JUST WHAT JUSTIN NEEDED

No, not THAT (although I do). I spent my Labor Day weekend amongst the rolling hills of Galena, IL, the occasion for which was the wedding of an old, dear friend of mine from high school. A person whom I don't see often (enough), but whom I can always pick right up where we left off.

It had been almost a year and a half since I've been this far from Chicago proper, and although I get nervous when I leave densely populated urban environments, it was really nice to be out in the "country", miles from, well, anything.

The Eagle Ridge Resort is massive; 4 golf courses, a hotel/lodge and rental properties scattered over what seemed liked forever. My home for the weekend was appropriately named The Mansion. Holy Shit, this place was dope!

12 bedrooms, each with a marble lined bathroom complete with it's own each jacuzzi tub, and a giant walk in shower. There was a pool table, air hockey, an outdoor hot tub, a full bar and other awesome shit. I flet like I was on an episode of MTV's Cribs.

And me and 50+ people, all heavily consuming alcohol under this roof. Crazy. The rehearsal dinner took place here too and about, oh, 90 people attended. So imagine my shock/horror/surprise that before that began, it was announced by the Bride, that "we have another celebration today", meaning the birthday of yours truly!

I'm not a big birthday guy, and I HATE being the center of attention, especially in front of so many strangers, but they all sung me Happy Birthday, and I even got my very own cake! It was pretty amazing.

Afterward, we all PAR-TAY-ED! Seriously, you couldn't keep me out of that hot tub if you tried. I simply jumped in wear almost only my birthday suit, and was promptly joined by several attractive, topless women. It was P-I-M-P. And...we danced! On the bar...

A good night was had by all. The next day people were pretty hungover, but in good spirits. And the actual ceremony was beautiful. It was outdoors under a tent overlooking a lake and surrounded by a forest. I have some idea what this must have cost, and my God, the Bride's Father probably could have bought himself a nice, if slightly used Aston Martin.

My friend, the Bride, looked stunning. I even cried a little bit during the speeches (I'm such a pussy when it comes to heartfelt expressions of love). And although I only knew 3 or 4 people, I left with a raft of new friends, several of whom have told me anytime I'm in San Fransisco, Seattle or Portland, I have a place to stay.

Overall, this was a great, Great, GREAT weekend. A good way to turn 31 years YOUNG and see off a person whom I lovely deeply. Congratulations, Mrs. A. F.! And to the groom, Mr. P.W.! Cheers!

POSTCARDS FROM A BOMBED-OUT SHIT-HOLE

So today I volunteered to accompany Ex-Roomie to Gary, Indiana. Easily the shittiest 'hood I've ever been in. Had I known what an industrial wasteland that place is (and I had an idea but wasn't prepared for it to be worse off than Detroit or East St. Louis) I would have worn my steel toed/heeled boots and perhaps brought my new bike helmet.

That's an old hotel, located in the historic downtown quarter, converted to apartments and frequented by crack heads. I gave a quarter to some guy asking me why in the hell I'm taking pictures of this old place. I answered that same question 3 times in the space of 2 minutes.

That modest dwelling you see there? None other than Michael Fuckin' Jackson was raised there! Along with his less famous siblings. The place is even smaller in real life. Note all the comments left on the street sign.

This cracked out former hotel isn't even boarded up, nor fenced off. More images would have been taken by me, had it not been for the presence of many, many people burning holes through me/getting eye-fucked. I was also legitimately concerned I would step on a used hypodermic needle.

The Casket Showroom...I assumed it was once a lounge of some sort, but it used to be exactly what it's name is (next to a Church). By this point many of the street people noted ourpresence, and I had to piss like whoa...but didn't have the nerve to do so in an alley.

Urban blight like none other I've ever seen or experienced. This is a shot looking north towards the old steel mill(s). Vacant lots abound in amazing quantity, especially right near the formerly thriving city center.

