The Handfelt Happy Hour: Black and Gold Bloody Marys

It was a September to remember here at the Hacienda, if only I had time to reflect. The turnstile was put to good use, with visitors coming and going, and us playing the role of visitor a time or two ourselves. That, coupled with my hectic work schedule*, which I would call 'comically absurd' were I not too exhausted to laugh, made by brother's trip up here for a Men Behaving Badly weekend feel all the more deserved.

The second weekend in September, Cory and the incorrigible Justin Miller came to town for a weekend of tomfoolery, waffle potatoes and bad decisions. After a relatively tame Friday night at Edgewater Lounge, we headed down to Merkle's in Wrigleyville on Saturday morning for some good old fashioned 'Hawk Time'.

We snagged one of the last tables in the bar to watch the Hawks give the Clones a bare-butt spanking, and in less time than it would take to Google 'Is Iowa State still Division I?', the all you can drink Bloody Marys and Coors Light had taken their desired effect. Soon enough, the Hastings clan, Wade and Ola, made their way over to our table. Fist bumps and conversations were exchanged, burgers were ravished and before you knew it, the Hastings disappeared back into the sea of black and gold, never to be seen again. (Or at least that day. By us. I don't mean to imply that they were murdered, God no.)

After the game we met high school chum Eric "Super" Peters (his skills declining, soon he will be downgraded to merely "Above Average") over at Goose Island, where him and a buddy were babysitting a glass of 13% beer which looked like a giant glass of tar. Suffice it say, we didn't heed that warning and all of us tried a nip of that devil juice. That's what they call in the business "a mistake".

A few shoulder blasts later Peters was on a plane and Justin, Cory and I were back at my place, resting up before the inevitable Chicago steak dinner. We all threw on different clothes, and due to the alleged Western appearance of my shirt, I was dubbed "Paisley" by Mr. Miller. Despite the seemingly obvious reference to the popular country and western singer, my brother continued to baffled by this reference all throughout the night.

We hit up David Burke's Primehouse for some dry-aged steaks and a glorious invention called the potato waffle, which really blew our minds. You can imagine how confused Cory was. He couldn't even wrap his mind around "Paisley", much less the thought of a potato/waffle hybrid.

Hopping in a cab, we headed up towards Wrigley again, but not before having to go back to the restaurant when Justin realized that he forgot his phone. When the waitress asked him to identify it, he coolly responded, "It's the one from Saved By the Bell". She knew immediately which phone was his.

After being ignored at a weird bar that was showing weird (or as Cory would say, 'groundbreaking') 1970's** soft porn on the TV (a 50 year old woman shooting lasers out of her breasts isn't really my thing...well, actually it is, but that's a post for a different forum), we capped the night off with a Margarita at El Jardin. This ended up being that last drink that you know you shouldn't drink, but you do anyway. You can get away with that drink in the your twenties, but as I proved the next morning, when you're on the other side of 30, it really wrecks your life.

It was a great weekend, but as many of those great weekends go, the fallout was regrettable. To quote the great Danny Glover, "I'm too old for this shit."

*Start watching this at the 7:55 mark and look for the dork in the electric blue shirt.
**I initially wrote 70's soft porn, but then felt the need to qualify it as 1970's. God forbid you confuse it with 1870's soft porn.