Keto Day 4 and The Irish

So yesterday I waited anxiously for my new frying pan to arrive (I gave away all my old ones), which I was particularly excited about because this is the first adult pan I’ve ever owned. It’s from Germany and it’s infused with ceramics and shit, and it matches my kitchen appliances. So I get a notice from Amazon saying the delivery driver is only a few deliveries away from my house, which is perfect because I was about to leave for work, and I had just enough time to put together the dinner that I had planned earlier in the day. I watched that delivery driver sit completely still about 3/4 of a mile from my house for upwards of 45 minutes, then I watched him get about a block away, then I watched him drive 2 miles north. No fucking pan. So I stuffed three slices of bacon, some cheese, and a handful of almonds into my face before running out the door to catch the train to work. I was not happy.

It was Tuesday, so it was the night of The Irish. About 500 of the drunkest 21-22 year old Irish exchange students Chicago has to offer cram themselves into the bar for Top 40’s music, $3 Bud Light pitchers, and $4 vodka drinks. These adult-sized children grab each other violently in jubilation, douse themselves (and me) in alcohol, scream, jump up and down, and occasionally throw some fists right up until they’re very unwillingly ushered out the doors at around 3:30am. I personally escorted five of them out early for repeatedly taking off shirts, general drunkenness, and aggressively grabbing me when I tried to break up a fight. They collectively leave various pieces of jewelry, hills of discarded plastic cups and pitchers, puddles of vomit, and a pond of beer in the center of the dancefloor a quarter inch deep and twelve feet across. After the last ones are out and the cleaning is done, I usually get out of there around 5 in the morning, hop on the train, and am home by 5:30. Then I walk my dog, so I’m not asleep until 6:30am Wednesday.

I woke up around 12:30 this afternoon. Still no fucking pan. I used a cheese stick and almond butter (separately) as bandaid solutions, plus the butter and the MCT oil in my coffee act as an appetite depressant, which got me through my morning of studying and my 3:30pm coffee meeting. When I got back home at 4:30? Frying pan! It was everything I had hoped it’d be. I very quickly fried up a couple eggs, ate some cottage cheese (I did not realize I bought the low fat kind until that moment) then ran out the door to catch the train to jiu jitsu.

I had small bouts of nausea and fatigue throughout the day, but it could’ve been a result of my night and my initial lack of real food in the day, or because I didn’t drink enough water today. I think my history of hangovers and my appreciation for discomfort make me uniquely adept at suffering through some of the difficulties associated with cutting carbs from your diet all at once. I saw a number of articles saying that weening yourself off slowly is preferred, but that’s just not my style.

Speaking of which, I’m more certain that I’ve caused some serious damage to my ribs, as it now hurts to do things like move or breath, but without health insurance, I’ll just have to ride this one out. Hopefully the keto diet is good for your bones. I’m sure I could Google that, but I’m comfortable sticking with ignorance and optimism for now.

Screw You, Too, May 10th

It’s springer than a motherfucker here in Chicago, and like the eager trees and flowers lining the city’s streets, the douchebags are in full bloom after only a few days of sunshine. This past weekend, I had to involve myself in two altercations with patrons of my pub, and venting to the people around me just hasn’t sufficed, so I’m back to writing (also I’ve been feeling increasingly guilty for suppressing the urge to type some shit out for far too long).

In the first display of machismo-laden idiocy, two gentleman who had been cordial with one another for upwards of 30 minutes suddenly turned sour on the prospect of friendship. Granted, the guy who was more of a regular does tend to spew his fair share of bullshit, but to most its simply the endearing behavior of an alcoholic. Tatted up, straight-brimmed-hat, large-cross-wearing white dude with a finely manicured chinstrap goatee felt differently about his rantings. After detailing his plans for expunging his previous assault charges by saying he’s on the autism spectrum, homeboy had finally had enough of our regular when he insisted that he had some Swedish heritage.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to hit you over the fucking head with this glass,” he said, pulling the straw from the glass in what I can only imagine was an attempt at increased aerodynamics.

The regular recognized this as a legitimate threat, and knocked the glass to the ground. If you rewatch this bit on the security cameras (like I did), you could see my shoulders slump in a clear, “Please don’t be this dumb” body language plea for sanity. No luck. Homeboy hit the regular right in the face, dropped him to the ground, and continued hitting him. It lasted maybe 15-20 seconds before I got to them and pulled the guy off the regular, but it was enough time for him to land some pretty good punches.

My manager and I were between the two, saw a wallet on the ground, and I handed it to homeboy thinking it was his. He looked it over for a second, then handed it back to me because it was the regular’s. Pretty kind and compassionate post-face-punching, but hey, I’ll take what humanity I can get. Homeboy went outside to collect himself, I noticed a bunch of his blood on my arms (I assume he got cut when he landed on all the broken glass), then he was gone into the night.

Fast forward to that evening (the next day for me, but that’s only because I sleep during the day like a vampire as a result of working at a 4am bar). There’s a gentleman that I’d put at around 6’4″ and 250lbs wearing a black hat with red embroidery that reads, “45th.” Apparently that’s a Trump hat, and I feel like the potential that you’ll run into somebody who voted for a sitting president at any bar (no less a honky tonk bar) is pretty decent. One of my patrons felt otherwise, and thought it would be a good idea to walk up to that dude, poke him in the head, and call him a racist.

As one might imagine, the gentleman didn’t take kindly to being poked in the head, so he grabbed the guy by the neck and pinned him to the ground. I got to them in maybe five seconds, then ushered Pokey and his wife out the door, but not before the wife could call a few more folks racist, so then I had to stand in the way of those folks rushing up from behind me to continue the back and forth.

Somewhere in the frantic yelling, Pokey’s wife chided me for defending racists, and kicking out her husband who “protects our country” as an officer of the United States Navy. Now, if you know me at all, you know that I’m a big fan of the military in most regards. I’d say that nine times out of ten, you’ll get a fair amount of leeway from me if you tell me you are presently serving or have previously served in our armed forces. When you and your wife are screaming it in my face while I physically restrain you from coming into my bar after you literally ran across the street to continue your fight? Honestly, it doesn’t matter what words are coming out of your mouth at that point – you could be yelling about how Earth is actually round – you seem like the crazy person in the equation.

Ultimately, I was put in the position of defending someone whose political views I very strongly disagree with. Why did I defend him? Because supporting our idiot of a president doesn’t automatically make you a racist (I assure you, I would not allow explicitly or implicitly racist material through the front door). Because we are in a country where all people are allowed to support the politicians they want and wear articles of clothing that say as much (though in this instance, it was the most understated it could have been). Because there are no fights allowed in my place of business (no matter how justified). Because I’ve never been a fan of military officers who demand that they’re soluted by people of lower rank because it screams entitlement, and so did Pokey (he threatened to sue the guy at some point – you started the fight Pokey – don’t be mad because you lost).

Pokey, if you’re out there, I agree with you and your wife about a lot of things, and under different circumstances, we very likely would get along really well. But please, for your sake and mine, leave your shitty attitude back in the cold, dark winter where it belongs. The bees are buzzing, the birds are chirping, and it’s sunny as fuck outside. Have a cold beer and chill the fuck out. Cheers.