Milwaukee's Best

Last August, or was it September? (This must have been a good one) I was invited to join some family members in Wisconsin over the weekend for Milwaukee’s famous Irish Fest. This festival has apparently been an annual tradition in my family for years, although 2010 was the first I’d ever heard of it. Since I have been getting older, I’ve tried to spend more time with my extended family whenever the opportunity has presented itself. So when my Aunt Peg called, (without a doubt, everyone should have an Aunt as cool as her) I jumped at the chance to reserve a room for the event.

On Saturday after I got home from work, the Robertson sisters met me at my apartment and I packed a cooler and a change of clothes and we headed off to Milwaukee. Let me preface the remainder of the story by explaining that I am a proud Chicagoan since February of 2007, and on occasion I travel to not-so distant locales with a chip on my shoulder. Furthermore, I do not shy away from the chance to broadcast to the unsuspecting citizen where I come from and what I stand for, especially after a few adult beverages. This was my first trip to Milwaukee and as with any initial touchdown in a new environment, I was unsure of what to expect, especially when dealing with our northern neighbors in the vast expanse of Wisconsin.

Upon our arrival at the Doubletree Milwaukee, we were greeted by a warm cookie and light rain. My family was already at the Summerfest Grounds, where the Irish Fest had been in full swing since noon. Luckily, the fun was just about to begin. After making the rounds of warm hellos and introductions, we made our way to one of the numerous beer tents to toast the warm weather and camaraderie we were about to enjoy. As the rain abated, and our thirst for Guinness increased, our party made our way through the festival like we were in a great drunken conga line, dancing through the lines for food, drink and the wonderfully overpriced trinkets and treasures.

The festival reached its climax as Gaelic Storm took the stage. Their thunderous drum introduction opened their set to rousing and explosive applause from their audience. People danced on tables, sang loudly and out of tune and threw their arms around strangers. It finally hit me, “these cheeseheads are alright!” With a newfound sense of appreciation for the Wisconsinites, I took it upon myself to engage some of my newfound Irish brethren. I pointed to an older man, in full kilt and regalia, obviously intoxicated and dancing with a middle-aged woman. The girls laughed as we watched them grind sloppily and off-beat to the rumbling music.

After watching him basically fall on top of his dancing partner, we laughed again as two young men, also in kilts came to his rescue. The girls were smitten and introduced themselves to the lads, who explained they were the grandchildren of the gentleman we had been laughing at, and informed us that he was in fact, the last of a line of Irish royalty, which was somehow currently based in Wisconsin? (Here is where I begin losing respect again.) All pre-conceived notions aside, I decided we had to meet this man. I introduced the Robertson’s as well as my cousin Kiley. We all shook hands and enjoyed the formal introduction of Lord Michael. We toasted him at the tops of our lungs and took pleasure in his accent and good humor.

Sarah asked the three royals what they typically wore underneath their kilts, and while one of the gentlemen explained that it was tradition to wear nothing underneath, Lord Michael in his state of inebriated glee, lifted his kilt like a Shanghai hooker, revealing to his delight, and my horror, that the tradition holds true. Unfortunately, this was photographically documented as Sarah, ever ready with her trusty camera, was quick on the draw. He laughed and thankfully deleted the evidence, and as the fest came to a close, we decided it was time to bid our new friends, “adieu.”

As the wildest night of the Irish Fest came to a close, our plans were little more than to board the free shuttle back to our hotel, possibly have a nightcap at the hotel bar, and perhaps indulge in a slice of warm, greasy, pizza. Little did we know how incredibly wrong that notion could have been. 

Now, I am a man who stands by his principles, however fruitless or trivial they may seem. And whatever ambitions I may have about attempting to change it, I am not exactly the most patient person. This trait is usually only multiplied when I have imbibed my share of “adult beverages.” So, when I was presented with the impossibly annoying woman that preceded us in the line for the shuttle, it was really only a matter of time until I lost my cool.

