So, it was the g/f's, (should that be capitalized for reasons more legitimate than brownie points?), birthday this weekend. We headed down to Chicago, being that it is the destination city of choice in the Mid-west. Living where I do has it's perks and all, (ready access to cheap alcohol, 'hills' to which I could escape to post-felony, and even a local university to provide me with a false sense of security in that most of the world is sane, respectable, and just as liberal as I am), but running around the ol' college town is starting to get pretty lamecore. I must admit that I heard that somewhere, 'lamecore'. What a good word to describe the exact opposite of 'hardcore'; meaning cool.

For obvious reasons, mainly the ones manifested in my girlfriend, young drunken co-eds do not have the appeal that they once had when I visited Madison in the mid-90s. Then again, at that time I was 16 and anything with tits and a pulse was fair game for my boner-driven infatuations. So I must also admit that I, like fine wines, have matured somewhat, cultivating class and an appreciation for women that extends beyond their outward physical appearance and attributes. Speaking of, have I mentioned that if you are nice to them, and 'appreciate' them on a deeper level, that they let you see them naked? If someone would have just told me that when I was sixteen!...I would have died from Gono-herpa-syphal-AIDS by now. That said, it is now my firm belief that I should be thankful for my tapered wisdom and women's abilities to shirk a horny boy from their presence with European engineering-like precision. But I digress.

The g/f and I headed down to Chicago for the evening to celebrate the day of her birthing. After nearly four years of relationship, we've never really had the chance to 'go big' for a birthday so we took advantage of a little overage mistake by the Wisconsin Department of Revenue and I blew my over-inflated tax-return on a weekend trip to Chicago! After all, 'finders-keepers' and 'you can't give back what you don't have!', right?

In all of our years of togetherness we have been unfairly accused of nearly sprinting towards a little white picket fence and 2.63 children in the 'burbs, but never has the g/f been assaulted with as many unfounded accusations of my intent to wed than when she announced to her new co-workers at the monkey-testing-lab that I had made reservations at a fancy-pants restaurant at the top of the Hancock tower. I can just see it now, "He's totally going to propose!", squeals the fat never-to-be-married pig from accounting. What is it about hopeless unmarried women that leave them to senselessly dream of marriage for other young women? Don't they know what marriage does to men; like making them old and fat?! Don't get me wrong, I'm not a complete ass, I have been telling the g/f for a long time now that she's the best girlfriend I've ever had, and I mean it. In fact, I'm so sure of this that I've told her repeatedly that she's got a good lead in the race to be my forever girlfriend. Pretty ballsy statement, I know, but she's a good girl and puts out pretty regularly.

Anyhow, piggy was dead wrong. Ha! I had no intention of proposing to the g/f. I just wanted to take her out for a nice night out on the town, and show her a good time. It's her friggin' birthday for Christ's sake, can't a guy just be a gentlemen for one night without all sorts of ruthless and false acumen? Besides, does anybody understand what kind of naked a guy gets to see when he drops approximately one metric assload of cash on dinner, drinks, and a sweet hotel room? Let me remind you, that's some serious naked.

So dinner on top of the Hancock building was pretty nice. The old jazz duders to our left looked properly loaded, and I am pretty sure that one of the them stoned out of his fucking mind. That makes for happy musicians which makes for good music and a lovely bourbon-soaked night. Outside of the fact that it was the foggiest night in the history of foggy nights in Chicago, virtually negating the view that I was paying a hundred dollars a head to see, the meal was pretty good. The g/f and I had a great time getting half-cocked on wine and scotch before dinner, and it was pretty smooth sailing aboard the S.S. Inebriation from there.

After dinner we boarded the death-rocket, (they called it the elevator), down to sea level and I hobbled my broke-assed leg to a waiting cab. For those of you who haven't ever been to Chicago, it is steadily turning into a haven for lost post-college douschebags. Aside from date-rape, these guys spend a strong majority of their time searching for bad fashion sense from douschebag meccas such as Miami and Los Angeles, (the not ghetto parts), which they use to impress the streetwalkers of Chicago. If I never see another twenty-something asshole desperately trying to fondle fake tits and bad nose-jobs I'll die a happy man. What I am trying to say is that we went to a jazz club which was conveniently located in the basement of another club, this 'other club' - the above ground one - had the following entrance requirements: One collared shirt, complete with Fleur-de-Lis/Paisley/Skull detail; one pair of machine distressed wash-of-the-month semi-premium denim; one inexpertly executed faux-hawk, doused with egregious amounts of hair-lubricant; and one pair of over-priced designer knock-off shoes (color optional). Needless to say, I was more than ready to mail-bomb the place at the drop of a hat. But the jazz set was pretty good.

The hotel was pretty nice, and the two-person jacuzzi tub was totally necessary. All in all, birthdays such as the g/f's are indeed harder to pass up than it was for that asshole brother from 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe' to turn down Turkish Delight and not sell out his flesh and blood. If you don't get the reference you should try reading something more than a shit-stained Reader's Digest. I now conclude this post for lack of motivation.

Creep out.