And then the McRib went right through me...

There was an early-ish episode of The Simpsons where Homer buys stock in "pumpkins" right before Halloween.  In typical Homer Simpson fashion, he holds onto the stock far to long and ends up taking such a beating that he has to borrow money from Patty and Selma to keep the family afloat.  As far as Simpsons episodes go, it was ok, I guess.  However, since I don't understand finance at all, it did make me wonder things like "What if I bought stock in a company that produces fake snow in, like, October and sold a few days before Christmas?" or "What if I invest in Astroglide the moment I hear that Scarlett Johansson has a nude scene in the latest Bond movie?"

Yowza.

I realize this is a totally simplistic view of Wall Street--in fact, right now my banker buddy Brad is either giggling at my financial stupidity or his eyes have not yet moved from the rack above--but anticipating the next market and product upturn is sorta what it's all about to the individual investor.

Which brings me to why I was thinking about all this in the first place:  It can only help to invest in Charmin when the McRib returns every year, right?

"Lets see, that's five, six, yep, seven rolls.  One for each McRib I just ate."

That bear above?  It might as well have been me a few years ago.  Remember, I am the guy that once at 7 McRibs in 36 hours.  I'm totally not kidding: 

Here's proof.  Disgusting, disgusting proof.  

You can't quite read the full date up there but it reads "November 03 '06 (Fri) 12:40pm".  What were you doing on November 4th, 2006?  I bet you can't remember.  I, however, can.  The day following the ultimate McRib experience, I suffered through the worst hangover of my life.  Seriously.  I called in sick to work and everything.

Now, thinking I can handle 7 McRibs in 36 hours is the definition of hubris.  I am able to eat an astonishing amount of shit--even chicken long past it expiration date--without suffering any of the negative repercussions normally associated with such a stupid activity.  Krishni is kind of amazed by it.  But maybe I'm getting older and my insides have had just about enough of me pushing them around. 

I had a couple of McRibs today and wow, my intestines are unhappy with my luncheon decision.  I won't disgust you with the details but it was unpleasant.  Actually, I will give you one detail.  For whatever reason, the guy in the bathroom stall next to me was taking pictures on his phone.  I kept hearing the distinctive fake camera shutter noise they give phones now so Asian guys can't take upskirt photos on the bus without being noticed.  What could he have been taking pictures of?  What's that about?

Anyhoo, the point is I think I cured my need for the McRib for another year.  But I know that next year, I'll see the commercials and I'll get excited again.  I'll completely forget the pain this little bastard causes, I'll walk in to my local McDonalds with a big smile on my face, order two McRibs and devour them with glee.  I'll never learn.

I have seen the future, and it is delicious and fraught with pain.

"Bow down before my mighty rapture! Bwa-ha-ha-ah!" --God

For those that haven't yet heard, according to an organization called "Family Radio International", it looks like today is going to be another day of rapture.  If you recall, this past Spring, FRI spent millions and millions of it's followers dollars to spread the word that the day of rapture was finally arriving on May 21st, 2011.  Most of us woke up the next day, shrugged our shoulders and went about out usual business of sinning and sodomy.  Of course, that didn't help hundreds of FRI followers who sold their homes and spent their life savings to warn others of the impending rapture, who then found themselves up shit creek, alive and well, with no money to speak of.  All thanks to this guy:

"My bad."

The confused gentleman above is named Harold Camping and while he is not quite on the douche bag level of that closeted piece of shit who runs the Hillsboro Baptist "Church", he does seem to do more harm than good while being a mouthpiece for god.  He actually seemed to be looking forward to the rapture which--I guess as a 90 year old holy man--really must be better than death.  Also, he was 100% positive that May 21st was the day the rest of us heathens were to be left behind.

That is pretty funny considering he was also 100% positive that the rapture was coming way back in 1994, as well. 

So, apparently, today is the day.  Camping chalks up the May date as--seriously--a "mix-up in Biblical math".  I'm not exactly a student of the bible but it is my understanding that those of us not chosen to take the express elevator to heaven will be destroyed, leaving behind, I dunno, WALL-E to clean up or something.  Let's see what Harold Camping as to say about it:

"Thus we can be sure that the whole world, with the exception of those who are presently saved (the elect), are under the judgment of God, and will be annihilated together with the whole physical world on Oct. 21"

Well, shit.

