Me Too Dave

Mrs. Noisewater and I just got back from a trip to Ireland for a wedding. Her parents came all the way out from California to stay at our place in Chicago with Baby Noisewater while we were gone. We are so lucky to have family to do things like that for us, but truth be told, they cannot get enough of the little guy and were sad to go back. He is a charmer.

Baby Noisewater Cheerios Head

The 500th book Baby Noiseater made grandpa read to him.

We learned something right away on our travels, and that is this: Traveling without a kid is really damn easy. All we had to do was get ourselves on the plane on time. No strollers, no putting all kinds of baby stuff through security, no security opening our bags because formula looks like coke, and no chasing crawling baby around while waiting for the flight. We even had a few drinks. Why in the hell did I bitch about traveling back when I had no kids? Also, what in the hell did I do with all that free time before we made a baby? If you said blog a heck of a lot more, you wouldn't be wrong. I'm doing the best I can, my friends.

So it rains a lot in Ireland. Did you know that? I have been there twice now, and I think that I enjoyed about 30 minutes of sunshine. Total. I ran twice while out there this time, and I did document some beautiful blue skies while they came out so briefly, plus a fantastic rainbow. I don't think the photo truly does it justice. That was the happiest I was. Except for when I was laughing about the guy I would meet later that day . . .

And if you said I should have kept running towards it to find a pot of gold, you're not the only one.

Mrs. Noisewater, her friend McDonald, and myself went to The Little Museum of Dublin, which we thought was a bunch of miniatures on display. In reality, it is a small building with tiny rooms with various exhibits of human-sized items. Very quaint. On our way out a local told us that we should go around the corner to see the smallest bar in Ireland (and some claim the world's smallest bar). They aren't lying - It is a cramped, little bar, and there is no way it is a approved by any fire marshal worth his salt. You go down a narrow staircase into a shoebox of a tavern with extremely low ceilings. And with what can only be a cruel joke, a 6 foot 4 man tends bar, literally ducking his head under beams to pour the drinks. He had to have banged his noggin a few dozen times before conditioning himself to bow under each time he steps forward.

The moment we set foot in there, four men in ties swarmed Mrs. Noisewater. I asked one of them to take our picture, and the man who called himself Dave put his arm around her and said, "sure" . . . waiting for me to take a picture. He knew damn well that I didn't want a picture with his stupid ass in it.

I said, "No, sir. I mean can you take a picture of me, my wife, and my friend?"

"Oh this is your wife?" He replied. "Sure, all take your picture." But then as he was taking the shot, one of his other pervert friends jumped in front to photo bomb and flicked the bird.

Running along this bridge on either side was good fun. I should have took a picture of the bridge going across that looked like a giant harp.

If Mrs. Noiswater was at all flattered by the attention these business men were showing her, that quickly faded when she would see those boys stand at the bottom of the staircase pouncing on every female who set foot in there. These lads certainly fished with a big net. We sat and laughed with our pints as we watched Dave crash and burn with two lovely ladies. When they walked away to sit at a table, undeterred, he followed them there and joined them. They pretty much politely told him that they would rather he go away so that they could talk to one another about something, but he did not abandon ship just yet. Dave sat and waited for a moment to interject something and get back into the conversation, and when one of them talked about someone they know, perhaps one of their boyfriends, Dave blurted out loudly, "He sounds like a dick!" I laughed so hard that I nearly spit  Guiness all over that little place.

As funny as it was to watch, it also grew a little uncomfortable to watch these guys harass lady after lady. So we decided to leave. Later, McDonald and I were saying how anyone who came in contact with Dave and his merry band of perverts would instantly have one of those "#me too" stories that have been going around the internet. For this reason, we dubbed the man Me Too Dave, or #MeTooDave, if you prefer. Now, I don't at all intend to make light of anyone who has experienced harassment of any kind. It's truly an awful thing. But what we saw Dave doing was more along the lines of hitting on everything that moves and not taking no for an answer . . . Okay, fine. It was straight up harassment and pretty much wrong. But it was hard not to keep laughing any time one of us, during a quiet moment, would say Me Too Dave.

And with this last picture of an Irish sunrise, I wish you good day or goodnight.  

The Two Crazy Guys We Met During Date Night

Mrs. Noisewater and I have a new plan where we go on a date night and then immediately lock in the next one. That way we don't ever let too much time go by between dates. It is kind of like when you get a haircut and then book the following appointment when you pay. We also have a rule where we don't meet up for drinks with anyone else. It's a night just for us. That is, unless we meet some weirdos organically, which often happens when it's a Noisewater date night . . .

Dinner was lovely. The place had a mescal lounge. It was my first experience drinking mezcal, and I enjoyed the smokey tequila flavor. It got a nice fire going in my belly.

