Ronnie Wood's Christmas Memories

It was Christmas of '74 and I was touring with Faces when Rod asked me thoughts on his new lady. I told him, "Yea Rod. That bird's a right looker."

Later Bitches

Thank you all for your loyal readership over the last 5 months.

DR...out.

The Final Days

I don’t really have anything special planned or anything special to write about for the final days of the blog.  This week is a transition week for me as I’m trying to get back in the swing of things.  I have now set a daily alarm for 7 a.m.  The last time I awoke regularly around this time of the morning was November…so I expect it to be a little rough.  I’m also going to get an Illinois driver’s license once again.  Gone will be the days of clueless doormen trying to find the date of birth on my Nevada DL…it’s in the bottom left corner and is, in my opinion, as tiny as can be.  Other than that, it’ll be the usual grind.  Lots of TV time, a copy of Us Weekly, and a solo movie or two.

 

A Letter to Jim Gibbons

Dear Governor Gibbons,

Thank you for the weekly unemployment checks.  Not only did the $353.70 per week allow me to continue my normal drinking habits, it also gave me something to do.  When you have nothing else going on, the weekly drive to the bank can be a very fulfilling endeavor.

By the way, I never got that $25 a week raise.  Did the check get lost in the mail?  Are you using the money to gallivant around Carson City with various mistresses/prostitutes?  If the latter is true, don’t worry about it…keep it.

Keep on keeping on,

DR

 

Nissan Cube

Why isn’t the back end/window of this car symmetrical?  Am I the only one bothered by this?

 Air Fornicator

Saw this article a few days ago…entertaining.

Living at 800 Feet

The past month and a half at my parents’ house has been very interesting.  As some of you may know, my parents are both immigrants.  This means they have accents and use poor grammar.  Now, when I was growing up I never really noticed all this.  When you grow up with something, it just becomes a part of you…you learn to overlook it.  Over the last few years I haven’t spent too much time with my parents.  A nice combination of me living 2,000 miles away and, frankly, not being a very good son are just two of the reasons.  Now that I’m engulfed in it – their lives; their conversations – this shit is really pissing me off.

Now I’m not one to suck my own dick, but I’m a fairly intelligent speaker and writer.  How the fuck did that happen?  How did I rise above the improper conjugations and tenses?  Could it have been the fine public education I received?  Perhaps the long hours I spent reading as a child?  I may never know.

What I do know now is that for the first time in my life, I’m finding easier to not critique the spelling and grammar of others.  I haven’t had some profound un-pompous epiphany…I’ve just become too lazy.  It is so much easier to nod, smile, and avoid an unnecessary conversation.  They may not be too old to learn…but I just don’t care enough to teach them.
 

“Puke In My Mouth”

I’m not going to disclose the specifics of how I came across this video but I will share it.  Pretty funny stuff.

Also, from the makers of “Puke In My Mouth”, Ms. Taken.

 

My Drunkest Days

I wrote yesterday how Sunday could have been one of the top five drunkest days of my life.  What were the others?  Could it have been the three consecutive New Year’s celebrations that I missed because I was passed out and/or vomiting?  How about the night I drank 17 saki bombs at Three Samurai in Coralville, Iowa?  And we can’t forget infamous night during the Summer of Dan when I was so intoxicated that the next morning, while attempting to drive to class, I hit three parked cars and the fence while backing out of the parking lot of the Outhouse?  Nope.  Here are a few I’ve thought of.

Just to let you know…as you’d expect, I don’t remember much of these stories…so I’m sorry if they trail off.

 

Adventures in Tailgating

I’m well aware of the looks on the faces of those around me when I start to turn it on.  It usually starts with excitement followed by intrigue and then, of course, fear.  It was the fall of 1999 and I was an 18 year old freshman at the University of Iowa.  It was a warm Saturday morning and I was standing in a front yard wearing my “Official Kitty Swatter” t-shirt…a tailgating staple.  For further clarification, it was also the morning when McG decided it would be more time-efficient if he came to the tailgate directly from his overnight stay in the Johnson County Jail.

I was feeling it.  I had just had a rough week of classes (I probably attended 3) and was in dire need to let loose.  I bought my $5 cup, slammed the first one, and kept going.  After intentionally getting “Bull Moosed” – an archaic ritual where you can’t hold a beer cup in your right hand in a traditional manner or you have to slam it – a few times I started to feel it.  I was alive.

The hours rolled by and I was soon piss-pounded.  This is where things got very, very fuzzy.  I don’t remember much but I know at one point I was lying on the ground, packing handfuls of grass into the pockets of my shorts and encouraging all others around me to do the same.

I woke up the next day in my dorm room, covered in my own vomit, with pockets full of grass.  I think we can all see why my first semester roommate moved out.

 

Adventures in Tailgating, Part Deux

By my junior year of college I was a very proficient drunk.  A few weekends after I attempted to drink for 24 consecutive hours I was back at the tailgate field in a rip-roaring manner.  This Saturday morning seemed special for some reason but I didn’t know why until I got drunk.  “Running the keg” at a tailgate can be a very tedious endeavor to those who fail to think outside the box.  I am not one of those.  I spent about 2 hours running the keg with Dr. Mike, alternating pumping and pouring duties.  Who got a beer from us during those 2 hours?  Every guy we knew, every girl who remembered our names, astrological signs, majors, etcetera, and every guy we didn’t know who had cigarettes.  Good times.

