01/02/2006 - 9:49 p.m. | it's there

The nice thing about writing an event six, eight months after the fact is that all the minor details have been burned away, leaving me with the core essence of the incident. Or that�s how you wish things were. As it is, shit was washed away, sure, but my mind for detail nets far more than you�d probably ever want to hear, even this late down the line.

This is the story of our journey to the Old 97�s concert in Chicago last� summer. (I�ll try to hammer down a date for that eventually)

I�m sure Missy came early, because that�s just what she does. I�m sure we didn�t get a hotel right up until the last minute because that�s what we do. We probably invited Smacko, but he didn�t come along because that�s what he does. Enough!
I can�t remember what we actually did in the time beforehand, but it couldn�t have been much. Probably worked at the Housing Authority (shudder - not a pleasant memory, that!), probably had awkward sex without conclusion, probably spent all of her money despite being gainfully employed at the time (although those bastids might not have paid me yet either). Anyway, this isn�t the stuff I remember, so we move on unto the weekend.

We left on Saturday, I believe, and much, much too late for either Missy or my own taste. We are punctual people, and Kyle and Shelly definitely are not. We did make it out the door, though, with quite a bit of booze in tow� meaning we drove about 40 miles before Kyle and I switched to the backseat in order to down brandy from the bottle. The Dairy Queen was the site of the exchange, which means we all had hellish soft serve concoctions with which to wash down our hell. And hell it was. I mean, I love brown shit as much as the next guy � I mean, it�s bad, but it�s not vodka bad. It has flavor, albeit bad, which makes it drinkable. A bad beverage is still a beverage (a beverage I can take apparent pleasure in choking down), whereas vodka is rubbing alcohol and therefore not fit for human consumption. Anyway, we tossed Shelly and Missy up the front (speaking something of the state of our relationships) and took turns with hits from the bottle of E&J or Christian Brothers or whatever, occasionally proudly holding the bottle aloft for passing traffic to see.

We differ a bit in our drinking strategies, though, such that I take little nips of the stomach churner and Kyle takes big ole gulps. He had some root beer right there for chasing purposes, but that quickly grew hot, perhaps leading to the invention of the Hot Carl right there. History in the making, friends! Don�t you wish you hadn�t missed it! We arrived in Chicago, and Kyle was right drunk, me right dizzy (but I wasn�t about to say anything). We found our little festival thing and piled out of the car, Kyle dumping a good third of the brandy into the root beer bottle. We�re ready.

We arrived a bit early for Mason Jennings, so we wandered around the tents and such for a while. Kyle talked to the Army, and I was easily coerced entered the drawing that led to that timeshare scam so many months later. I guess I never did win that PT Cruiser or whatever :( Willy Wonka set up a damn van or something, and I took great pleasure in filling my satchel with the long-lusted-after Tart �n� Tinys� until the teenaged narcs in charge noticed and closed the whole operation down. The girls looked at jewelry or whatever it is that girls do in social situations. Soon, though, we spotted our most interesting quarry: the Scientology booth (thinly veiled as some sort of stress test)! I worked up the courage (ah, remember when I had courage?) and went to talk to the bird lady first. She seemed nice enough, but I�m sure she was too low-tier to know about Xenu or anything like that. She handed me the two tin cans electron converters that were to test my level of stress. �So, what is this thing called?� I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well. �Oh � it�s called an �E-meter.�� Thank you, dear. So she tunes some knobs (all very scientific, I�m sure) and starts asking questions, trying to get a rise of me. Well, my needle anyway. Unfortunately, no matter what she asked about � school, money, lovelife � my little needle went only to normal levels on the old E-meter. Damn meds, kept me so regulated. I should have mentioned I was on them � L. Ron would have been spinning in his grave. Or Tom Cruise, in the hermetically-sealed ice coffin where he no doubt spends most of his nights. Anyway, I was worried she wouldn�t give her spiel if I didn�t actually have any stress, so I decided to fudge it a little bit. I started messing with the cans � shaking them a little, squeezing them as hard as I could, etc. Success! Apparently I was very worried about whether I�d see my friends after school ended! With an opening now, bird woman starts in her whole thing. �Have you ever heard of this book?� �Di-a-net-ics? Why, I�ve never seen that before in my life! What is it?� She goes on to explain how life�s stressors and problems can be attributed to underlying issues within the mind (Body Thetans, no doubt, but only an OT-III would know that). �Ohhh� you mean like in psychology?� Oooh, that was a mistake. Kyle said afterwards, �I thought she was going to kill you right where you sat.� She composed herself, though, and through gritted teeth managed to get out that psychology is a bunch of bull and that I should probably get this terrific book Dianetics. I�ll pass. I took a postcard, though, so I could stop in the local Scientology center. I shoved Kyle forward, giving him a look that suggested he shit on this poor woman with all of his vast knowledge, and took off so I could watch the implosion from afar. Unfortunately, drunk Kyle is a bit too nice for that sort of thing. We need to get the boy some coke, start confrontin� people.