Fortunately, I'll be in the right place for the rapture this evening.  Seeing how it's my birthday in two days, I'm heading out tonight for a night of drinking at Big Joe's 2 & 6 Pub.  I will surround myself with my wife, my friends and some turtles, drink cheap beer and await the four horsemen, or whatever god sends down to smite me.  Of course, as my friend Marc put it:

"I'll take my chances with the horses.  I bet the guy who wrote the bible wished he knew about tanks."

Today in Sheer Internet Joy

Clown down!  Clown down!

Calories and Jazz-Geriatrics

Many moons ago, Taco Bell came out with what I believe was the perfect drunk food:  the legendary Frito Burrito.  It was a simple concoction: chili, cheese, onions and Fritos chips wrapped in a flour tortilla.  It was spectacular.  Tracing it back, my devoted passion for Taco Bell may have come from the Frito Burrito and the Frito Burrito alone.

There was, of course, a dark side to this delicious treat.  CalorieCount.com gives a "C-" grade to the burrito that apparently features 60% of your daily allotment of saturated fat.  And it looks like this:

Raaawwwwwwwrrrr!

Sadly, the Frito Burrito was to be short lived.  It went away my junior year in college along with my dignity, waistline and most of my liver.  Little did I know it was just lying dormant and in disguise at another beloved fast-food calorie trough.

A few years ago, Sonic started serving the "Chili Cheese Wrap" which was the exact same thing, minus the onions.  Since I always picked the onions off anyway, this was a new and improved version of the burrito that was sadly only served at a restaurant that often teased me with commercials, but sadly the nearest location was about 200 miles away.  This might help explain why when Krishni and I arrived in New Orleans, we dined at Sonic three times and I ate three damn Chili Cheese Wraps.  Wooooooooo!  Calories!

But our trip to Louisiana wasn't all stops at fastfood joints.  No, we did lots of other stuff too.  After our first two nights in New Orleans, Krishni and I drove 240 miles to Deridder, LA, to stay with her Father and Step-Mother.

Frighteningly close to dirty, dirty Texas

They have a lovely ranch-style house located across the street from the Beuregard Country Club golf course.  The house is filled with some amazing art and antiques, as well as all sorts of hilarious knick-knacks like that $1,000 Egyptian throne you can buy through SkyMall:

 For the man who quite literally has everything

In the back yard, Jay--her Father--has planted what will eventually be a pretty amazing orchard.  He planted a few different kind of apple trees, a tangelo tree, a tangerine tree, a satellite peach tree...pretty much everything but a Frito Burrito tree.  But my, wouldn't that be fun?  It's a fantastic home made warm by the people within.

From Deridder, we roamed back to New Orleans and Krishni and I spent the night in a haunted hotel...woogetty boogetty!

 

"Your keys for your soul, sir."

Actually, the Dauphine Orleans Hotel is awfully swanky and normal looking:

But it allegedly houses three ghosts.  You see, back in the Civil War, before the fall of New Orleans to the bloody Yankees, the hotel was a Confederate brothel.  As the Hotel's website states:  "Haunted by Civil War soldiers and their well dressed ladies of the evening in the bar, May Bailey's, the hotel was once a bordello. It is said that at night, the spirit of the woman rearranges the bottles in the bar, as the soldier wanders through the courtyard."  Also,  "The beds are said to bounce and shake in the early hours of the morning and late in the afternoon" and people speak of the "sounds of ghostly moans in the rooms".  Brothel.  Moaning ghosts.  Beds shaking.  Get it?

Krishni claims she won the wife of the year contest because not only did she bring me to a hotel populated by ghosts, but she brought me to a hotel populated by "prostitute ghosts".  She still doesn't get it...she had wife of the year wrapped up the second we got married.

_______________________________________________

Our last night in New Orleans was a "hoot".  That's what old people say, right?  "A hoot"?  The terminology is important because of our activity of choice that evening:  The Obituary Crawl.

The final Friday we were in town, we stayed with Ruth Ann, Krishni's cousin who also stood up for Krishni at our wedding.  If you were present at the wedding, you may remember her because you either loved her or hated her.  Seriously, there was no middle ground.  Anyhoo, Ruth Ann--or RAM for short--just moved into a new place in the Quarter.  Her millionaire, eccentric, spinster of a landlord sent RAM an email inviting us to come along with this little club to which she was a member.  The club is called "Obituary Cocktail" and "meetings" are held a secret location each week.  That secret location is a fancy name for a "bar" that is changed from week to week.  The Friday we happened to tag along, the event was to be a pub crawl through the French Quarter.  Sweet!

