Non-Chronological Rendering of Remembered Events -- Now With Clever Subheads!
This weekend officially began, as they all do, when The Rooster called to wake me up at an inappropriate time (two a.m., shattering my hope to get at least 4 hours of sleep before boarding my early morning flight), drunkenly slurring about how much heart he has and that while I'm "brown," I am also, unlike him, "not down."
It rhymes, you see.
After about fifteen minutes of him alternately sounding like Bette Davis after a carton of Pall Malls and a giggling schoolgirl at the opening of the Hannnah Montana movie, I got rid of him by saying there are only two reasons I get calls at 2 a.m. either something happened to AJ or The Rooster is drunk.
"Alright, that's it," he shouted back, indignant. "Bring the kid into it. Bye."
And he was gone.
Throwing Out the First Pitch
The Minnesota/Wisconsin Faction beat me to DP's pad, as did The Rooster. Chad was playing his usual tight style, which works well on this crowd, but not until we've each had 12 drinks and then we forget that Chad is tight. The Rooster was explaining how much heart he has. Drizz was limp-calling flops and then folding. Stb was doing that thing where he scowls at you every time you raise. DP was just sucking, as usual.
I jumped right into the game and promptly got felted, because when DP raises, more likely than not, he's got nothing. 'Cept that time. And the next time too, when Chad and I both got all in with him on the flop. Top pair for me, bottom two for DP, flush draw for Chad. I made a bigger two pair on the turn, dodged the outs.
That is how you suckout, my friends. And then I ran over the table, benefitting from the turn every time. Flop two pair and get it in against The Rooster's OESD? Fill up on turn. Hold a ten on a T44 board? Turn a ten to demolish The Bracelet's (who had arrrived in style) four. After a couple hours, I was up $70, which I'd need to cover my prop bets the rest of the weekend. Jesus. Drizz is an A-List Sandbagger at bar games.
We made it to Tango Sur, Chicago's finest Argentinian Steak House, with time to spare so thought we'd go next door for a beer like we did last year, except they were having a private party, a fact we only learned when the dude at the door put his finger into my chest--a little hard, I have to say--as we tried to walk in. Naturally, The Rooster had already glided right past him and into the soiree.
I went with El Filet, because I like meat and easy-to-pronounce foreign food and I've been not enjoying much of of either lately. The spinach mashed potatoes were a fine compliment, but not as fine as the wine The Bracelet brought. It was so good that I was threatened with excommunication when I accidentally spilled some of it on the table and was saved only by maigs's quick-thinking tongue as she was able to lap up most of the spillage and no, she didn't lap it up with the gracelessness of a dog, but rather with the dainty class of the Princess she is.
Hit By Pitch
The Rooster ran into an ex-girlfriend. From college. Long ago from another place and time and of all the Argentinian Gin Joints she has to walk into this one when the Rooster is four sheets and on a flap meat jones. Long story short, she was good-lookin' (The Bracelet, unveiling the time-honored RoosterBlock for the first time of the weekend: "The Rooster usually dates ugly girls...") and before you could say "KA-KAW!" our hero was transported to simpler times, before the weight of the world came crashing down and delivered this vision of now-married loveliness to his doorstep. On the way out of the restaurant, I put my arm around him (go ahead) because if anyone in the area code at that point knew about heartbreak and lost opportunity, it was I.
Rooster perked right up. Well, first he started smoking and telling every woman we passed on the street, "Don't fall in love! It's a dead end!"
But then he was fine.
"Alright, Let's Get Two"
The last song I heard on the radio before getting out of my car at Economy Lot C at LAX was "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy, which is appropos of nothing but being awesome.
Besides being a gracious host, DP also gifted us his excess mileage points which meant I boarded first and settled into my cush first class cabin where hostesses in togas fed me grapes and worked on my lats. The flight was otherwise uneventful as I pulled back an hour of sleep (thanks to space and legroom), watched an episode of "The Riches" on the laptop and did a little writing with a fat, incandecent red and blue pen with palm trees and the Hollywood sign on it because I forgot to bring one from home and the gift shop purchasers at LAX are apparently blind.
I had some bladder issues as the only things I'd put in my mouth (shut it) an hour into the flight were 1) Coffee 2) Water 3) Water 4) Fruit smoothie 5) Water. I went twice in the Terminal, once on the plane before takeoff and then attempted to immediately go on the plane once the Fasten Seat Belt sign went off. Several other people in Rirst Class had that same idea, so I eneded up going about 7th and as I waited I imagined I smelled the scent of stale piss coming from my pants, with stress and sweat on my hands from the takeoff mingling with drying droplets of piss I left behind in my boxer briefs and the more I fixated on the smell, it began to take on substance, color, like a rising plume of fetid smoke, pollution in the air.
Aren't you glad I bought a pen?
In the Big Inning
DP had two extra tickets to our rooftop digs. He sent The Rooster off to find girls to give them to. "Hey ladies, I have two seats. All you can eat or drink!" And Rooster still couldn't convince any ladies to come with him. Probably all the Brut he was wearing. Seriously, he was still upstairs in the shower when we first smelled it downstairs as it cut through the lingering fog of Beer and Ass. "Puerto Rican Shower," said StB.
So still two tickets available and DP decides to tell some of the ladies already on the rooftop to call some friends. He finally convinced one to do so and around the 5th inning, these two young blondes show up and immediately tilt the entire male population of the rooftop. Soon after, the following pic was taken and a new term was created.
Behold the "Face Boner." (© Joe Speaker, 2008)
Jeez. This could take a while. I'm gonna pause here.