Indiana limestone son! There were at least 7 or 8 crumbling churches of various denominations. This one was notable for being totally and completely hollowed out, a gorgeous architectural work of art left to decay before it's time. Such a shame. Note the trees growing from inside.

PS - Today is the first time since early June of last year that I properly left the city limits. NYC/Fire Island then...Gary, IN now. Quite the contrast, to say the least.

THE DAY AFTER

You know when you look forward to something for so long, and once it's over a slow, mild form of depression sets in? Whether it's a vacation, a visit from an old friend or a big event like Pitchfork (I promise, I'll stop referring to this fest after this post).

When I bought tickets for this particular even back in April, I couldn't wait for the weekend to come. But now that's it's over...I feel kind of empty. I always like having things to look forward to, something to push me through another shitty work week.

Maybe what I really miss is that feeling I get when i have a big weekend like the one I just had. All the usual rules of everyday life seem elastic, and staying up until 5AM or dropping a $100 on beer seems completely normal. It's like a little break from reality and although I may lament it's passing, I do feel strangely energized (mentally at least, physically I'm exhausted).

At least I had today to recover, and I got to see The Dark Knight, which totally kicked ass! But I wish when I wake up tomorrow that I wasn't going to my 9-5 grind. Now that my New Roomie situation is settled (I picked the straight guy) I really need to stop fucking around and look for a new job, one that doesn't inlove me losing a little piece of my soul one hour at a time.

Although I don't really know what it is I want to do for work next, ideally it won't involve working in an office environment. I'm totally disillusioned with the concept of doing something just for money. There has got to be something out for me in which I have something other than a paycheck to show for my time and energy.

I LIKE LA!

There, I admit it...I like LA. A lot. Not as much as NYC and I don't love it like a certain city on the shore of Lake Michigan, but LA is damn cool. Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to the details!

[shitty iPhone pic of the Hollywood sign from the roof of Ralph's on La Brea]

At a quarter past 2AM on Friday morning I announced to the Doctor and his friends that I needed to leave the club and go home so I could finish packing. He kept me talking until 2:45AM until I announced that I really, really needed to get going.

Throwing a bunch of shit into my bag while calling various cab companies, I drained another cocktail just before my ride arrived around 3:30AM. Once in the serpentine line at O'Hare's Terminal 1 I realized that I was technically drunk and proceeded to chew even more gum. Shoes, coat and belt off I navigated the stupid TSA procedures and trudged to my gate.

Once there, I was immediately smitten by a smokin' hot Latino rockin' a murdered out 59Fifty White Sox lid. Does anyone else check out hot guys before getting on a plane with the hope that you'll be sitting in the same row? Well, it's a pastime of mine and once on the plane, the hottie was seated right behind me (so close yet so far!).

Even better, I got an entire row of seats to myself. How awesome is that? My drunk ass snoozed all the way to the left coast and awoke when we landed at LAX. Word!

After consuming a much needed cig I climbed aboard an empty shuttle van piloted by a foul mouthed Eastern European man who drove like a total asshole - my kind of driver - through the various side streets towards West Hollywood.

The destination was fellow blogger JR's pad where I shadily waited in front of for him to arrive. This is when I remembered that people passing you on the street in LA do not say hello or even notice you, which always take this Midwestern boy by surprise.

While reading the Chicago Tribune on my iPhone a slight figure emerged out of the corner of my right eye...JR! It's always odd meeting someone in person that you've talked to for a long time, and seen pictures of because the physical presence of someone never squares with the idea you have in mind, which, for me at least, immediately disappears.

My gracious host needed to return to work and left em to my own devices. I took a nap on his sofa while watching the 2nd half of The Last Mogul. How fitting...

Once I awoke I did what so few people in LA seem to do...I took a walk to see the place I rented in the Summer of 2003. Walking down Santa Monica Blvd. I felt like I was in some sort of weird dream. There's the place I used to get my old VW washed! There's the burger joint I ate at! There's the place where I bought beer! There's the place(s) I drank beer at!

