Peace out, 2011!

Happy Holidays!  (shhhhhh!  Don't tell Fox News that I'm continuing my assault on Christmas!)

It's been an interesting year, kids.  I celebrated my one year wedding anniversary with my gorgeous wife--who can totally do better, by the way--and last week we finally sent out our thank you cards from our wedding 19 months ago.  Look for yours in the mail today!

Sadly, my Mom died, which sucked immensely.  She continues to be missed.

Speaking of suck, I went to the Bears came last week and took my Brother-in-Law, Jamie.  Born and raised in the heart of Georgia, he is a true good ol' boy.  To properly prep him for his first heinous winter, I took him to his first Bears game last week, against the Seattle Seahawks.  Too bad the Bears forgot to show up.  I think the final score was 188-7 although I might be wrong about that...we couldn't have possibly scored a touchdown, right? 

We had the worlds worst seats--the only seats in the stadium, it seemed, where the sun didn't shine--up beneath the spaceship, 3 rows from the top, where ice from the exterior of the building kept falling on us.  It was damn cold.  However, we had been drinking since 10am and were quite insulated from the elements.  Our brave southerner?  Don't worry about that...the cold didn't seem to bother him:

"Fuck YOU, Seattle!!!"  --Jamie

Anyhow, I wanted to say goodbye to not only 2011, but to my fearless readership of 9.  I'm not permanently going away, of course.  But I'm taking tomorrow off, then it's Christmas, then I have a week off and won't return to work until January 2nd.  Why is this important?  Well, I pretty much only blog at work these days.

You see, the neighbor from whom we were stealing wireless internet had the audacity to move away at the end of October so we now find ourselves without the interwebs.   Combine that with the fact that Krishni's family is coming in town for the next 9 days and I fear I will not find the time to slip away and pound out a decent entry on my iPhone.  Perhaps, if we're all lucky, I'll get liquored up on Christmas day and blog something like "Blargh shompum WINE!  Bby Jesuss?  Snata!  WINE!".

However, if I do not get that opportunity, I just wanted to thank you for reading my other drunken comments this year.  It's been fun and when I finish my "Evil Jesus" screenplay, you all will be the first to know.  After Krishni, of course.  And my Dad.  And probably whomever Krishni tells.  So, you'll be, like, the 16th through 24th people to know.

May Santa leave you coal in your stocking.  Because, you know, we'll need that to keep warm once the economy collapses.  It never hurts to plan ahead.

Merry Christmas, all!  With or without the "Christ".

Happy Pearl Harbor Day! I've been laid off!

On Sunday morning, December 7th, 1941, the Japanese Navy launched an air assault on the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, thrusting the United States headlong into a world war since made famous through the tireless efforts of Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett. 

Veterans will say that the real heroes are the 405,399 Americans that died over the course of the war but we all know it was these dreamy fellows.

"Only" 2,402 Americans died in the attack that day but the damage had been done: for the next four and a half years, the United States would find itself in the lowest of lows before eventually climbing back up and achieving a bittersweet, ass kicking victory.  And it all started 70 years ago today. 

If you know a WWII vet, give him a hug.

In other news, I was given my 60 day notice last week, although--we've been informed--it might not take nearly that long for me to find my fat ass sitting on the couch every day.  We're really "working" day to day at this point.

A few years back, I found myself in an unadvance-able job at Steppenwolf Theatre Company.  I loved that job but they couldn't promote me any higher and I eventually grew frustrated and quit.  Now, lots of people have quit their jobs over the years but I was in the odd position of not having any real prospects when I did so.  I did not have a job lined up nor was I thinking of going back to school.  I just up and quit.

I wasn't at all nervous when I did so.  I gleefully drank my way through 3 awesome months of unemployment and then depressingly drank my way through 3 terrifying months of unemployment before landing my current position electronically jerking-off old dudes.  Being forced into unemployment during the worst recession since, what, the outbreak of World War II while I have a mortgage and a wife who can already do better than me?  Again, terrifying.  

When I left the 'Wolf, I considered just applying for a job at Borders for a while to take advantage of their discount or at Taco Bell for a few weeks since I thought that would be hilarious.  Borders is out now (damn you Amazon!) but I suppose Taco Bell is still on the table.  Although that won't really jive with how much weight I've gained.  What should I do in 2012?  Let's bring it to a vote:

What should Mike do in 2012 before the Mayans destroy the world?

