Sometimes I wish I could remember every dream I had, because the ones that I do… whew boy! Where do they come from?
Last night was no exception.
If there was going to be a visual mash-up of ideas, it’d be best represented by this:
Something something America! AKA Freudians have fun!
Using the above graphic you should be able to ascertain the elements involved… so here’s the gist of the dream.
There was a grouping of triplets (is that how you’d refer to them?), and they were preparing to set a new Guinness World Record. Grant it, the triplets in the dream were burnout dudes, but I figured why not put the Dahm sisters up because of their, um, patriotism.
The new record they were setting to create? Who could stay the longest at the bottom of an active volcano. The location they chose was Hawaii. The seat of choice was their old green sofa. The method they chose to pass the time was getting high.
The world was watching, they set the record, and became overnight celebrities. They even ended up releasing an album with Kid Rock.
I wish I could tell you how long they stayed in the volcano, or that I could regale you with an anecdote of how the brothers lit their joints on molten lava, but I remember none of that.
What I do remember was the commemorative license plate they offered in the fine state of Hawaii:
(Fairly) Artistic Representation... I'm getting better at this stuff if I do say so myself
INGREDIENTS: Four pints of $2 Guinness. And water.
Okay, so where was I? Ah yes. On Wall Street, which was under construction. We were looking for the giant bull statue for the hell of it, even though we (Steve and I) were unsure if there was a giant bull statue in New York. (There is… but we couldn’t find it.)
Around this time, I finally got to hear the voice of a fellow blogger (we’d eventually meet up later during my trek through East Village). Our phones were running lower on energy than we were, so we decided in order to make it through whatever the night held in store for us, functioning electronics seemed important, and we returned to home base.
At the hotel, we plugged in our cells and due to the lack of sleep (this will be explained in the prequels), the Snuggies (this will be explained in the sequel) and bed were mighty tempting. Yes, I typed “bed” with no “s.” They only had a queen available (which I should probably specify is a bed size, seeing as how people might have preconceived notions about NYC). Apparently, a four-star hotel according to Hotwire consists of this criteria: if they don’t have a pair of twins available (again – bed size), they’ll give you each a cookie. A cookie that was prepared earlier in the day. Possibly for the continental breakfast’s dessert?
But I digress, and as such, our digestive systems had processed those cookies long ago, so dinner sounded like a plan. We asked the concierge to recommend a pizzeria (one that served booze was our only criteria). He recommended one nearby – Angelo’s, on 55th and 2nd. (Don’t I sound all local-y? My confidence in understanding the map of the city ultimately proved to be a bit too confident. Sequel…)
We ordered the flat-bread pizza and $6 beers. Steve quickly learned that when the choices for $6 beers are Bud, Bud Light, and Bass Ale, you choose Bass Ale. As we ate, we eyed the happy hour going on across the street ($3 beers!), and as soon as we finished, we headed over there for a few more (choices: Miller Lite, MGD, Sam Adams? Sam Adams, of course!) and then back to the hotel to retrieve our banes of existence means of communication.
We headed toward Central Park to await our first fellow bar hopper – another Steve. As we wandered the streets, we passed the bridge that Spider-Man battled on with the cable cars (I’m soooo cultured), and I missed the entirety of the quiet beauty that was the sunset that night.
As we began slinking in and out of a plethora of East Village bars, our group’s number grew to four with Tim, and five with Evan. Eventually my fellow blogger met up with us after a lot of phone- and text-tagging, which was cool. The hookah joint we were waiting to get into was taking too long, so we headed to another bar that carded people for some reason (nowhere else did). In the sorta dark, sorta empty, martini-ish bar (what would be the opposite of a hole-in-the-wall?) we ended up at, I brought up Lost, I investigated something weird on the table with my fingertip (thankfully it was Guinness foam), and I think I even mentioned Twilight (the movie – not the book, as if that makes a difference). Oh yeah… wonderful, wonderful Guinness was ordered around. One guy selected a bottle of wine “with one glass.” And mussels somehow ended up on the table.
Members of our group started parsing off at that point. I recall a sliver of a diner that was stopped at by the solo wine drinker and that it amazingly carried no smell whatsoever, good or bad. And somehow Steve and I made it back to home base. (Taxi? Subway? Feet?)
Last night, between my basketball game and my soccer game (minimal blisters this time in case anyone worried), I stopped at a local bar chain called Bailey’s. I arrived at 10:30pm and ordered myself a Guinness (the best beer to drink before playing soccer in case anyone wondered).
I found out that starting at 11pm, there was to be special pricing on the heavy brew (I pretend it’s a melted malt shake). I also found out if you stood up and read a toast, you would get a long sleeve Guinness shirt, and this:
Unfortunately, I was to be leaving at 11pm to for football, so my buddy, Rodney, opted to do to give the toast on behalf of me.
Little did he know, he would be the only one to volunteer and actually do it. (Another guy stood up to join him, but said little to nothing.) He had to get the entire bar’s attention and read the pre-written cheer.
When we returned, he gave me both the shirt and hat, and for that I’m eternally (or least until St. Patrick’s Day) grateful.
Guinness World Record-breaker, Pete Wentz, and coattail-rider turned family meal-ticket, Ashlee Simpson (I almost spelled it Ashley… heavenstamergatroid!), have given birth to something they named Bronx Mowgli Wentz.
There’s one of two ways I can go with this, so I’ll go with both.
People can type Bronx Mowgli Wentz to test their typewriter. Ha! Y’know… like The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. No… um… then how about…
Bronx Mowgli Wentz? That’s an anagram of what Pete likes to do when he’s in Germany – Blow Next Zing Worm. Hey-o!
Ah, whatever. Congrats you two (because I know in my heart of hearts they are going to find this little blog and be heartbroken if I don’t say so)… and also, please stop reproducing!
So that got me thinking… how many other stupid records are out there? Over the Halloween weekend, I visited my sister, Becky, in Chicago. On the ride there, my cousin, Steve, and I got into a discussion about “Seinfeld,” which inevitably lead to bringing up baked bean teeth.
All those chairs... and rope lights! Yum!
Comme des hors d oeuvres
Steve said he once knew of a man who had bean teeth, and he and his friends swore the man could eat a plane. I didn’t get it, but he said some guy was in Guinness for eating an airplane, and he had bean teeth. He said it took four months (in actuality, it took two years), but I was super-impressed because I pictured a 747 (in actuality, it was a Cessna 150).
Anywingsandall, my thirst to find more dumb things people will do to set a record intensified. I planned to scour the web for hours or days (hey, maybe I could set that record), but then I found video of this.
And that should do it for me. This is why the only things people should try to break are accompanied by crashing sounds.
(If you want to, you can check more stuff out here.)