If you are looking for Team Rubicon, click here
This blog exists only as an archive. It is a journal that serves as a window into my life as a Marine combat veteran serving in Iraq and Afghanistan; it was written with no filter, no politics and no agenda. Please feel free to follow my journey from beginning to end. Welcome to my life.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Milwaukee Weekend

Well, after spending a little quality time with my new little friend, I headed up to Milwaukee to visit my old college roommates Jeff and Will. I knew going in it was probably going to be rough. So did my mom, I’m pretty sure the hug she gave me on my way out the door was a little longer than normal. She knows Jeff, she knows me, and she knows the combination is often chaos.

I showed up and the first thing Jeff wanted to show me was the bottle of Wild Turkey that he bought for the occasion. Gee, didn’t see that one coming.

Before we began Jeff took me down to the Fire Station that he works at. I was really curious to see it, seriously, who doesn’t have a man crush on firefighters? I’m not afraid to admit it, they do it for me. Funny thing is I think there was a little mutual man-crushing going on though, so it almost got weird. After spending adequate time drooling over heavy equipment, big trucks with sirens, the jaws of life, and 4 inch hoses, Jeff and I took off to meet up with Will, Rock Star Extraordinaire.

I won’t go into the night in much detail. It was typical, except that when we got back from the bars we still had 2/3 of a bottle of Wild Turkey left, and well, we’ll be damned if we allow ourselves to go to bed with that bottle staring us in the face. Wouldn’t be right. So we spent the next 5 hours sitting at the kitchen table recounting college stories, cringing every time another round was poured.

Pour shot. Cringe. Talk about how bad it’s going to be. Pick up shot glass. Look at shot glass like it contains rat poison. Talk about how tired we are and how it wouldn’t be too shameful if we went to bed without finishing. Smack some sense into ourselves. Take shot. Contort face. Make various ‘blah’ sounds. Swear to never buy another bottle of Wild Turkey. Ever. Realize we’re kidding.

Repeat until finished.

Saturday was much the same, except it included a lot more guys. Jeff and I were temporarily not on speaking terms when I returned from the liquor store without a bottle of Wild Turkey. Outwardly he was angry, but I think that inwardly he was rejoicing. This time around, as we were drinking at Jeff’s house, every round was preceded by a favorite college memory. Here are a few samplings of how these ‘memories’ began-

Will- “Remember that time I came home from work? I went into my bedroom, and when I walked back into the kitchen, that homeless guy was holding a meat cleaver and cutting the chicken I had bought?? And then when I asked him to leave, he chugged my big cup of Tang before walking out??”

Me- “Remember that time Jeff heard the kid walking home from the bar get on our porch and steal our grill? He chased him down the street, threw him into a bush, face washed him with snow, stole his shoes and then carried the grill home.”

Jeff- “Yeah, and then he knocked on our front door 10 minutes later, ran into the middle of the street, and when we answered he quietly asked me for his shoes back!”

Oh 206 Marion St. You are missed.

1 comment:

  1. I would love to have been there to hear the stories (since you're not my son), but I would have to pass on the Wild Turkey, which by the way was my father's choice of drink. He got my husband in trouble on more than one occasion.