There has been a notable absence at On The Rocks over the past few months, and for that I apologize. There’s been some domestication of yours truly, and frankly, there haven’t been many events worthy of recounting here. My alcohol consumption has waned a bit, but it’s still healthy. Rather, the situations I generally find myself in while drinking have become incredibly tame. Call it bad luck, call it maturity.
However, the last weekend in June presented the opportunity to break out of this pedestrian cycle, an opportunity presented to all men at least a couple of times in their lives. A chance to forget about the responsibilities of adulthood and revert back to the primal being that crawled forth from the caves, probably dragging a skin of fermented wine with it. An event sacred to males across this great land of ours.
And not just any bachelor party. No, this was for my best friend Cap, a guy I’ve known for 10 years and for whom I would take a bullet. Naturally, that makes me the best man, and thus I was the organizer of his last evening of freedom. He lives in Indianapolis, but we’re both from Chicago originally and that’s where most of the homies are at, so we made our way back to the Windy for the weekend.
The first order of business for such matters is to gather a crew. Ours consisted primarily of guys we knew from back in college, dependable cats that know how to have fun. (When I invited J-Boogie, he asked if he could bring a 40 in a brown paper bag. And he wasn’t entirely joking.) I also invited along a couple of buddies from my time in Wisconsin that Cap knew. My diabolical plan was to set them up in an epic, nightlong drinking contest with a couple of my South Side Irish buddies. That alone would be worth the price of admission. Rounding out the crew was Cap’s pops and his future father-in-law.
The next step was to find a suitable ride. This I did by commandeering a white 2008 stretch Navigator stocked with beer and full of all the neon lights, leather seats and other touches limos come with these days.
Finally, you need a good itinerary. Those who have followed this blog would expect our posse to be hitting the finest strip clubs in Chi, and normally, you’d be right. But the addition of the two dads – especially the father-in-law – led to Cap requesting that we avoid houses of ill repute for the evening. Needless to say, I was disappointed, but what can you do?
The first guys to arrive at Cap’s folks’ house in the west suburbs that afternoon were Hoz and Rac, my Appleton road dogs. They’d killed a 12-pack on the three-hour drive down and were ready to roll. Cap’s dad – a guy who likes to have a good time – had never met them, and couldn’t stop laughing at Rac’s mention that they’d cruised through some storms so bad that he’d had to ask Hoz to hold his beer so he could focus on driving.
I made a liquor store run and asked everyone what they wanted. Hoz: “Grey Goose, please.” As I turned to go, he said, “Wait. What about … Hpnotiq?” I screwfaced him so hard I think I pulled a cheek muscle. How the hell do you go from asking for Goose to Hpnotiq? Strange people, those Wisconsinites.
When I returned with the booze, I handed the bottle to Hoz. Cap’s dad – a 7 and 7 kind of guy – looked at the blue liqeur and said, “What is that, Smurf jizz?”
Part 2 coming soon.