Crazy Illinoisans

I had no clue you needed a permit.

Ride In

On my ride into work this morning, I was listening to the new Interpol album. Crazy how some music rips your heart out, steps on it a few times, places it back into your hollow chest, only to leave you loving life and feeling better than ever.

Interesting......

Either this is a major coup for hordes of desperate men, or another step in the devolution of the male gender. You decide.

Elliot! Elliot!

How come the kid in ET never made it big? Is it because he did not go the route of Barrymore by getting wasted in an 80's club at age 13? Think of other young, pop-culture personas that never did anything truly substantial other than the one (or two in Ralph Machio's case) landmark feature film. Not to relegate this to the 80's either. Paging Eddie Furlong.......

This Charming Man

I stayed home tonight. If you have read Rick's blog, you have realized that we party harder than many rock bands, one being Semisonic and maybe matchbox 20. Because of this (and the fiscal repercussions such splurging has) I felt a Friday night in would be much more beneficial to the well being of my bank account and liver. Despite these benefits, one cannot even try to eradicate the natural sentiment of self doubt. I admit it. I should have gone out tonight. It seems that our anthem lately has been "This Fire" by Franz Ferdinand. By no means have I lived up to the expectation of the message this song presents.

I do take solace in the fact that I am in demand (please, do not take this as a shameless example of self promotion or arrogance). I have been at the receiving end of several phone calls that were meant to convince me to change clothes and go out. Might they have been requests of common curtsey? Maybe. Were they rooted in false judgment due to 6 or 7 gin & tonics? Even more probable. Were the calls simply driven by the desire to convince a key cog to join the machine that is known as Friday night? God damn I hope so.

Either way, I know I have spent the last 4 hours watching the Cubs give our pitching staff no run support while listening to too much Jeff Buckley, (is there such a thing?) Interpol and Air. Still, don't feel sorry. I have polished off a bottle of Pinot Grigio (only because I was not in the mood for Shiraz) and a couple Crazy Pills (see Monday, June 7th on Rick's blog). Holy crap!

Houston, we have a drinking problem

A quick intro - if you are familiar with Rick's blog, El Falso, you might recognize me as T. or Thomas. The reason I decided to call this Adventures in Babysitting is, if you have read his weekend re-caps, because we sometimes need someone to look after us and make sure we are not throwing branches or throwing up even. Not to worry, you will get a glimpse into my perspective of these 48 and even 72 hour marathon sessions of malfeasance and indulgence.

Additionally, I will attempt to relay the sentiments of a 24 year old who is desperately attempting to work said sessions into a very gradual climb up the corporate ladder. To this point, they cannot work together. I am convinced they will and, until they do, I will continue to enjoy the delicious concoction known as a Diver Down on Sunday afternoons while watching Nomar patrol the 90 feet between second and third.

Please keep in mind that I will explore the inner workings of a male that is infatuated with having crushes, but will rarely make an attempt to establish a solid relationship until it is utterly impossible to do so. Not to get all dork on everyone, but it really is a shortcoming of mine that needs to be overcome.

Virgin Post

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