Friday, Saturday, Sunday

The Robert Randolph concert on Friday night was fannnntastic. My expectations were very high, and they still managed to top them. I briefly considered quitting my job, buying a van, and following them around the country as they tour, but chili cheese wraps don't pay for themselves, so I will stick with the steady paycheck.

I think Robert Randolph has officially entered the category of "I just can't argue with you." Basically, it's where I can't even argue with you for liking/disliking something, because I can't even understand your opinion because it's so crazy to me. Like if you were to say "Dude...the Red Sox are so gay, they're pretty much the new Yankees" I certainly wouldn't agree with you, but I could see where you're coming from.

But Robert Randolph & the Family Band...if you listen to their music and it doesn't get your toe tapping and/or put a smile on your face, then I can't even argue with you. If you don't think The Office is a hilarious TV show, then I don't understand your sense of humor. If you've never received a handjob from a homeless guy in exchange for your half-eaten Sausage Egg McMuffin, then I don't know what to tell you. Like Vito Corleone would say, "How do you reason with people like that?"

"How do you reason with people like that?"
Told you.


One thing that I had kind of been thinking since I moved to this town, but was confirmed without a doubt at the concert: I love hippies. Love them. They truly don't care about anything people might think about them. In the middle of a packed venue, they dance like they're Napoleon Dynamite practicing alone in his bedroom. They have funky clothes and smelly hair, neither of which has been washed in months. And they talk to any random stranger like they've known each other for years. Because of these reasons, I got much love for hippies. Coincidentally, these are the same reasons why Jud hates them with a burning passion.

Some hippie came up to me at the concert with a giant Dixie cup of whiskey. He simply pointed at my beer and said "Chaser?" Probably because I was so taken back, I agreed. He took a giant chug out of his styrofoam cup, then a pull of my beer, paused a moment, finished his whiskey, took another sip of beer, said "Thanks, brother man" and walked away. I thought it was hilarious, but Alex was slightly grossed out that I let him drink out of my beer (in retrospect, she's probably more right than me.) Apparently, my boy didn't forget the nice gesture. My payback came around a half an hour later, when he strolled up, pulled a gigantic marijuana leaf out of his jacket, stuck it under my nose, and exclaimed "Smell THAT shit, bro! This shit's the BOMB!" I concurred that his shit did indeed smell like the bomb, and once again he was on his merry way.


From tailgating on Saturday: An interesting game has developed at the Budweiser tent these last few weeks. The name of the game is basically "Make Jim drink the shittiest/girliest beer in the cooler all day long." The rules and object of the game are explicitly stated in the name, conveniently enough. I have to admit, this game is more my fault than theirs. A couple weeks ago Lane gave me a Michelob Ultra in a skinny can. If I would've just laughed it off, chugged the beer, and went and got a Bud Light, all would've been forgotten. Instead, my pride got in the way, and I told them to go fuck themselves and that I would drink Ultra all day long (which I did.) Flash forward to Saturday, and I find myself drinking Michelob Ultra Pomegranite Raspberry, and Tuscan Orange Grapefuit, and getting made fun of by every single person I encounter all day long. After around 5 hours of me drinking girl beers (which some may call 'losing' but I proudly call 'winning') they upped the ante, and finally broke me with a Mojito in a can. It tasted like apple Kool-aid if you were to add 4 times the amount of sugar. I don't know how you ladies drink that rubbish.


Lastly, a story from Sunday. File this under "I wasn't there, but dammit I wish I was":

Ike's mom Margo is in Vegas this weekend. Saturday night she sits down at a blackjack table, and starts good-naturedly talking shit with the guy playing $500 hands sitting next to her. She makes fun of him once for not doubling an 11, to which he replies, "Hey, lady. I'm playing $500s. You're playing $25s and $50s. Get real." They eventually form a nice little relationship, giving each other crap, buying beers for each other, blah blah blah. At some point Margo tells him "You remind me of my son's friend Bergman because you never shut up!"

Later on (many, many beers later) Margo tells the man "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ben Affleck?" This draws a round of laughter from the table. The man replies, "Ma'am....I AM Ben Affleck."

So basically, Margo was talking shit all night with Ben Frigging Affleck without even knowing it.

Second favorite part of the story: Margo compared Ben Affleck to Bergman, which I did awhile back and Bergman didn't agree. Now we know for sure...you can't argue with Margo, dude.

Favorite part of the story: Later on that night, Ike's dad Terry, who was elsewhere during all of this, wanders over to the table to see how Margo is doing. Margo points at her new friend and says something to the effect of "Look, Honey! I'm playing blackjack with Ben Affleck!"

Terry's straight-faced reply: "Who the hell is Ben Affleck?"


Dammit I love Ike's parents, and I'm also more than a little jealous. I've been to Vegas four times and haven't see anybody famous (one time I had pretty much convinced myself that Doug Flutie intentionally shoulder-bumped me next to a street vendor selling jello shots, but more sober participants assured me that it was not him.)

Happy Monday, here's to next weekend arriving quickly.