Show was finally upon us, so we made our way close to the stage. Some girl stopped me. �Is that shirt from Threadless?� Obviously, this was a Chicago pickup line and, girlfriend or not, I was gonna get some tail. �Yes, it is.� �Oh! I think my boyfriend made that.� Well, shoot. As we got into position, Kyle finished off the rest of Hot Carl and started fishing around my bag for something to keep his buzz going. A nice warm water bottle of Skol sat waiting for him. Like I said before, brown liquor is one thing, but I don�t think I could choke down some vodka (let alone the shittiest of the shitty). Kyle couldn�t really either, but he continued to try, occasionally bursting out with a maddened �MORTAL KOMBAT!!!!� whenever the crowd got too quiet. I was about sobered up by this point.

Mason Jennings was all good and fine with his little Jewfro, even as the fat bitch in front of us kept blowing smoke in our faces. He played pretty much everything I wanted to hear (although he did not properly scream during �The Mountain� as he should have) and got Kyle and Shelly to like him along the way. We had no real desire to see, uh, the Spin Doctors (well, maybe a little, but not enough to wait around, �Two Princes� be damned), so we ran out and tried to find Ed Debevic�s. This is a lie. Kyle and I continued to pass the bottle while Shelly and Missy used Shelly�s shit laptop to try and get us there. Me and Kyle were happy just singing some classic Rockapella hits. Unfortunately, right as we arrived at the place, Kyle received a call from somebody from home, learning along the way that some guy he used to play Little League with had died. Valium and booze. This might not have been such a big deal normally, but drunk Kyle is the master of that weird smiley-cry emotion. He went out to sob for a while, ridiculous torn paper diner hat still haphazardly on his noggin, but was eventually cheered by the awful, awful �Star Trek: Voyager� shoot �em up game.

It was not quite the experience we hoped for. I mean, yes, my hotdog was shitty, but you don�t order a fucking giant hotdog expecting wonder. I�m talking about their trademark surly staff. Our guy was OK, but we really couldn�t get into the drunken yelling matches we had come there for. Again, historic day, as this may have been the first time the notion of �Smacko�s� came up. Smacko�s would be a restaurant event, like Medieval Times or some shit, where you pay a flat fee and just go to town. Smacko would be the only employee � chef, bartender, and waiter � and it would pretty much be the nonstop drunken argument we had wanted at Ed�s. You could order what you wanted, but he�d make whatever he wanted (and prolly shit in it as well) and call you a faggot if you didn�t actually eat it. �DOWN THOSE SHOTS, YOU PUSSY!� Trademark Smacko pose. He would be given free reign (and infinity booze) to make the customer�s life as miserable as possible � and they would love it. It could be a true cult hit, just the like the actual Smacko.