1)  Get a job, deadbeat!
2)  Write a screenplay called "Evil Jesus" that has a tagline of "He'll convert you...straight to HELL!" (and a poster of Jesus, in sunglasses, aiming a .44 at the reader with a caption of "Nail this")
3)  Sit around and make Newt Gingrich jokes
4)  Develop a meth problem
5)  Develop a math skill
6)  Declare for the NBA Draft
7)  Launch my porn-star career under the name "Johnny Thursday"
8)  Gain 60 pounds
9)  Lose 20
10)  Work at Taco Bell.  Is it your destiny

Take the poll in the upper-right hand corner of the blog and let me know what you think.  I've even made it so you can select multiple answers.  Enjoy!

(seriously!  Go hug your WWII veteran!  You don't have much time left...)

Thanksgiving 2011

I LOVE Thanksgiving.  It is--by every calculation--my favorite holiday of the year.  Sure, I'm filled with childish glee come Christmas...who isn't?  Except for our friends of other faiths, of course.  Also, as discussed previously on this blog, Halloween is a truly special time to go barhopping.  And while it is not a government sanctioned holiday, the NBA draft absolutely should be, in my humble opinion.

However, none of these holidays holds a special place in my heart quite like Thanksgiving.  Why do I love Thanksgiving?  Because it is all about food.  No presents, no pressure; just eating and drinking.  And napping.  And football.  And family.

This Thanksgiving was a little bittersweet as it was the first major holiday without our beloved mother and her wonderful stuffing.  To lessen the pressure of the occasion, we all chipped in this year and it became sort of a Thanksgiving Potluck:  Dad made a Turducken, his famous gravy and the mashed potatoes, my brothers-in-law chipped in with stuffing and green bean casserole, Peggy made a spot-on Red Velvet Cake from my Mother's recipe, I brought the pies and Krishni made a truly bad-for-you batch of southern-style dinner rolls.

Of course, we all brought champagne. 

And god did we eat.  Over the 36 hours I was at my Father's house, I had probably 5 slices of pie and 2 slices of cake, two full meals of stuffing and gravy and, for ceremonial purposes and nothing more, a chunk of turkey. Clearly, I'm carb conscious. 

We also celebrated my adorable Godson's 2nd birthday with remote controlled cars and trucks, played with a bunch of toys at Toys R' Us, watched a ton of (bad) football, buried the kids in leaves in the unraked back-yard, saw the new Muppet movie--it was awesome--and drank a considerable amount of wine.

Considering this was the first major holiday without Mom, I consider it a smashing success.

Now, about the extra 10 pounds I am carrying around after the weekend...

Today in Sheer Internet Joy

As you might imagine, I participated in many drinking games in college.  We played all the traditional ones:  Asshole, Oblivious Pursuit, 99 Bust-a-Rhyme (known at other Universities as "Kings Cup"), Beer Pong, the Star Wars drinking game, Quarters, Circle of Death, etc.  When we didn't have any other options, sometimes we created the games; left with only a nickle, an empty cup and all the beer we can drink, Marc, Shannon and I created a game called "Pump Factory" that got us obscenely drunk one night at The Hut, the fast food joint at the student union run by an awesome chick named Carmen that really liked us...we purchased beer for 20 cents on the dollar for all 5.1 years I was in school. 

One night, about 5 of us had a ton of beer but nothing to do and we had a conversation about who--currently, historically or in fiction--we thought it would be awesome to have a beer with.  What started as a simple, philosophical discussion became a full, knock-down drag-out argument that had us rushing around our house looking for people to break ties on who you'd rather have a beer with: Bill Clinton or Freddy Krueger.  Since it was March when we were having this argument and college hoops had been on our TV for the last 72 hours, we set up a full, 64 person bracket, expanded our voting pool to about a dozen people and whittled it down for a final four.  The final four of the "People we'd most want to have many beers with" was:  William Wallace (we were obsessed with Braveheart at the time), Han Solo, Jesus Christ and Indiana Jones.  If memory serves--it at really doesn't--Han Solo won in a close final over Jesus Christ. 

I miss college.

Considering we had a fraternity house full of engineering students who could create a bong out of just about anything, I'm shocked and disappointed that none of us ever came up with this AMAZING idea:

"You sunk my battleship and I seem to have pissed my pants."

Hello again!

Let's just start here:  I'm dehydrated.  Damn dehydrated.  At some point this week, I plan on being normally hydrated again but until that point...christ I'm dehydrated.