When we strolled up to--again--Tony Seville's Pirate's Alley Cafe, I have to admit I was not prepared for the clientele of this organization.  Milling around the outside the bar, we found a hilarious group of rambunctious old people drinking absinthe and dressed to the nines with hilariously decorated parasols and feather boas...these septuagenarians were ready to par-tay!  Seriously, check out the members photos from their website:

 

Woooooooooo!

 

Woooooooooooooooo!

 Woooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Whatever.  This group was awesome.  They even hired a jazz band to lead our procession and crank out joyous little New Orleans-styled tunes as we danced our way through the streets from bar to bar.  Check out this super-short but still riotously awesome video with RAM leading the way:

The crawl was a ridiculous amount of fun and it was simply the perfect way to end our trip to the Big Easy.

You know, since I didn't get to a Sonic the next day.

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!

Christ-fil-A

My morning commute lasts about 50 minutes, give or take.  I usually take the 84 bus to the 147 bus and then walk the 3 blocks from Michigan Avenue to my work at 680 N Lake Shore Drive.  Sometimes, unfortunately, the bus gods don't play nice and I'm forced to take the Red Line downtown.  I don't have anything against the train...it's just louder, more herky-jerky, and is super-crowded by the time I reach my destination.  Today was one of those train days.

One bonus of taking the train to work is that the exit of the Chicago red-line stop spills out at the front door of Chicago's newest fast-food joint, Chick-fil-A.  Those of you from south of the Mason-Dixon line are well versed in the deliciousness of Chick-fil-A.  Those from up north likely only recognize the establishment for those amazing cows that urge folks to avoid eating beef:

Seriously.  These cows SLAY me.

This morning, my second bus was running late so I reluctantly took the red line to work.  However, such a travel annoyance comes with the promise of a delicious chikin biscuit at the other end of my commute.  I ordered my biscuit, waited, like, 30 seconds and a nice lady delivered it to me.  I said "Thanks!", turned around and started to walk away when I'm 90% sure she replied with "God bless you!"  As I said, since I was running late, I had already turned to walk away but I'm pretty damn sure those were her words.

Now, Chick-fil-A's politics are well known.  The company was started by a deeply religious man down in Georgia and their mission statement is almost as funny as those cows:  "To glorify God by being a faithful steward of all that is entrusted to us. To have a positive influence on all who come in contact with Chick-fil-A.   And serving deep-fried chicken sandwiches to everyone but fags." 

Full disclosure:  I may have added that last part. 

However, they have donated a ton of money in the equally-hilarious (and terrifying) "National Organization for Marriage" and have been involved in a number of discrimination lawsuits.  Because, you know, its ok to hate on queers and Muslims because, like, God and stuff.

So by all means I should avoid this place like the plague.  Like Target, they have an abhorrent political stance and I should not support either organization but damned if I don't like the joint.  The chicken sandwiches are really good.  Plus, they serve waffle fries and their single serving ketchup doesn't come in annoying packets, it comes in an awesomely convenient cup that you can squeeze in the traditional fashion or peel back the top and dip stuff into it:

How cool is that?  And why has no one thought of this before?

Returning to my experience this morning, it was odd to be preached-to at a fast food restaurant.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not gonna go all Jimmy Johns and boycott the place.  It's just weird.  Growing up Catholic, I'm used to being surrounded by god-stuff: crucifixes, flying through our prayer before dinner ("blessusohlordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromthybountythroughchristourlordamen"), morning prayers on the intercom at school, spending my Saturday mornings at stupid CCD class...I get it.  God is all around us if you want to believe that sort of thing.  I don't think, however, that if I was hit by a bus on Michigan Avenue later this morning, I would be granted the keys to the gates of heaven just because I ate a delicious $2 chicken sandwich and was blessed by the cashier before I did so. 

I dunno.  Maybe I'm wrong and the girl with the colorful beads in her hair that blessed me today is right.  And maybe I'm screwed anyway because despite my Chikin baptismal, I feel a dude should be able to marry another dude and "Christians" should just back the fuck off. 

And maybe--just maybe--nothing that occurred this morning matters at all in the cosmic scheme of things and all I really did was make a bunch of cows ludicrously happy because they won't face the slaughterhouse for another day. 

I'm sure we'll meet again soon at White Castle, cow.

I Got Assaulted!

I loved my dear Godfather very much.  He died about a year ago and most of the memories I have of him still bring a smile to my face.  For instance, since I lived in the city of Chicago he was 100% certain that I was going to be murdered. 