Speaking of Him, we were looping around after dinner, trying to find our hotel, and Kyle was getting annoyed that my alcohol consumption was not as great as it could be. So he calls Smacko and puts me on the line, saying, �Tell this faggot he needs to drinks some more brandy� (Only with more slurring). Smacko was more confused than anything, I would say, but that was undoubtedly due to the bong rips he�d surely been taking when we�d called.

Our hotel was listed as somewhere near O�Hare, but after circling the airport for half an hour, we finally realized how loose of an interpretation they held for �near� anything. �State-adjacent� chief amongst those. But we did track the place down, and Kyle and I, the two worst people to send into any such sort of situations, were forced into the lobby 1) because we had only reserved a room for two and 2) because it would seem much, much gayer this way. Pierre or whatever (I�m sure� we were at an Extended Stay) seemed unperturbed by our giggly, drunken antics and gave us our shit. Luckily, we were in the perfect exit-adjacent room for sneaking in hot biddies, which we did with great fervor. LET THE ORGY BEGIN!

OK, no. The most orgiastic thing we managed was running both the sink and the stove nonstop, making pot after pot of boiling water, just to waste their resources. Suckers!

In our wanderings, we had found a Target and gotten supplies for posters and inebriety. I recall I had some nasty Country Time lemonade mix (the very same? I�m afraid not) that I mixed with gin and Sprite to great effect. It was pretty much screwdrivers all around everywhere else, but the hotel had only provided us with two cups, leading to Kyle lapping orange juice and cheap vodka out of a bowl like an alcoholic dog. Somewhere, there are pictures.

Once there were posters and we were all a good bit tipsy and our options had seemingly narrowed, I got us started on a game of Truth or Dare. I am sure it was me because I always want to suggest gay shit like that. Even now, with New Year�s (and my *cough cough* flu) looming, I stare at my stupid bright yellow Spin-the-Bottle t-shirt and think, �Maybe this time it will happen!� I had an alienated youth, all right!

Anyway, we played the game for hours, all of us getting drunker and drunker. I wish I could remember more of the truths, because I�m sure some dark secrets were spilled in there somewhere, and I know that�s the stuff you wanna hear about. Unfortunately, all that stuck in my mind (even the next day) was like the three or four stupid dares we did before we got too drunk to move and do them anymore. Um� let�s see� either Missy or Michelle was forced into a lampshade helmet and blanket cape and sent down the hallway to disturb some poor people with talk of the Force, that was good. Uh� my own challenge was bounced back to me, wherein I had to piss on like twenty cars in two minutes, leading to this insane video of me flying through the parking lot with my dong out, doing this crazy rapid sidestep move and yelling, �Just a little more, buddy! Come on!� I was also sent to the front desk to ask dear Pierre for complimentary lube or condoms, I forget which (possibly something as specific as �anal lube�), with Kyle along to get video evidence. Unfortunately, the desk was closed, but Kyle and I made a pretty decent forgery and got away with it at the time. But I guess I owe you still, so you can make me do some gay shit some other time.

I know, I know� the secrets!! Seriously, though, the only things you ever ask about during this game are sexual, and my friends are all pretty boring in that respect. Well, not Spritz, but he�s not talking anyway. Everyone else I feel like I already know about, and it�s all like, �Yawn, blowjob in an elevator, blah blah blah.� Shelly doesn�t fake orgasms, she says, but I would really have liked a huge rift to start right then and there. Oh well � who can be so lucky?

We all crashed sideways on the bed (flashes of Texas) and somehow woke before checkout. Not enough time to shower, though, probably, so chances are we were one greasy party that day. Actually, I might have showered� Come to think of it, everyone might have� except Kyle, but he could certainly pick up the slack in the grease department. We got on the road again� except, with nowhere to go and hours and hours until the concert, the road didn�t have anywhere to take us. I�m not even sure where we ended up where we did. It seems like we were looking for somewhere to eat (based on the recommendation of Shelly�s laptop� which is to say it had the name of a place we picked at random) but went really far out of the way and really far back on the same path to go further in the opposite direction. It was stupid� but it killed time. Plus, Missy finally got to sit next to me in the car, which she had been whining about for ages. So there was that.

