Ivanna

I had a bachelor party at a beach house in Hermosa Beach, California for a good friend of mine named King of the Beach (not his real name), and we met someone named Ivanna (also not her name).

We spent a lot of the week playing volleyball on the gorgeous beaches, bumming around the beach house, going to bars, and going to other bars with naked people, as is customary for the occasion. One night we are at a rooftop bar, and when we looked over towards the bar, one of the more mild-mannered gentlemen in our group was talking to a fetching leggy woman at the bar. He introduced Ivanna to us, and the first thing we noticed is that she is 5'11" and taller than me in heals. And she was absolutely loaded on the Bolivian marching powder.

Ivanna is a former model and singer (of sorts) born in Russia or some place similar and raised in Australia. And she absolutely loved us. All 10 of us men. Sure, it could be the endorphins in her brain triggered by the piles of cocaine she was doing in the bathroom, but we took it as just being great dudes and her good "mates." She said mates a lot. Here's the thing: She managed to be kind of charming even though she was talking loudly and a mile a minute.

The poor gal had just wrapped up a bad first date with a guy who only wanted to talk about how much money he made all through out their dinner. She wanted to go up to the bar for a drink, and he didn't want to go. At least I think that was her story. They got into some sort of argument, but most of us were guessing that she was way, way too high and the dude split as a result.

Ivanna told us that she used to date a guitar player who played in a high profile 1980's musician's band. She met a lot of famous musicians and other celebrities during that time. Sadly, guitar player boyfriend died. She brought her deceased ex a number of times, and I was getting the feeling that she was nowhere near over this event - and it seemed to be a trigger for her to want to drink and do more drugs. Oh, also she told us she was 42-years-old but looked and acted 22. I actually felt bad for her at times, but mostly I was laughing and having a good time at the outrageous things she would say - and I don't want to say I was laughing at her all the time, because that wouldn't be true. She was funny intentionally too.

But her singing was absolutely horrible. I think she said she used to be a back up singer, but I'm guessing they just had her look good in tight outfits, swaying back and forth with a tambourine and her microphone off. It wasn't all that loud at the bar, but she felt a need to lean in and sing loudly into everyone's ear. She had an affinity for the 1980's, so we instantly became good buddies. I remember her trying to sing lots of Foreigner and Hall and Oates jams, and when she found out my one friend was a singer, she tried to impress him even more. And the harder she tried, the worse she got.

She told me that she thought I was attractive and then motioned towards our respective genitals and pointed back in forth and said that down there it was going "woo! woo!" Like our genitals were carrying on some sort of intense conversation down there. I laughed and said that I was flattered but that I have a wife and a kid at home. Ivanna was very flirty. She told one guy in the group that he had "bedroom eyes," and he was eating that up. We called him Ol' Bedroom Eyes all weekend, of course. So, truthfully I was not all that flattered because she loved all of us. She kept saying how we were such great guys with good energy, but I think she just needed a friend badly - someone with whom she can overshare and sing songs to.

Ivanna told me that this wasn't her worst first date. She went on another one where the guy told her at the dinner table that he would like it if she stuck things into his rectum later that evening. She was offended and didn't see him again, but she admitted that until that point he had been pretty charming She may have indulged him had he been a little more patient. She said she does piles and piles of cocaine (duh) and she can get into just about anything in the bedroom with the right amount of chemical assistance. Let that be a lesson, gentlemen. Don't overplay your hand. You may get all the wonderful things into your butt that you want if you just exercise a little forbearance with your freaky-deaky requests.

We also had a random business man from France come into our crew and another blond woman from I-don't-know-where. Ivanna was the perfect scientifically proven element for repelling the stuffy tight-asses away with her loud shitty singing and drawing in the right types of people who like to have fun. We had to get to the next stop on our itinerary, and it seemed as if Ivanna was going to continue on with French man and blondy. However, after yet another trip to powder her nose, the two of them had opted to part ways with their third six foot third wheel* and sneak out while she was gone. Dejected but likely determined to find more friends willing to stay up until 7AM, Ivanna went out into the night. Alone.

