Among my friends, we have a rule. When going out, never EVER say aloud that you plan on taking it easy, you're just having a couple of beers, you want to get up early the next day, etc.. Because as soon as someone utters anything to that effect, you've challenged fate. The barley and hops gods will become displeased and the night, most likely will end up butt-ugly. You'll take everyone down with you and even prayers to St. Intoxicatius--the patron saint of the drunk and disorderly--will not save you.
Last night I dragged a friend out whose name pops up on this blog frequently. Janel met me at the train station and we preemptively grabbed some food to ensure that we didn't end up in a gutter, in an E.R, or worse yet--speed dating. On the agenda was the Schadenfruede's Rent Party (the greedy bastards are making this a regular thing now--cool cuz now I know what I'll be doing every third Friday until 2036 when that asteroid hits Earth.)
Janel had plans to go out of town later today so she wanted to take things easy. "I'm not staying out late tonight," she cautioned.
Uh-oh. Now she did it. Immediately I knew there would be no rising before noon today.
"Ok. Sure. Whatever." I said and we both knew never to speak of it again.
After sitting at the Bucktown bar where Schadenfruede all at once terrified, enthralled, and entertained the masses gathered to help them pay the rent on their studio, we went to a post-show gathering at a bar a few blocks over on Damen. We weren't there very long before I noticed a pair of legs laying on the floor. I quickly made sure Janel was upright. She was, and dancing a little so all was good.
The girl was helped over to a chair near where we were standing. While she tried to get her shit together, I noticed Janel was kind of staring at her. Not only that, she was dancing--slightly at this point--while she was staring at Passed Out girl. It was pretty weird.
"Dude, cut it out!" I said. There is a drinkers code of ethics we adhere to. We never act soberer than thou if someone can't hold their liquor as well as corn-fed small town Illinois girls.
We continued our circuit training of beer beer cigarette beer cigarette cigabeerette beer when the incomparable Justin from Schadenfreude worked himself into a jukebox frenzy. (note: Jukebox Frenzy is a condition I identified in 1993 where one shovels a lot of dough into a jukebox in order to (a) play all their favorite songs from age 10 on, and (2) completely monopolize the joint's music so hillbilly skanks can't play Tobey Keith).
Now to the untrained eye, Janel and I dancing last night to Salt and Peppa's "Shoop" might have seemed like we thought we are good dancers. But in fact, it was an AUDITION for the next Schadenfreude show. A post modern study of the mother/whore dichotomy challenging the misogynist culture of Bucktown bars if you will.
And Justin, how'd we do?