Bloodbook on the half shell!!

So last night I went to a rock and roll show at a “theater.” This meant I was able to sit through the entire air-conditioned performance. Hell, it could have been a Detholz! show and I still would have enjoy it. It was a good time.

While the show was great, the highlight had to be that I ran into pretty much everyone I kind-of-know within 200 miles of Chicago. This is always exciting and, luckily, I was on my A game. Peak efficiency, and so froth.

Working Boy: Hello.
One of the like 15 him or hers: What’s up, man, haven’t seen you in like 3 years. What’s new?
Working Boy: Oh not much. Do you still live three blocks away from me?
OOL15HH: Yeah. It’s weird we never hang out or see each other.
W.B.: Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that we’re not actually friends or even acquaintances.
OOL15HH: Yes, but we know each other’s name. That’s got to mean something.
W.B: Actually, I don’t know your name. I just know you were referred to as “Skeeter” in college. Do you still go by Skeeter?
OOL15HH: Oh yeah.
W.B.: Ah, excellent. So, Skeeter, what menial job do you have?
Skeeter: Non-profit.
W.B: That’s pretty lame. Isn’t non-profit work and excuse to pay you nothing and spend all the organization's money on elaborate black-tie fundraising events?
S: Um…
W.B: Actually, I take that back, non-profit work is pretty cool. Any hoo, do you want to go get drunk at one of the many bars around here? I normally wouldn’t offer but it seems my Wife has already left with her old dormitory hall lobby partner to “catch up.” I’d try and stop her, or at least tag along, but she said they were going to “hookup” for a while so I decided that would be awkward.
S: You’re married?
W.B.: Isn’t that a bit of a personal question? Listen, there’s something you should know about me if this relationship is going to work. Skeeter, old buddy, I’m a very private man. My life is like a closed book, which was lost at sea. Okay? So, moving on, what about that drunkening old college buddy?
S: Sure.
W.B: Really? Good lord, don’t any of you people realize we don’t know each other? Would you go for a drink with that hobo over there?
S: That’s not a hobo. That’s my hippie roommate who fights the system between shifts at Panera.
W.B: I see. Listen, I think I remember not liking you. You know, as a person. I don't like you as a person. Do you mind if I renege on my invitation and move about 15 feet away from you.
S: Okay. It’s pretty clear you have no friends and aren’t particularly cool.
W.B: You couldn't be more wrong. I've got lots of friends.
S: whatever

Luckily, after more or less this same conversation about 5 other times, I found some actual friends and we went to a crowded bar and yelled into each other’s ears for about 45 minutes. As it turns out, one of these friend’s had a pretty interesting week involving a car accident with a 20-somehting illegal Russian immigrant and her “husband/fiancé/friend” of a Mexican gang banger. My favorite part of the story was when—after many genuinely exciting and hilarious encounters—they finally met at gas station at 5 a.m. to exchange the cash. Both, of course, brought backup: the Mexican had another tough Mexican, and my skinny, short friend brought his tall, skinny roommate. The mental image alone is hilarious--for me, you don't know these people so it really means nothing to you. Sorry.

But all this got me thinking…When I need backup who could I possibly rely on? An Doof Ass was the first name that comes to mind. After all, you get three shots of cooking Sherry in his veins and he’ll fight anything that makes eye contact: squirrels, stray dogs, hobos, his reflection. The problem though is he lives in New York so he’s not so much around for early morning backups. The Wife? Well, she’s pretty mean and sure likes to yell and punch a certain always innocent, cool dude, but not so much strangers who want to do the same. Old high school buddies? Unfortunately, if past instances are any indicator, they don’t so much come for fights as wait until they’re over and leave a message on your phone explaining why they couldn’t get away. Imaginary bar buddies? Well, they’re obviously there for me when I need them, but they lack certain, um, ontological content. And then it hit me, the only other person I actually know is Skeeter.

Working Boy: Curses!
Friends: What’s wrong?
W.B: I damned the only person I could possibly use for backup.
F: Yeah we heard. 25 different people told us what happened within minutes of your chat with Skeeter. You seem to have problems interacting with genuinely nice people.
W.B: That’s not entirely true. You guys are nice and you like me, right?
F: I wouldn’t say we’re your friends. More like acquaintances who like having you buy us drinks. W.B: I see. Well, is there anything I can do to make our relationship more chummy?
F: You could buy us more beers.
W.B: Um, I think this is the point where I curse you to blazes.
F: Well, that’s what you should do, but, as we all know, you can’t resist trying to get some kind of reaction out of people who are indifferent to you.
W.B: Yes, that is my one weakness.
.........
W.B: Oh please, have some kind of opinion about me.
F: Yeah, I don’t think that going to happen, my man.
W.B: Well, I just want to die.
F: Whatever, guy.

In other news: Tonight we celebrate An Doof Ass in Chicago, again. Call ahead for the best tickets. It’s guranteed to be one great big mediocre show. The barbque is now officially scheduled for 3-ish at the Wilson Avenue beach on Monday. With any luck I’ll run into Skeeter.