Random Esquire

I met the Seattle peeps on Tuesday and it felt like a reunion. The real ice breaker was on that night after I went to the hotel and met up with LynchSeattle, Bev, and Avitania (who already did an awesome re-cap of the week!).  We decided to go for Chicago pizza and upon seeing the line for Gino’s East snake out the door and down the block, Avitania said, “What is this the line for?!  Head??”  I burst out laughing and that pretty much defined the humor and fun that was to come.

After stuffing ourselves on pizza, Besos met up with us and we went to Big Bar and we officially got blynched together.  My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.

Wednesday -  After work, I met up with Bev and we went to a cocktail party which, quite honestly, stunk.  It was outside and the wind made it a bit uncomfortable.  We left early and went to the loft where Bev had her first meeting with Little Filthy and Boss.  Then off to Marche where we met with Avitania, her husband (C), LynchSeattle, Instigator, and Plush.  Lots of eating, drinking, and laughing.

Thursday -  C and LynchSeattle met me at the loft in the afternoon (while Bev and Avitania got pedicures) and we went to pick up wine for their dinner at Schwa where the four out-of-towners enjoyed the 9 course tasting, including lamb brains and sweetbreads for dessert.  Major props to Sitcom who scored the reservation.  Besos and I met up with them after dinner and went to a local pub where we sat outside and laughed so hard, my stomach hurt.   There may be footage of me singing Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.

Friday - I met up with the gang downtown in the morning and we did the Segway tour of Chicago.  LynchSeattle is like Steve Wozniak because he has a Segway in the office.  We zoomed around Chicago, snapping pictures and making bets on who would wipeout first.   Then we hit Chinatown for Vietnamese food.  The gang hit Shedd Aquarium.  We met back up at Ed Debevik’s for a rowdy dinner of burgers, malts, fries and more laughter.  The gang gave me a very, very nice wine stopper.  The server asked what it was and I told her it was an anal plug.  Only in Ed’s can you get away with this sort of thing.  Our bill came with a nice drawing of an anal plug on it.  Welcome to Chicago, people.

Saturday -  I picked up the peeps and we went to get a jump on the line at Hot Doug’s.  Yes, we were line for hot dogs at 10:30 in the morning.  I can not explain this to you except to say that just the day before, Anthony Bourdain was at this little joint eating.  It’s that good.  On the weekend, you can get french fries…made in duck fat.  Byes to C and Avitania who were catching a flight home and I dropped the peeps off downtown to get some Garrett Popcorn.  I met up with Bev and LynchSeattle at the Oprah Store (seriously) and we meandered back to the loft where we mixed drinks, ordered pizza, watched the opening ceremonies (thank you, TiVo), and talked cameras.  Chill and perfect.

Sunday -  Bev, LynchSeattle and I toured an art fair before heading to the John Hancock Observatory to enjoy the view.  The weather all week had been gorgeous and it was borderline chilly when we sat outside afterwards, eating lunch.  Then to the hotel to pick up luggage before heading to the train where we said our byes.

I can’t begin to capture just how much fun I had this past week.  The Seattle peeps are great, kind, hilarious, fun people.  Now I’ve got to get my butt up to Seattle in October and hope for warm enough weather that LynchSeattle and I can go sky-diving.  Woot!

1.  Plush and I were in bed, canoodle-snuggling.  I won’t go into how this topic arose, but suffice to say that at one point, Plush said, “I fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.”

*blink*

No one says that they fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.  Well, maybe his plastic surgeon.  But that’s about it.  No one else fuckin’ loves Kenny Rogers.  Let alone says it.  In bed.

Especially since…I am not Kenny Rogers.

2. Plush told me some of the things she might blog about here, while I am away.  Of the topics she brought up…well, all I can say, people, is that you’re in for a completely different experience.   She is open to suggestions or questions, if you have any.  You can leave them in the comments section.

I don’t know if I’m more nervous for you…or for me.

3.   The Italian and I spoke today.  He paused as we were talking and said, “You…you have..in your voice..how shall I say it… Post sex conceit.  That ’sex with a hot girl’ conceit.”

I said, “Oh.  Like I’m…peacocking?”

He said, “EXACTLY.”

Guilty.

1. Plush dancing = sexy.

2. No woman on her back can be naked enough.

3. Flirting = sexy.

4. Aggressive women = sexy.

5. Plush smells great. Have I mentioned?

As you may have noticed, I have a thing for Emma Thompson. She’s my soccer mom crush. Check out those blonde high-lights. That’s got soccer mom written all over it.

Mmmmm, soccer mom.

I just had this conversation with my buddy:

Me: Dude, I want you to go find Emma Thompson and get me a date. Like, Emma Thompson from Much Ado About Nothing.

Buddy: Oh yeah, she was hot in that.

Me: Yeah, she was. Man, I’d do her now.

Buddy: Heh, totally.

Me: Dude, I’d Nanny McPhee her.

Buddy: Hey, I’m gonna get off the phone now.

Mmmmmm….Soccer mom.

I am too tempered. Too measured. I’ve decided this today.

A friend of mine in college would call me and say, “We’re going to dinner. Will you come? It would make me happy.”

I remember being struck by how easily she said this. That she did not care that it made her a little raw or naked.

