Siddity in the City

Around 7 AM on Tuesday, I woke up feeling totally sober and refreshed. Not hung over at all. So I took my happy travel Moleskine and recorded what I could remember from the night before, which was in fact quite a lot, as the night before had ended only a few hours earlier. Around 8, TDMM woke up and insisted we get eats. I thought that was a fabulous plan, so we both got up, got dressed, and got out for a big ol’ diner breakfast. The whole dressing process only took us, oh, two hours. This should have been clue #1 that we were actually hung over, despite what we were telling ourselves. I don’t get ripped too often, so it is quite easy for me to forget that this is what happens when I get ripped. I wake up a few hours later, feel fine, then have something to eat or drink and start to feel like a tired, hung-over moron for believing I wasn’t.

Anyway, we headed across the street to Petros Restaurant (160 N. LaSalle). Where I again ordered my favorite and TDMM ordered an eggs-toast-hashbrowns-ham deal. Best. Diner. Brekkie. Ever. I cannot begin to explain how perfect their diner french toast was. And I think the syrup was laced with vanilla-flavored crack, because I tasted it and birds started to chirp in my mouth and shit. TDMM had some and backed me up on that. And she declared their ham to be damn fine. We were two happy hung-over heifs.

We stumbled out into the Chicago morning and TDMM decided it was time to shop, so we proceeded to walk to the Magnificent Mile, where we wandered in and out of stores for hours without buying a single thing, except for a mocha and lemon lust cookie (me) and a cappuccino and heath crunch cookie (her) at a Sacred Grounds in the food court of some shopping mall thing. We wanted to buy things, but she had brought Lord and Taylor coupons that wouldn’t kick in until the following day, so…we didn’t. Shut up. Twenny-fie percent is twenny-fie percent.

We made our way back to the hotel, with a stop for roughage and soup at an ABP in between, and took turns relaxing in baths scented by the Lush Avobath bombs I’d brought to simulate a spa experience, since I doubted we would have time for or be able to afford one with all the eating and drinking and what have you. And we napped.

And then we met Shasta and Ayana, at Venice Cafe again, for the beginning of Nosh-N-Slosh ‘05, Part II. I think, seeing as we had all been knockin ‘em back the night before, and Shasta had worked all day and TDMM and I had been foolish enough to voluntarily get up before noon and walk all over the damned Loop/Mag. Mile area, that we were all tirededer than we wanted to let on, and yet were trying to push through it for the sake of a good time. And many thanks and much love to Shasta for that. ‘Cause that ain’t nothin’, if you knows what I means.

The time at VC on day 2 went something like this: “BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! I’m sleepy. BWAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!” Shasta and ‘Yana together are a trip. Holy shit. Thanks to ‘Yana for coming to hang out with us, too.

And then TDMM’s friend P showed up 12 years later and we went to meet Carlos for dinner at Vong’s Thai Kitchen (6 W. Hubbard St.). Which has absolutely nothing to do with Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s Vong’s, other than similar culinary flavor. Oh wait, I just checked that out online and, as it turns out, it is tied to Vongerichten. Ne’ermind. Anyway, it was really quite good. I wasn’t expecting it to be such quality Thai, but now that I know it’s tied to JG, I get it. I had a “Thai-jito” with Absolut, tuna sashimi rolls, and shrimp-and-crab pad thai. The stand-out was absolutely the tuna sashimi roll, tuna wrapped with shredded carrot and avocado in rice paper skin and sliced like maki, with a sweet-ish thai dipping sauce on the side. It was amazing. I discovered the Thai-jito was much better with Gray Goose, since that’s how TDMM ordered hers and she let me sippy. I also discovered that I need to carry around cue cards to let everybody know when I was cracking a joke as opposed to serious as a heart-attack, because, according to TDMM, I can sound Real. Damn. Seriously. Pissed. Off. when I think I’m making a funny. Oops. Anyhoo, I don’t remember a thing about anybody else’s food, but I think in general everyone enjoyed what they got.

And then it was off to find more spots for dance and drinky-drink. First stop was Rockit (22 W. Hubbard St.), but there was no dance, so we didn’t even stay for a drink, hopped into two cabs, and headed for a place called Leg Room. We didn’t go there, either. We did, however, venture into a club called Funk (5 W. Division).

Oh, Funk. Coolio + “free” shots (you had to buy a drink to get the free, so, kinda free-ish) that tasted like sour mix and, well, more sour mix + girls in their early 20s who think they need to simulate cunnilingus on each other for the viewing pleasure of all in order to grab attention and/or have a good time = Funk.

Why is it that whitebread college girls feel the need to outwhore video whores in dance performance? I don’t get it. Anyway, except for the fact that ‘Yana and TDMM decided to break it down on the stairs on the way in, Funk kinda stunk. So we crossed the street to a much classier joint called Shenannigans House of Beer (16 W. Division), where the good times really rolled!

Firsuvall, I consider myself a beer gal so the name alone sold me. Sekkinuvall, they had an all-request DJ who plaid James’ “Laid” even before I got around to requesting it. Turduvall, they made giant drinks called hurricanes which everyone else in the world has probably had before, but which I had not, unless they were, as they tasted, exactly the same brew as what’s in the scorpion bowl served at Hong Kong club in Boston. Except, at Hong Kong in Boston, they won’t let you drink one by yourself. Dude, Chicago totally rawks.

Anyway, TDMM and P and ‘Yana and Carlos took turns playing pool against two hobbits, there was apparently more girl-on-girl action that I (thankfully) missed (ed: it’s not girl-on-girl I have a problem with, it’s “dancefloor lesbians” that bug me. I dunno, I feel like they are to the gay movement as Vanilla Ice is to hip hop), and Shasta was a better woman than I, because she managed to suffer some drunken fool all up in her face (I estimated three, four inches max separating his from hers) for a good half hour while she explained to him why his come-on to her was offensive. Good woman, Shas. Learn him a thing or two. I’da just maced him.

TDMM and I punked out around 2 and went back to the Allegro to pass out, in much better shape than we’d been the night before, since we’d managed to both match water-for-drink and had eaten well throughout the sloshfest. P was already long gone by that point. Apparently, Shasta, Carlos and ‘Yana hung out until after 3. That’s endurance, y’all. That’s endurance.

Day two pros: TDMM and I slipped into the groove of professional drunkeration, and managed to squeeze in some sight-seeing (look, I don’t need to see an historical building up close. I can see it in a picture book. Teach me how to say “eat” and “drinky-drink” in your language, then lead me to your local riches. This, to me, is tourism.) and green vegetables between all the drink and fatty-fat foods. Vong’s Thai Kitchen. Slurricanes.
Day two chuckles: ‘Yana mocking my persistence in getting TDMM to figure out where P was so we could go eat, ‘Yana and TDMM breaking it down on the way into Funk, Shasta trying to pretend she didn’t want to drop it like it was hot to Coolio >;D
Day two cons: Funk. Funk.
Brawls started: 0.5, when I insisted we figure out what we wanted before we called over the waitstaff. I was joking, but er’rybody else thought I was serious. I’m telling y’all, I’m not serious/pissed when I’m loud and/or trash-talking. I’m serious when I’m quiet and/or giggling slightly. Hence the need for me to carry cue cards that read “Joking!” and “Cut that shit out.”
Drinky-drink tally: more than day one
Calorie tally: less than day one. Maybe.