Holy hannah, New Orleans is fun.

The Big Easy...that's where I've been for the last few days and that's why I haven't been blogging like a good little blogger.  I would have alerted my stunningly good-looking readership of nine but I didn't want some of the seedier sides of said readership--I'm looking at you, Mary Kate--to take advantage of my vacation and rob my condo blind whilst I was away.  She probably would have left me only with a camera and a toothbrush, for whatever reason.

"What kind of sick bitch takes the ice cube trays out of the freezer?"

Anyhow, my gloriously beautiful wife and I traveled down south for a week to visit her Father and Step-Mother, take in the sites and consume entirely too much alcohol.  Here's some stuff that happened:

Day 1:  We arrived in New Orleans, ate at Sonic about 5 minutes after we left Enterprise Rent-a-Car (Helllllllloooooooooo Frito Burrito!) and made our way to her friend Kendra's house.  Kendra is a cool cat who was in our wedding and has a lovely apartment not too far from the Tulane campus.  She took us out to a proper deep-fried NOLA dinner, we had a few beers and then we went to what amounts to a state fair:  Gretna Fest.

Gretna, apparently, is a suburb of New Orleans and--from what I could tell--is pretty much Tulsa with a river.

Wanna go?  No?  I don't blame you.

All of the white trash fixin's for a good state fair were present and accounted for:  Guys in Harley t-shirts?  Check.  Women who shouldn't be wearing tube tops?  Double check.  Deep fried things you wouldn't think to deep fry?  I ate deep friend brownies.  Coors Light?  Oh hell yeah.  Arrests?  We witnessed many.  What's left of Lynyrd Skynyrd?  Can't you smell that smell?

 Hint:  It's either you guys or Katrina.  What?  Too soon? 

To be fair, we couldn't actually see Skynyrd...they were playing on the other side of the levee and there was an enormous crowd.  Misery loves company, I guess.  But we sat in the grass on the far side of the levee and took in their musical genius.  In a word, the whole night was "awesome".  I will admit that sometimes I miss the hilarity of Tulsa so it was super-fun to go to a festival that celebrated all that is white trash.  Also, I don't know if AC/DC has, like, a house in Gretna or something but I saw soooooo many people sporting black AC/DC shirts.  Odd.

I was the designated driver that night so it was promised that we would go balls to the wall the next night in the French Quarter.   And that we did.  We headed down to the quarter to watch the Saints game the next afternoon and I met up with an old buddy from Benet where we proceeded to have many, many beers before getting one of those godforsaken Hurricanes (or two?  Maybe three?  I dunno) and roaming around the quarter for the rest of the night.  We ended up at an absinthe bar and closed the place out with the bartender, the bouncer and this rather strange couple from Chicago.  This is where the night got weird.

The guy actually owns a goth corset company.  I don't know if you know anything about me but when there is a dude who owns a corset company in the room, I talk to that guy. 

Pictured:  Hawtness

And yes, that was the most PG-13 picture of a chick in a corset I could find.  Although, when you google "Gothic Corset" many, many terrifying pictures come up.  Like this:

Oh, dear god.  

And this:

 Why?  Why, god, WHY?!?!

So I'm talking to this dude and his wife who own a gothic corset company.  Honestly, I don't know how or why the subject came up but we started talking about Vlad the Impaler.  As his name might imply, Vlad Tepes was not a nice guy.  He ruled a section of Europe in the 1400's then known as Wallachia and was constantly at war with the Ottoman Empire.  As his name suggests, his favorite mode of torture was to impale a person on a (text far to awful to type) by inserting (text far too awful to type) while it slowly (text far too awful to type) until it emerged (text far too awful to type).  Also--and I cannot stress this enough--he was Bram Stoker's inspiration for freaking Dracula.  Clearly, he was just a super, super good guy.

Vlad "Giggles" Tepes

1431–1476

Anyhow, my new gothic alterna-friend at the absinthe bar was trying to convince me that Vlad the Impaler was anything other than a terrible human being.  He was passionate about it.  Like he had written his gothic dissertation on the guy or something.  At this point in my evening, I was (super) drunk on beer/hurricane/vodka/absinthe/etc and I was ready to fight him tooth and nail on the subject.

