Outside the Lines

In honor of the federal holiday which was based off the Canadian holiday, we gathered up our Canadian expatriate in Holland, and Chenoweth for good measure, for an afternoon White vs. Red battle amongst of the Sox at the Cell. We knocked off a few bevies at Bridgeport’s new classy (only one?) establishment in Rocky’s. Rocky’s brings a new charm/sophistication to the neighborhood in which will eventually retake the pre/post Sox game revelry void since Jimbo’s was closed down.

The game itself was in typical Mark Buehrle fashion. I’ve been to 15 Sox games this year, and I believe Buehrle has pitched in 7 of them. In the end, the Southsiders took home another W against their Bawstonian opponents in taking three of four in the series. All four of us were definitely good and buzzed after many Miller products, along with some Becks and Heineken in our bellies. The Brooks Boyer promotion this weekend was a Staycation at the Cell, this included $1 hot dogs and pretzels. We each consumed 2 of the chewy $1 hot dogs and have somehow lived to tell about. Holland has his theory why they were selling them for only a buck, but I’d rather not recollect his hypothesis at this moment. Our other source of laughter in this game came from Holland, who may I repeat is from Canada, complaining about our seats being too cold in the shade. We move to the sun and I graciously (this will come back and bite me) offer him some sun tan lotion I brought. The kid looked like an elephant ejaculated on him after he put half the bottle of SPF-50 on his arms and legs as the white goo puddled all over his skin. Being from the North and as pale as I am, I assumed he knew how to apply it. Apparently I should never assume the intellect of an attorney.

After the game we stumbled back to Rocky’s for a beer on their outdoor patio and then over to Ethyl's Party to continue our afternoon buzz. None of us have ever been or heard of this place, and the only reason we decided to go was because Metromix claimed it was in the area. Boy were we not let down. Ethyl’s is a converted funeral home to a bar for the locals (majority Italians) in the neighborhood (Armour Park) to get away from their wives. Describing it in words can’t do its justice; you just need to visit the place. It still looks like they have funeral services here, expect they added a bar on the side wall. The place is dump, but in a good way. There is an odd pungent smell, paint splattered throughout the walls, and a plethora of potted plants throughout the room. Whoever Ethyl was, she knew how to get down. Now if the aesthetics weren’t enough, the clientele definitely put this place on the map. We were the only ones who didn’t know everyone else at the bar, and I’m pretty sure we were in the minority in that we weren’t smoking in the bar. Who needs laws when your bar is run by the mob (this is a pure speculation on EBONY’s part, and has no proven merit behind it)? There are free beef sandwiches were the casket would be, but learning that the kitchen is the old embalming room, we pass. Given the state of the bathroom, I would have guessed the embalming was done there. The waitress was probably more intoxicated than we were. She comes over to our table and immediately locks eyes with Holland. As she gets closer, the pungent smell of the bar is diffused by the lotion smell emitted from Holland’s pores. Of course I get blamed for this, and am immediately thrown under the bus and even implied to be a homosexual because of this. Thanks Derek. After a couple $2 beers we come up with the brilliant idea of making this a pub crawl all the way back to the Northside. Now for those of you who aren’t cartographers at home, the mapping of US Cellular Field to our homes is quite a distance, probably in the 8-10 mile range, yet in our intoxicated state, we are never shy from a challenge.

Next stop on the surly bus express: Chinatown. It’s safe to say that four highly intoxicated Caucasians stood out like a sore thumb in getting to Cermak. Chenoweth is on a mission to find an “authentic Chinese bar”, but in the sake of time we elect for Won Kow for a quick beer. We perch down at the bar (note: there really isn’t a bar here, it’s mostly a family restaurant with a couple bar stools in the corner). The “bartender”/waiter is polite enough to turn the TV to Golf Channel for us as quickly down our Tsingtao. After this we debate on which direction to go, either to the South Loop or Greektown. We decide that Greektown is more on our way and we get in a cab to make time. Yes we went against the general rules associated with a pub crawl, but then again, our terrain in between points A and B are pretty barren. I think we all realized we were a lot drunker than we were upon arrival. I couldn’t even tell you the name of the restaurant we went too, but it has an outdoor patio (The Parthenon, Acropolis, Athenian Room, Gyros Hut, Lambs R Us?). Don’t remember much here, I know we each had a Hillas to drink and Derek ordered 5 appetizers for us to share. Afterwards we caved in to the idea of crawling the 5 or so miles back home and just hopped on the #8 for early to bed evening. We dreamed big, but failed. Maybe we should have followed the words of Aesop, “I’ve never had a dream in my life, because a dream is something you want to do and still never pursued. I did what I wanted, and did it until it was done. And that’s the dream I’ve had since Day 1.”

Throughout our pub crawl Kyle was texting me quotes from the afternoon since we didn’t have our trusty notebook with us. Given I have little recollection to the later afternoon hours and don’t necessarily know the context behind it; I’ll just paste them here.
“I am the Cherry master.” – I think from the video poker machine at Ethyl’s
“I can swim from Brazil to Africa. Yeah, and Sarah Palin can see from Alaska to Russia.”
“Rick doesn’t like the beer. No, I do like it, I’m just drunk.”
“I say we get a mojito.”

Our count of bars we’ve both visited together outside the mile radius is now at 29. I’m not sure if I’m proud or disgusted. Also don’t forget to follow us on Twitter @EmptyBlog. Peace.

Google map of our route