We found our quarry at last (some Italian place), but it was closed. Actually, everything was closed in this weird little Twilight Zone town we were in. Sure, it�s a Sunday, but any town that follows the Sabbath that closely is a worthy of a little uneasiness. So we walked the streets in the heat, stopping at the tiny little ceramic cars they had set up for photo-ops. Photos were opportune, you see. Except they were posed, leaving nothing to opportunity whatsoever, Theo. We found this fancy Mediterranean place that was nearly open, and they were nice enough to let us inside. I�d never had Mediterranean before, but in my mind I imagined mostly petting zoo animals: lamb, sheep, Shetland ponies. I wasn�t entirely far off. Good, though! I wish I could remember the name of the place (or the town), so I could give a proper recommendation, but it�s not like you give a shit anyway. The food was pricey, but strange and new and good (well, except Missy�s, but she doesn�t like things). When we�d finished, there were still lots and lots of time to spare, so we ended up taking a hookah at the bar. Mango, I think. Yucky. But what smoke isn�t, really? We passed the dutchie on the left hand side (or whatever) and tried to blow smoke rings and mostly looked like a bunch of retard college kids failing at being grownups. Which is true. Kyle ordered a Brandy Alexander which, come to think of it, was what we had been calling our root beer and brandy concoction up until that point. Turns out no one was ever stupid enough to mix those two things, though, and that a real Brandy Alexander was this big old ice cream fuckjob. Kyle choked it down willingly enough.

After we were all full to nausea with hookah smoke, we wandered ghost town for a little while longer and got some ice cream. Cake ice cream, in my case, which is fucked. up. I don�t like it when things taste like things that are made from entirely different things. It leaves too many questions. Superman ice cream doesn�t taste of man or steel, for instance, and that�s the way I like it. It tastes of ice chunks, because no one ever orders it! Excepting me.

All possibly stalls in this town now thoroughly wasted, we drove more towards the city, with a vague plan to see Millennium Park or something. It has a big face, you see, and at times it sprays the water all at you and all! Rudy� Unfortunately, Chicagoans don�t give a fuck about no god damned Millennium Park and every one we asked pointed us in a different direction where we should go. Maybe it was a conspiracy � some sort of city ordinance to keep us outsiders away from their beloved park of five years ago (four if you�re one of those number faggots). We did make it, though. �There�s the face.� �Yep�� �Let�s roll�� We did.

We were still quite early to the concert, so we parked on the pavement and drew out our last poster. It was so warm, however, that the marker began to malfunction, either not writing or kind of blobbing out like hot tar. Quality poster there, my friends. We looked like a convention of developmentally disabled Rhett Miller fans. That done, we began to make our way forward in the crowd, even though Bluesmaster Steve or whatever was still playing. Accent on the still playing. God damn blues guitar solos sound the same every damn time. Bweh-bweh-BWHE-newh, bweh-bweh-BWEN-newh. Blues fans are all liars when they say they like this song or this artist or whatever, because no one could ever possibly tell them apart. Bweh-bweh-BEWN-behw. There was some nasty bleached blonde fucking pasty wrinkly old vampire lady in her granddaughter�s Hot Topic clothes (she even had the black bag to prove it), and she was lovin� that bluesy shit, all gyrating and nasty, her stringy locks whirling about. She was the only thing between me and Missy and the front row, and luckily she left when Jamband McCoy left the stage, cheering wildly. Please, America, no matter how drunk you get� never have sex with that woman. I�d appreciate it. I ran to get Kyle and eventually found him in some deserted burrito shop, downing Mexican and beer at great velocity, playing his Gameboy. Oh yes � one of our drunken pastimes the previous day had been passing the Gameboy back and forth whenever someone died. It led to a lot of taunting if I recall (�YOU DONNA DIE, SUCKA!�)� much to our female chauffeurs� chagrin as they attempted to navigate tiny one way alleys filled with the Latin Kings and the like. Kyle was resistant to lead this air-conditioned haven, so I left him to it and reclaimed our spot,l checking out our fellow loser fans. There was one kid there, like ten years old, in a Rhett Miller shirt. If I ever have a son, he will be like that, poor child� like it or not.

