Chicago did not seem tired last weekend

Chicago knows what I like.

It's a rare treat to hear Chumbawamba, even rarer to perform it in a karaoke bar between dueling renditions of "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys. I never realized how redundant the lyrics to "Tubthumping" are until I repeated the same words twenty times.

I get knocked down, but I get up again. Story of my life.

After sleeping in, I woke the next day to visit downtown Chicago. I somehow avoided the White Sox victory parade -- the previous night's singing would have rendered as redundant a performance of "Twist and Shout."

Downtown Chicago is pretty:


After a hard-earned nap, I met two graduate school friends for a dinner of Bell's beer and steak. I thereafter visited a bar opened by the brother of a college acquaintance. I was first accosted by an older lady who kept striking me and trying to grab my cigarettes.

I assumed that she was associated with someone in my group -- a deranged colleague, perhaps -- but it turned out that she was merely a belligerent lady.

Later that night I met a young lady who introduced herself by saying, "I'm obviously coming on to you, but doing a terrible job at it." I snapped this photo, which is posted here with permission:
Needless to say, I was flattered to be hit on by a beret-wearing orange-eater. While such things happen to my co-blogger during his regular visits to Bungalow 8, I am not so fortunate. After a few hours of drinking, shouting, and flirting, it was time for hot dogs:


Wieners [sic] Circle is the Jerry Springer of hot dog stands. Fat ladies flash their boobs, customers scream profanity at employees, and drunks throw punches at each other. Being Halloween, some of the patrons were in a festive mood:


I was outside eating hot dogs with friends when I heard someone shout, "[CrimeNotes]!" I turned around to see a table populated with five guys from my grad school class. Grad school was not a pleasant time, and my behavior there could be charitably described as difficult and anti-social. I was surprised and slightly unsettled that these people recognized me. They apparently associated me with a rogues' gallery of former classmates, and I was questioned as to the whereabouts and activities of unsavory persons from our time in school. I spoke to them for a few minutes, then politely re-joined my friends.

Then, this group of people tried to rally strangers to visit their apartment, presumably for beer and more shouting. I do not know them, and wasn't able to attend. They live at 111 Chestnut, Apartment 40C, in case you're in Chicago and want to party with a keg of Old Style:


The next morning, I was badly hung over. I gingerly made my way to a local diner, where a college friend and I ate breakfast and discussed literature and current events. I was pleased to hear that my friend also disliked Ian McEwan's Saturday, though he didn't despise it as much as I did. We both share disgust over the hypocrisy and corruption of Washington, D.C.

After another afternoon nap, my weekend hosts and I drove to a Chicago suburb called Evanston. It is an unlikely site for a Big Ten university. I've never visited BYU, but I'm guessing that Northwestern gives the Mormons a run for their money in terms of low-quality social life. If you like dormant residential neighborhoods that span miles, Northwestern is the ideal.

I didn't go to Evanston for its social life. I went there for the football.

The Michigan Athletic Department apparently decided that because this year's football team is so mediocre, the university's marching band would not perform at away games. That didn't stop the marching band from coming in full force, and with kazoos. Shortly before kick-off, about a hundred undergrads took seats in the aisle across from us. They wore matching T-shirts that read, "Band take Ryan Field," with a logo on the back that read, "We don't need no stinkin' instruments." Angered that they wouldn't be playing, the instrument-free band was on fire. They performed on kazoos and did a lot of shouting. Northwestern's half-assed Wildcat mascot was denounced as an ugly beaver. Sitting next to the band was like being in a students' section. They made the night.

By coincidence, Blog Pinup Brian was seated six rows ahead of me. This prompted repeat trips down the stairs to scream at him that Michigan was finally playing like Michigan.

And, indeed, Michigan played like Michigan. I expected the team to lose, but instead, I went hoarse screaming declarations of love for the defense. After a wildly entertaining first ten minutes, which left Michigan up 14-7, including an interception run into the end zone, the second half turned into a long defensive grind. Chad Henne continued to make poor decisions and the Michigan offense was limited to two field goals.

Still, at the end of the game, Michigan's season had the potential of being salvaged. Pleased band members alternated between victory cheers and a chant of "Ybor City," home to the Outback Bowl.