I will always have a soft spot for the Formosa Cafe and upon seeing it and old Warner Bros. lot next store, my soul involuntarily swooned. I am a sucker for old Hollywood nostalgia.

Gardner St. was my old street and walking up it I remembered the random details of the old houses and apartment buildings, including my old place, just south of Sunset Blvd. I love this section of Sunset.

It's populated by tattoo parlors, liquor stores, guitar stores and car repair joints. Just seedy enough to remind me of certain parts of Chicago. Of course, the Hollywood Hills remind you that this is NOT Chicago, as does the odd smell that my olfactory sense recognized. Home...of sorts.

Eventually I made my way south to Melrose Ave. of which I am a huge fan. I didn't buy a thing but I looked around in all the random little stores, had a few beers in a bar and then I had my one and only celebrity siting during this trip...

SNOOP aka Felicia Pearson from The Wire! How awesome is that shit? She was driving down Melrose in a blue SUV rockin' chrome 22's blaring some rap. It might not have been here but it sure as shit looked like her. Regardless, it was cool.

When JR got off work he urgently needed to buy a new pair of sneaks so we returned to Melrose and perused the amazing selection of sneaks at Sportie LA. I summoned my reserve of restraint and miraculously managed not to splurge on yet more shoes that I don't need (that restraint was absent last night when I found myself in Foot Locker and bought a pair of Adidas Supermod's).

We found ourselves in a Mexican restaurant/Sports bar where everyone was wildly cheering on the Lakers, which was fun. Also fun was scoping out the assortment of HOT GUYS. In particular the four boys wearing checkered western shirts and drinking beer at the bar.

We surmised that they MUST be gay as straight dudes usually don't take pictures of one another while watching basketball games at bars, nor do they usually indulge in the flagrant display of physical contact that these guys did. Maybe is an LA thing. Whatever, shit was hot!

As night fell we returned to base camp to get ready for a night of hopefully gay debauchery in the WeHo bars. Joining us was Closeted, a blogger whom I was not too familiar with, but who I instantly clicked with. He seemed to enjoy my sarcastic comments I kept making about how long JR took to get ready (I told you your hair looked good JR!).

So there I found myself with 2 cute guys walking done Santa Monica Blvd. on a Friday Night with the lights in the houses in the Hills all lit up. I thought to myself that this is exactly where I wanted to be...

Motherlode was our first bar. Before we walked in JR told me "you'll like this place, the drinks are strong and cheap". While I don't consider 3 drinks that cost $27 as cheap, they certainly were strong.

Instantly I went into Hot Guy Eye Fuck Mode, on this one hot skater-ish dude wearing an annoying Yankees hat (seriously, WTF is with everyone wearing Yankees hats? This is LA...get a fucking Dodgers cap!).

Soon any thoughts I had about approaching this hottie were erased by the presence of 2 middle-ages guys that were NOT hot. Not even a little. And they both had their fat palms all over my boy. UGH. Every time I looked in their direction I threw up in my mouth (figuratively).

Out on the smoking area some guy asked me to pretend I was his old friend so that he could get away from some creepy guy. Then some other guy, perhaps fresh from the bathroom where he probably blew a bunch of lines grabbed me and said "did you see those pictures of Angelina Jolie in the Enquirer?" and then followed that conversation starter with "what's your sign?". Are you fucking kidding me?

We walked over to the Abbey, which is huge, gorgeous and filled with straight women. Seriously, I don't mind the presence of straight women in gay bars at all, but there were so many that it simply confused me. Is this an LA thing?

Whatever, we got drinks from the bar and I was astonished that a mixed drink costs $12. Fuck me! Being the classy gay man that I am I ordered a Budweiser and a shot of Jim Beam. The price? $16! Double Fuck! Cash issues aside I had a blast hanging out with the boys, although I must say that I found it challenging talking to these LA gays, and my LA cherry remained intact.

