Hot Weather Crazy

Hot weather causes residents of the Midwest to become raving lunatics.

Midwesterners are simply unable to adequately prepare themselves for the summer.  Last winter in Chicago, for example, was extremely long; snow fell during five successive months.  Spring is virtually nonexistent, so a Midwesterner experiences septic shock when the temperature rises above 80 degrees. 

For many, foolish behavior functions as a means to cope with the jarring change in climate.  With summer officially underway, I am reminded of a few instances where I have witnessed the dramatic effect that the sun can have on residents of the Midwest.

::

When I was in college, a pilgrimage to the Wisconsin Dells had become somewhat of an annual tradition.  The summertime camping trips were merely an excuse for my friends and me to barbeque and consume copious amounts of intoxicants. 

We found that many of the campgrounds in the Dells were family-friendly locations where underage drinking was discouraged.  Eventually, we settled on a small campground on the outskirts of town.  While the site did not have many of the amenities of competitive campgrounds, it was cheap and drinking was allowed.  Our shabby little campground was the perfect place for a weekend bender.

One must be careful when deciding which fellow campers to fraternize with.  For example, socializing with the long-haired fellow with a hefty bag of marijuana and a large-breasted girlfriend with the propensity for wearing bikini tops is a good idea.  Mingling with the group of overweight men with shaved heads and a pickup truck blaring Death Metal may not be a good idea.  The nuisances of camp site sociology are subtle and quite difficult to master.

One particularly hot year, our camp site was located adjacent to the aforementioned metal-head meatballs.  We spent countless hours observing the curious behavior of the group.  They would often argue, engaging in enthusiastic shoving matches.  Without fail, a fellow meatball would intervene in the donnybrook before punches were thrown.  At one point, one of the meatballs was shoved into the small bonfire.  The extent of his injuries is unknown, due to the fact that it is difficult to distinguish bald white Wisconsin residents, especially from a vantage point 40 feet away. 

As the weekend came to an end, so did the contents of the metal-head meatballs’ half-barrel keg.  On Sunday morning, while most campers were packing up their belongings, the meatballs were still drinking.  The pouring of the final cup from the keg was immediately followed by a yet another brief shoving match.

With the supply of beer exhausted, the meatballs needed a new outlet for entertainment.  They decided on a game called “Pick up the Keg and Throw it at Your Friend.”  The rules of the game appeared to be rather simple: participants would simply pick up the keg and threw it at one of their friends. 

The game was quite intriguing to me.  I wondered if the game was a popular Wisconsin pastime.  I briefly considered the notion of a professional Pick up the Keg and Throw it at Your Friend league.  However, I quickly dismissed the idea an implausible, due to the high cost of insuring the players.  

As a spectator, I found the spirited competition to be an amazing sight to behold.  The drunken meatballs were surprisingly good at the game, flinging the keg across the campground with ease.  The targeted meatball would stagger out of the path of the projectile.  Near-misses prompted a brief interruption of the game as the meatballs engaged in a chorus of “oooohhh!” 

By the time we were prepared to leave, the game had gone on for ten minutes.  As I pulled away, one of the meatballs was not quick enough on his feet and he was struck in the head with the projectile keg.  He quickly crumpled to the ground in a lifeless pile.  The game immediately stopped and the meatballs quickly rallied around their fallen friend. 

Unfortunately, I was unable to call 911 for help.  Our weekend excursion had occurred before cellular phones had become ubiquitous, and my pager did not have outbound dialing.   

::

In 2006, I lived in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side.  The neighborhood has changed dramatically since my departure.  The construction of a state-of-the-art supermarket on Chicago Avenue was preceded by the demolition of a string of crack houses, displacing junkies and transforming the neighborhood.

Today, Ukrainian Village is relatively safe, embracing much of the hipster-douche bag ethos that embodies neighboring Wicker Park.  At the time, the neighborhood was rife with heroin addicts that regarded “robbing bokeen’s apartment” as a beloved hobby. 

While I am quick to point out the flaws of Ukrainian Village circa 2006, crime was not much of a problem during the daytime hours.  In many ways, junkies are like cockroaches: when the lights come on, they frantically scatter for cover.

My friend A owns a head shop in the Ukrainian Village.  (Shameless plug: visit Sweet Tooth at 2030 Chicago Avenue for all of your waterpipe and blow-up doll needs.)  On exceptionally hot days, I would come home from work, fire up my air conditioner, and then kill time in his store while my apartment cooled off. 

The summer of 2006 was unusually warm in Chicago as temperatures filtered with the triple digits.  On the hottest day of the year, I spent about a half an hour chatting with A before returning to my apartment.

As I stepped out of the store, a woman who appeared to be her forties grabbed my arm and began screaming.

“My son!  His shoes!  He – running – that way,” she breathlessly said as she pointed to the west.

“Hey broad, get it together.  What the hell are you trying to say?” I inquired while casually lighting a cigarette. 

She took a deep breath and continued, “A man – with a knife – just stole my son’s shoes.”  She motioned towards her son’s feet, which we covered only by dirty socks.

I peered down Chicago Avenue and saw a man running with a long kitchen knife in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other.

“That sucks.  What kind of shoes were they?”  I asked the teenage boy.