I like people who can be this honest and bare. People who say, “I’d love to!” instead of, “that sounds good.” People who express feelings by dropping them at your feet instead of requiring the dust of their words to settle like tea leaves, waiting for interpretation.

I like.

1. I love meatloaf.

God help me, I know it’s an actual loaf of meat held together with a 15 cent egg and crumbs from the bottom of your toaster, but I truly love meatloaf. The golden age of meatloaf has taken a sharp decline in the Random household since the advent of Boss. This caused some meatloaf nostalgia today when I realized that Little Filthy has not known the beauty of the loaf d’meat.

2. I have marching orders from an old co-worker - the one I rather ineptly compared to a horse when, as she bemoaned being single for life, I said to her, “You’re not going to be single for life. You’re tall, leggy, blonde, you just lost 20 pounds and you look fantastic, you have huge boobs, and you love NASCAR and beer. For God’s sake, if you were a horse, I’d bet on you.”

She is a big Justin Timberlake fan. I am to tell Justin that she would like to have his children. I am not entirely sure how I am supposed to relay this to him. In addition, I know that deep in her heart, she would prefer to be with Dale Earnheardt Jr., raising little NASCAR JonBenets.

3. My CPA was called by David Letterman’s show and asked to be on. Speaking of my accountant…he, too, loves meatloaf. Anyway, he is not famous. In fact, he was asked to go specifically so that David could make fun of him. It is more like he is in the running to be the new Larry Bud Melman. More updates as events warrant.

Instigator and I were discussing Michael Vick and dogfighting today. We agree that he should get the book thrown at him. I mentioned that I thought bullfighting was unusually cruel, as well. Sticking a bunch of barbs in an animal? Seems pretty rough to me.

And that brought up cockfighting. For some reason, neither of us had that gut reaction of disgust at cockfighting. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s bad. But for some reason, if it has feathers instead of fur, I just don’t get as worked up.

Well, maybe if they were baby ducks. Baby ducks are cute. That would be disturbing. I don’t think I could stomach a bloody baby duck. Okay, so feathers aren’t the key. Maybe it’s size? The bigger the animal, the more tragic it seems.

And then it hit me: Siamese Fighting Fish.

It’s perfect. They’re small and they have neither fur nor feathers. Put two of them together and they duke it out to the death. Easy to maintain - it’s brilliant! I’m going to start collecting some beauties and taking bets. I’ll put a large tank in the middle of my living room and have some seats built around it. I’ll hang a sign on the side of the bowl that says, “Two Fish Enter, One Fish Leaves.” And clean-up is a snap. Er, a flush.

Get in on the action.

I stepped out of the office this afternoon to pick up some fresh vegetables at one of the farmer’s markets downtown. I picked up baby squash, in green, yellow and some that were half green, half yellow. Then fingerling potatoes in yellow, red and blue. Some wild cherry tomatoes, green beans, a baguette and some lemon cucumbers. Boss and I sat down with a Moscato d’Asti and spread a nice d’affinois on the baguette before feasting on vegetables and a sun dried tomato and chicken sausage.*

*I ate the sausage. Boss didn’t…which you probably already guessed.

Watching Boss sit down to play Wii is vaguely similar to watching the metamorphosis of cocoon to butterfly. Actually, more like Bruce Banner into the Hulk. And not so much vaguely similar as frighteningly similar.

Boss has a pretty even temperament. She neither gets overly excited nor overly upset about anything for long. And so, I’ve never really seen her downright drop her blob. That is, until we bought a Wii.

When I hand the remote controller to her, I can see her eyes glaze and fingers twitch. Fortunately, enough of her good sense remains before she begins that she tightens the wrist strap. She does not just flick to swing a tennis racket. She stands, bouncing from one foot to the next, eyebrows furrowed and muscles tensed, waiting…waiting to slam that remote into your head if you get too close. She turns into…John McEnroe. In the heat of battle, she’s near cold-cocked me and banged her hand more than a couple of times on a table sprinkling it all with obscenities and objections to calls of in or out.

She’s that person who will deliberately wait until you scratch your nose to bean a pitch at your head. And if you play a game that requires that you take turns, she will twitch with impatience and bark commands on how to do it right until it is her turn or I bark back that she’s turning Béla Károlyi on me.

Today, she sat down to play Ratatouille. It was like Joe Pesci was in my living room. Yelling, stomping, etc. And two hours later, she was curled up on the couch, spooning Little Filthy and you’d have had no idea that shortly before, she might have killed you if you stepped in front of the screen while she was attempting to swing over to a piece of cheese. Tomorrow, I’ll come home from work and find her calling the remote her Precious.

Let me be the first person to say that Ann Coulter is a complete nutcase.

Having said that, I will admit that I did laugh when I read her statement about John Edwards just because I was so taken aback with her brazen words:

“I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word ‘faggot,’ so I — so kind of an impasse, can’t really talk about Edwards,” Ann Coulter told GOP activists attending the annual Conservative Political Action Conference on Friday.

That’s totally nuts! If Kathy Griffin had said it, it would have been hilarious because Kathy Griffin loves her gays and would have meant it to be funny. Ann Coulter? You know that evil woman is just…well, evil.

Stuff it, Ann Coulter.