I don’t remember her name, which is probably for the best considering I think she is actually a close personal friend of my Aunt’s, and thankfully, I haven’t had to stomach her presence since that day. What began as friendly conversation became an inquisition to the four of us as we waited impatiently for the throngs of fest-goers to board the increasingly infrequent shuttles. “How old are you?? Twenty-Six!! My god you are sooo young!” “What a baby! Hey Shelia, (not her real name) can you believe how YOUNG they are?!?” “Where are you from?? This is your first time at Irish Fest??? I’VE been here a hundred times!!” As her drunken rant reached its apex, I finally excused myself from the queue, with a succinct confession, “Oh my God, I do not give a shit!” After which I beckoned my party with a quick “C’mon, we’re walking.”

My Aunt saw us leave the line and asked where we were going. I told her we were walking back to the hotel, which I knew as it came out of my mouth was only a half-truth. We were going to a bar. And not just any bar, but the Holy Grail of Wisconsin dives. As we traversed through the underbelly of Milwaukee, the girls became concerned. I may have been too, if not for the generous helpings of stout I had just consumed. I insisted that I knew of a shortcut and that we would be back in no time. I think they were on to me, as they continually asked me if I knew where I was going.  As we rounded a corner in a dark section of the city, I spied a sign illuminated by a lonely street light. My cousin pleaded again, “where are we going??” I pointed to the sign and replied simply, “there.”

When we walked into Just Art’s, I knew we were in for a hell of a night. We cheered at the sight of another Guinness sign, and hurrying upstairs past a balcony of patrons, we hadn’t even realized until almost too late that we were entering an apartment and not the establishment itself. After realizing our mistake, we took our thirst and our gung-ho attitude back down and inside to the main bar. We were greeted by the proprietor and namesake, Art. He looked like anything but art and as we approached the bar, I noticed a bulging growth underneath his too-tight tank top. (Think of the Gold’s Gym stringer) I swear that as he spoke to us, the bulge protruding from his portly abdomen was throbbing like it had a pulse…

Art turned out to be one of the friendliest people I have ever met, although his skills on the tap left something to be desired. He looked like an identical twin of Ernest Hemingway, and after teaching us a dice game, he was able to direct us back toward our hotel. We stayed for a pitcher, and enjoyed some interesting conversation, including a woman asking the girls if any of them had “roofied” her drink while she had been in the ladies room, and overhearing another female exclaim to resounding applause, “Hey Art! Get me a beer to wash down my whiskey! I’m drinkin’ for two!!” Ahh, the classy ladies of Wisconsin… We decided our attendance was best served elsewhere, and regaled the bar, (at Kiley’s behest) with a stirring performance of “Bear Down” to the Packer-fan laden bar and departed.

We were rolling now, on a mission to make it back before last-call at the hotel bar. We had been bombarded with concerned text messages and phone calls from Aunt Peg, while Aunt Liz, (that’s Kiley’s mom to you lay-persons) who had departed the fest earlier, had sent us a number of text messages urging us to bring her something to eat. At around this point, Kiley received a text that simply read, “Me order food now.” I knew I had a responsibility as the leader of this little band of travelers, to make sure we got what was coming due to us in the grand city of Milwaukee.

We crossed a bridge heading back towards the touristy part of downtown Milwaukee when Kiley voiced her concerns about crossing bridges that are built to rise for ships. I stood still to illustrate to her that there was absolutely no valid worry, especially this late at night. Not two seconds after the words left my mouth, and an alarm began to sound as the red lights began blinking and the bridge began to rise. The four of us scampered off to the other side, and after a brief ninja fight involving some construction horses, we decided our brush with death warranted another drink.

Yet again, we rounded a corner and the girls noticed a stream of lights coming from a nearby storefront. We heard the thumping beat of techno music and we all knew, without a word that we were heading into this bar. The bar was in fact, a popular sushi restaurant. We were greeted by the friendly and well-dressed barkeep, and aside from a young couple, enjoying a romantic evening of disco lights and techno music, noticed that we were the only customers in this fine establishment. I introduced our group to Peter, the bartender. After some short conversation, I determined that he was in fact, Chinese, and stood my height. The fact that I have a good friend named Peter who is also Chinese and taller than most white people prompted me to yell the only words of Chinese I know, “Xiong-Mao” which I most certainly was mis-pronouncing to a very confused Peter, who was very understanding when I tried to explain that this meant “China Panda,” which may or may not be entirely false.

