apparently coming back from the casino at 5 am wasn’t the normal thing to do, considering everyone is already asleep. I curl up on the floor with nothing in the way of pillows or blankets, and couldn’t care less.

5:01 AM: Me: Deemo, you want to go back to the casino?
Deemo: Dude, I can’t. I’m cleaned out.
Me: What if I give you a hundred to play with?
Deemo: (A grimace of pain, followed by a grin of evil delight)…Alright. Let’s go.

5:05 AM: Walking down the street, on our way BACK to the casino. What in God’s holy name is wrong with us?

5:32 AM: Eating breakfast because it’s been almost twelve hours since I ate last and I’m actually starting to sober up. Hey, there’s the girl I was hitting on at the table earlier! And…ok, I guess her date is a huge guy who could easily snap my neck. Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?

5:49 AM: Bellying up to the poker table again. I found my same dealer from earlier. Brent’s the man.

6:03 AM: I’m down fifty, and don’t give a shit. We’re trading Wedding Crasher lines with the dealer. God, life is good.

6:30 AM: The hundred I started with is history. Eh. Whatever. Deemo’s up, so the trip back was worth it. I think I’m just now getting tired.

6:31 AM: Yep. Just hit the brick wall. Wow. I might actually pass out with my head on the green felt.

7:00 AM: The front doors to Casino Windsor burst open and out stumble Deemo and I, rubbing our eyes, and buttoning up our shirts because it still hasn’t occurred to us to go to the car and get our coats for the half mile walk back to the hotel. We look up, across the river, and see the glass skyscrapers of downtown Detroit glistening in the early morning sunlight. There’s something about the way the rising sun hits the red and blue windows that still sport the logo of Super Bowl XL that takes us aback for a second, and gives us a “holy crap, did all that seriously just happen� moment. Looking at my watch, I realize out loud, “I have to be at work in 24 hours.� Reality is tapping at the door, but we’re looking through the peephole and ignoring it. We’re well aware of the consequences that are coming. We know how miserable the next two and a half days of our lives are going to be. But right now, we don’t give a shit. We’re strolling along the banks of the Detroit River with wads of money in our pockets, at the tail end of a thirty-hour bender, living the mid-twenties dream. This is the kind of shit that makes you shake your head and think, “God, it’s just good to be alive.� Maybe some day I’ll look back and be ashamed of spending a weekend like this. But right now…I’ll take it.

A Weekend in BG, and, oh yeah, Windsor...

Like the great Bill Simmons, I have a few rules in life. And one is that any time I visit a college campus and a casino in the same weekend, I have to keep a running diary. This weekend happened to feature the bachelor party of one Steve Yaney, an original resident of the Hacienda. We started things off Friday night visiting Deemo’s sister, Jenny, at Bowling Green. Without further ado, here’s what transpired:

Friday, February 10th, 5:15 PM (CST): Standing at the corner of Clark and Randolph, waiting for another one of Deemo and I’s flawless pick-up-from-work-and-skate-out-of-the-city-as-quickly-as-possible routines. Do you ever get the feeling that you know what’s coming, but you have no idea what you’re actually in for? Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Kind of like all great things in life.

5:24 PM: Me: Shit! I forgot my phone charger.
Deemo: Well, you’re gonna have a dead phone.
Me: (in my mind): Alright, then.

6:28 PM: “Welcome to Indiana�. Ahhh, Indiana. My favorite state in the union. Not only do you get to drive in a straight line for three and a half solid hours, getting crappy cell phone reception, staring at nothing but corn, and having only Hardee’s, Fazoli’s, and Subway to choose from every 15 miles, you have to pay a freaking toll for it. Indiana doesn’t go on daylight savings time. Did you know that? They just decided against it. What’s that, other forty-nine states in the union? Daylight savings time? Nah, go ahead...we’re good. With the exception of the campus of Notre Dame, this entire state could sink into the earth for all I care.

8:03 PM (EST): Do you know what the second largest city in Indiana is? Exactly. Neither do I.

9:58 PM : “Welcome to Ohio.� Wow. The very northwest corner of Ohio might actually be more barren than Indiana. I mean there is just nothing here.

10:15 PM: I’m officially 25 years old to the minute. Woohoo! My car insurance goes down! Oh, wait…I don’t drive. Eh.

10:32 PM: Rolling into BG. I’m telling you, no matter how long I’m away, or where it is I come back to, the feeling of showing up on a college campus just never gets old. As soon as I see the crappy houses with huge porches, beat-up grills, and trash in the yards, I just feel at home. It’s like I never left.

10:48 PM: Chilling with Jenny, Megan, and Lauren, killing some Miller High Life. Why do I get the feeling that the girl in the crescent moon really is going to be talking to me before this night is over?

11:30 PM: Lauren just showed us her ass for the first time already. Oh, yeah. I like where this is going a lot.

12:14 AM: We pile into a car to go to the bars. Pile into a car to go to the bars. This is a new concept for me. Just heard the first line of the night that made me laugh out loud. Lauren, after being asked if she’s OK to drive: “I hope so. You guys are gonna have to stick with me here.�

12:15 AM: We’re there already. Wow, we just drove roughly a third of a mile. I hope these girls aren’t planning on moving to Chicago any time soon.