After dinner we tried to go to a pop-up bar that was modeled after the TV show "Stranger Things." The line was pretty long, so we decided that paying a babysitter while waiting for anything was not a good use of our money and time. I suggested a rock n' roll bar that I've been meaning to try, and my wife is the coolest so she agreed. There was live music and a cover, and I didn't like what I was seeing and hearing. The singer was a white guy with cornrows, and while they were trying awfully hard, it just sounded pretty shitty. I asked the guy at the door what the band was all about, and he was not even trying to sell them. He said, "I don't know, man. They're trying to be punk, but it's not really punk." As he said this he was lifting his shirt and scratching his big bare belly. We took belly-man at his word and decided not to go in. The problem was there were no bars in the immediate area.

We decided to call an Uber from a nearby Mexican restaurant that smelled like a sewer. Probably not a good idea to eat there, but we did knock back two frothy and refreshing margaritas. With time running out on the babysitter, we decided to ride back to a spot where we could walk home. There we met a hilarious drunk dude. I can't exactly remember how it is that we got talking, but it might have been about the preseason Bears game since that was on. This dude was hammered and sitting at the bar slurring stories to me while his wife was more upbeat and bouncing around the bar from person-to-person telling other stories, and in one case the same story she had just told Mrs. Noisewater.

Drunk dude told me that his wife was crazy and that she held a knife up to his throat the other night. He said he is 59 and his wife is much younger. He called her a grave robber. We got talking about our kids, and he incredulously informed me that his 12-year-old daughter was receiving dick-pics from her classmates. "Do they even have pubes at that age," he asked me, outraged. I told him that I didn't get a thicket down there until a year or two after that, but it's possible. He then told me that the same daughter and her friends drank/ate all of the jello shots at a recent block party. I guess these kids were pretty hammered, and all the parents were pissed, as I'm sure you can imagine. Most of what this dude said had me laughing, but this was the hardest I laughed.

Drunk dude then asked what myself and Mrs. Noisewater were drinking. I started to tell him, but then Mrs. Noisewater suggested we get going. That was a fantastic idea because I would have listened to goofy stories from that guy all night, especially if he was buying, and I felt hungover enough the next day as it was.

So, get out for a date nights with your special someone. And also, talk to some weirdos at bars. Weirdos at bars have the best stories.

The Litter Box Bar League

A friend called me up and said he needed one more team to sign up for a volleyball league that takes place on a sand volleyball court outside of a bar in Chicago on Wednesday nights. I threw a team together and showed up that first Wednesday and couldn't believe that it was even worse than you would expect a court outside of a bar would be. At first I was pissed that I had committed my friends and I to playing in an unsanitary and unsafe environment once a week, but slowly all of these quirks have grown on me. I took some pictures to help you get a sense of just how crazy this whole thing is because I don't think you would believe me unless you saw it for yourself. 

Here is the court. It is a bunch of sand poured into a giant plywood box, which is why we started calling it Litter Box Volleyball. The net permanently droops in the center, and there is no way to adjust it. You get the volleyballs from the bar before your game, and many of the balls have bite marks in them. Why, you may ask? Because when the ball goes over that wall you see pictured, it lands in a Doggy Daycare. When that happens, the ball either flies over the fence back to us right away and we say thank you to the staff, or it mysteriously flies back over 45 minutes later, or it never comes back at all and becomes a permanent chew toy for the doggies. Because this disrupts the game and because the balls are expensive, whoever is deemed at fault for having the ball get into the jaws of the hounds has to take an immediate shot of room temperature Malort, which is just about the grossest liquor you'll ever have. 

The sand is not nearly deep enough, and in some spots there will be two inches of sand with concrete underneath. I dove a couple of weeks ago and cut my knee up really bad. One of the Litter Box veterans then told me, "Oh yeah, don't dive." Don't dive? I can't help it. I just react and go if I see a ball about to hit the sand on my side. Right when it was just about healed from a week or two before, I dove again and opened the cut right back up, which is what you see above. 

So you got the DoggyDaycare on one side line, the other side line is a street, and then on one end line you have two very smelly dumpsters, as you see pictured above. It's smells terrible on that end of the court, so dumpster side always serves first. Seems fair. If someone spikes one past you that doesn't get stopped by a dumpster, then someone has to run down the street barefoot to fetch the ball. Sometimes it sort of veers down the street and just rolls forever downhill. This is why I have found that when I'm holding down the dumpster side, it's good to keep my flip-flops handy so that I can slip those on and run down the street more swiftly and safely.

On the other end line you have the back wall of the bar, and there is an apartment above the bar. Sometimes the ball will hit the satellite dish, knocking out the transmission on the NASCAR event viewed by the regulars in the tavern, or it will land on the upstairs tenant's porch. The guy up there has visitors that come by very briefly and leave, there are some strange chemical smells coming out of there, and other signs that make us think maybe he runs a "business" out of there. But would he take such a risk with all these yuppies in his backyard drinking beers and playing volleyballs in his backyard? Maybe so because the other night he had not problem drawing attention to himself by hopping on his bicycle/motor cycle, cranked up that engine, and went around the block to fetch two tallboys of Icehouse beers. It looks to me like this is what we called a "mini bike" as kids, only this one has an engine attached to a bicycle so he has the option of pedaling as well. It was loud too, let me tell you! A five city block radius is always aware when this dude is making a beer run.  