Saturday Night was JR Night all the way. It was my friend's birthday party and I got to meet his brother, sister, his best friend from high school and his girlfriend, all from Texas. There seems to be a common thread of friendliness shared between Texans and Midwesterners and I immediately felt comfortable in their presence.

Oh, and I smoked some insanely awesome medicinal herb courtesy of one of the guests. Damn that shit is good! It was also cool to be asked to play some of the Chicago hip-hop on my iPod, especially after I noticed several heads rockin' to the Kidz in the Hall and the Cool Kids. It was an awesome party and I must say I am grateful that I was in attendance.

Around 1PM on Sunday I awoke from the floor and was aghast upon realizing that my flight home left at 4PM. This meant that while a bunch of people were headed to Santa Monica beach, JR had to drive me to LAX. I really wish I could have stayed for longer, as there was much I still wanted to do/see/experience. But I guess I can always go back...

There was another motive I had to check out LA again, other than hanging out with awesome people in interesting places.

Occasionally I will get the desire to move out to LA and work in the Biz. That was always what I had expected to do after graduating, and yet I stayed put in Chicago. This trip really made me think hard about relocating, and there will always be a part of me that wants to return for good.

But a funny thing happened after I rode the L from O'Hare and got off at the Jefferson Park station. My friend who was supposed to pick me up wasn't there, and rather than stand out in the cold with my dick in the wind, I saw the following image emanating from across the street, and walked towards it...

This place was one of those little hole in the wall joints with a classic "Old Style" beer sign above it. It was dark, mirrored and dominated by a huge television.

The bartender, a skinny woman named Agnes who moved to Chicago from Poland 3 years ago cheerfully served me several $2 beers and I talked to an older drunk guy about sports while getting eye fucked by a girl who took her Mom to this bar for Mother's Day.

I was home in the city that I love, and shall remain for the indefinite future.

PLEASE SIR, I'D LIKE SOME MORE

In the early morning hours of Wednesday, February 6, a large and very ominous snow storm hovered over the Greater Chicagoland Area, dumping a tremendous amount of snow upon the region...

EVIL SNOW STORM: "HA HA HA HA HA HA!"
CHICAGOANS: (feigning grief-stricken terror) "...yawn..."
EVIL SNOW STORM: "MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
CHICAGOANS: (casually filing nails) "...sigh..."
EVIL SNOW STORM: "..."
CHICAGOANS: "streets seem a bit slick"
EVIL SNOW STORM: (grimacing, getting pissed off) "I SHALL UNLEASH UPON YOU A WINTER STORM THE LIKES OF WHICH YOU HAVE YET TO SEE!"
CHICAGOANS: (rolls eyes) "like that storm from the late 1970's that cost Mayor Bilandic his re-election? Yeah, that sucked ass, but after that we determined not to let that shit happen again. Now we put snow plows on garbage trucks and shit..."
EVIL SNOW STORM: "...plows...on garbage trucks?"
CHICAGOANS: "thats right asshole, so let us fucking have it. In fact, give us your best/worst, we may not have to go to work in fact."
EVIL SNOW STORM: (about to lose it's damn mind) "YOU SHALL FEEL MY WRATH FOR VOTING FOR OBAMA! WE ALL KNOW HILLARY HAS THE EXPERIENCE THAT WE NEED TO LEAD OUR NATION IN A NEW DIRECTIO-"
CHICAGOANS: "piss off asshole - go fuck with Indiana"

A personal thanks to the Snow God(s) that rule the Midwestern skies - I really enjoyed having my boss call me at 7:12AM just to tell me NOT to come into work. Woot!

Today was spent sleeping until 11AM, working out at the gym, grocery shopping, doing laundry and looking for jobs. Pretty fucking awesome.

So awesome, that I pose a challenge to said Snow God(s): RIP US A NEW ONE MOTHERFUCKER(S)! Seriously, I don't want to go to work tomorrow...give us more snow!