Ivanna brought us a boost of energy and left a lasting impression upon us, as we were still discussing some of her awesome antics when we had a break the next morning in between volleyball serves. God love you, Ivanna. May you find the man who will help to get you at peace after losing your fallen love, and wherever you go, let it snow down coke in a good times establishment full of bedroom-eyed folks ready and willing to sing loudly and poorly right along with you. My first beer at today's Cubs game is for you, Ivanna.

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*Six Foot Third Wheel is the best band name I have thought of in a long, long time.

Starchild

I played paintball one time and one time only for a bachelor party a number of years ago, and the one thing I learned is this: Firepower matters. Our group used the rental guns which released paintball capsules kind of fast. I guess it could have been considered semi automatic. We had to play against other random people outside of our group who brought their fully automatic weapons. There really is no comparison.

One guy was wearing a hockey jersey that said "Starchild" on the back, and this dude's weapon sprayed everywhere. And I mean everywhere. When this guy lit you up, you looked like someone took one of those paint rollers and covered you head to toe, not missing a single inch. Star Child was a shorter Caucasian man who looked not unlike Wayne from "Wayne's World," which shouldn't come as a surprise considering this was in Suburban Illinois not too far from Wayne's home of Aurora. ]

I have some questions that I never got answered. 

1. How much do you suppose a weapon of that caliber costs?

2. Where is the sport in just holding down a trigger and hosing down the entire room?

3. Was that the top of the line back then, and how far has paintball technology advanced since Star Child's hey day (which was around 2001)? I seriously can't imagine a more dominant weapon on the market.

4. Just why in the hell does he call himself Starchild? Is it a reference to Parliament/Funkadelic, Paul Stanley from Kiss, "2001: A Space Odyssey" or none of the above? Or maybe just his own thing, like it came to him in a paintball dream of some kind . . .

This diaper dandy?

This KISS'ing bandit?

Or this adorable rascal with his consciousness? Or maybe a reference NOT from the 1970's like all of mine.

5. Do you think he has an entire star fleet of star children by now? Have I put way too much thought into this? I highly doubt Starchild has had a day recently where he wondered where the guy is that ducked down too fast to avoid a paintball from across the room, hit his rear end on a pipe, badly bruised his own ass, and had to sit the rest of the day out.

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If you have answers to any of these questions or just want to say hello, blow me up like a Starchild buckshot in the comments. 

That Time I Got Thrown Up Upon

A few weekends back we had a Chicago area bachelor party for a former roommate of mine who's formal bachelor party was a camping in the cold excursion (all Chicagoans took a pass on that one).  Being a long time drinking resident of the area, he asked me to be the point man on planning.  I said I could probably find a super cheap route where we could pay $15 to drink all we want for a few hours, to which he said, "I don't want to do an all-you-can-drink because that encourages binge drinking.  I really don't party much anymore."  That's actually what he said . . .

So he and all the guys arrive at my apartment, we're sipping some beers, and it was kind of sweet how Former Roomie was gushing over his bride to be, right down to the fact that he loved her big boobs.  He proceeded to show us a (fully clothed) picture.  Yup.  Big ones.  Then he makes an announcement: "Listen, guys.  No shots tonight.  I'm serious."  I had planned on doing maybe just one as a celebratory thing, but zero is just fine too.

Former Roomie said that inviting anyone was cool so Night Train met us out.  I forgot that Night Train orders shots nonstop so before I could think to tell him about the rule for the night, Night Train saddles over to us with a tray full of one ounce booze cups known as shots.  Former Roomie didn't even hesitate going against his own rule and immediately knocked down the shot of Jameson, or some other brown, vile liquid, and it wouldn't be his last of the night . . .

Oh yes, he did have one other rule: We had to end up at Liars Club before the end of the night.  This is a rule I liked even better than the first because, as long time readers will know, this is my favorite place on earth.  And this was the perfect night at Liars: Everyone was dancing, the music transitioned perfectly between Daft Punk and Motorhead, and all of us were having a ball.  Except Former Roomie who said that what he really wanted to do is go somewhere with a jukebox to use a phone application that he has to pick songs.  Despite the fact that my other good friend, James Douglas Morrison, and myself were dancing our faces off, we decided to do the right thing and accompany Former Roomie and his cousin to an after hours bar with a jukebox to play with.