As you may well know, I am a bit of a history buff who has some knowledge of the serial killer because I read far to many books on the subject.  I recommend Colin Wilson's The Mammoth Book of the History of Murder if you want a fabulously-entertaining-while-being-equally-and-sufficiently-horrific bathroom book for your loved ones this Christmas.  While he is not technically a serial killer--"asshole" is the better term--within that book, you will find a nice little section on our good friend Vlad. 

My corset creating bar-mate kept going on and on about why Vlad was such an important leader but he oddly refused to acknowledge all the horrible things Vlad did, suggesting they were "media creations"...as if CNN and Fox News have an ongoing smear campaign against Vlad Tepes.  To put this in a modern historical context, it would be like if a guy insisted Adolf Hitler is viewed unfairly solely because he built the autobahn.  He kept saying things like "He reinvigorated the local economy!" and "He created a set of laws that is still used there today!"  All I kept saying was "His name was Vlad the fucking Impaler." 

No, I assure you my arguments were more intelligent and eloquent than that.  Although the words above did spill out of my alcohol blessed mouth more than a few times.  The moral of the story?  I guess it's this:  never get into a heated argument about a guy named Vlad the Impaler at an absinthe bar in the French Quarter called "Tony Seville's Pirates Alley Cafe" with a guy who owns a local gothic corset company and is sporting the greasy pony-tail-and-goatee-combo of a virgin Dungeons and Dragons player.

Let that be a lesson to you.

____________________________________________

Tomorrow:  More trips to Sonic!  I stayed at a haunted hotel!  I went on an "Obituary Crawl"!  I'm likely still dehydrated!

Victory is Mine!

I won my fantasy baseball league!  Wait, Wait, strike that...I finally won my fantasy baseball league!

You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues.  Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game.  I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports.  Check it out:

2006:  John .316, 2nd Place
2007:  The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008:  Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009:  Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010:  Shark Week, 2nd Place

But finally, a team of mine broke through:

2011:  Fat Jesus, 1st Place

Woot!  Woot!

It wasn't easy though.  Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals.  A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft.  Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.

Seen here tattooing a ball into orbit

Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation. 

As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games.  There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion.  And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game:  Albert Freakin' Pujols. 

I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game.  And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907.  My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.

He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning.  Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league.  So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat.  It was simple:  If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win.  If Albert made an out, I would win.

At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me. 

Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out!  "YES!  Victory is mine!  Wo-hoo!  Wait, why is he still in the box?  Christ, he fouled off that last pitch!  No!  Nooooooo!"

I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment.  I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat. 

Happily, that was not to be.  On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside.  I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five.  We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes. 

Thank god for stupid shit.  What would life be without it?

Krishni Returns Today

And let my liver be the 1st to say, "Thank you!"

Nah, just kidding.  While I did get a bit messed up on one or two nights, it was actually a pretty relaxing 10 days for me.  There were several nights where I was tucked neatly into bed before 10pm.  I really only pushed myself to the limit the day of my court hearing and even then, I was passed out by such a reasonable hour that I woke up fresh as a drunken daisy the next morning. 

As you may or may not recall, I had a few goals for my bachelorhood week.  Let's see how I did:

Walking a mile.  Total.
I may have walked more than a mile.  There is no way of knowing but I will say that I probably dropped more on cabs than I'm used to spending.  I'll count this as a win for me and a loss for exercise. 
Pizza.  Lots of it.
You know, Brad and I got a pizza the 2nd night Krishni was gone and I never ordered it again.  Granted, it was a mondo Art of Pizza pizza* and I ate off of it for the next few days but still.  Dominos surprisingly didn't get a dime of my money and I am pretty sure I can throw an empty beer can from my couch and hit the store. 
Movies.  Bad ones.
My short list:  Jennifer's Body (loved it), Predators (probably not good if you're sober), Cool Runnings (ditto), Futurama's Bender's Big Score and Bender's Game, Grown Ups (laughed harder than I ever thought I would at this movie.  I still think Kevin James sucks, though), The Hot Chick (yeah.  This one was not good) and Waterworld.  Because it never gets old. 
Drinking.  Heavily.
Had a fantastic boys night out on Friday night and the last drink I ordered was a "bourbon and orange juice".  Let's just say the conversation and camaraderie was better than that last drink. 
Porn.  Lots of it.
This was my next day.  All day.   
Sportscenter.  On a constant loop.
I was tremendously annoyed that PTI wasn't on all week.  Damn it. 
Baseball.  Picture-in-picture with Sportscenter. 
The friggin' Sox.  Just when I left them for dead they run off a 6 game win streak just to get my slim hopes pumped up before they punch my optimistic ass right in the head.  College football, why won't you get here faster?!
Tacos.  Lots of them. 
I ate the hell out of some tacos when Mel came over to watch the season finale of Supernatural (you know, the one that aired, like, 4 months ago?  Thank you DVR).  And my wife will be happy to know, all tacos came with actual vegetables in addition to copious amounts of fat, sodium and cholesterol. 
Mario.  In all incarnations.
I did, in fact, beat Mario Wii again while she was gone.  I guess what I'm saying is I did accomplish something. 
Pants.  Not gonna wear 'em.
Wait!  Clearly I accomplished two things!

