The year before, I visited Chicago and went out on this night of lore. My friend Xtal (who I subleased my apartment from) and I busted our way into this crowded club, shouting �There�s a new sheriff in town!� and pushing our way to her buddies. One of said buddies bought me madras after madras, and then the gang headed over to the Hangge Uppe for some late-night dancing.

There we sufficiently shook our groove thangs until the guys tired out. I wasn�t ready to retire, so I stayed and danced with some university�s soccer coach. Then I went up north of town for an afterparty. Etc., etc., etc. I ended up back at the apartment at 9 the next morning, sufficiently partied out and ready for a tame afternoon of eating the side dishes from her family�s Thanksgiving dinner.

Ahhh... Good times...

Lorinda and I were the only ones around town for this year�s festivities, so we put on our chaps and spurs (we were getting on the drinking horse, after all) and headed around the corner to a bar near my place. We saddled up to the bar, finding ourselves two stools, and ordered our first of many beers. Laughing, talking, drinking -- not a big deal. This place was like any other townie bar, but the music was actually good.

The guys next to us bought us a round, but they oddly enough didn�t talk with us when we thanked them. Whew! Talking with guys who buy us drinks is generally unpleasant. Usually you need that extra beer to make talking with the guy bearable.

So what�s up with peanuts at the bar? When we looked down at the mess we dropped on the floor, I commented that some �f-ing elephants� must have been here before us. I seem to have quite the way with words...

We laughed about how two weeks before we met up with her coworkers at another bar and how I teased her boss. I told him he was wearing a Cosby sweater. However, to soften the blow, I told him I�d be his Claire if he was my Cliff. Apparently they talk about me in the office daily. I, ChicagoJo, was bold enough to say what no one else there could say, and they all appreciated that I handled it with humor.

Lorinda laughed and said, �Ya know, Jo. I love that you say exactly what everyone wishes they could say. You just don�t give a shit.�

Yes, I had to wipe a tear from my eye.

So what happens after a few more beers? This guy who unnecessarily dissed Lorinda walked by. He tries to pull that �Oh -- How ya doin� buddy?!� with L, and I started with the Turret�s spewing.

�Hey -- I know YOU!�

He give me an as-friendly-as-possible-please-no look as I continue.

�You�re that guy who started acting all interested in my friend, had us come out to this club, only to blow $20 on cover for the fifteen minutes we were there since you walked in and then walked off...�

His face dropped that I called him on his bullshit from months previous.

�Yeah, I remember you. You�re a real dick.�

His girlie laughed at his embarrassment and then asked if I had any other stories.

�Nah -- That about sums up the package. I won�t say anymore.�

I didn�t know if L was going to die of embarrassment from my shit-calling or if she was going to hug me, but she bought the next round. I figure that�s a good sign.

Because beer runs through me faster than Carl Lewis ever ran the 100m, there were many stomps to the bathroom that night. Somewhere around beer #6, I became curious about the 50-cent machines in each bathroom stall. The machines had three different slots: one for a tampon, one for a condom, and one for surprises. Since it had been years since I�d fought anyone for the plastic crap in a cereal box, I bought a toy to see what they had in mind.

Well, if anyone could use a condom the size of a finer, let me know. I�ll gladly mail it to you in a Xmas card.

I decided that there had to be items in there that I found more fun, so I pony-ed up two more quarters for another prize. This time I got a tickler. (If you don�t know what that is, google it. I�m not going to explain.) Now, this is more what I was expecting for my 50 cents.

I only blew two more quarters in there, getting myself another tickler before I stopped feeding the machine my coins, for fear of getting another tickler or wee condom. What was the fun in that? I wanted tattoos, body glitter, or flavored lube -- not cheap pieces of rubber.

Oh well. L and I got a laugh out of it.

Later in the night, we gave up our bar stools and danced for a while. These Irish guys kept trying to hump our legs, so we kept moving away. After more and more moves, we found ourselves near the door and left to finish the night at the Hangge Uppe.

We flashed our pearly whites instead of our IDs and walked right in the bar. There weren�t that many people there, so we commandeered the floor with gyrations like only we can do. A good time was had for about two songs before the busted-ass DJ who replaced the dirty-ho-but-really-good-with-the-tunes DJ started mixing in some crap. We sat a song out and let a tear roll down our cheeks. The next song sucked too, so I voiced my displeasure to the door guy and walked towards the pancake house.

Wouldn�t ya know that the friggin� pancake house was closed? I know it�s a holiday(ish) and all, but don�t ya think people would want drunken pancakes on the Biggest Party Night of the Year?

We settled for dinner across the street at Dublin�s. I had their $4 great big salad with some tomato soup, and L had some stuffed chicken with mashed potatoes. We crashed at my house soon after 4 a.m.

In sum, the Biggest Party Night of the Year wasn�t much different than every other night. �