The Entry About Chicago Is Finally Done

December 13 was the worst day of my life since that one time back in college when I threw up and shat at the same time. I swear to god I almost imploded. But getting back on track, in the wee hours of the 13th we rolled in to Chicago, most drunk on boxed wine, the others drunk on freezing temperatures and lack of sleep. Emmett had contacted an old friend, Adam, who offered to put us up for that night and agreed to house us until our show later on in the evening of the 14th. After picking up Adam we frantically parked the van and trailer, grabbed our stuff and began to walk to our shelter for the evening. I'm pretty sure I immediately went to bed, a bed I shared with Goose who insisted on sleeping head to toe in order to stave off my drunken advances. Good try Goose but no one's been able to stop me yet.

Early the next day we all woke up early in anticipation of going to a local vegetarian diner that Jimmy had been talking up for awhile. Nate and I headed out into the icy tundra to pick up the van and trailer while everyone else continued to get ready. Our vehicle was on a pretty major road in Chicago and panic began to set in as we walked further and further along the street with no sign of the huge white van and red trailer. We've all heard the horror stories of bands getting their entire lives stolen in a blink of an eye while they sleep somewhere else. The truth is, vans get stolen all the time, especially in major cities. I know if this was the case with us, the band would have been over right there. I mean, there is no way we could recover from such a financial and personal loss.

Eventually, we found the spot we were previously parked in. Since there wasn't any smashed glass anywhere it was decided that our van hadn't been stolen - it had been towed. Our suspicions were confirmed when I craned my head up and to the right to reveal a "NO PARKING, TOW AWAY ZONE". Damn you sweet lady booze, you win again. After a couple phone calls to local municipalities I located the impound lot where our livelihood had been taken. It was probably around noon at this point and we had about five hours until load in for the show that night. I figured we'd have everything taken care of within an hour or so. I put off eating for the day and Emmett and myself headed to the impound lot across town driven by Adam, letting everyone know we'd be back in a blink of an eye.

I've never been to an impound lot before, I've never had any reason to. I'm not sure what I expected but I sure as hell didn't expect a car graveyard mixed with a touch of Bosnia circa 1992. I mean, there was barbed wire, gates, rabid dogs, armed security guards, and oil fires ablazing! Half of that previous sentence may not be true but I do know that we were out of our element. It seemed that our adventure began in the nearest rusted out trailer on the property. It was early enough in the day to avoid any type of incredible line, or so I thought. As soon as we entered the trailer Emmett and I were smacked in the face with a line longer and more twisted than any lie I've ever told a woman. Inside that trailer was where happy went to die. Every person there was hungover, frustrated, ugly, miserable, and in dire straits - Emmett and I included.

While we began to soak in the atmosphere the situation became more and more dire. Signs posted all along the walls made it clear that in order to spring our van from prison we would basically need all original documents such as the registration, proof of purchase, Emmett's first born, and a blood and semen sample. Well, Lord knows Emmett's all out of semen and my body runs on alcohol so we were in some trouble. Add in the fact that no one in PBC actually owns the van or trailer. Our friends in Angry Penquin actually do, we're just lucky enough that they rent their wares to us at a great price. What that means is that all of the documentation for the vehicle was all the way back in New York State. Fuck our lives. Well, we decided to give the line a shot and hang out in a human lunch box for a bit. It seemed more and more unlikely we'd actually see the van again so plans were being made inside Emmett's and I's head about what to do about the next couple of shows booked. As much as we did not want to, if we couldn't get what we needed that day, shows would have to be cancelled, possibly the rest of the tour. Around this time some hobo heard us complaining and told us that he was once in a similar situation to ours in regards to not having any sort of documentation. His helpful advice was "Give up now. It's never going to happen." Hours had passed at this point and I've only taken advice from a hobo four times in my life. I wasn't about to make it five times. A bit longer we would wait.

Eventually, our heroes finally made it to the front of the line and came face to face with the enemy. Ever see or speak to a public servant in a large city? Horrible, ugly people. Trolls who eat the gooey insides from an infants' skull. Hitler combined with the competence of a drunken sloth. Yes, it's as bad as I'm making it sound. As soon as Emmett opened his mouth he was shot down by the attendant who was clearly drunk on her own power. After a ridiculous amount of time spent fucking around in line, we were blown off within minutes. Grasping at straws, Emmett asked to speak with a supervisor about the situation and we were told to exit through a different door to the side of the "building". I saw this as progress since we were leaving the tin can for a bit. Passing by the security guards (yes, security guards) we entered another trailer and began to speak with another ruler of our fate. This crotchety old bag wasn't as evil as the rest. She was more of a Mussolini to her Hitler counterpart. We explained our situation as clearly as we could. I'm pretty sure I even offered to go down on her in exchange for some sympathy. Per usual my sexual advances were turned down but she did half heartedly mention that if we could somehow get a notarized document from the CEO of Angry Penguin (the actual owner of the van) giving us permission to take the van of the property, we might be set. Finally, a chance at redemption!

