You’re a bettin’ man eh? Well your league blows

Between no hockey and no work ethic, I’ve decided to sit down and revisit the Chicago trip. *Gulp* Mmm, sodium pentothal.

Okay, Part I:

(Day 1)

I arrived in Chatham at 6am from Vancouver, slept, and departed at 4pm. –ish. 4pm-ish. This will be a recurring theme.

Oh great, the car’s already musty.

We pulled into the parking lot of the hotel in the early evening. Say, 9:30ish. Nice enough hotel, but the entire area around it looked like a crummy neighbourhood in south Chicago, for obvious reasons. No wonder we got a good deal. But rest assured, for three proper gents like us could surely converse our way out of mere muggery.

“Excuse me, sir, your balls are showing. BOYS! RUN!!!”

"Phew, were his balls really showing?"

"Yeah, but he said that’s in style now. Low pants."

Ultra-vintage. Pre-loincloth.

So we threw every bag into the room and every brew into our bodies. And hit the streets.

The first bar area we went to was called the Viagra Triangle, so we felt entitled to stiff the bartender. But we got there at 10, so by 2am we were worried that we should’ve stopped. I called the doctor and he said, “I’m not a real doctor, but I have a PhD.” He must have been using already.

*That stanza was a lot to process; please rest your brain for a minute.

Man, my memory’s coming back like Will Ferrell in the Old School debate, this is great.

We left around midnight and circled the block to see if any other bars were worth checking out. Dumb idea, I know. We’d have to check them out to know if they were worth checking out, right? College doesn’t teach you street smarts.

Walking right back into the same bar seemed like the cool thing to do. But this time we sat at the other end of the same long table and gave the same order to the same bartender. He won’t be doing drugs again anytime soon.

And that very table is where we met our soon-to-be best American friend. No names, just the call of a crow (only two of you will understand that, sorry). The long and short of it is.. my hair. Apparently I was a few inches too lengthy to be the real Tim Riggins (and I also have a better Texan accent), so some work had to be done. Needless to say I woke up with about 3” less hair. Unilaterally. But hey, don’t worry Rob! One side’s always bigger than the other, right? Well, I disagreed.

I thought, man this is balls.

Exactly.

The next day.. is for another day. I can’t write too much for fear that you might begin to skim over things. I’m just doing what’s best for both of us. I think we should just read other blogs for a while and see how we feel.. If Part II is meant to be read, it will be read. OK babe? OK.