Pause here for a brief thought. How will my kids try to rebel against my taste? I�m trying to think of what would be the opposite of the things I like. Clearly the hipster in me would say something about them listening to Top 40 to spite me (I CANNOT STAND CORPORATE MUSIC, etc), but I like shit just as much as the next guy. I could easily counter their rebellion, half-enjoying the musical stylings of Kevin Federline, Jr. [Possibly III, considering my mating habits]. I mean, I feel like I could enjoy at least a part of almost any genre� except butt rock. And there�s my answer. Little Glenn Plaid Walsh will be hitting the Ratt hard, and I will have to cringe then. Fuck.

It was the show then, and it was all right. I mean, of course it was. We were in the God damn front row. I�m sure I was being splashed by Rhett Miller�s very sweat. I guess they couldn�t play to the hardcore fans, though, so they had to stick to their more popular stuff. Rhett played the drums (poorly), and I got some decent Polaroids, including a midair shot of Rhett leaping during �Timebomb.� Money. A storm seemed imminent, but somehow it held off.

There was this guy next to us, a couple actually, but mostly this guy, and I�m trying not to hate him for all eternity, I�m tryin� Lord, but the odds are not in his favor. I was right there, right in front of Rhett�s feedback speaker the whole time. By all concert etiquette, setlist should have been fucking mine. But, no. Band starts playing �Timebomb,� shithead grabs. Motherfucker wasn�t dancin�, motherfucker wasn�t even singin�! Definitely no handmade signs was made. He just stood there unhappily the whole time, and then he grabs my setlist. Maybe destroying the happiness of others is what gets him off, I don�t know, but I paid my fucking dues. Luckily, we made friends with one of the roadies (We love you, Noah) who not only gave us his own setlist but Rhett�s very own guitar pick, hidden under the stage. Bite me, chubby Mexican prick!

After the show, we congregated in the back stage(ish) area and waited to see the band. Stupid motherfuckin� orange plastic snow drift fence was in our way, but we had signs and we had our voices, which we used to great effect. Well, Kyle sat on the curb playing Gameboy some more, but that�s just Kyle, isn�t it? So, we were waiting, and who should we run into but Julie from the set of the movie Missy and I had been in. No, not gorgeous, amazing Julie � the awful, overtanned one who had been flirting with the PA while we both did our walk-bys. Well, anyway, we talked and she was like, �I didn�t even know this band was going to be here!� tra la la la, but somehow she flirted with somebody in her nasty tight red dress and there she was backstage with all the other idiot teenie boppers they let by. And did she say a word about letting us in? Hell no! She didn�t know who the band members were, she hadn�t even heard of the band until we told her about them, and there she all up in their space? Inequitable! But still, we stood and waited. And waited. And continued to yell until Noah (oh yay, Noah!) noticed us and eventually got the band slowly in our direction. It was about as we expected. Ken was cool and remembered us and signed Kyle�s Gameboy, bullshitting with us as he did so. Murray was withdrawn and a little weird, but nice enough. Rhett was friendly and gay(ish), but he barely remembered our signs, let alone us. Plus, he didn�t seem to understand our sincere desire for him to stand around and be our friend. �You guys want something signed or something?� �No, Rhett. We just want to talk,� I think Shelly said. He didn�t get it. Oh well � I guess you�re either his fan or his friend, and the choice was made quite some time ago for us, wasn�t it? We stuck around for a little while longer, eventually bumping into Chandler from the Old 97�s show last time around. I believe I gave him my e-mail address. And we all know how well that turns out.

There was a drive home and some nasty McDonald�s and probably some other thing I don�t remember, but I suppose that�s about it. Or maybe it�s not, but there�s a two hour special about cleavage on A&E, and I have to go right now.