November 1st, 2010
The Week That Was 10.31.10
How’s everyone feeling? Still a bit hungover perhaps? I know that after two full nights of sleep Halloween festivities are still lingering in my system. Then again, some of you might have been smart enough to not hit the bottle (literally) like I did. Halloween was but one night – even though it seems we could celebrate it three straight days this year – in a week full of other stuff to do.
400 Pound Gorilla
There’s not a better way to start a week than taking Monday evening by storm with business for The Loop Scoop. With a meeting scheduled to discuss the addition of a new writer, I showed up to Onion Creek a little early to try to get some reading done. I ordered a coffee and received an Americano at the behest of the bartender. “I don’t know how long that shit has been sitting there,” he said of the regular drip coffee. When I handed him my plastic to pay he said, “hold on one second. I’m going to give this right back to you. Apparently they don’t like the idea of the dude with all the tats holding on to people’s credit cards back here.” I went to Onion Creek for the coffee and the peace of mind, but ended up with an amateur comedy show. Here’s to you, Brian or Matt or whatever name I eventually forgot. Thanks for the memories and the suggestion of the 400 Pound Monkey that you recommended.
Making a Doubter Out of Jesus
Friday night, or as I like to call it, Halloween 1 of 3, took off with the requisite trip to a house party of costumed merry-makers readying themselves for the Ghostland Observatory concert. Freds and Wilmas, Skeletons, Gold Diggers, Indians… ah, the first taste of All Hallow’s Eve. My crew of non-pretenders crashed the little party in street clothes ready for a party of a different variety. We were off to Chuck Prophet’s show at the Continental Club. The 20’s and 30’s crowd of revelers were left for a predominantly 40’s and 50’s group. I’m never quite sure why there is such a marked difference in age groups. If I had to make a wager, I would say that most of the people going to Ghostland were about as vaguely familiar with their brand of electronica as would have wanted to see a good southern rock show. But oh well. It’s their loss. Even though I lost out a bit too, I’m sure.
Pumpkin Massacre 2010
If you asked me to pick one photo that summed up Halloween (2 of 3) for me this year, it would be the above. Slicing through a stack of pumpkin shells with an axe while a cigarette dangled out of my mouth and the bottle of Scotch hiding out of frame. Then again, nobody did catch the photo op of me falling from my perch on top of the chainlink fence as I tried to escape the party by vaulting and vrooming away. Lying on my back, sweaty, dishelved and blitzed was probably more of a Kodak moment. There was a certain intention to make our way down to the Montrose Pub Crawl on Saturday night, but all bets were off by the time Flip Cup began and pulls directly from the bottle of Scotch started. My cries of “let’s get drunk” were not lost on the gods of debauch earlier in the night. Thankfully, I handed over my keys without too much of a fight and got myself chauffeured home. Apparently, on that short car ride from Montrose to the Heights I took a call from the party hostess. My chauffeur tells me that the conversation was short and sweet with, “I’m being driven home at the moment. Yes, it’s that bad,” being quote of summation.
Amazingly, I woke up on Sunday morning with little to no hangover. Perhaps that’s because I was still drunk. That’s not the point. The point is that parties like that of Saturday night were made for being retold on Sunday afternoon. Eight of us met up for dinner at Star Pizza on Washington to fill in the stories that were blacked out from the night before. “You jumped the fence?” “Who puked in the bushes?” “Pumpkin guts all over the yard?” “Shots at a gay bar?” “You texted your landlord what at 3AM?” “How exactly were you dancing with a vacuum cleaner?” Surely we’re still missing bits and pieces of the evening, but from what I gather it was a pretty great time. Over slices of the Chicken Alfredo and Salsa Verde pizzas we laughed at the ridiculous animals that we morph into when alcohol infuses our blood streams.