So, it was a pretty good week but I'm glad that it ends tonight upon my gorgeous wife's triumphant return.  Fortunately, my bachelorhood isn't totally dead...she's returning just in time for football season!  Notre Dame kicks off on Saturday!  Woot woot!  Get your green on, babe!

I am truly living the dream**.

*if you are not familiar with the Art of Pizza, it is this FANTASTIC stuffed-pizza joint on Ashland Ave here in the city.  Folks, I've eaten a lot of pizza in my day.  Far more than you.  And I have never in my life eaten better pizza than the Art of Pizza.  Trust me.  Order today. 

**I am allowed to watch the game on Saturday, right Krishni?  Right?  Krishni?  I love you!

Exhaust, meat and glorious, glorious smashing

I've stated many times over that the number one thing I miss about college is waking up specifically to drink.  In my fraternity days, on the morning of one of our parties, we would wake up at 8am for an event called "Drivers and Donuts".  We would set up for the party that A.M. and eat donuts and drink screwdrivers.  Thus allowing the collegiate overachiever to get drunk twice in one day.  Three times if Rum Fest happened to fall later that afternoon.

I don't often get the opportunity anymore to wake up and pound beverages; Opening Day is my only remaining event that requires morning drinking.  However, I still seek out events where I can--at the very least--drink all day.  Which brings me to this past Saturday's spectacle, the "World Famous Figure 8 Trailer Race" in Rockford, Illinois. 

The trailer race is exactly as it sounds.  Well, not exactly...it's also a demolition derby.  What it boils down to is an all day event at the Rockford Speedway but most of the day is a series of short-track, NASCAR-style races.  We tend to wait until the last possible moment to enter the stadium since I have absolutely no interest in NASCAR.  Why people pay their hard earned money to sit in the sun and--as George Carlin once said--watch redneck jerk-offs drive 500 miles in a circle is beyond me.  After these races, roughly 20 yahoos who have been building and modifying their shitty trucks for the past year, pull onto the race track with the intention of destroying every other vehicle in sight.  This part of the event is very white trash.  This part of the event is also a ridiculous amount of fun.

The rules are simple:  a hillbilly enters the race with a car/truck/jeep and attaches a car/boat/camper to his vehicle via trailer.  Said hillbilly then drives around trying to destroy every other trailer on the track until one hillbilly with a trailer remains.  You can stay in the race as long as your vehicle is drivable-ish and still retains the trailer.  And did I mention they drive in a figure 8?  Words cannot adequately express the mayhem that is unleashed upon the track.  Hopefully this video will do the trick:

My friends Mary Kate "Perpetually Pregnant" Terberg and her husband Dirk host the event.  Apparently, Dirk and his friends have been coming to to the Rockford Speedway for the race the last 11 years.  And boy do they go all-out.  They're the 1st to arrive in the parking lot, they stake a tent and skull-and-crossbones flag near the beer and proceed to drink for the next 8-10 hours.  This year, they had pulled pork catered and grilled all sorts of delicious, delicious meats.  At the chef's suggestion, I piled a mountain of pulled pork on top of my cheeseburger and now have a new favorite way to destroy myself from within. 

 Proud sponsor of the 2011 World Famous Figure 8 Trailer Race

As the title of this post indicates, the race was glorious.  I was surrounded by good friends, good meat and some weird rodents that filled the parking lot and increasingly baffled our party as we consumed more booze.  We ate, played catch, mocked the trash and peed in a field (dudes only).  We smuggled in beers, watched 45 painful minutes of NASCAR races and ate some oddly good fried cheese from the Rockford Speedway.  And we watched 20 rednecks with names like "Spark Plug" and "Whitey" and "Caterpiller Miller" destroy each others vehicles in a truly American example of overzealous waste and fury.