We ordered vodka on the rocks. Mistake. We danced and sang next to the couple enjoying their date. Mistake. We accepted a free shot from Peter which was green and glowed in the dark. Mistake. At this point, we had done all the damage we could manage on the streets of Milwaukee, although we didn’t know it. My phone rang and it was Peg again. Last call was in a half hour. We hurriedly made our way down the home stretch, stopping only once to sing an R. Kelly song to some Milwaukeeans. As we strode proudly, into the hotel bar, I knew that this night would live in infamy for the remainder of my adult life. We had done what no one else had dared to do, gone where no other Chicagoans dared to go, and lived to have a night cap at the hotel bar.

Our party closed out that evening and retired to our hotel room where Kiley met us with leftover pizza that Aunt Liz had ordered. I awoke with a medium-high hangover and stepped in a slice of the pizza that I hadn’t remembered we had enjoyed. In short, I felt like a champion. As my hangover progressed, we made it into the car and our miserable lives were spared by our arrival at the Brat Stop, a magical oasis located just north of the Wisconsin border off of I-94. Thinking back on our night in Milwaukee now, I have learned a few things. One is to give a visiting city the benefit of the doubt, Milwaukee turned out to be a great town. Another is to find the positives in a negative situation, namely, the fact that if that annoying woman hadn’t pissed me off, we wouldn’t have had such a great story to tell. And finally, I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to trust your luck and get lost in unfamiliar territory. (I could go on to self-inflate my ego further, with claims of how I am always right, and a great leader, and generally one of the most entertaining people to be around, but those statements, however true they may be, pale in comparison to the length of this story, which has only furthered my narcissistic exhibition.)

To Lord Michael, Milwaukee, and you, I offer a sincere and heartfelt, “Slainte!”

This could even break the Griswold's spirits

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Happy Thumper's Birthday

So Apparently Saturday night, I found out the true meaning of Easter through the eyes of a Jewish person...

For once it was a Saturday I didn't have to work, which was nice. I got up around noon just in time for the rain to stop and the sun to begin to shine. After running some obligatory errands, I made my way back home and was invited to my neighbor's house for some dinner. Bart* and Mavid* are usually pretty hospitable like that. (*Denotes a false identity or name)

After some mouthwatering steaks, we played a rousing game of Sorry! (The game of sweet revenge) with Mavid's girlfriend, Shmatie* It was a lot of fun. After soundly earning the 3rd place spot, my roommate busted in and started raving about how it was Saturday night and we needed to be out somewhere. Naturally, there was no argument against such logic, so I suited up and at the early hour of 11:15, we made our way down I-94 from Jeff Park to the Gold Coast.

Upon reaching Division and Clark, we were rewarded with a "rockstar" level parking space, (Directly in front of the place you're going) and headed in to Butch McGuire's fine drinking establishment. We sat quietly in what may have been the most lighted bar I personally have ever been to, and enjoyed a frosty mug of Bud Light. After our first beer, my roommate's friends showed up. I originally thought they were his friends from work, (you know how you make a guess? no? okay, just me then) but they turned out to be old friends of his from high school. Two girls, two guys, me, and my roommate. Six people total.

After consuming a few more beers a piece, (the girls drank vodka sodas) we decided it would be a good idea to head to McFadden's, which is usually reserved for large crowds of young people with bad fake ID's. I sauntered on. Almost immediately after entering the bar, we lost two people. (The guys, I think one's name was Mike, no asterisk) My roommate and I drank cold beers and took shots of SoCo/Lime and colorful "bombs." I was 20 again. We danced with a large group to the musical stylings of Christopher Wallace, and by the time we found the girls we came with, they were letting the female bartenders do body shots off of them. I was introduced to a number of other people that I didn't even try to remember, at which point I suggested shots of Jameson. (This is how you know I am already intoxicated.)

Apparently, at this bar McFadden's, anyone with a Y chromosone is allowed to dance on top of the bar, and make people tip back their heads to pour pink liquid, (from a bottle that used to be Southern Comfort) into their mouths. Awesome? You bet. There was some conversation about how we should head to another bar, and apparently no one realized that it was already 3AM. I tipped the bathroom attendant $2. (This is how you know I am a little beyond intoxicated.)