Two more robots called in sick.

Former Roomie selects his songs, and while I was excited to hear a live version of "Roadhouse Blues," when I heard a different version of the same song back-to-back, I should have known that he had become powerfully drunk.  Suddenly, I look across the table at him, and his eyes are wide, he looks scared, and while looking right in my eyes, he spits what I thought was some beer onto the table.  I thought this was a joke until I saw that there were in fact some chunks on the table.  As well as on my shirt.  James Douglas Morrison and I just headed for the exits without saying a word to anyone, even each other, as we went in cabs to go our separate ways.

The next day I asked James Douglas what in the hell that was all about, and he texted back, "I saw puke come across the table, and I was worried I would be next, so I got outa' there like shit through a Goose Gossage."  He has a way with words, that guy . . .

Goose: "Whelp, that's a rap on the evening, gentlemen."

I got another text from Former Roomie, and he said, "Sorry I had to leave suddenly.  It was a long night.  hahaha.  Did you stay much longer after I left?"  Well, odds are if he doesn't remember that we left before him, he probably doesn't remember puking on me, and best to just keep it that way.  No need to make the guy feel bad about anything on his bachelor party.  Just head on back out of state, nuzzle in those big boobs, and go back to saying not to shot(s).

The Lads

I had been meaning to get together with my buddy Skittles for some time now, as he just moved to Chicago from Ireland a few weeks ago. I met Skittles during a summer working at Navy Pier together taking pictures of tourists. I thought, it being a Wednesday, that I would just have a beer or two, catch up on old times, and then leave shortly after the Bulls game. Instead, when I stepped into the bar, I saw around 5 familiar Irish faces from that summer, one of whom was having a bachelor party. That's right: A bunch of drunken Irishmen who I know and love had come out to Chicago for a stag party, and I had unknowingly stepped into it.

I could have stuck to my guns with my self-imposed curfew, but come on, these lads are great fun and I hadn't seen them in years. Here are some highlights in no particular order:

1. There was a little Black girl in the first bar (there would be a few) who we were calling Rooty Huxtable (hope that's not racist), and one lad, Plastico, said, "Huxtable. That's a magnificent surname."

2. When we were reminiscing about that summer a few years back, they were all saying how a picture of a rapist on the loose at the time had his sketch on the door of every bar and club on the north side of Chicago, and the guy looked just like one of the lads, Dunigan. I don't remember this, but it has to be true because even Dunigan, a guy too nice to do anything remotely as heinous as rape, had to admit it to be true.

3. We were trying to think of what bar had a good special on Wednesday nights, as when they were here last, all the Irish kids working on the Pier knew the schedule of the best specials so that each and every night they could find a place to drink extremely cheaply. What's funny is that when you went into one of those places, you would learn that the word had spread to Irish kids all over the city, and you would see it packed full of sun burnt Irishmen, happily drinking away their wages.

4. I don't remember why, but I was asking them what the expression is in Ireland for being horny or having a boner, and as it turns out, it's "on the horn" or a you're like a "bag of horns." Try to work that in a conversation sometime soon, Seven Readers.

5. The lads had plans to go to nudey bar, something I wasn't game for on a Wednesday, and Skittles was saying that the last time he was at one was when he was last in Chicago, when he and Pony (a lad who couldn't make it out for the stag but was missed dearly) went to such a place with a raging cokehead they met that night by the name of Phillip Kuntz. Old Kuntzy took a liking to the boys and bought them their drinks and titty bucks all night, but when he started to have an intense freak out/meltdown in the cab, the lads made a "quick exit."

