The Chicago Crowd Returns, Hilarity Follows

This weekend we were, yet again, graced with the presence of our Chicago cronies, who never fail to amaze us with their unrelenting wit and strangely philosophical drinking styles.



We gathered in what one can only interpret as a random pattern on Evan’s stoop; bodies arriving and dispersing throughout the day, leaving nothing more than a fermented whiff in their wake. Amongst the chaos, however, remained the constant and never-wavering barrage of observatory comments directed towards the passers-by.

The "Canadian Tuxedo"

The "un-bike"

We witnessed a smathering of culture: women and men, children and elderly, people of God and people of questionable motives. Yet through them ran a common distaste for our crowd, and they were repelled like imbalanced molecules from our gathering.

As if part of a cruel joke, the Malort had returned, and it too rejected us, wrapping its icy hands around our throats and sending shudders down our spines. I glared at it with the timidness of an unwanted child.

Do not look at its face

The Malort, however, did offer one simple gift for our sacrifice. For a brief afternoon, it allowed us to contemplate the world from a cosmic perspective; to deconstruct the very intention of our existence.

Pondering the contrast of good and evil

Rationalizing his afterlife

Denouncing the existance of a higher being

But soon our theories would be quietly muffled by unsavory silence as an unidentified vehicle swiftly pulled up next to the curb. For those not witnessing the event, the car could only be described as the following: a brightly colored Mini with a giant-ass Red Bull can on the back of it.

Like a modern day Johnny Appleseed, the car’s passenger dispersed Red Bull amongst us, commenting on our bikes scattered across the lawn and strange preference in liqueur. Then, just as quickly, he dissolved into the evening.

This has Saccharin in it??

The Red Bull served, if nothing else, as a starting point for Malort chemistry: a study in tolerance. Note: Chocolate Milk and Malort do not titrate as expected.

Uh Oh...

Lost in our own mental quagmire, we watched as Cale performed inhumane feats on a Tandem.

The Tandem Trackstand (one footed, no hands)

The Backseat Driver

Later, perhaps in some sort of unconscious wrestle with her mental well-being, Roxanne mistakenly knocked over the only remaining bottle of Malort, shattering its protective vessel and pouring its truth serum onto the steps.

Eric lapped it up in regret.

Later we enjoyed further shenanigans at Roxanne’s digs, discussing our lives and participating in feats of strength.


To draw some sort of existential meaning from the night would be pretentious and self-indulging. Yet, perhaps, if we had to derive any meaning from the events that transpired, we could say simply that life is good. And that it is friends make it so.

Come back soon, you crazy cats…

[Photos courtesy of Nat]

[callie].