There is one little nook where a ball can go down this alley as well. There are rusty nails everywhere,  so this is also a good opportunity to slip on your sandals before venturing in. Tetanus shots should be given out as readily as Malort shots around this joint. I'm serious. 

We usually drink buckets of beer outside by the shabby court, but on one rainy night my friend and I noticed the fine array of beef jerky flavors prominently displayed behind the bar. In case you can't read them, the flavors from left to right are as follows: Jerk This, Tickle My Teriyaki, Pepper My Cornhole, Blowout Cajun Jerky, Fire In the Hole, and Hot Habanero. You'll notice that's my hand throwing out a pair of scissors because I was thinking it would be a fun game to play paper, rock, scissors and the loser has to try the jerky of the winners choosing. If a guy had already Doggy Daycared a few balls that evening and earned a few Malorts, some Pepper My Cornhole jerky could really push him over the edge to have a reversal of fortune, or at the very least have a very, very rough Thursday ahead of him.

What do you guys think of Litter Box Volleyball? Anyone want to sub in next Wednesday? Anyone play in any goofy leagues of any kind this summer that you want to share with us in the comments?

Last night when I was at a Lakeview neighborhood bar there were two giant groups of people and us.  In other words, If it weren't for these big groups, the bar would only have a handful of people in it.  First, there were participants in a sweatsuit pub crawl.  I talked to the founding father who informed me that he hosts this annual event right around the time of his birthday each year, and because it falls in November, the sweat suits are the perfect attire for the weather.  His only rule is that the sweat suits must be monochromatic (the tops must match the bottoms).  Birthday boy had a red, white, and blue one on with a U.S.A. embroidered on there, and it cost him $100.  This seems like a lot of money, but it looked really damn comfortable.  Plus we were saying that after wearing it again for the Olympics and World Cup, he will have recouped the losses.  

This is the sexiest sweats outfit I could find on Google Images.

The other group were members of Jewish fraternity having a reunion of one time.  It was the solitary Black member of the frat that said something during one of those quiet moments where an odd statement goes right into you head and stays with you all night: "Sorry, I couldn't hear you - my dick's too big."  I googled this quote and couldn't find it anywhere, so I guess I'll never know just what in the hell he meant by that.  It's funny, even if it makes no sense.  Actually, it's funny because it makes no sense.

I then got a text from an old friend saying he was headed to The Liars Club, which if you have been around this blog for a while you know this to be the best bar in Chicago.  This friend of mine recently split up with his wife who was cheating on him, and he has been dating lots of women.  This is the best way to get over events like this, I have found.  The guy is on a role too because he is in great shape and it seems like many of my friends over the years have had wives and girlfriends say how good looking he is.  He had one of his Tinder ladies out with him last night, so I was sort of third wheeling it.  We had fun for a while talking about some of their commonalities, such as both of them having giant tall dads.  His is 6'6" and hers is 6'8"!  I said that even if they don't work out in the long run, they should just go ahead and breed anyways to make a star volleyball or basketball player.  Then on a trip back from the men's room I saw the two of them talking very closely and intimately and Tinder Girl was grabbing at his schlong.  They were getting down with that notion of breeding in the very near future, so I saw this as a good time to leave . . . 

Now I am hungover as hell and have accomplished almost nothing today, but what little I have accomplished, I have these two friends to thank for it.  

Book Club For Men

I went on a music trivia bar crawl yesterday where your team answered questions at various bars, and then you got the location for the next location through yet another question.  The format was fun because they had word searches, puzzles, and one thing where you had to mingle with everyone there to guess which rock band/artist they were based on a clue.  Meeting all the people was one of the best aspects of the day, and it is how I found my new book club.


Two guys were dressed as ZZ Top, but as I pointed out to them, they looked a little more like Hasidic Jews.  They said they feared the same thing as they put their outfits together.  Somehow they got talking about their book club that has been an excuse to get a night out away from their wives and rest of family to drink beer with their buddies.  They have discovered that no wife will get mad about them going out for a book club.  Pretty ingenious, actually.

Apparently one night a woman came over to their table and asked what they were up to.  They said it was a book club, and she asked if she could join.  One guy said "No way.  This is guys only."  She asked if she showed them her boobs, might that change their policy.  They talked it over and decided that this could be the one and only way they could allow a female into the group.  So she flashed her boobs, and they asked her to go ahead have a seat.  Turns out she cuts herself intentionally (self-mutilates), and at the following book club she ended up making out with an Asian woman a the bar.  She didn't show up to a third session.

