Chicago, IL

Here's the Sears Tower before I start the Chicago story.
Ladies and gentleman, I have a drinking problem.

Rigoli took us to his ex-girlfriend Christi's place. I brought a 24 ounce bottle of Beck's and a larger flask bottle of Jack Daniel's, thinking it would be a short night. We get there, and the three of us are dressed like we would normally dress. The rest of the crowd is dressed up: sleeveless shirts or tube tops or slacks for the girls, polo shirts and nice cargos for the guys. Rigoli leans over to me and says, "Three of these things are not like the others."

I proceed to get drunk. A nice drunk. Drunk where, once we're moved inside off the top deck (yes, these kids make enough money to have a condo with a top deck, and an awesome view of the Chi-town skyline), I am still loud inside. But, thankfully, it doesn't matter, as we're inside, and the bitchy next-door-neighbor can't hear us as well.

Once the house party is done, we move on to a bar. We tried to go to the Matchbox. It is literally like a matchbox, and too small to accomadate the, oh, ten or so people we've got with us. So we head down the street to Mahoney's. This, this is where my downfall occurs.

I'm drunk at this point. I proceed to goad one of the girls into making fun of a baldheaded short guy outside: why, I don't know. She goes out and does so. Then when he comes inside and lambasts her for being a bitch, she rats me out. He tries to walk up to me and ask why I told her to make fun of him.

Uh, because I'm drunk, and you're a stupid-looking midwesterner?

I don't know if this came out, but it might've. Eventually, I feel bad for being a jerk, and I buy the guy a shot of Jameison. And I do a shot. And I keep drinking. And drinking. And drinking. Shots. Not mixed drinks.

Really, the rest of this story was related to me by Rigoli and EGo. Because I don't remember a minute of it.

I'm hammered. I get up on the stage where a DJ is playing. Soon, I jump down behind the back bar and start pouring vodka into glasses. The DJ has to come down and make me stop. I get more beligerent. I get more shots. I do one with the guy I made fun with. Eventually Rigoli comes up behind me. He hears me tell the kid I'm drinking with, "My friend is behind you, and he's really big." I buy three more shots; this time, I forget to pay and walk away, holding two of the shots. Rigoli pays for me. The bar is closing. We leave the bar. I run back into the bar. I'm dragged out. I run back in. I'm dragged out.

Then, we walk back. Well, I don't walk. I'm carried, sleeping kid-arms-around-neck style, by Rigoli. I tell him once to stop, but I don't puke. We go on. We get into the car. EGo is amazed by my ability to not vomit in his Jeep. (P.S. - EGo was sober, and is mostly why I'm able to have details about this night, though Rigoli remembers a lot of what went on, too.)

Once we get back to Rigoli's basement apartment, however, I boot outside of his door. Then we go inside, where I worship the porcelin goddess for awhile. Thank you, Rigoli, for babysitting me. After I'm done puking copius amounts, I pass out. In the bathroom. Sitting up against the shower stall. Mike has pictures, which I will soon post once he sends them to me.

At some point I wake up and stumble to the couch, where I pass out again. I wake up sometime at, oh, six in the morning, and I remember thinking to myself, "WOW! It's amazing that I didn't puke! I really had a lot to drink." Yeah, well, EGo set me straight once I woke up.

I time-traveled hardcore. I mean... wow. I've set a new record, even by my own standards.