12:18 AM: We’re officially immersed in the BG bar scene, “Uptown-Downtown� being our watering hole of choice. The first shots are dispersed and dispensed. Oh, yeah. I like where this going a lot.

12:26 AM: We hit the upstairs scene, where the girls know the bartender and she’s going to conveniently forget to ring in our drinks. Ahhh, senior year. Beautiful thing. The lights are dim, the music’s loud, and the dance floor is packed.

12:39 AM: OK, I’m pretty sure this song just said, “Shake your laffy taffy…your laffy taffy.�

12:40 AM: No…there’s no way.

12:41 AM: Yep…“Shake your laffy taffy.�

12:48 AM: So, apparently in this bar, you’re either a student, or a thirty-seven year old gang member.

12:55 AM: Deemo just coined a brilliant new term: Dickscreen. Dickscreen is when you’re hanging out with a bunch of girls, and you can stand behind them and stare down dudes you don’t like, but otherwise wouldn’t stare down, because you know the girls will stop anything from happening…Dickscreen. Sheer brilliance.

1:10 AM: Did I see this correctly? Art Shell has been hired as the Raiders’ new head coach? What’s next? Is Marty Schottenheimer coming back to the Browns? Is Lou Piniella coming back to the Reds? Are the New Kids on the Block getting back together? What in the name of Jason Priestly is going on here?

2:13 AM: Deemo gets his tab for the night, which contains no less than twenty beers and fifteen shots. The total? Ten dollars. Ahhh, college bars where the bartenders are unsupervised…

2:30 AM: We show up at the late night party, with High Life in hand. Things are already getting a little blurry. And I used to do this three nights a week? Good lord. Wait…I mean…God, I miss this life.

3:00 AM: I’m officially in I’m-too-drunk-to-sound-or-look-coherent-so-I’m-just-going-to-sit-on-the-couch-and-be-the-mellow-guy mode.

3:26 AM: The chair I was sitting in just imploded on itself, dumping me on the floor. I’m pretty sure it was broken before I sat down. Um…yeah. That’s what we’re gonna go with.

3:56 AM: Somehow I ended up in an upstairs bedroom. Not exactly sure how. The world is a blur of beer bottles, cigarette smoke, a six headed lamp that looks like something from War of the Worlds, Megan passed out next to me, and random chatter that’s probably English, but I can’t really be sure of anything right now. Have I mentioned how much I miss this life?

4:13 AM: What? What happened?

4:39 AM: zpoiaj;lkejlkjzlxjbopiuoijoj;ljsoaidbepoibjlkmaqewiouoiahdlsjhrtjkaopdinmua; ldkfjtl;eqkrjbnoabidjflkntao;fiunjaodrflt/akjenopajdl;fkmta

5:00 AM: Have you ever found yourself in the middle of a conversation and you’re not really sure how you got there or how long it’s been going on? Deemo and I are finally following through on my earlier plan of convincing someone that I’m an English professor at Bowling Green. I think it’s actually working. I also think it’s Jenny’s boyfriend I’m talking to. Oops.

5:17 AM: Crammed into the backseat of a car again. No idea where I am.

5:19 AM: Somehow there’s a dude on top of us all of a sudden.

5:20 AM: Ok, he’s gone…whatever.

5:30 AM: Brushing my teeth. That’s right, brushing my teeth…at 5:30 AM. Have I mentioned how much I miss this life?

Saturday, February 11th, 12:30 PM: Unbeknownst to me, this is the last sixty minutes I’m going to be sober the entire weekend.

1:00 PM: Meeting Yaney and his dudes at Fricker’s for lunch. The bachelor party has officially begun. Drinking again already. I never learn.

1:21 PM: A family with three kids about five and eight years old just sat down next to us. God, these kids are going to be scarred for life.

2:38 PM: Back at Jenny’s before hitting the road. Taking a hot shower-cold beer. It’s the simple things in life. It really is.

4:10 PM: Definitely a good decision to have a buzz for the afternoon drive to Windsor. Seriously, is there anything better than the afternoon buzz?

4:34 PM: Deemo is in rare form this weekend: “Why do half of all the Great Lakes belong to Canada? That’s bullshit. That goes against everything Manifest Destiny stands for. We own your country anyway. Stupid Canada.�

4:35 PM: Deemo’s trademark completing of both sides of the argument without anyone else ever saying a word: “Although, I guess it’s just water. What the hell does that do for you? Good job, dumbasses. Have your stupid half of a lake.�

5:31 PM: We’ve been on Canadian soil for about twenty seconds and Deemo is officially in “Fuck Canada� mode: “What the hell are they gonna ask you at the border? ‘What are you bringing into the country?’ We’re bringing our money that we’re dumping into your economy, you fucks. Get the hell out of here and go hump a moose.�

5:49 PM: I’m literally two miles outside of the American border, and I can’t get cell phone reception? And what the hell is this triangle symbol on my phone? I’ve never even seen that before. How the hell do they even know I’m in Canada? Stupid Canucks. I think I’m starting to see Deemo’s point. God, that’s scary.

