Because I am a masochist, I like to wake up around 11:30 AM, slowly drag myself into a ceramic prison cell where a mean wall demon shoots a single narrow stream of scalding hot water at me while I jump around naked and freezing except for the one square inch where the water hits where I'm obviously hot… and then upon escaping the prison I spend an hour or so burning parts of my body with an iron and putting paint on my face to disguise the fact that I am a really ugly person for the first hour of my life each day. After that I like to dress myself like a leprechaun, coat my throat with a truth elixir called Jamo and then (in this case) wrap myself in 13 layers of freshly plucked goose down to the point of no recognition (ski mask required) to walk the 1/2 mile into the heart of what is known as
St. Patrick's Day, Chicago, Wrigleyville, 2013
As do most of my posts about the beloved saint day, I don't particularly remember most of it. I do remember that I was spending the day with a new crew. I had plans to meet up with all the right people, friends from all over town. Of those people, the only one I ended up seeing was the one I ran into on the street on my walk north. We barhopped down Clark hitting any establishment that would serve us a shot/beer combo and after about 8 shots more of the Jamo and about a half dozen PBR/Old Style tall boys, we set up semi-permanent shop at a random ass bar called Roadhouse 66.
Of course we ended the day/night at GSP and naturally, I was asleep by 8 PM.
Fortunately, I did not lose a phone or a goose.