WINTER BREAK

Unlike some people, I am not giving up on blogging (I love ya T and always will, if not for you this blog would not exist) but have decided to take an ever so brief hiatus.

Fear not..once I return from my trip to NYC I am sure I will have plenty to write about.

That being said the day I get back home my Mom will be staying with me, which is a slightly more than minor occurrence seeing as the last time my Mom visited here for the holidays, Bill Clinton was still in office (seriously).

And once she leaves I will be preparing for my XXX-Mas Party Throw Down...it's gonna be a busy next 10 days or so and likely not conducive to blogging.

Fuck, it's almost 12:30AM in my time zone and I haven't even packed my bags yet - I need to get going!

However, I am enjoying sipping Polish beer and watching Matt Damon kick serious ass in one of the Bourne films (the Roomie has yet to watch all of the Bourne Identity).

I am a lazy man of action...

HERE I COME NYC!

In 4 short days I will find myself on what is perhaps the most densely populated island on the face of the earth, in a city I have spent the last several years talking tall shit about - New York City. I have only been there once before, way the fuck back in the day when I was but a wee lad...I think I was 13 or 14.

When my Father used to travel for business like mad, I would often join him on business trips when my school schedule permitted it. This was one way for my Father and I to bond and he was always all about showing me the country/world. Sometimes the destination was decidedly domestic (i.e. Birmingham, AL) other times rather cosmopolitan (Frankfort, Germany).

Regardless, I remember an elementary teacher once told me to go wherever I had the chance to go to a new place, and I have more or less followed that advice while growing up. I have been to various locales such as Juneau, AK, Del Rio, TX and Amsterdam to name but a few (whoa - that was fucking trippy exploring coffee shops on my own!).

Fast forward to the present tense. My father is now a resident of the (eekk) Garden State and living within spitting distance of "the First City". Therefore, this resident of "the Second City" has resolved to keep an open mind about my first adult trip back to said densely populated island.

It helps tremendously that I have several blogger buddies to meet up with; that alone is worth the price of admission (which, granted is rather modest, my airline ticket cost south of $200) and my Father is hooking up a hotel room for me on Friday & Saturday since his "friend"/partner/fill-in-the-blank is wary of house guests.

So what will I do while there? Well, seeing as my Father is a culture whore, a gene that seems to have been passed down to me in various degrees, I should find my way to at least the MOMA and the Guggenheim, which should be the TITS. But I am very interested in, um, "comparing" the gay nightlife scene to that of Chicago's.

Bottom line: I intend to put my somewhat natural Chicago prejudices aside and inhale (with the exception of the subway) NYC for all it's worth. For the most part I am going to let go and allow both my Father and my various blogger friends show me what's up. I want to see this city through the eyes of those that love it for whatever reasons they have.

I challenge you all to remove the blindness of the SHIZZ that is NYC from my eyes. Show me what the fuck is up!

REGRET IS A WASTED EMOTION

Seeing as I have nothing better to blog about at the moment, nor any obnoxious run in's with Dennis Quaid's film crew to bitch blog about, I thought I'd delve back into my recent past for a little story, (which happens to be somewhat relevant in light of me having come out to my Mom last week).

Previously I mentioned about how I went on vacation in Mexico last November to spend time with my Mom and my Grandparents, (also time relevant considering my Grandmother's recent passing). I winged my way out to sunny Cabo San Lucas from cold, gray Chicago just a week before this most recent Thanksgiving.

Stepping off the silver jet into the hot glare of the Mexican desert I was struck by amazing scenery and the fact that I haven't felt heat like like that in 6 months, which made me lightheaded (not to mention cursing myself for leaving my sunglasses in my car back home). After being conned into bribing the immigration official $30 (my passport was expired) I found a van that would take to me to the hotel where my Grandparent's timeshare was at.