OK, I've decided that this is a long enough post and to continue from here would just wear on your attention span. Therefore, the Windsor segment is coming up. TO BE CONTINUED...

Coming soon...Tales from Windsor

Just a quick post to let everyone know that I successfully survived the debauchery this weekend, didn't get arrested, didn't get any kneecaps broken, and actually came out on top. I'll be posting shortly with a Simmons-esque running diary of the events of the weekend, but right now, my mind is absolutely fried, and I'm struggling to get this single paragraph out and have it make something resembling sense. Just need a full night and day of trying to piece my mind back together and figure out just what the hell happened in the last fourty-eight hours. Right now, unfortunately, the brick wall of reality is repeatedly slamming me in the face, the way it tends to do when you see the sun rise in a foreign country and have to be at work in 24 hours, 260 miles away.

Don't go, Chad. Please don't go...

The day after the Super Bowl. Or, in other words, the worst day of the year. The ultimate sports hangover day. And just to hammer the point home, and make sure we know that our beloved pastime is leaving us for another seven months, the sports world makes sure it gives us virtually nothing to entertain ourselves with for the entire month of February.

Seriously, is there a more boring month of the year than February? Football’s over, baseball doesn’t start for another two months, March Madness doesn’t start till…well, March. You’ve got NBA and NHL (well, this year anyway) right smack dab in the middle of their seventeen-month season where nothing exciting is happening. During the dog days of summer, when baseball season goes on cruise control, at least it’s nice enough to go outside and enjoy yourself, do something productive on a Saturday afternoon, roller blade on the lake trail, play a pick up game of hoops, throw rocks at the little kids getting off the school bus (those poor suckers’ legs just aren’t long enough).

(Anyone reading who’s from Texas can just go ahead and skip this next paragraph…)

But February is that month where you’re outside a total of 150 seconds every day, you see the sun for half an hour in the morning on your way into work--only you’re looking at the ground the whole time because you’re afraid of the wind ripping the skin off your face--and it’s dark by the time you go home. If it weren’t for my recent discovery of the Colbert Report on Comedy Central, a new season of Survivor starting, and an upcoming trip to Windsor, I would likely be relegated to reading email forwards and checking away messages for two hours a night before rolling down to Bally’s at 8:30, and turning in at 10:00 out of boredom more than anything else. (Speaking of which, I just worked out tonight for the first time in about a month. How miserable is that first workout after an extended period of apathy? It’s kind of like when you sleep with someone for the first time. You know you’re doing it wrong, you know you probably look like an idiot, but you just keep your head down and try to get through it without anyone getting hurt.)

But this year in particular, I already miss my boys more than usual. For the last five months, whenever I would be at a bar and I would look up at a TV and see Bengal stripes, my heart would race. This weekend when I looked up and saw them, by virtue of a Steelers clip in which they had been playing the Bengals, it felt like being home for the summer and hearing a song that reminds you of freshman year of college. I miss them like an old friend. And I’m so bummed that I don’t get to see them for another seven months. You have to understand, this was quite possibly the most exciting football season of my life. The Bengals and the Irish returning to legitimacy, and as an added bonus, my high school team going to the playoffs for the first time since…wait a minute, since 1989. The same year the Bengals went to the Super Bowl and ND won the national championship. Just what the hell is going on here, exactly?

I have to say, however, I certainly would have preferred an exciting finish. What exactly was that last night? That was the Super Bowl? Shockingly, I think the playing was actually worse than the officiating. Roethlisberger probably played the second worst game of his two years in the NFL, and it won him the Super Bowl at age 23. The only part of the night that was remotely interesting was the awarding of the MVP trophy, simply because I was at a loss as to who they were going to give it to. That award suddenly took on about as much legitimacy as that Bishop’s Cross award that was always given at the end of the school year to whatever kid talked the least. (I would offer my apologies to any Bishop's Cross winners who happen to be reading, but, seriously, you know it's true.)

I mean, I guess they won the Super Bowl, so they’re the undisputed champs, but, good Lord. Did it even feel right that one of those teams had to win that game? Can’t they do it like boxing, where they declare a “no contest� and neither fighter gets paid? Then the belt goes back up for grabs, and they re-seed everybody and have an unprecedented February round robin? “The Second Chance for All the Marbles,� or something like that? Or am I just grabbing at straws here for something to do in February? Right. Why don’t you sit the next couple plays out, huh, Champ?

Anywho, I guess February does bring with it the countdown to St. Patty’s Day, the mark of only six more months till our one month of warm weather, my birthday, and of course, the most underrated of all holidays…President’s Day. (Come on. Work with me here. I got nothin’.) And, seriously, I really am going to Windsor this weekend. Be prepared for a full, uncensored rehashing. If you haven’t heard from me by Tuesday morning, just go ahead and assume that I’m stuffed in a trunk somewhere with two broken knees, a dead hooker, a bottle of vodka, and three grand in cash strewn about.

As for CJ, Carson, Rudi, and the rest of the crew: until next time, my friends…