(Faust and Williams Friday night)
Mr. Faust comes to Chicago
Hello friends. Happy Sunday. I hope you are all well and watching a nice Sunday night football game between the Cowboys of Dallas, Texas and the Packers of Green Bay, Wisconsin. I turned the game off to write this. I feel my sports fandom days are in the past. Kevin, I apologize.
I just poured myself a glass of southern comfort to finish off the bottle Adam Faust and I consumed in roughly 1 hour and 15 minutes yesterday evening. I will attempt to refrain from the full packages of cigarettes that loom on my porch and conscience. I am violently hungover and feel tomorrow will be worse. As I sit here listening to classical music, I am attempting to ween myself off the myth that I am amongst good friends here in Chicago and that this weekend is normalcy. That is false. My good friends are here, with their eyes on these words. I spend time with them on domain addresses and when responding to bad trade proposals (ie: Kurt Warner). That's the reality.
We had a nice weekend. We talked about each and every one of our friends. When we saw a tall girl at a bar in a group of three, we wished Matt Chambers was there to overcome the intimidation of physically matched eye contact. When we drank Hennessey, we talked about how much Brent Lubahn would have liked this wretched, potent concoction and possibly referred to it as a `nipper'. When we danced and canoodled with girls to assure ourselves that we were liked, cool and attractive, we talked about how much trouble it would be to have Lee Portillo at our side. When the MIA gunshot song came on and we danced, which was accurately described as`End Zone dances', we wondered what move Michael Mazur would have dropped in his white sneaks. When we ate Chilaquiles and heard people yelling in Spanish, we talked about how much Clint Brown would like spending time in this barrio. When the Cubs clinched the pennant and we were 10 steps from Wrigley, we talked about how much Kevin Dalrymple would have enjoyed the day. When we got out of cab in the middle of the street and started wrestling (to a crowd yelling `get him stripes' and `kick his ass purple'. I was stripes. Faust was purple.), we talked about how we probably would have been manhandled and found ourselves in some sort of legal trouble had Marc Miller been involved. When some devil skank said I reminded her of Johnny Drama, I thought about how Weiss would have liked the HBO reference and would have most likely been called Vincent Chase. Or Turtle. (jk, lol, omg, jk) Then we got high and thought about everybody.
I'm writing this because, when you've moved far from home and every one you spend time with in the new city is far from being considered a `friend', it sure is a pleasure to have a real one come visit. You all were visitors in our minds.
To sum up this unfunny gush of reminding you all that I love you, I must tell you something. Adam Faust is my great friend. He is fun and charming and people like him. When we went out Friday, I'd forgotten his strong social capability. The following day, we walked down the sidewalk together and I talked about dating and how I enjoy flirting with girls. I then turned to my friend and said:
`I don't really like it when you're here.'
I meant it.
Friendship.
