The Scent of Love

When F-Train is down ten bucks before everyone even arrives (because of prop bets based on WHEN people would arrive), it’s safe to assume things are gonna get out of hand.

Chicago…meet Out of Hand.

Some pre-bacchanal e-mails suggested that everyone bring enough cash for “bail money” and I can think of at least three weekend transgressions that could have caused the group to dip into that kitty. Considering, three isn’t bad.

I got to DP’s house relatively early on Friday. I’d have been there sooner, but the blue line train from O’Hare moved like a blue-haired lady. The stacked freeway traffic visible out my passenger seat window was moving quicker. The Rooster and Train periodically threatened me via text message to get my ass in gear so we could go to the taqueria. This prolonged my journey infinitessimally as I hadn’t eaten anything since a sausage and egg McMuffin at LAX 7 hours previous.

I finally did get there, speeding up the last leg of the journey with a taxi, and drained a local brew in the shade of DP’s back porch. Then it was off to Super Burrito for a…um…super burrito. Carne asada all day.

I was 8 (or 12 or 20) beers in by the time everyone landed for the Summit. A quick shower and change into Outfit #2 (Iggy: “Just the fact you guys are calling them ‘outfits’ is gay”) and we were off for a Festival of Meat, courtesy of the Argentinan Highlands. Tango Sur was the name of the establishment and the garlic-tinged scent of charred flesh taunted us as we waited for our table. So we waited in a bar next door where I forgot that F-Train is a prop bet money suck and teamed up with him to lose a pool match against Gaaaaaaaath and The Bracelet (I know something you don’t know!). Yes, totally F-Train’s fault we lost. Not mine. Not my one-ball-sunk-during-the-entire-contest fault.

The food was fantastic and even though we were cautioned the Flap Meat doesn’t come medium rare (because of the stuff…er…stuffed inside of it), mine was perfectly pink. The ham and cheese empenada to start was brilliant as well and it armed Bobby for his line of the weekend, in my mind. After a plump Latina showed me some drunken interest, he said to me, “You must smell like empenadas.”

Gold.

After dinner, we went and got some fowties, but the sweatbox nature of the bar, our already 7-hour bender and my inappropriate-for-the-humid-weather outfit choice made it less than comfy. So when Chad politely suggested, “Hey, let’s get the fuck out of here and go play cards,” I immediately jumped on his bandwagon.

For a brilliant synopsis of the ensuing session, see my esteemed colleague Grubby.

Tomorrow, I’ll finally get to the punching. Yes, you’ve read about it everywhere else already, but I know something you don’t know.

I have pictures.