See, Don grew up on the south side of the city during the Great Depression.  He spent most of his (non-army) youth getting into all sorts of shenanigans, many of them illegal.  When he returned from WWII, he opened a blues club on the south side in a predominantly black neighborhood.  Some of the stories from this era are hilarious:  he once tried to buy out Muddy Waters' contract so he could come play at The Circus (his bar) and Mr. Waters politely declined this invitation...after lots of whiskey.  Another time, he got stinkin' drunk with Dinah Washington...after lots of whiskey.  Many of his stories began or ended with "after lots of whiskey". 

Anyhow, living in the city exclusively on the south side meant that he lived in a series of ever-changing and sketchy neighborhoods.  He witnessed his home turf--around Western Ave and, say, Pershing--go from German, to black to Hispanic in a matter of decades.  He viewed this change only through the eyes of a slightly racist, old-school Chicagoan who was concerned about escalating crime.  He then extrapolated the change in his neighborhood throughout the city and, in his older years, viewed any neighborhood in the city of Chicago as a death trap. 

He was not happy when I moved to Chicago and he spent the remaining years of his life attempting to convince me to move back "home" to the suburbs.  I called him on a daily basis as I left work downtown and since I work right next to the Northwestern "hospital district", he often heard ambulances screaming by as we chatted.  As a result, I heard lots of hilarious exclamations like "GOD!  We have to get you OUT of that damn city!" and "Don't walk down alleys, Michael!  DON'T WALK DOWN ALLEYS!" 

I consider myself--as I suppose many of us do--to be pedestrian street-smart...I know what areas to avoid and how to walk defensively.  One thing you cannot take into account, however, is the wild card.  For the purposes of the following story, that "wild card" was a "drunk, crazy, (perhaps) homeless guy". 

Marc and I had consumed many, many beers at Joe's on Weed for an intense college football Saturday.  Drunk on triumphs of Notre Dame, the Big 10 and $5 Coors Light pitchers, we took the Red Line up to my neighborhood and attempted to flag down a cab for the remainder of the trip home.  Immediately, a cab pulled up at Ridge and Broadway and a shaggy, flannel-clad guy got out of the cab and started to pay the driver.  To paint you a picture, on a very busy street, this guy was paying for his cab:

I hopped into the back seat and noticed that the guy above left his bag on the floor of the cab.  I crossed back over the seat and said "Excuse me, sir, you left this in the back seat". 

I should have known something was wrong with this character by his choice of beverage.  In his hand was a Natty Ice Tall-Boy that was sort of crumpled, as if he was crushing it as he drank.

"You can really taste the goat"

He sort of stared at me for a moment, as if he was trying to process what was happening.  I was still holding his bag out for him when he sort of snapped and said "Why the hell you got my bag?!?!"  I attempted to explain to him that I did not "got" his bag...I was attempting to return his precious cargo to him (for the record, within the bag was a bunch of napkins, what appeared to be a dirty shirt--god I hope it was a shirt--and another Natty Ice tall-boy).  The next few minutes were awkward:  an increasingly nervous cab driver was reluctant to do anything, this crazy dude was trying to climb into the back seat with me and Marc was forced to sort-of stand behind our homeless friend just waiting for his opportunity to jump in the back seat himself. 

Sadly, that opportunity never arrived.  This guy wasn't going to let Marc in so I got out of the other side of the cab, watched helplessly as our cab driver peeled away and Marc and I attempted to flag down another cab while this pissed-off crazy guy was yelling all sorts of slurs at me.  I tried to calm the dude down but that just wasn't happening.  He kept jamming his finger in my chest so I finally started asking him why he was doing what he was doing.  I don't think even he knew the answer at that point.  But he was getting really scary...I had even flipped open my pocketknife in my pocket by now.  Eventually, he grabbed me by the neck--hard--and I slapped his hand off me and said "You do NOT put your hands on me." 

Eventually, he just sort of wandered away, muttering the whole time and threatening us.  Marc and I did grab a cab and make it back to my place and we went to sleep behind the safety of my locked door.  But my neck hurt all the next day.  Not cool. 

I've lived in the great city of Chicago now for 10 years, almost to the day.  I've heard gunshots and witnessed some harassment going on but never have I had any direct experience in this type of thing.  I guess I can check that one off my bucket list. 

Don would have been happy about one thing though:  Crazy Drunk James Brown up there didn't assault me in a damn alley.