I've always viewed Emmet as one of those shady salesman guys during the depression. You know, The dude who sold fake brain tonics and took advantage of down on their luck families in order to get by. Basically, a schemer and a bastard. I mean this all lovingly because it's those exact qualities that got PBC out of this mess. It was decided that we would head straight from the impound lot to Kinko's in order to draw up a fake professional business letter that would contain a plethora of extravagant lies! Most importantly, the letter would state that I, Trevor, was the CEO of Angry Penguin, which is hilarious in itself because the only thing I actually own is the complete Sex And The City dvd collection. (Um....) Furthermore, the document needed to state that I, Super Awesome CEO of Fuck Yeah!, willingly and knowingly gave permission to Emmett to drive both the van and trailer off the impound lot. Quickly, we typed and printed out our non truths and set off to find a notary republic that would aide and abet in our potentially illegal activities.

Deep, deep, deep in the ghettos of Chicago resides the greatest "store" of all time. The establishment I speak of offers all types of services ranging from check cashing, drivers license processing, cheap cell phones, and a 24 hour notary republic who eerily resembled Pizza The Hut from the movie Spaceballs. Here is where I thought our plan would come to a crashing halt. I assumed the notary would want some sort of proof stating that I was an actual business owner and not the borderline drug addict I've slowly become. Apparently, Chicago is the home of second chances and not giving a fuck because this giant toad of an employee only asked for a dollar for processing fees and away she went with her reckless signing! Huzzah! Another step complete in the Great Van Heist of 2008. I must admit, about this time I was feeling like a balder/frumpier Danny Ocean. Back to the impound lot we went.

Entering the main trailer again for what Emmett and myself hoped would be the final time that night, I noticed nothing had changed. In line were the same group of hostile citizens we encountered when our adventure began in the morning. This instance we would not wait in line. Armed with desperation, a notarized document that meant nothing in the real world, and a newly acquired confidence that only comes with being a fake CEO of a real company, Emmett and I breezed past the security guards and straight to the supervisor. Shoving a flurry of forged documents, lies, and boyish charm into her face, Emmett and I defeated the Bowser-esque Supervisor Boss Lady each gaining 100 experience points in level 3-2 of Never Coming Back to Chicago Again. Of course, this was not the last level as we were instructed to speak with another woman in order to get a whole bunch of bullshit signed and stamped. After that was taken care of, we were to enter an entire new room to finally pay our fine.

But wait! Before we could actually pay the cashier, I was allowed past the second security check point to find the van and trailer in the sea of bad decisions. Only I was allowed entrance for I was the one signing all the paperwork. Who knows what Emmett was doing at this point, perhaps he'll reveal that in his own blog entitled "Why Did I Decide To Start Touring Again After Marathon Broke Up." Anyway, I was given a vague description of where I might find our transportation by an armed individual who told me to go "Back there. For a long time." Well, that was good enough for me! Noticing it was almost two hours past load in time, I knew I had to speed things along. For perhaps the second time in the last five years, I used my legs for running instead of using them as heavy load baring devices. While I ran all I could think about was exactly how I was going to drive the van and trailer up to the main entrance. As I've alluded to before, PBC does not allow me to drive due to a panic attack I suffered at the wheel years before. Crossing my fingers, I silently prayed to Zeus hoping I wouldn't have to back up our ride.

Well, if you read my blog you know nothing ever goes my way, or so that's what I tell my therapist. When I reached my destination, the van and trailer were in a complete fucked up parking situation. Yes, if we were to get off that lot with what we needed, Trevor J., would have to accomplish the simplest of acts that even my two year old nephew could perform - I'd have to go in reverse. The whole backing up aspect took about twenty minutes, the crying took 15, and the sweet taste of victory will last a lifetime. I was able to free our van from the shackles of the parking space and drive the mother fucker to the main gate. All that was left was to pay the lovely city of Chicago for the privilege of spending an entire day inside their parking division Hooverville.

Since this entry has gone on longer than my career at Oswego State University (it took me six years to graduate with a four year degree) I'll try to wrap up this saga within the next paragraph. The last stop before we left the lot was to pay the cashier. Because both van and trailer were towed, PBC were forced to pony up 500 dollars in order to get back what was rightfully ours and since I have a heroin addiction that refuses to be quenched, I had that much money on me.There was no choice as to whether or not to pay the extraordinary fine. We had to finish the tour and we had to recover the trailer that was full of instruments and precious, precious illegal immigrants. So that's what we did. We paid the cashier while actually choking on the thought of being down 500 dollars. Emmett hopped in the driver's seat, I hopped in shotgun and we promised to never speak of all the dicks I had to suck in order to actually get the van out of impound purgatory. That's the real story, folks, I just made up all the other shit. Ah, we're having fun now!

Thanks for reading everyone. I promise to never be this long winded again.

As always, send women.