We hailed a cab and took off into the night. Someone either smartened up about the time, or was way drunk, because next thing you know we are searching for a breakfast place, telling the cab driver to turn around 3 times, and ending up at the restaurant that was actually 4 blocks from McFaddens. My roommate paid the fare, and the cabbie was appreciative.

We walk into what I think must have been a 3-star breakfast restaurant that apparently is open only when you are drunk enough to find it, but it will stay there as long as you need it. (Kind of like the Room of Requirement in the Harry Potter series.) By this point, I am flipping through the menu like it's a decision of which country I have to nuke, and I hear myself saying to no one in particular how, "this place is so nice!" (This is how you know I will not feel well the next day.) I get a call from my cousin, and he wishes me a Happy Easter. I wish him the same and a Happy Passover, (because he is half-Jewish) and the girl across the table grabs my phone to talk to him.

Apparently, she was pretty shocked I was related to a Jew, and they spoke at length about Passover and other Holy Days of Obligation in the Jewish Faith. She insisted he come meet us so he could marry her sister, he insisted that I order the corned beef hash, and I insisted to another girl that I was 6'2", as she deftly called me a liar.

The couple at the table next to us granted me 6'2", I got my corned beef hash skillet, (which came with 4 eggs on top!) and the girl who ordered Lox and eggs at 4AM came back from the bathroom with puke in her hair. This is when my roommate realized he lost his wallet.

It was even more strange that he wasn't upset about it at all, (probably because he had all the cash in his other pocket) but I was glad. We had a damned nice conversation with the Jewish girls about how their parents let them celebrate their dead rabbit's birthday every year as a form of Easter celebration because back in '96, they got a rabbit and named it Thumper. (Why this information is still in my head, I have no idea.)

All in all it was a great night, and I learned a few things: 1. Don't get all frustrated when you lose something, because it's not gonna do you any good, 2. If you're ever in the area of Clark and Division, WALK to Elly's and order the corned beef hash, and 3. Never underestimate a Saturday night out with no plans, they're usually the best. and I guess I also learned that there are still some good people in the world. (The cabbie found my roommate's wallet, and drove it back to our place!)

The People of Gotham!

So apparently...if you place an order at McDonald's in the city while talking like Bruce Wayne in "The Dark Night", they will not think you are strange. They will smile and take your order just like everyone else.


So apparently...bringing a box of Lucky Charms out with you on St. Pattys Day is actually a wonderful idea.



So apparently...drunk people WILL actually jump through a hola hoop to get into a bar. No photo here, but this did actually happen.

So apparently...if you suggest a really stupid idea to a drunk as if it's a really great idea, they will believe you. And that is how the tramp stamp was invented.




So apparently...we're family.


So apparently...the Guido hat and the Mic hat are one in the same.


So apparently...I have this photo in every photo album I have when this guy is around.


So apparently...I had a great St. Pattys Day! Did you?

Episode II: The Gilbey's Strikes Back!

When we left our daring trio, they were nursing an epic hangover at the classiest of all establishments, John Barleycorn Schaumburg...

This day a hero was born. Sir William, had ordered the king of all bottom-shelf liquors. Gilbey's vodka. He was not swayed by enticements from the bartender, a beautiful temptress... Nor would he give in to his screaming liver, bruised and beaten, pleading for relief... And he would not accept a smoother, more tasteful vodka for his screwdriver. Simply, because he deserved the Gilbey's.

I perched unsteadily upon my stool between my bretheren, my comrades in arms. I had been sweating profusely for most of the morning. I tried to tell myself it was from the aching July heat, but I knew deep down that there was another reason...

I had mistakenly ordered a bloody mary with smirnoff vodka. It wasn't that it tasted badly, as much as my body would do anything to reject it at that point. Billy "gently" chided me for my poor decision, and recommended that Sean and I choke down our drinks and cross over into the glorious light provided by the saintly spirit he sipped.

After managing to get down the remainder of my bloody mary, I ordered a screwdriver, reminding the barkeep, "This time, make it a Gilbey's!" Her lip curled in disgust. (NOT a Gilbey's woman.) Billy already looked better, and Sean and I, desperate to regain our heads, clinked our glasses together and unsurely sipped our first taste of the divine ambrosiac.

