Double-Fisting At Minifist

Yet another Thunder Matt's Saloon archive piece.

An Attempt At Remembrance

Chaim's memories of last Friday has inspired me to dust off my keyboard and participate in this blog like an actual writer, as opposed to just drawing a salary and commenting on every fifth article written by someone else. So here's what I'm capable of remembering from the 2009 Minifist:

To catch those just joining us up, last Friday was the long-awaited Annual Thunder Matt's Saloon Gathering of Bartenders That Could Actually Make it To Chicago, or "Minifist" for short. I have been told this is a reference to a previous full gathering of bartenders known as "Thunderfist," but I suspect it's actually named after a midget porno that Dave Thomas kept trying to get us to go back to his house to watch.¹

The reason for this gathering was to watch the Cubs play the hated Houston Astros. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the Astros are my "least favorite team that I shouldn't give a shit about" ever. I really hate the Astros. A lot. I'd be more eloquent about it, but the white-hot rage that fills my veins when I think too much about them is making it difficult to type, so I'm going to change the subject.

I was originally scheduled to attend this game, but had to cover for our receptionist, who was out of town. So I was limited to meeting up "after the game," where I expected to meet either several very annoyed or very excited bartenders for a post-game Celebration/Drowning of Sorrows. Then I learned the game had been postponed to another day due to the weather, which was about 10 different kinds of ass that day.

So, at about 4:30, I texted our very own Chaim Witz to ask if they were still at the Gingerman (on account of I was dreadfully sober), and received the following text:

Oh god yes

That's always a good sign. When I finally arrived at the Gingerman (at roughly 5:30, for those keeping score), I found Chaim (who was heroically warring with Sobriety and winning at this point), as well as fellow bartenders Chip Wesley and Dave Thomas in fine spirits. With them were Valued TMS Reader Nick V (whose real name, it turns out is Steve V), a friend of Chip's that I will call "Mark," to protect his identity, and my good friend, Dr. Scotch, whose company I greatly appreciated, considering that I was at least 5 hours behind everyone else on the booze front.²

Not in attendance was the legendary Tommy Buzanis, who had apparently left some hours before I arrived, muttering something about "ditching this sausage party to look for a steak and some broads." I still have yet to meet this mysterious, near mythical man, but his empty seat was treated with the greatest of reverence.

A raucous conversation ensued, whereupon I learned much about how to administer a throat-jab properly, the most obscene insults Lingering Bursitis had used in private correspondence, and the proper way to eat at Wrigleyville Dog (answer: apparently Not at All). At some point (about 3 pitchers in from my arrival), Chaim's head finally hit the table, and we all knew he had defeated Sobriety handily. We bundled him in a cab pointed towards his house, and staggered into the still sunlit evening to find the next bar.

This being Wrigelyville, the bar selection was wide, but shallow. Pretty much the only non-sports bar left open was The Irish Oak (where, incidentally, I spent a fascinating night last fall listening to the Clash's excreble Cut the Crap album and watching a friend of mine get hit on by a DEEPLY RELIGIOUS group of Suburban Cougars). So we went there, Chaimless, but proud. Dave Thomas and I shared a shot of Rumple Minze³, and I trace my ultimate downfall to this point.

Eventually, we left the Oak, losing Nick V and Dave Thomas in the process, and the remaining three (Chip Wesley, "Mark," and myself) decided to go to the Wrigleyville North (a delightfully rednecky and cheap bar not far from the Sheridan stop). Every trip I take to the Wrigleyville North is either a disaster or not memorable at all, so I don't know why I get drawn to it so readily. Unless it's because the drunker I get, the more I want to listen to country cover bands.

We had barely settled in when I got a series of texts from my fiancee, who was in nearby Boys Town, singing Karaoke with her friends at a relatively seedy gay bar named Bobby Love's:

Worst version of tiny dancer ever on the karaoke stage EVER! ;)

And I'm babysitting a sox fan glass. HELP!!!

So, I asked my companions if they minded swinging by, and when I assured "Mark" that there are tons of chicks at karaoke night at a gay bar (there are), and Chip that I wouldn't tell anyone about this (I did), we staggered drunkenly there. On the way, I almost got us lost twice, recieved a text that my fiancee was leaving soon, made it there in time for one more round, coninued to be collossally drunk, watched "Mark" make out with a friend of my fiancee's and mine, failed to sign Chip up for a song (I assume he was planning to sing "Two Minutes To Midnight" or something, but my memory is swimmy by this point), and finally left.

All in all, a fine night out.⁴

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1. Not strictly a "fact," but I've never let that stop me before. In fact, anywhere from 50-95% of these remembrances might not be literally "factual." But dammit they are still The Truth.

2. Of course, I now know that any less than a 10 hour head start for Dave Thomas is not fair to the rest of the group...

3. I just googled the spelling. Huh. Two words. Weird.

4. Well, if you don't count the huge argument I started with my fiancee on the way home (entirely my fault; I was a mess), the fact that I had to get up at 6:30 am to work a convention, and that I spent all the next day shaking and covered in a thin, clammy layer of beer-scented sweat.