I told them that the group sounds awesome, and they invited me to join (without having to show my boobs).  They just had two questions: Do I like to eat meat?  Do I drink booze?  Yes and yes!  I'm in!  I thought it was really cool that they took such a liking to me and accepted me in.  I reassured them that I won't be nearly as crazy as their and only female member.  I seriously am giddy with anticipation for the first group.  The guys seem really funny and intelligent, many are in a similar line of work as me, and I like a good excuse to get together with folks and have good conversations over a few pops.

How about you, readers?  Got any groups of friends that you meet up with through any kind of regularly scheduled club or activity?  And do you think I should try to track down the crazy boob-flasher to reinstate her membership?  

The other night I was at the bar and got talking to one of those guys with a curly-cue mustache.  The Rollie Fingers mustache, if you will.

"Top 10?  More like Top 1."

I asked him how long it takes him to do that in the morning, and it sounds like quite an ordeal, styling it and spraying it down and all.  And if he doesn't do anything, then it looks like a Fu Manchu.

"I may not have the curls, but can you guess where this pinky thingy goes?"

He went on to tell me that he won 2nd place in his category in a facial hair contest.  My first question was what the name of that category was (because it really should be the Rollie Fingers Category).  He said it was "Freestyle Mustache."  Oh.  I then asked how many were in his category, and he said there were only three.  I let him know that he also placed 2nd-to-last.  I was buzzed a little and speaking freely . . .

But also I just hate hipsters with stupid facial hair, piercings, and just dumb stuff like that in general.  You're not a turn of the century boxer.  You work for Whole Food, or whatever, and when you're late for work and don't have time to style your 'stache, your coworkers call you Fu Manchu Fuck Face.  And when you're primped up beautifully, they call you Old Boxing Photograph Fuck Face.

Fight?  I thought we agreed to a Mustache Contest?

Not all styles are coming back en vogue or are somehow ironically cool.  When does it stop?  Do you want to throw on a powdered wig and be all 1700's?  Probably if a true hipster saw people wearing the wigs, he would get really pissed and go back to a look from 50,000 years ago and just throw on a loin cloth and go to the bar and sip his Pabst Blue Ribbon.

So I guess the conversation with the weirdo from the bar was still in my head because yesterday I'm driving in the car, I'm a little lost and crabby, a hipster with a terrible old-timey mustache is crossing the street and I find myself yelling "Fuck that guy!"  He wasn't doing anything wrong - just crossing the street like everyone else.  I just couldn't take it any more.  I actually caught myself off guard with my sudden outburst.

Am I out of line here, or has the hipster thing worn thin with anyone else?

A Friend I Will Miss and Another I Avoid

A Friend I Will Miss

I got a really good friend, one of the guys I officiated a wedding for as Reverend Ken, and he suddenly announced he is moving away in three weeks.  It's really sad, and I feel like I wasn't given enough notice.  If you told me a few months, sure, but three weeks?  Sorry, but my man-love heart needs a little time to process these things.  I tried to be happy for him when he told a few of us the other night, but I couldn't.  And then I made him sad by being sad.  Eventually I just gave up trying to feign happiness and I posted this video on his Facebook wall.



I thought the clip would be good for a laugh, but I ended up crying.  Guess it was good for a cry too.  I know.  A man crying over a Star Trek clip might be the nerdiest thing ever, but it happened and I'm better for it.  I needed to get the crying out of my system, and Kirk and Spok helped me out to those ends.  Those devilish, space traveling, pointy eared (one of them), bastards . . .

And Another I Avoid

This other friend of mine I have been playing volleyball with for years, and he makes everyone miserable by telling everyone what to do and how they messed something up.  He has a thick accent and his command of the English language isn't too good either.  He often times ends his description of how he thought you should have returned the last serve with "does that make sense?"  And it never makes sense.  The thing is, he is easily the worst player of all of us, yet he always tells people how to play, which makes it all the more difficult to stomach his lectures.  I always have to do some affirmations on my way to the court like "Okay, he is going to be terrible.  Just nod your head and be positive.  Move on to the next point and don't yell at him."  Sometimes it works, and on rare instances, usually when I'm hungover and emotional, I do end up yelling at him.  And then I'm disappointed in myself because it doesn't do any good.  

He isn't much better in social gatherings either.  His jokes are often as misunderstood as his volleyball analysis, and he will try to make wise cracks about people that never quite work.  This makes it sound like he is a jerk, but that isn't quite it.  He is just a little off.  It's no longer cultural, and he can't use that as an excuse anymore.  He has been in the country a long time now.  He is just kind of weird. 

So some of the volleyball friends are meeting up to watch NCAA games, and I actually asked if this dude is going to be there.  I felt really bad about asking that, but here is the thing: I really value my weekends, and if that dude will be there describing how the little people on the television should have executed that inbounds play and I have to keep taking pees I barely have to take and get beers I don't need just to get away, that will detract from the loveliness of my oh so important Saturday afternoon.  

