The new batch

Remember the rash of creature horror-comedies that came out during the 1980s (Gremlins, Ghoulies, Critters, etc.)? That's what you're staring at in the toilet bowl after a full day at the Taste.

In related news, stay away from the curry burgers.

Barleycorn

You know how in the Divine Comedy there are those nine circles of hell, where Dante describes them as concentric and incrementing in wickedness as you get closer to the center? One inside of another, like they're Russian nested dolls?

That's pretty much how I feel about the John Barleycorn in Wrigleyville. It is the nadir of bars, but people below the age of 22 do not know this. They don't see how frat boy douches jaywalk across Clark Street and angrily kick at the back of taxi cabs on their way to the line. They're oblivious to the naive suburbanite bachelorette parties in attendance where those girls truly believe they'll get to go dancing at this bar and not get molested by sweaty heavy-set men.

It truly is Dante's Inferno. The excruciating line to the entrance of the bar takes you to another excruciating line to the upstairs dance floor. Hell inside of a hell. Russian nested dolls.

But somehow someone I know always wants to go there, like Marci last night who wants to make this boy fall in love with her even though just a few years ago he was young enough for cops to call this statutory. "Pete?" she says, tapping my right shoulder every ten seconds. "Omigosh, Pete? Like I really think I like this one, even though he's so much younger than me? But he just seems so inattentive right now? So can you take one for the team? Can you grind on me when we get up on the dance floor so he gets jealous? Pete?"

And if that wasn't bad enough, I somehow almost got into a fight. This is what happens when you reach the second circle of hell: you cut to the front of the line for the upstairs dance floor because all of your friends did, and then people behind you end up wanting to murder you.

Last night it's this Eurotrash kid, complete with faux-hawk and sport jacket, asking me to go to the end of the line. When I pretend not to hear him, he cuts back in front of me and jabs a hard elbow into my ribs.

"Dude, we're all trying to go upstairs, okay?" I say, grimacing a bit. "But there's no need for that. Besides, don't you belong at Crobar?"

"Asshole!" he says, his face inches away from my face. "I've been in this damn line for two hours, SO DON'T FUCK WITH ME, ASSHOLE! YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE!" I'm close enough to him that I can feel his blood boiling. It doesn't help that since we're all squished together in this line like sardines in a can, spit is being sprayed onto my face with every word he utters.

I go against my better judgment and decide to swear at him in Polish for a good thirty seconds.

Kurwa, I say.

Gowniarz, I say.

Idziecie domu spac! I say.

And you know what he did? He got even closer to my face, and he headbutted me! Headbutted me!! His bony forehead smacked against mine like he was trying to hammer a nail to the wall.

Who does that? And how do you even react to that? What an awkward thing to do to someone! I looked around a little embarrassed and stunned, wondering if anyone else saw that, and then I just looked away and pretended it never happened and hoped I could leave this horrible bar soon and hoped Marci wouldn't rape me upstairs so that her boy toy would get "jealous".

Improper attire

Help! I'm trying to find jogging shorts that don't expose my junk like a boxer's speed bag under a parachute!

Go Cubs go

The best thing ever is that post-game glow on everyone's faces after a great Cubs win. Walking out of the bleacher gates feels the same as walking out of a rock concert; your voice is gone, your ears are ringing, and everyone's completely exhausted -- but in a happy, wholly satisfied way. But the party doesn't stop there. Drunk strangers high-five each other on their way to the nearest bar, drummer boys bang away festively, and everyone sings along to "Go Cubs Go." When I look around myself sometimes on afternoons like this, I still can't believe that I'm actually living my childhood dream of living near Wrigley Field and going to all of the games.

Now, about that "Go Cubs Go" song, I hate it. Always have. I understand that the Cubs marketing folks felt like they needed to emulate the White Sox who adopted Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" as their signature song, but why did they have to choose this piece of cheese? The whole "let's lock our arms together and sway back and forth and sing along like it's a Bon Jovi song playing at a bar right before last call" thing just makes me sick. Personally, I think they should play "Your Love Keeps Taking Me Higher" by Jackie Wilson. It's less corny, and even more feel-good than "Go Cubs Go," and it was the introductory song for most of Barack Obama's speeches during the primary season, and it was the song in Ghostbusters 2 that helped the ectoplasm bring the Statue of Liberty to life (watch this scene, and if it doesn't put a smile on your face, then you have no heart). But that's just me.

But who am I to complain? You can't have everything in life, but if you're a Cubs fan living in Wrigleyville during this time of the year, you can come pretty damn close. They, by the way, shellacked the White Sox 11-7 with a 9-run 4th inning where it seemed like they'd never stop putting runs on the board. It was a beautiful thing to watch, on the most beautiful day of the summer. It really doesn't get better than this.

Actually, it does. When I came home, still smiling ear to ear, my roommate smirked at me and said, "Hey man, check this out," and then he turned on today's game that he had recorded on DVR, and THERE WAS ME AND MY FRIEND JULIE. On TV. A close-up of us. In high-definition. Me with my game-face on because it was the 9th inning.

"Dude," I said, laughing loudly, collapsing onto the couch in amusement, "THAT is fucking awesome. On a happy scale of 1 to 10 earlier, I was a 9.9. Now I'm a 10."

I call it a team building activity

This morning in the shower while loofahing vigorously, I thought about maybe getting drunk at work. One of my bosses at an internship during college always kept a handle of Absolut under her desk -- vodka which I'd used to euthanize our dying office goldfish, where "euthanize" meant, in this case, sending the fish into violent paroxysms of agony instead of the quick, painless death that our in-house fish "expert" had promised -- and I always thought that was a good office supply to have in stock.

I know going out for ten-martini lunches is perfectly acceptable behavior, and I've certainly been drunk at work before thanks to afternoon holiday parties or the like ("No, you have a dangerously lax attitude toward your work that will -- SHUT UP! -- that will result in your immediate termination," etcetera), but I've never poured myself a nice shot or two right here at my desk.

I was thinking I could camouflage it the way a real alcoholic would, maybe sneak in a flask to spice up the morning coffee I don't drink, but then I was all: Why bother? Get a cocktail shaker, whip up something with some Bourbon in it, lurch against a cubicle wall and chit chat with the neighbors. It brings people together, you know? Meetings are funnier, irritating habits become endearing, and blogging on company time suddenly makes you feel better about your life and the state of humanity rather than worse. I've been sitting here pondering it and honestly? I can't think of a single drawback.