6. I guess there's something called Chess Boxing where guys alternate rounds of boxing and a few minutes of speed chess for a total of 12 minutes of chess, and you can win by either checkmate or knockout. Yes, something that stupid exists, we talked about it, and you can see it here:


7. While at the titty bar**, I learned that, like Christmas, it's better to give than to receive. I'll explain: Remember when you were a little kid and all you cared about what was present you got rather than what you got other people, but then as you got older, you really wanted to know that people liked what you picked out for them? Well, I'm finding titty bars to be kinda like that because I had so much fun picking out the perfect stripper for the bachelor, Buttons, to spend my money on him, and I ultimately decided upon a beautiful Russian one (or at least she faked a good accent) by the name of Kassandra who was sitting all alone. I asked her what she was doing sitting there all by her lonesome, and she said she was waiting for me. Of course she was! They're such sweet talkers (read bullshitters) in those place. In any case, Buttons was quite pleased with the Russian's work.

8. Kassandra was the best looking and arguably the most "talented***," but the funniest one by far was one by the name of Heidi the Mountain Girl, who dressed not unlike the famous literature hero of the Swiss Alps. After she sat on my lap, I asked her why she went by the mountain girl, and she said because of her mountains, motioning towards her giant fake boobs. Duh! Then she said she wanted to do the splits on my face. I asked in which direction, and after thinking about it for a moment, she said the outwards way. I guess I really didn't have a preference as this was Buttons' night, and as such, I bought him a dance from the Mountain Girl as well.

9. A nudey bar on a Wednesday night is ordinarily a horrible idea, but it was so good to see all these gents. They're such great guys that if they asked really nice, I think I'd do the splits on their faces in any direction they saw fit.

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*Phillip, if you googled yourself and found this blog, I hope you're not offended, and I hope you've cleaned up. God's speed, Kuntzy.
**Never mind what I said in number 5 about limitations on school nights. It was just too much fun to see these guys.
***Another of the lads, Tonto, agreed, so that's two Irishmen giving Kassandra a nod for a Lappy, which is a lap dance award I just made up.

Dodging an Army of Belushi's Is Even Harder Than It Sounds

Some of you may not know that I have four roommates. Yes, four. You are probably picturing a frat house, complete with toga parties, panty raids, maybe even a kidnapped mascot of some kind, and that is most everyone’s first reaction. I swear it isn't like that, but it is what people picture. My roommate and I have a new addendum to our description of our living situation when we meet girls, and it is as follows: . . “but I’m looking towards getting my own place.” Trust me, girls over 25 or so don’t like the sound of four roommates.

Well, last night actually was like a cotton-pickin’ frat house up in here. A friend, who is more a friend of a friend really, who had moved to California with his lady, is back in town for his bachelor party. You have to understand that if it was a close friend I would follow whatever itinerary that they had come up with, but as long as it is a friend of a friend, I just assume do my own thing and skip the nudey bar, etc. I saw him Thursday night, so I figured I’d toast to him then, and that would count for my contribution to the bachelor party weekend. I think I could have pulled that off, but I didn’t bank on like 10 guys taking Friday off and drinking all afternoon, which made them a little more persistent in their attempts to suck everyone into their vortex. I was in the bathroom when a representative was sent upstairs to oust my roommate Andy and I out of our rooms. Luckily, this guy, who was the bachelor’s brother, who neither of us knew, did such a bad job trying to get Andy out, that he gave up on me. I could hear it turning into an argument, so I knew I was safe for a while . . .

After I was all changed and ready to make my escape, I peered down the balcony thing and no one was in the front room. They were all in the kitchen. It was the perfect time to make my get-away! I darted downstairs, but I heard footsteps coming in my direction! I tried to make my way to the second set of stairs without looking back, but I was relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, that it was Andy. Despite it being a very dated phrase, I said, “I’m outy.” Alas, Andy, who had been sucked into the vortex, could only meekly say, “I don’t blame you . . . “

When I got home, everyone was still out, except for the bachelor, who I saw sleeping soundly on the couch. Apparently, he had thrown up a few times, dowsed himself in his own urine, and didn’t even make it out. I guess 10 guys taking the day off, drinking all afternoon, and a non-stop regiment of shots all spelled trouble for the poor bachelor. Well, he does have another night tonight to try to pace himself better, or more accurately, fight off the vortex better. Wait, that means another night of me having to sneak around and crawl under the barbed wire. Wish me luck . . .