i want to believe, in my heart of hearts, that it was a fluke. that the last time i visited the pioneer/hero's/zero's five dollar all-you-can-drink grainbelt premium night and found my beer of impetus substituted for busch lite -- that it was a one-time thing and that the pioneer/hero's/zero's keg keepers have returned to the regularly scheduled beer.
this does not prove to be true. i consume five dollar all-you-can-drink busch lite like a common high school sophomore. and jello shots, like a common college sophomore. i try not to think about who actually baked these jello shots and the quality of their hand sanitizer. raspberry is my favorite.
in the cab on the way home, i am telling chuck a story "...blah blah blah he totally reminds me of [landlord's] brother."
"landlord?" the cab driver interupts. "i know landlord."
"oh yeah?" i say.
"sure. i drove him home last nite," she says. "his girlfriend is a bit of a handful."
"i'll say," i say.
"she jumped out of the cab and threatened to walk home," the cab driver spills.
"that sounds about right," i tell her.
only in duluth. only in a cab-a-ray cab.
i spend two hours in my bathroom willing tinkle to exit nearly as soon as it is formed. to pass the time, i play canal control -- one of two games on my cell phone. i'm wildly unsuccessful at this game, and think that anyone who walks the city streets should be glad to know that i'm not allowed to be an engineering sort.
while i'm tired of this game, everytime i take a time out, i continue to see structures and pipes in my head and it lures me back to the game. i see that i can no longer use a sarcastic tone to discuss some people's willingness to whittle away their life in front of computer solitare. this is worse. this has a catchy soundtrack that i refuse to mute.
finally, when i'm able to walk again, i go to walgreens and discover cystex -- a new form of UTI pain medication that costs twice as much, but promises to stave off the infection as well has numb your piping. why i never ... i pop these suckers like they are jalapino flavored jelly bellys and begin the arduous process of trying to cure my own infection through gross quantities of water and by injecting cystex into my veins.
we are going to have fun! and i'm going to simulate fun by drinking vats of bar pour agua and wearing a perma grin. 'tis not often, these days, that a whole mess of us can be at the same bar and the same time. jcrew is in town and moptop-less. the rockstar calls looking for some action. even my landlord wants in.
we go to keyport to sing karoake. by the time we cross the bridge i've decided that since sunday i am going to have my uti professionally repaired anyway, i may as well bring the pain tonight.
"since i'm going to urgent care anyway," i tell chuck.
when we get to keyport, the karoake seating is empty and the dj is on stage covering the new kids on the block's "step by step" for absolutely no one.
eventually our table fills and other tables fill and the rockstar, who is actually a rockstar, sings some blondie. jcrew is rapt. she surveys the crowd.
"do these people even realize what they're hearing?" she screeches. "they should have to pay her 20 bucks to hear her sing. they're getting this for free!"
"hey!" jcrew announces to those within earshot. "listen! you're lucky you get to hear this!"
when two buxom women perform a duet, chuck says to me: there are a lot of boobs on stage.
then he repeats the comment to sea-dawg, who studies the stage and adds: "there are at least five."
chuck performs a sort of gritty satanic version of "hit me baby one more time" and jcrew and bubbles provide background girl-on-girl grinding. chuck is killing the song, and seadawg says: "is that weird that i'd rather watch chuck sing this than bubbles and jcrew grind on each other?"
i sing "goodbye my lover" with the intent of using james blunt's voice and i'm predicting that it is going to be hilarious. in my head. about three words in i realize a) i don't sound like james blunt; b) there is nothing funny about this song; c) i need to try to forget a and b for the next two and a half minutes.
we'd all, on thursday night, been invited to a garage party in proctor called "bacon fest," my former roommate said. "in honor of my favorite food."
it is his birthday party, and when the karoake stops, beer fest is still ... um, crunchy? nah. sizzling. we take a jeep cherokee full of fun to the garage. there is music, there is bacon, there are enough 20-somethings to rival stargate on new year's eve and there is ...
chuck and i challenge the winners. a girl whose name i forget, and my former roommate's new girlfriend. in the time since my former roommate and i have shared a duplex, the rules of the game have become bastardized. now, suddenly, it is okay for the defending champions to lean lean or make waving motions over the cups i'm aiming for. this is the stupidest game i've ever played. don't get me wrong, it was stupid before, but this is completely obnoxious. i bring in a referee who explains the changed rule.
"men can't block the cups, but the girls can."
this is why i don't frequent proctor garage parties or any other sort of bacon festival.
my former downstairs neighbors serenade me with the song "cold as ice" like they used to before they knew me, when they partied in the apartment below mine until the sun came up and went back down.
i'm oddly flattered and think "this must be how lindsay lohan feels."
my former roommate plays "since you've been gone" and us ladies belt out the words.
my landlord puts duct tape over his ears, calling the move: white trash ear plugs.
"i could use a white trash blind fold," chuck muses.
"it's called beer," my landlord says.
yes, today is the day i'll finally make the trip to urgent care. i spend two hours involved in some unflattering situations.
we tour mount royal fine foods. i decide to move there, as it is an exact replica of what i want my life to look like.