I just got the word that he will, in fact, be there.  Just like on the way to the court, on the way to the bar I will do my affirmations: "I can do this.  Be nice to him.  He really isn't that bad . . ."

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Anybody have friends like the first one?  How about the second one?  Any tips on how to handle the second one because I'm about out of ideas.  

These Are the Top 10 Awful People At the Bar. The People That You Meet Each Friday.

10. The Jukebox Saboteur.  Some jerk played In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida three consecutive times, but no one there will fess up to it.  More than likely he keyed that up and left to another bar just to stick us with 19 minutes of crappy drum and organ solos.

9. The Jaeger Bomber.  You have already told this guy that you don't want to do any shots because you have to go into work the next morning, but every time you turn around there is a tray of shots coming your way, and usually something disgusting like Wild Turkey.  You see, the Jaeger Bomber is not happy until we're all slobbering drunk and peeing on ourselves.  Like him.

8. The Barfly Loner.  He sits there alone every single night, knows all the staff members by name, and he is sipping his drinks and slowly killing himself.  And that's totally fine, so long as he doesn't talk to us.  It's when he chimes into everyone else's conversations that he becomes a problem.  We know, you have it all figured out and know the answers to all the world's problems.  But why haven't you found out how to avoid spending all your time and money perched at the end of this dark and dirty bar and dying a lonely death?

7. No Game and No Quit.   Sometimes the ladies just want to go out and have a few drinks, maybe dance a little, and yes, meeting some cute guys is a bonus.  However, you have got to know when your very presence has begun to ruin their night.  There are some guys out there who just don't know when to cut bait and move on.  Some men will tell you that all women are bitches, but the truth is they have to resort to being a monster bitch just to get guys like this to go away.

6. The Ping Pong Ball: This guy just doesn't seem happy with any bar you've gone to all night long.  The minute you walk in, he has immediately surveyed the scene and decided that there aren't enough women in there, the TV's aren't in high def, the bartenders aren't good looking enough men's room attendant has shitty mints, and the hardwood floors need to be refinished.  So he keeps convincing the group to bounce to another bar, which will be another one he will hate.  It seems the Ping Pong Ball is content spending more money and time on taxis than in bars.

5. The Stumbler.  He is blind drunk, falling over, making no sense, throwing up and falling asleep, but he won't leave!  If the bouncers won't do the right thing, sometimes someone in his group of friends needs to physically grab his pickled ass and show him to a cab, and usually tell the cab driver where he lives and maybe pay him (as it doesn't seem as if he is capable of doing anything on his own at this point).  Once everyone has had a good laugh and stored up enough stories to thoroughly embarrass him the next time you all get together, it will be well worth it to send this man home and absolve yourselves of babysitting duties.

4. The Inescapable Bad Conversation Guy: He has honed on you.  Yes, he has chosen you to share his wisdom of a particularly boring topic, be it to which route to take to shave 3 minutes off your commute, who to draft in fantasy football, or how to totally own the chumps in your condo association.  You have tried going to the bar to get a drink and going to take a pee, and you really didn't have to do either one - you just wanted to get away.  But he will keep finding you because he has you pegged as someone too nice to tell him to please put more beer in his mouth and make less boring words come out of it.

3. The Crop Duster.  The drinks are flowing, the music sounds good, everyone is looking beautiful, but suddenly there is the foul smell of rotten eggs blasting out of someones diseased intestines, and everyone is pulling their shirts over their noses, clearing out an entire section of the bar as fast as possible.  And the worst thing about the Crop Duster is that he never owns up to it, so you could be talking to someone and will have to convince him/her that it wasn't your own putrid ass that just unleashed hell.

2. Fishhooks in the Pockets/Alligator Arms.  You're out with all your friends, and every time it's this guy's turn to buy, he is sneaking outside for a smoke, to the men's room, or anywhere he and his wallet won't have to get involved.  Or better yet, he wants $12 craft beers all night, but when it's his turn, it's Bud in cans all around for his men.  What a swell guy!  

1. Dude Thinks It's Roadhouse.  Some guys out there don't feel their night is complete unless they have gotten into a fight, and it doesn't matter what it's about.  Sometimes it's insane jealousy, others it's about who's sports team is better, but It could be an argument about something as stupid as Mac VS PC, Star Trek VS Star Wars, or "Little Mermaid" or "Lion King."  What matters is that they are finally going to get to punch someone in the face and possibly get arrested, where they could very well land in the same cell as the guy they fought and kick back up that "Little Mermaid" debate and ring the bell for round two.  Listen, pal, you'll never be as cool as Dalton in "Roadhouse," you'll never rip out a throat, but you will either land in jail, get beat up by four bouncers, and have to explain your shiner at work on Monday.  So just relax and drink your beer, maybe try some yoga or something, and put away your dukes.

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A) All this being said, I think I have been, I have been 7 out of 10 of these fellas, and sometimes more than one in a night.  But at least I'm conscious of which bar behaviors are bad, and that is half the battle.  How about you?