We will, of course, return next year. 

USA!  USA!

Soooooo Sleepy...

As you might imagine, I have a lot on my mind these days.  Normally, this doesn't affect my sleep patterns but last night was different.  By all means, I should have slept soundly:  I was awakened by my new upstairs neighbor vacuuming above my head at 9am on Sunday morning and Brad and I had dined at Garcia's yesterday afternoon which is a meal that would put any mere mortal to sleep.

Pictured above is a Garcia's burrito.  Only mine was smothered in melted cheese.

But I got another dose of bad news last night and it all just kept me awake.  It probably didn't help that my dinner yesterday consisted of 3 cookies and 2 glasses of vodka (a meal I like to call "The Drunken Girl Scout").  I would say I got 2 hours of sleep last night which is all well and good for a Saturday but terrible when I have to go to work on Monday and cheerily help grown men masturbate.


Because of my status as a member of the walking dead, this morning I am drinking caffene.  This is not a problem for most of the world.  Millions of Americans rely on a cup of coffee in the morning to kick-start their day.  In my case, though, while I have many vices, caffiene is not one of them.  I rarely drink the stuff and when I do, I get a little...weird. 

People don't believe this but I've never in my life done drugs.  I've never been "high" in the traditional sense.  However, if I have just the right amount of Mountain Dew, I start giggling, dancing and generally get excited about the dumbest things*.  And then I crash.  Hard.  So I have to continue adding caffeine to my body and riding a delicate wave that will keep me awake while not offending callers that desperately want to remove their pants**.


A few years back, I was on a road-trip with my buddy Brad.  When we stopped to gas up at some station in rural, rural Ohio, we found--much to my delight--that the gas station sold Jolt! cola.  I drank 2.  For the next hour or so, I sounded an awful lot like Roberto from Futurama:

I don't enjoy behaving like this.  Should I drink more of the stuff to even out my behavior?  Or is it a good thing that I don't drink caffeine too often?  Whatever.  I just look forward to getting some proper sleep tonight.  If only for Krishni's sake. 

*For instance, I was trying to think of something silly that I would get excited about and the term "Handjobs from Kittens" popped into my mind.  I laughed my ass off internally for a good 3-4 minutes. 

**Yes, I am well aware that it took me 3 tries to spell "caffeine" right.  I left that in as an example of me riding the caffeine wave and not giving a damn. 

He he he!

Krishni can tell you this:  I giggle a lot.  Maybe it's my obsession with Disney World but I try to keep a little whimsy in my life.  Krishni and I had a good guffaw when I watched Enchanted for the 1st time; I pointed out to her that that she was clearly the Patrick Dempsey character in the movie and I was clearly the Amy Adams character.

That's me on the left

To be fair:  of the two of us, I am far, far more likely to tell a cancer joke; but I do have a much more whimsical view of the world than she does.  And if that means that I get so excited about certain activities that I showcase a mile-wide smile and giggle uncontrollably, so be it. 

There are 5 scheduled days in each calendar year that require giggling:

1)  Opening Day
2)  Thanksgiving
3)  My fantasy baseball draft (I'm cool)
4)  My Brithday
5)  The NBA Draft

Opening day needs no explanation:  Brad and I start drinking beer at dawn, we eat fatty foods and watch baseball in the cold.  Te-hee!

Thanksgiving is hands-down the best-est of all holidays.  Thanksgiving is all about stuffing a turkey, stuffing me and hanging with the family by the fire.  What could be better?

My fantasy baseball draft involves pizza, wine and poor decisions around the 23rd round.  Krishni enjoys this day on a much different level than I do...she still thinks it's cute.  However, this day, sometime far in the future, will also be known as "The day Mike's wife finally realizes what a loser Mike is and packs a bag and slips out forever without her husband noticing because he's staring at his computer screen and deciding whether its a good idea to draft a closer in the 12th round or wait until the 18th.  While giggling."

It will be a very sad day. 

My birthday kicks ass because I've never had a problem planning my own birthday party.  Why not plan a day celebrating me where my friends buy me drinks?  The better question is:  why don't all of you do this?

Which brings me to the NBA Draft. 

For those not in the know, every year most of the best college basketball players leave school and enter into the NBA draft.  Each June, these players are selected by each NBA franchise in an order roughly determined by the previous years record; typically, the worst teams get the higher picks (meaning 1, 2, 3, etc) and best teams get the lower picks (28, 29, 30, etc).  There are two rounds worth of players picked over the span of about 5 hours. 