When I think of Gilbey's vodka, I think of the phrase that Ralph Wiggum made famous, "it tastes like burning!" But it was a burning that would continue to warm my heart. I would rank Gilbey's as the "Choicest" of the bottom shelf vodkas, probably placing it somewhere above a Sascha or Dmitri, and just above a Skol. (gilbey's is NOT beneath any spirit.) If you can drink a martini made from Gilbey's vodka, you are either God or Satan and it is Armageddon.

I would like to make clear that Gilbey's Vodka is actually delicious. It is the best vodka for mixing a cocktail, and the premium bottom-shelved vodka. You will know when you hold the bottle that you have made the right decision beacause unlike most other bottom-shelf liquors, it comes in a glass bottle. But I digress.

Within 3 sips of my Gilbey's screwdriver, I was on top of the world. Back at 100%, and with a few more familiar faces joining us, I was elated. While we may have not been able to convince everyone else in the bar to HAVE a Gilbey's, the Spirit of the Spirit was certainly in the air. By the time the wedding party showed up, John-Boy, Zach, Noah, Sean, Billy, and myself were the liveliest bunch of assholes you have ever known. We had about 10,000 advertisement pitches for Gilbey's, and we were laughing unneccesarily for the whole tavern to hear.

On our way out the door, (We DID actually have to go to the wedding), we were offered v.i.p. passes from the manager, probably for seeming like we were having such a great time. He offered me his business card and told me he could, "get in any girls you bring here for free." or maybe it was half-price. Thanks but no thanks, asshole, we've got a scene to make.

We made our way to the hotel, which I believe was the Marriott, but at that point it no longer mattered. We entered the building like the scene before the gunfight in the movie Tombstone. Copius amounts of adult beverages later, we were allowed to enter the dining hall. Never, in my life have I heard so many people ask so many times what kind of well vodka they were serving that night.

The rest of the night was a blur. A beautiful celebration of live and love and friendship. And Gilbey's. Table 16 was marked from the moment we entered, even going so far as to have the maid of honor convince to give us a shout-out, "brought to you from the people at gilbey's vodka." That blur, transformed into a whirlwhind.

Evidence of Gilbey's magical powers:



This is Sean before he tried Gilbey's vodka. >

Below is afterwards...


We knew the Gilbey's was working, because it improved our dancing... >>>
And our conversational skills.
In the end, we had the night of our lives. Some girl lost a boyfriend, and a couple people vomited. But certainly, it wasn't anything that couldn't be cured by a stiff Gilbey's cocktail.

In closing, I realize that this story may seem far-fetched or stupid, but the next time you are sitting hungover in a church pew, and look down to see the name of the vocal soloist is actually SANDY JUNGKUNTZ, you should know that it's time for a Gilbey's. Hey, it worked for them!! (below)brought to you by the drinkers of Gilbey's. When it's a life-altering mistake, wash it down with another. GILBEY'S.

A Tale of Two Gilbeys: Vodka & Gin (Part I)

This is a story of true love and bliss. It all started back when the Greek was getting married. I had been beckoned to join my friends for some drinks after a wedding rehearsal. The infamous Sarah (see other blogs) was in the wedding along with our other friend. This other friend shall be named Crash since I don't know if she wants the people knowing who she is. So Crash and Sarah were there drinking with their BF's Dan and John Boy. It was a grand ol' time. The ladies eventually had to leave since they had an early morning. Us boys weren't done having fun yet, so we tried to think of a classy establishment to keep the evening low key. We suggested the fancy Cadillac Ranch since it has the best reputation in town for high class folks. I remember Sarah and Crash mumbling something about not being late to the church in the morning. We should have had her define late.

Well the shit show at the Ranch inevitable ensued. There were shots, beer pong, boobs and another shot or two. For those of you who don't know, I live about 500 ft from the ranch and it was the kind of night that ended with cab rides (yes, that kind of night). We sent John Boy on his way (after a drink or two back at my place) and agreed to meet him for breakfast in the morning after we picked him up to bring him back to his car.