B) Honorable mention goes the Overzealous Drinking Game Guy.  He wants everyone to play his drinking games, but we just want to have good conversation.  Is it possible he has nothing worthwhile to say, and that's why he insists on these stupid games?  And what's more, I don't need rules to tell me when to pour gallons of booze down my gullet.  I do just fine without being forced, so shut up, right?  Should this guy crack the top 10, and if so, who should get bumped out?

C) Any other additions that you would like to submit?

Know Your Audience

I woke up from a nap today and checked my Facebook.  I don't recommend this practice because we're not always thinking clearly in a state such as this.  The first update I saw was from a local newspaper who was outraged that a bar, one which I have been to tons of times, posted a special on their giant sign outside the bar for everyone to see: "Remember Pearl Harbor With Bombs and Kamikazes!"  Call me a dumb ass, but my gut reaction was to laugh my ass off.  Now if you haven't already deemed me an idiot, the next thing I did was respond saying that people need to lighten up.

Then I realized that I could probably lose my job or something, so I deleted it.

It's good to have sick people around to make jokes with, and that's when it's time to do stuff like that.  When you own a business, yeah, don't make a joke like that plastered on your building.  As a matter of fact, don't say anything that anyone can ever be offended by.   However, if I were drinking in that bar (again, I have a lot), and if the bartender, knowing his audience, proposed honoring the day with those shots, I would have gladly drank them and likely paid for them.  And certainly laughed.

It's just a matter of knowing your audience.

Writer's Bars

Mrs. Noisewater and I were at a book sale outside of a church on Sunday, and I picked up a book called "The Chicago Way" about a private detective in Chicago.  As it turns out, the character in the story drinks too much at too many bars - just like me!   

At one point he references Kelly's Pub.  Hey, I've been there!  The managers there love heavy metal and were cranking up some Diamond Head for me the last time I was in there.  They also sold my buddy, Night Train, a rogue tall boy of Coors Light that he spotted in the fridge and no one working there had any idea how it got there . . .

Another time the main character winds up ordering a Guinness at Cullens.  I know that place too.  For whatever reason, it was the best bar to go to on a Sunday night if you happened to have that Monday off, decided to just take it off, or simply wanted to drink like an animal on a Sunday.  My partner in crime back then always seemed to get lucky there on a Sunday, but it just wasn't a good home game to me.  He would actually get laid totally randomly. late afternoon on a Sunday, and I had to tip my cap to him.

Later the author makes mention of The Hidden Shamrock.  Come on!  That's just down the street from me, and I have been there dozens of times.  The bartender in the story was a full blown Irish gal with the accent and everything, but when I was going there regularly it was an Irish American red-head.  We had a thing one night (on a Sunday!) but it turns out she was just using me while she was on a break from her boyfriend.  But, whatever, us boys don't get as upset about being used because it's like, hey, I got laid, right?  We're pretty simple beings when you come right down to it . . . 

Bad Guys and Acne Scars

I had these thoughts late at night while unlocking my bike outside of a crowded bar:

Those two guys look suspicious.  I don't want to get robbed.  Guy on the right has acne scars.  It's not my fault that I'm scared of him.  The 80's taught me to be scared of those types, what with the dude from "Grease" and Bryan Adams.

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).

Latino Orville Redenbacher

I was at a bar a couple weekends ago, and I was randomly having beers with a guy who owned a pet store in the neighborhood.  He was funny as hell and talked a lot about playing on a men's hardball league three or four nights a week.  Another guy saddled up to the bar right between us in an old school suit, bow tie, and a mustache (I hate when people do that).  Pet Store Guy said to him, "Who the hell are you?  Latino Orville Redenbacher?"  I laughed my ass off because I just love it when people peg the exact person someone looks like, especially when it's a goofy mash up combo of people like this one.

Now just Latino-zize him, and you would see what I saw.

Also, I stole this game from over at Dr. Zibb's page (Check him out; he's funny.  We must hit it off because we're both blog doctors): What you do is post a band's photo and the readers say who all the guys look like.  I'll pick the best/funniest answers for each band member for a master list.  And here we go . . .

And you can't say they look like Journey.  Or they look like dorks.  

The Incredible Exploding Boobies

Last night I met Haircut and Oates for some buckets of beers and perhaps a few too many chilled shots of Rumplemintz at a hole in the wall bar nearby in Chicago.  The place is kind of famous for its giant boobed alcoholic bartender who gets a little too drunk while she is working, screwing up orders and saying insane stuff.  She wasn't working last night, but she did come in to hang out on her night off, something I have seen more than once before, and she was very excited to see Oates, who she views as a little brother, often giving him unsolicited romantic advice.

For some reason we got on the topic of her giant fake boobs, and she told us that she has had two accidents resulting in having to have them replaced.  The first happened when she was on a first date with a guy and she felt one of them suddenly leak, putting a damper on the date.  Literally.