The 4 us of did the "hello/how are you/so good to see you/etc" thing and I got settled in and downed a Tecate. We had lunch, went to a lame cocktail party, blah, blah. Eventually it was dark and just my Mother, a bottle of tequila, a 12 of Tecate and me. We drank. And talked and drank. After a few hours the question came up that always does, "so are you seeing anyone?/why not?". I gave my standard "aw-shucks/haven't found anyone yet..." response, which at the time was true, I wasn't seeing anyone.

Then she says, "you know, it's OK if you want to be gay". I swear the ocean breeze and the sound of the lapping ocean waves, not to mention my ability to speak all froze simultaneously. "I, uh, I...need another beer, uh, let's do a shot, but lemme piss first" was more or less my response.

NOW, if I could do that scene over again it might have gone something like this:

Mom: "It's OK if you want to be gay".
Me: "What do you mean if I WANT to be gay? It's not like converting to another religion, it's not like going from being a 'Ford' man to being a 'GM' man...it's not like..."
Mom: "Weeeell, if that's your choice..."
Me: "As if I decided, 'well, fuck it, you know it's just too difficult to be a straight man in this country, plus the new rules for the current NFL season make no sense anyways', plus, all the cool hipster boys are doing it, I might get some pussy mileage out of pretending I'm gay".
Mom: "You're drunk".
Me: "I'm on vacation in Mexico, you better believe I'm fucking drunk".

Of course, the conversation did NOT go like that, (perhaps that's a good thing).

But that one phrase, that one word "want" totally threw me off base. Funny thing is I knew the conversation was leading up to her asking me if I was gay, but I didn't expect her to ask me like that, so I avoided the question out of confusion. I blame it all on the tequila and the heat, (mostly).

Over the coarse of the week the 4 of us swam, sunbathed, shopped at Costco, ate overpriced Mexican food at touristy spots and generally behaved as most well to do, white Americans on vacation in Mexico do.

Then I pussied out again.

The last night we were there I finally whined enough to my Mom about coming all the way down to Mexico and not once getting on a boat (I LOVE being on the open water and unlike my brother or dad, I avoided that awful automatic sea sickness gene that runs through most of my family). We booked a Sunset (aka, Booze) Cruise and boarded promptly at 5PM. We sit down, each have a beer poured for us and there he was, Senior.

Senior was dressed in khaki linen pants, a tight green polo shirt and white loafers. Now that description does not do the boy justice, but I assure you he was fine as hell. It felt awkward sitting next to my Mom checking out his perfect skin, his "gawdaaaaamn" ass and his swollen pecs (ok, now I just sound like a 2-bit romance author, oh well). Hot senior was with a female and another male friend. They seemed local and wealthy.

The boat filled up with mostly sun burnt Americans and motored out towards El Arco where those of us that have never seen it before snapped away (sometimes it's fun being a dorky American tourist). We rounded the rock formation and watched the sun slowly go down over the water. In between staring at the breathtaking view I kept looking back over at Senior and nearly every time we locked eyes.

As we made our way back into port (which took at least an hour) the crew started rocking out to Daddy Yankee and some of the braver white peoples started dancing. I was drowning my horny sorrows in another Corona when Senior's Senorita grabbed my hand and asked me to dance. At first I was reluctant, but after some gentle berating from the Captain, I said "well, aight, fuck it" and started dancing with Senorita on the side of the boat.

Next thing I now I feel a THIRD hand on my ass, which, "si" belonged to Senior. He was behind Senorita and all of a sudden the 3 of us were having a three way/dance off. It was obvious they were as drunk as I was and we did this for a few minutes until Senorita disappeared and left me and Senior dancing for the drunk Americans, the Mexican crew...and my Mom. Once I realized the gravity of the situation I said "I'll be right back" in broken Spanish.

I wasn't sure how much my Mom had seen but after sitting down next to her she claims seeing me dance with Senorita for a moment before disappearing into the bathroom. My thought process was momentarily relieved...and then Senior sat down next to me. "Tu is un caliente hombre, como se yama" (sorry, my typing Spanish is obviously not so good). "Justin..." We tried talking but his English was as bad as my Spanish.

