Party Like It’s 1999

Because I was 22 then. And sometimes I like to pretend I can party like that. Until I wake up the next morning. Feeling like I got run over by a truck. More than likely a truck with thunder thighs.

Saturday night was supposed to be quite a low-key evening for yours truly. On tap was a going-away party for a friend of mine who is moving to St. Louis later this month. It was going to be a few drinks at Harry Caray’s and then home to bed. Somehow? Didn’t really go as planned.

It started off like that. I took the train down to the restaurant for a few drinks. Which was an experience in itself. Riding the Red Line after a Cubs game and on a weekend brings out all kinds. (Especially when you’re one of the sober ones.) Including the couple who decided to make out about one inch from the train at the Fullerton stop. They were garbed in their Cubs jerseys. I secretly giggled to myself. Because so “been there, done that.” I thought to myself “it’s so nice to be a grown up.” HA! During their make-out session, chick knocked dude’s hat off. It took them a full minute to realize that when you stand that close to the train? The only place for it to go is on to the tracks. Under the train. That you’re standing so close to! Heeeheeeheee.

Then there was this dude on the train. Who decided he thought he knew everyone getting on the train. Every guy that got on, he greeted with a “hey homey!” (didn’t realize people still said homey) and then attempted some new fangled hand slap/shake/fist bumpity thingy. That apparently only he knew how to do. He about scared the pants off some 12-year old kid who rightly had a look of “I don’t know this homey. Nor do I know where those hands have been.”

Once I got downtown, it was a good time. I had a great pasta dish for dinner. Met some nice people. Including this lady. She used to work in Tucson. And didn’t appreciate me calling it the armpit of America. Truth hurts, honey. No, actually, she was really nice. I told her the blog story. Secretly hoping she’d want to do an expose.

I didn’t know anyone besides the guy who was leaving. And one other dude that he works with. While sitting there chatting with some people, I met these two girls. Both very nice. The one is dating Walter Payton’s son, Jarrett. We hit it off and they were planning on heading out on the town. And asked if I wanted to join up. Correct answer? “No. I’m 29. You are not.” Answer given? “Giddy Up!”

So we went to some swanky place. Jarrett’s girlfriend had a friend who was an “industry” girl. Which I assumed groupie or something? All I know still is that she knows a lot of bar people and we didn’t have to pay cover at swanky place. And got a free drink. Which was good, since they were $9! For a drink! You know how much wine you could get for that? (As my friend said, that’s 3 bottles of Three-Buck Chuck at Trader Joe’s!)

After the swanky place, we headed to a new swanky place. It’s located on Weed Street. For those of you who don’t live here, I’ll just say I’m too old to be down there. So we get in line and “industry” girl and Jarrett’s girl get in. No cover. No problem. Me and the other girl? We just stood there. Apparently we weren’t going to be so lucky. And were expected to pay $20 to get in. I stopped paying $20 covers, well, I’ve tried never to pay that. Ever.

So we left. Because she too did not want to pay that much. So this other girl is pissed. Rightfully so. Her friend just ditched her and left her with a complete stranger. A totally awesome stranger. But a stranger nonetheless.

We hit one bar around there and then decided to head to Bucktown. Because it made complete sense to me to go even further from home at this point in the evening. Because? What do I care? Am 22-year old! No cares in the world! Am fucking moron is what I am.

But there was some good. I met a dude at this bar. And he was nice. And not 22, which is good. Because when you look like you’re 24 (I have a young face!), that’s about all you tend to attract. At least I do. So to fit with the theme of the evening, I made out like a 22-year old right there by the bar. In front of everyone! Woooooooo!

And then I woke up Sunday. In a gutter. Wearing a toga. And was supposed to go to the race track to meet Schwerer and Jenn. (I made it and won $14!) And I was pretty drunk through 80% of the afternoon. Which was displayed every time they announced someone at the track named James Brown. (I think it might have been the announcer or trumpet player dude.) And every time I was all “James Brown is here?” to then only remember “oh, he’s dead.” And then followed up every time with “maybe they are going to finally bury him here? Did he like the horsies?”

And this seriously happened every time. Out loud. And was always hysterical. Mostly to me.

Maybe being 29 ain’t so bad. If I could just act like it. One of these days.