“Air Jordans,” he replied, “brand new.” 

“Yeah, that’s why I wear cheap shoes,” I said, glancing down at my beat up Chuck Taylors.  “No one is trying to steal these smelly things.”

The mother asked if she could use my cellular phone to call 911.  I lied and told her that I didn’t have my phone on me, knowing that the Chicago Police wouldn’t give a shit about a pair of stolen sneakers.

::

Last weekend, boqueen and I attended the housewarming party of her two friends, Durty Dee and CC. 

Saturday was a busy day for us.  We spent the afternoon at my cousin’s graduation party.  I was delighted to discover that my family had offically declared boqueen worthy of my seed.  We spent the entire afternoon sitting on my aunt’s patio in 80 degree heat while my mother and I competed for the title of “Loudest Mammal Alive.”

By the time we left my Auntie Ro-Ro’s house, I was spent.  I struggled to summon enough energy for binge drinking.  Fortunately, I was tremendously successful.

Durty Dee and CC have a beautiful apartment on the city’s North Side.  They live in a mammoth garden unit, complete with parquet floors and a patio slightly below sea level.

I was thrilled when a few of my high school buddies showed up.  The Augie and Les arrived around 2 A.M.  Despite the fact that Les lacks a proper nickname for blogging purposes, it was great to see my old friends.

The party was rather lively; people kept arriving and leaving throughout the night.  At around 3 o’clock, a hipster arrived at the door.  He reported that another hipster had fallen asleep on a neighbor’s lawn. 

While the hipster was concerned for the well-being of his fellow fallen soldier, my friends and I were enraged.  House party etiquette dictates that one should not become unconscious on public property, let alone a neighbor’s private property.  Such an indirection is classified as a Party Foul which invites the attention of law enforcement.  Since we were thoroughly enjoying the party, the prospect of an unwelcomed visit by a Chicago Police officer seemed detrimental to our experience. 

“I am going to piss on his head,” I announced as I climbed over the railing of the patio.  While this may seem like a harsh punishment, an unwritten rule stipulates that if one becomes unconscious near a party, all bets are off.

Several partygoers enthusiastically followed me.  As I stood over the fallen hipster and unsheathed my penis, he awoke.  The hipster jumped up and ran away.

Naturally, I followed the hipster, penis in hand.  At that point, I had no intention of urinating on the fool.  Since he had vacated the neighbor’s lawn, urinary retribution was no longer necessary.  We were all happy to see him leave.  However, I followed him to keep the joke alive. 

I chased after the hipster for about a hundred feet before we reached an area of the sidewalk that was under construction.  The hipster grabbed a folding parking barricade and brandished it, ready to swing at my head.

As I stood there, phallus in hand, I heard the rapid patter of footsteps.  I looked to my right and saw The Augie running towards us with fury in his eyes.

The Augie grabbed the hipster and pulled him to the ground.  He quickly beat the hipster into submission, in part because The Augie is kind of swoll, and in part because hipsters fight like a retarded five-year-olds girl with asthma.

I zipped up my pants and asked The Augie to relent in his furious onslaught of the hipster.   The Augie jumped up and returned to the party, while the hipster staggered away, emasculated.

About half an hour after the incident, one of the hipster’s friends returned to the party and accused The Augie of shamelessly beating an innocent fool.  I offered to dial 911.   After all, the kid was fully prepared to swing a parking barricade at my head.  I assumed that the inept Chicago Police would consider that assault, despite my urinary inclinations. 

::

These three examples of Midwesterner’s misbehavior during the summer illustrates that residents of the Midwest are incapable of dealing with hot weather, which, I believe, serves as impetuous for such outrageous behavior.  The common thread is that each story occurred while the temperature in Chicago was greater than 80 degrees.  Clearly, hot weather melts the brains of those in the Midwest, rendering them incapable of making wise decisions.

I issue this warning to my fellow Americans: it is not in your best interest to travel to the Midwest during the summer.

If you do, I might try to piss on your head.

5 responses to 'Hot Weather Crazy'

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1. Wait!!!

   You forgot the part where the hipster threw up all over my fucking bed!!

   DurtyDee

   06.22.09 10:14 PM

    

2. You are utterly insane. GOOD TIMES!

   mizChartreuse

   06.22.09 11:27 PM

    

3. I think the keg thing is just a drunk-and-fratty thing to do. I’ve seen real life Donkey Kong on several flights of stairs:

   1. Have Frat Boy drink enough to not feel feelings.
   2. Place Frat Boy at foot of stairs.
   3. Throw several (7) kegs down said stairs.
   4. Make Frat Boy run up stairs.
   5. Cheer for the now paraplegic co-ed for having tried.

   Leelee

   06.22.09 11:53 PM

    

4. I can’t believe you almost R Kellyed that fool.

   Shak

   06.22.09 11:57 PM

    

5. @DurtyDee – I apologize for the omission. He puked on your cat, too.

   @mizChartreuse – “Is he nuts? No, he’s insane”

   @Leelee – Good to hear that your college experience involved aggravated assault. That’s always nice.

   @Shak – He is lucky that I didn’t break out the doo-doo butter.

   In closing, die hipsters. Fucking die.

   bokeen

   06.23.09 12:34 AM

    

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