At breakfast, we thought we'd sit outside since it was so nice out. WORST IDEA EVER! Hot sun and hang overs don't go together just cause they begin with the same letter. After getting some food in us, Dan and I still felt like crap while John Boy was smiling like a champ. Apparently, he yacked as soon as he got home last night. Way to take one for the team. Dan and I shook our fist in spite and said, "well played."

I agreed to pick Dan up on our way to the church, and picked up another couple of friends. We didn't figure hangover speed into our time calculations and got to the church just as the wedding party was lining up to walk down the isle. Time to spare if you ask me. We didn't want to be too rude and walk through the wedding party lines, so we just sat on the grooms side even though we were with the bride.

Some of the discussions we had at the church while at the wedding:

-Hey look! It's Billy. I heard he got in town yesterday and got really fucked up in the city. -Yeah he looks like shit! (Not really, he always looks good, but he felt as bad as I look)

-Why the fuck do we keep swearing in church? Is that bad? Does Jebus still love me?

-Hey look at the last name of the singer! ...Jungkuntz! (All out riot of laughter breaks out on both sides of the isle as we had to send Billy the info through text. First time I ever cried at a wedding. Too bad it was cuz I was laughing so damn hard. More to come on Ms. Jungkuntz in part II)

-This hangover sucks. I think I got sunburned at breakfast. Shit.

-Who invited Billy anyways?

-Zach, are you sure you really want to get married? This looks like it sucks.


You may kiss the bride...blah blah blah.

We grab Billy, John Boy, Peoria Pete and a couple other gun slingers and head to John Barley Corn between wedding and reception.

Hello Hot waitress!!

"We are hungover and hurting, and yes we always look this good. What can you do to help us?"

"I make a mean bloody mary!" says waitress McBoobs.

group, "YUCK"

"How about a screw..."

"YES!" I blurted.

"..driver"

"Oh, yeah I guess that'll do....for now ha ha "

"Vodka preference?

Dan and I agree to whatever, when Billy stumbles into the greatest moment of our lives.

"Just give me bottom shelf", says the hill 'Billy' from the south.

"You don't want that, it's really bad. Smirnoff is only a buck more."

"NO, I want bottom shelf."

"No you don't it's terrible. Some crap called Gilbeys."


"I LOVE GILBEYS!!!"

The music stopped as the entire bar turned with the "What the hell is Gilbeys" expression on their faces.

End part I

Is This A Pattern?

So apparently last night, (Last April) my girlfriend broke her nose...

(It's been requested that I tell this story specifically for SALN)

While at work on a Tuesday in the late morning, I decided I'd like to get to my first Cub game of the year. Since it was a slow day, I was able to browse Craigslist.com until I found a post for 2 tickets for that evening's game. Naturally, being the gentleman I am, I extend an invitation to my girlfriend, Sarah.

I e-mailed to claim the tickets and I worked it out so after I got home from work, Sarah could pick me up and we'd ride down to Wrigleyville to pick up the tickets. I stopped and got the tickets outside some random Mexican restaurant from this dude who seemed like he was in a hurry.

The tickets work, no problem. We're on the 1st base line in the first row of the 2nd section. I forget what I paid for them, but they were probably the best seats I ever bought myself. We eat a hot dog, have a couple beers, take some pictures, have a couple beers, freeze our asses off, watch the cubs lose, have a couple beers. All in all it was a damn good Tuesday night.

We get back to my place and pass out. Sarah seemed fine.

Her alarm on her phone goes off at some ungodly hour like 4:45 or so. Usually, I don't wake up, but I feel her get out of the bed and go to the bathroom. Fall back asleep. You'd have to ask her how long between getting up and coming back it was, but I wake back up to her plopping forcibly back down into my bed, breathing all heavy and groaning.

I am annoyed. But I know I have to ask, so I roll over to face her, and go "what's wrong." Iam such a good boyfriend. She tells me she ran into the wall. I turn the light on and if I'm remembering clearly, she had some blood on her nose.

I get her a glass of water and rub her forehead which is ice cold and wetter than normal skin should feel. She explains that as she was walking back from the kitchen she blacked out for a moment and slammed face first into the wall. (It was plaster, not drywall.)

Long story short she ended up laying down for awhile and getting into work a little late, but she was fine. I got a picture message from her the next day of her with a frown and a black eye. The next day two people asked me how I hit her and got away with it. -Fin