The draft is tonight. 

Honestly, I'm not sure what draws me to the NBA Draft.  On the "Mike Jacklich Personal Sports Hierarchy", the Bulls come in 4th behind the Sox (1), Notre Dame Football (2) and The Benet Academy Boys Varsity Basketball Team (3). 

While I love baseball and college football more than I love NBA basketball, I've always, always love the NBA offseason more than any other league's offseason.  Last years was epic:  the free-agent frenzy that centered around LeBron that directly and indirectly affected about half the league when it came to off-season moves and contender statuses will never, ever be topped.  It was so much fun to follow.

This year, we have equal drama:  a potential lock-out and the cancellation of a chunk of the regular season.  Truth be told, I love lock-outs.  I think they are absurd.  Millionaires arguing with billionares over a bigger slice of the pie...it's fun on the oddest of levels.

Back in college, there was a lockout that I followed closely.  It was pretty funny.  The owners quickly learned that most players actually lived paycheck-to-paycheck just like many of us do.  The only difference, of course, is that while I'm trying to decide how to best payoff my two credit card balances that don't total more than $2,000, NBA players were dealing with an entourage, house payments on 3 different properties, 6 car payments, servants, chefs, wives, girlfriends, 1 to 10 kids, family members begging for money, gambling debts, lawsuits, VIP rooms, strip clubs and hookers.  It was a lifestyle that was killing the players.

At some point in the middle of the lockout, the players floated the idea of having a "charity" game for some of the guys that needed cash or for players that were "only" making the league minimum which, at the time, was about $270,000...Patrick Ewing, the Hall of Fame center for the Knicks, was famously quoted as saying--in a tremendously poor attempt to gain public sympathy--"Sure NBA players make a lot of money, but we spend a lot too."  Boo-freakin'-hoo, Pat. 

The Draft tonight is just the 1st part of what I like to call the NBA's silly season.  Why do I love the draft?  Well, it's a bit different this year:  we have a pretty weak draft as far as the quality of the players being drafted.  Because of that and since there is no real consensus on who is going to go where, there should be a ton a trades and GMs across the NBA are going to be trying to unload salary before the lockout.  Chaos is always fun. 

Also, back in college we played what was, in retrospect, a horribly racist drinking game during the broadcast.  Rules included "Drink for players with cornrows" and "Drink 5 if the player hugs a Mom but there is no Dad present" and "Drink 5 when a white guy gets drafted in the top 20, finish your beer if he's picked 1st overall."  It got worse than that, too.  But hey, Bonzer T's Homeskillet is PG-13, remember?

So, tonight I'm going to sit down with some booze, my home-made NBA Draft t-shirt, some fatty foods and a ridiculous smile on my face while I watch the NBA landscape change.

There will be giggling.

Stupid Hospitals

I had a bad weekend, but not nearly as bad as a few people I know and love.

You see, both of my parents went to the hospital this weekend.  Different hospitals.  For 3 night stays.  Ugh.

It all started with my Mother turning orange.  For those not in the know, my Mother was diagnosed with 4th stage colon cancer back in October of 2005.  Wednesday, October 26th to be exact.  Why do I remember that date?  Because when all of my other friends were celebrating the Chicago White Sox closing out the Houston Astros in the 2005 World Series--probably with beer, champagne and hookers--I was shell-shocked with my family over this devastating development.  

That's just like my Mom...always looking to overshadow the 2005 World Series Champion Chicago White Sox with her cancer.

Anyhoo...where was I?  Ah, yes.  My Mom turned orange.  Like this:

 Seriously. 

It would appear that a growing tumor that her doctors have been keeping an eye on eventually pushed up into her liver and caused her liver to, as her doctors (probably) put it, "go all batshit wonky".  The words "draining" and "bile" were, in fact, thrown around far too frequently for my comfort.  She had surgery on Saturday and they put a stint into her liver causing it to function like it is supposed to. 

Which brings me to my Dad.  You're going to need to brace yourself for this story, kiddos.

Before this weekend, by favorite Don Jacklich story went like this: For those of you that have never met my Dad, he's not, um, concerned with his personal appearance.  Here is a pretty good representation of the way he dresses, 75% of the time:

I draw special attention to his work pants that have not been washed since the Carter administration.  Those are not camouflage pants, in case you were curious; that is years of paint, glue, concrete, spackle, gunk, goo, inflammables, snot and oil.  He is not a fashionista.