The second one is the one that made me fall out laughing and just made me glad to be alive to hear wacky stuff like this.  She was leaning into a fence trying to get the perfect picture of a giraffe when she was suddenly jolted by the electric fence, exploding her tits!  After one of those mishaps, she said the owner of the bar payed for another round of boobs for her.  Two good perks to working at that bar! 

Can I help you?  Did you get a good enough look this time? (This isn't actually her, just a random Google image)

Have you ever heard of anything like this, or do you have a bartender or barfly tale you would like to share?

I'm MC'ing my buddy Choo-Choo's karaoke birthday party at a bar around the corner, and I'm oddly excited about it.  People often ask me to do stuff like this, so I guess I'm just good at being a great big loudmouth.  The key to this one is just doing the nudey bar DJ voice all night long, "All right, give it up for Lace on the main stage!"  It works for all kinds of events, garage sales, church bingo . . .

To be honest, Choo-Choo is a quality human being and I'm glad I know him so anything I can do to help is not a problem.  Also, it is customary for the karaoke DJ to sing the first song when no one has signed up yet.  I'll sing whichever one I like the best out of the comments submitted by you all, my beloved 7 readers.

This video is what it's all about.  She passes out in the middle of her "performance."

That Was One Drunk Sea Captain

Friday night I met Gung Ho out at the dueling pianos bar because I was anxious to meet his new 24-year-old girlfriend (we're slightly older).  If you haven't been to a good dueling pianos bar, you should give it a try.  They always have a couple of very witty and talented guys cracking jokes and taking requests, enough to give a man a serious case of pianist envy (did I make that up?  Probably not).  And just as a raucous night was starting to peter out, in saunters a pair of 30-something gay men, one in a ship captain's hat and both very drunk.  They were just sitting at their table, not talking to one another, looking like they were trying to take some deep breaths to avoid throwing up.  This is when I decided to write up a request saying: Can you play "Love Will Keep Us Together" by Captain & Tennille for those two boys at the back table?  That is when the evening kicked right back into high gear.


(Here is a video I found on Youtube of a night at Sluggers with people dancing with the pole on top of the piano.  I guess in this modern age you should be sure you won't be filmed if you decide to give pole dancing a whirl . . .)

The piano player with the Blackhawks jersey laughed his ass off at this notion, asked for the Captain's hat while he played that number, and launched into the song.  This was the Captain's cue, with or without the hat he brought, to dance around the stripper pole on top of the piano, drunkenly.  He then whipped his shirt off to reveal a pretty awful body and a plumber crack sticking out the back of his jeans.  It was looking like he was going to barf from all that spinning around or fall off and hurt himself, either of which would have made my night, but his partner (Tennille?) didn't seem amused or even interested in any of this as he continued to do his breathing exercises.  With a slight frame slab of a torso that went right up to his clean shaven bald head, Captain looked a lot like a real live dancing penis up there, and who would not be enthralled by that?  The security, that's who, and they came over and told Captain to put his shirt on and chill out, which he did but it wasn't easy because he continued to try to dance a little bit and he was drunker than hell; a drunk dancing penis trying to put on his shirt.

What a great night.  I woke up the next morning laughing, and when I saw my mom at dinner later that night, she laughed too when I told her about it.  Hope you enjoyed yet another tale from the bars, Seven Readers.  And now, Captain and Tennille . . .


(Doesn't Tennille sound like a bit of a controlling psycho type if you listen closely to the lyrics, like she might slice the Captain's dingy off if he ever strayed from the marriage?)

I Need a Little Help With Some Research

When you are standing at a bar, not sitting, but bellied up to the bar, how annoyed are you when there is no foot rest put one foot upon?  Three out of three men were extremely pissed off on Saturday night when the hipster bar we were at didn't have the God damn bar step.  Another guy couldn't believe he had to ask the staff to turn off the flipping Fred Estaire movie and put the Chicago Bulls game on, but that is another story.  One of the three actually said that his back will probably be hurting the next day for not having that all important-step to lean into and make everything okay.

How do you not have on of those things, for crying out loud?

 Thanks so much for leaving your thoughts on this matter in the comments.  With your help, I can make this an epic research project, maybe even get it published if I can get extensive research with 9 or 10 bloggers/drinkers polled.

Kerry King Went and Knocked Up Our Moms

Southie and I were watching professional football at the bar today, and we had one of those days where we kept finishing each others sentences.  At one point I was planning on making the exact same joke as him, but I was taking a sip of beer so he got it off first.  We decided that we must be related, so some awesome dude like Kerry King from Slayer must have knocked up our moms.  He would have been in his early teens before rock stardom, but I think he may have gotten it done, like maybe he was sent to boarding schools in Boston and Chicago when he was getting in too much trouble growing up in L.A.

Here is our dad with the guitar player from Megadeth in a name that tune competition in Japan.  And why does Marty Friedman speak perfect Japanese? 