We tried talking about meeting up later that night but it wasn't easy, especially for me with my Mom in my right ear asking me what we were talking about (remember it was loud as hell with the music). "Pot Mom, he's trying to sell me pot but it's too expensive". That was honestly easier to tell my Mom at that point than to tell her in my needlessly closeted state that I was trying in vein to arrange a hook up with a local boy in Mexico.

Needless to say the boat docked along with the "just outside of my grasp" Mexican Sexual Adventure. On our way back to the shuttle to the hotel fortress I mentioned I was thinking of taking the bus home an hour later, but she offered (more like stated) she would wait for me, thus my Mom effectively cockblocked me.

As the Ford shuttle bus pulled away from the curb I turned my head and watched the lights of the El Squid Roe recede into the inky distant night where I knew Senior was waiting for me...

WHO-HOO

A friend of mine invited me to come fly out to Washington, DC in April to see some concerts, (it's a sort of ritual we have to fly somewhere and see Widespread Panic once a year) I especially wanted to go because I'll be able to meet her little boy who will be staying with my friend's Mom while we're out raging it in the capitol city. I wasn't sure I wanted to drop a few hundred dollars on airline tickets but after a little online sleuthing today, I discovered United will allow me to cash in some miles for a $75 coupon. Round trip, after all the taxes and fees the flight set me back a whopping $43! After pressing the "book it" button I did my best Homer Simpson "who-hoo" impression. I'm fucking psyched!

MY WEEKEND IN ST. LOUIS IN COLD, HARD #'S

1. # of miles driven: 684
2. # of gay bars/clubs visited: 4
3. # of times I heard "SNAP DEM FINGAZ" by ILLBEATZ: 7 (although it felt more like 70)
4. # of times people asked if my friend Renee and I were a couple: 4
5. # of times I was if asked if I was gay: 5
6. # of people that asked me if I was sure: 2
7. # of times I used the word "TITS!" as an adjective: a few dozen
8. # of Jack & Cokes consumed: ? (a lot)
9. # of pole dancers I watched dance: 2
10. # of boys with baseball hats twisted to the side: 5
11. # of times Renee took off her shirt while dancing: 1
12. # of gay men over the age of 40 I saw sporting popped collars: 2
13. # of times I heard people say "Missourah": too many
14. # of Professional Bull Riding Events attended: 0 (my one regret)
15. # of bars we closed out: 2
16. # of times I got made fun of for jokingly "dancing" to Michael Jackson: 1
17. # of Bloody Marys consumed: 1
18. # of hours of sleep: 11
19. # of times I watched "Cruel Intentions": 1
20. # of times I commented on Ryan Phillipe's lips: 20 (conservative estimate)
21. # of times I talked "Tall Shit" to Cardinal fans: 0 (that # would be different if it was baseball season)
22. # of times I pissed on someones front yard: 1
23. # of Renee's friend's sister's houses that burned to the ground: 1 (seriously, that shit sucks for real)
24. # of people that cannot merge in traffic: see #8
25. # of dollars dropped in the "Show Me" state: see #24
26. # of people spotted wearing overalls without a shirt: 1
27. # of times I muttered "fuck fuck fuck" while driving home in a blizzard: at least 50
28. # of White Castle sliders consumed: 2
29. # of dollars donated to Breast Cancer Research: 5
30. # of hot black lesbians that just got back from serving a tour of duty in Afghanistan: 1 (see #16)
31. # of times I thought I was gonna get rolled for speeding in I-55: 7
32. # of times I wondered aloud "who do you have to blow in this city to get a draft of Heineken": 10 (at least)
33. # of mullets spotted: 3 (this surprised me, I expected more to be honest)
35. # of drunken text messages sent: 5 (that I know of)

Thanks St. Louis! I had a great time!