My Dad has never been one to shower.  Before you think I'm piling it on, he does bathe.  But he exclusively takes baths and never, ever showers.  A few months ago, he couldn't find any soap for his bath; this, of course, is a problem if one wants to wash off 2 days worth of concrete.  What is a man to do without soap?

Never fear, my Dad has always been great at improvising.  Take, for example, the time he attempted to cauterize a wound with Shoe Goo instead of a bandage.

 Seriously. 

Hunting around his house in search for soap, he came across what he felt was the next best thing:  Tide Detergent.  The powdered kind. 

 

Again.  Seriously. 

Powdered Tide!  Powdered Tide that he still uses for his baths to this day, by the way.

I love this guy.

Which brings me back to the new "Best-Don-Jacklich-Story".   My Father loves my Mother terribly.  He is so adorably devoted to his wife, it brings a tear to even the most cynical of eyes (ie: mine).  He dropped my Mother off at Northwestern Medical downtown, kissed her goodbye and made his way to his car.

As he was walking, he felt a tingling in his left arm.  He was carrying a heavy briefcase in his left hand so he swapped the case over to his right.  As he continued to walk to the car, he couldn't help but notice that the tingling continued, escalated to pain and he found himself with a shortness of breath.  This man needed medical attention.

Let's take a break for a poll.  What do you think Don Jacklich did?  Did he:

A)  Turn around and head back to Prentice Womens Hospital to speak to my Mother's doctor?
B)  Walk over to the Northwestern's ER and check himself in?
C)  Get into his car, make his way over to a congested-with-construction I-290, leave Chicago, drive 35 miles back to Lisle, park his car and call 911?

Anyone who selected choice "C" gets a cookie.  To recap:  My Father--very clearly having a heart-attack and with a history of heart trouble--left one of the world's best and most renown hospitals and drove home 35 miles so he could dial 911 to get a ride to another hospital. 

Jesus-hopping-Christ.

He's ok.  Turns out, he needed a stint replaced in his heart from his triple by-pass in 1997.  The day after his surgery he was his normal obnoxious self and two days later he was drinking wine and eating Bubba Burgers with us.  Not sure that is what is supposed to happen to a guy who just had a heart attack but more power to him.

Krishni, who is much smarter than me about such things, said my Mother's condition obviously is the greater long-term concern but my Father was much closer to death this weekend than Sheila.  What a dumbass.  But now that we know he's going to be fine, you can't help shake your head and laugh at a story like that.  

Incidentally, Sheila is ok as well.  She's eating again and we're looking to put some weight back on her.  She was in good spirits and overjoyed that 4/5ths of her children came back in town to visit her.  We all had a terrifying-yet-ultimately-fun weekend together.  And Krishni has been great through it all.  I do love that woman.

For those looking to help "Operation Sheila Weight Gain", she likes pie.  For those looking to help me cope with all of this, I like booze.

Specifically, Ron De Jeremy

Oh. My. God.

I proudly present the only rum I will ever drink again:

Wheeeee! Opening Day!

I was going to write a hilarious moment-by-moment account of my Opening Day experience with Brad but the truth is, it would have looked something like this:

8:37 am:  Open 1st beer.  Take shower with said beer in hand.
10:01 am:  Arrive at Brad's.  Brad and I play 'Thunderstruck' by AC/DC for 90 minutes while consuming many beers.
12:15pm:  Arrive at Comiskey Park.  Consume many beers

***scene missing***

5am:  Awake in Brad's bed with no pants on.

I know that somewhere in the middle, I ate a kosher dog, tried the new 'Ball Park DiGiorno' pizza stand, left the game early since we sorely underestimated the weather and were freaking freezing by the 7th inning, went to The Rail on Damen Ave to eat and kill 2 hours (drinking) before the Bulls game, drank 17-20 beers between the two of us before, during and after the Bulls kicked the living shit out of the Celtics, smashed in some more pizza and arrived back at Brads.

For the record, that was 15 hours of drinking for the two of us.  It's been a while since I tied one on like that.  Our bartender at The Rail even bought us a totally superfluous shot of Jameson.  She really, really didn't need to do that.

Oh, and the White Sox won.  So, except for the part where I woke up on Brad's couch, went to his bathroom and instead of returning to the couch, I just crawled into his bed with him, it was a pretty good day.  He might beg to differ.