Tasty Beers and Random-Ass Conversation

My good friend, LaFontaine, and I stopped into a new Brewery to review their beers.  Actually, he has knowledge of beers and has a site where he rates them, and my specialty is more in the area of engaging and notating the "Random Conversation" where I will relay to you what goofy things were discussed at the time we drank each one.  I'll give my "Impressions" of the beers too, but you'll want to go by Lafontaine's page for a more in depth analysis of that sort of thing if you are a beer enthusiast.

Atlas Golden Ale
Impressions: "Is this one flat?"
Random Conversation: LaFontaine and I were talking about a professional wrestling party that I am throwing soon, and he had to admit that, due to being a Black guy, he will have to go as Junkyard Dog with a giant chain around his neck and "thump" written on his ass.  We also decided that girls would need a whole other theme because we couldn't have 14 Miss Elizabeth's walking around up in that piece.

Demeter Belgian Wheat
Impressions: "I always like the wheaty ones better."

Random Conversation: I pointed out that LaFontaine didn't notice that I had grown out stupid-looking mutton chops this summer.  He said that he noticed them, but he didn't think I was looking for commentary on them.

Brother Mauro
Impressions: "This one says it has lychee aromas in it.  Who could give a beer a sniff and discern that it smells like a fruit I've barely heard of?"

Random Conversation: The men's gymnastics were on in the Olympics, and LaFontaine and I decided that if you show us a man who is good at the pommel horse, we will show you a man who has racked his craw dads horribly and painfully over-and-over again when he started doing it.  

Nalad Summer Belgian IPA
Impressions: "Citrusy!  Sunny Delight should make a beer.  Maybe it could come in the same bottle shape, only a 12 oz version!"

Random Conversation: I was telling LaFontaine how I had a dream that my girlfriend and I were staying at a hotel in Idaho for whatever reason, and she killed a couple people.  I remember that she had her reasons, and while I thought killing them was a little drastic, I was on board for helping her get away with it.  We paid with a credit card, which had me worried that if they found the bodies, police would have our names to use as a list of suspects.  Then I was trying to convince her that we should drive our asses to Mexico.  I asked LaFontaine what this dream might mean, but he said he stopped listening midway through and again marveled at how those gymnastics kids don't bang their testicles on that pommel horse.  

Diversey Pale Ale
Impressions: "Creamy!  Remember Creamsicles?  Was there a difference between those and Dreamsicles?"

Random Conversation: At this point LaFontaine and I were trying to decide which bar to watch The Bears this football season.  For me, whether or not they played "Bear Down" after a touchdown was a biggy, while beer selection was a deciding factor for him.  I'm confident that through perseverance, we can come to a peaceful resolution.  I have a dream - sicle . . . 

Hyperion Double IPA
Impressions: "I hate the hoppy ones, but shouldn't this be hoppier if it's double the IPA because IPA's are always the hoppy as heck ones that dry my whole mouth out?"

Random Conversation: I pointed out that LaFontaine's stuffy nose didn't sound as bad as when he came in, and we were thinking that if beer cured the common cold, Chicagoans would never have the slightest sniffle.  

Deep End Stout
Impressions: "This one is like drinking a steak!"  

Random Conversation: We were talking about DSL's, which is a crude acronym for women's lips, if you must know, and he was trying to convince me that NFL sideline reporter, Pam Oliver, was fine as hell in the 1980's and had some really nice DSL's.  I looked it up, and it wasn't easy to find a picture back far enough to convince me, but ultimately, he's right!  Thank you, google images.  

1871 Smoked Porter
Impressions: "I didn't care for this one at first, but the more I drink, the more it's my favorite one.  It's a grower, not a shower."  

Random Conversation: LaFontaine at this time mixed 2/3 of the Deep End Stout with 1/3 of the Double IPA, and we both loved it.  Two of the guys who worked there dug it too, and one of them had to admit, "I think you guys just discovered our best beer . . ."  Yes!  We are alchemists.  I then got a whole pint of the LaFontaine Blend, and then "sampled" (read "chugged") way too many Bud Lights with my buddy, Oates.  

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Again, swing by LaFontaine's page if you're curious what all these things actually tasted like, and I did another one of these called Night of the Horrendous Beer Tasting with my other good friend, The Locust, where we drank some of the most vile winter brews under the sun.  

What do you think, readers?  Any beer you could recommend?  Any ones that you would pass up even on the worst Friday of work of your life? 

big shitty

there is an after hours bar in chicago called big city tap, but everyone calls it big shitty.  when i say everyone calls it that, i mean everyone, to the point where i have actually never heard it called by its actual name.  you really don't go there unless you close out a 2 a.m. last call bar within walking distance.  you certainly wouldn't get in a cab to go there.

if i owned that joint, i would make some changes to the place so that people wouldn't think it was so damn shitty; either that or change the name.  the only other option would be to really embrace the name, maybe even use big city nights by the scorpions in a commercial, with city changed to shitty, of course.