After a few hours I found myself urinating in some bushes when I saw her for the first time.  She was a little older than me, a little beat-up, but still a strikingly beautiful banana seat bicycle…a girl’s banana seat bicycle.

I spent the next few hours riding my bicycle around the tailgating while keeping up my impressive drinking clip.  Once the football game started and the crowd started to clear out, someone decided it would be a good idea to roll empty kegs at me to try to knock me off my bike.  Next thing you know, I’m riding through a proverbial gauntlet of rolling steel…bombed.

This is where things start to get hazy.  Somehow, someway, I lost/ditched my bike and now I’m sitting in a lawn chair.  I lift my beer to the mouth and notice a type of rope around my arm.  After further inspection, I realize it is a leash and that there is a dog at the end of the leash.  Fuck.

All I can do is ask everyone around me if they know who this dog belongs to.  The name tag simply says “Beasley” and it doesn’t help.  I’m not sure what I was thinking at the time.  Perhaps this is a dog that I bartered my bike for.  Perhaps it is really my dog and I just never noticed before.  Clueless.

I sit with the dog for a few more minutes when a girl I know approaches me and says, “Thanks for watching my dog Dan.”  I play it cool and respond, “No problem.”

I’m not sure of the next events of the afternoon.  All I remember is walking down Melrose drinking a beer, chewing tobacco, eating a big ass turkey leg, and smoking a cigar when I saw my car drive by.  I hopped in and got a ride home.

Years later I told Kelly F. (nee J.) that I almost lost her dog.  She was less than thrilled to hear that revelation.

The Vegas Comp

Las Vegas is a magical place…until you go there for 7 nights.

It was night number 5 or 6 and I was at the Las Vegas Hilton enjoying a few cocktails at the bar.  You see, when you’re in Vegas for so long, you go everywhere…everywhere.  I had ponied-up at the bar with David (formerly of David’s Corner) and was enjoying my chardonnay.  My Maker’s and coke turned into several which turned into shots of Maker’s and then shots of tequila.  Look out!

There were two others in our party that night but for some reason they weren’t with us at the time.  Nevertheless, David and I continued to drink and talk to our 65 year old Cuban bartender.  Shot after shot continued to flow until I got up the head to the men’s room. 

As I stood up I noticed something…the room was spinning.  The floor, the walls, the people…everything.  I, somehow, maneuvered to the restroom and handled my business.  On the way back to the bar I made a wrong turn.  The combination of a confusing casino floor built in the 1970’s and my Keith Richards-esque state left me stumbling around near the craps tables.

This is where things become a little unclear.  For some reason I was standing at the craps table but I don’t think I was playing.  I just remember standing there for a few minutes before attempting to walk again.  What happened next was something I cannot embellish…I fell into the craps table.  Yup…waist at the rail and upper body on the felt.  Fuck.

Security was on the scene in record time and they quickly had me on my feet and were walking me towards the elevator.  They said something like, “Sir, I think you’ve had too much to drink...we’re going to take you to your room.”  I responded with a nearly-audible, “I’m not even staying here.”  The caravan then turned to the front door and one of the black-suited men got on his walkie-talkie and mumbled something.

We were then outside the casino when a black Lincoln Town Car with a Hilton “H” on the side pulled up.  The leader of the black-suit mafia gave me a handshake and slipped me a folded-up $5 bill.  I got in the back seat of the car and we were off.  The driver then asked, “Where to, Sir?”  I mumbled something about a bar back to him and we were off.  I tipped the driver the $5, got out of the car, and stumbled away.

So there it is…my first “comp” in Las Vegas.  $5 and a car ride to get the fuck out.  Side note…I vomited all over the place that night.

 

St. Patty’s Day 2K6

I love the Irish (except for the Gingers).  I also love St. Patty’s Day.  Honestly, it may be my favorite holiday.  St. Patty’s Day 2006 was a memorable one for me and everyone else around me.

It was the Saturday morning after I had just worked 70 hours.  I was tired, relieved, and excited about drinking all day AND having the entire next week off to go to Florida…where an old man would eventually drug me…but I digress.  I threw on my green t-shirt and hopped on the Brown Line.  The 10 minute train ride was unbearable as all I wanted to do was drink.  I hopped off at Sedgwick and proceeded to 1506 N. Hudson.

At 1506 N. Hudson I was greeted by the standard crew and a new addition, Jell-O shots.  They were green, strong, and just what I needed.  I must have popped about 15 of them in the hour before heading to McGee’s.  I entered McGee’s, headed to the back room, and started my mission.  Beers weren’t sipped...they were slammed.  As I drank beer after beer I noticed that this was not the standard effects of alcohol; something new was happening.  Why did I feel so strange?

The Jell-O shots!  Of course.  Something about the timing of their release was off and they all hit me at once, nearly rendering my legs useless.  I was doing something that doesn’t ever happen to me…falling down.  I couldn’t even stand.  People were trying to help me up but in reality they just wanted me to get out the door.

In this drunken state I decided to do everything in my power to destroy the life of the one man who was truly trying to help me…Lunchbox.  He was standing at the urinal…I was pissing on his foot from the stall.  He was in a porta-potty…I kicked in the door (it was a pull door).  He was on the sidewalk trying to plan his next move…I swatted his phone to the concrete.  He got me in a cab with him…I tried to fight the driver.

Somehow Lunchbox got me into my apartment and I made it into my bed.  I then proceeded to sleep for about 18 hours.

For about an hour on this day, I was the drunkest man in Chicago...no doubt.  For a brief moment, I could have gone toe-to-toe with anyone in the world.