Mac expands his (pub) horizons

Advice for Fresh
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Sorry for the long delay in posts, pics, and what-not, but I've had a lot on my mind. For, you see, I am preparing for a trip to the fair hills and dales of Edinburgh, Scotland.
"But, Mac, that's a long way to go just for a drink," you may say.
Now, true, I am excited to sample a tipple or two of beers born and bred in European soil and vats, but I am going to attend more important of matters and events.
The marriage of Fresh to his lovely lass, The Doctor. That's right; a honest-to-goodness card-carrying PHD Doctor (must I always be the dumbest person in the room? Couldn't marry someone that pops up in this search, huh?).

A few weeks ago, Fresh returned to native land for a weekend of drinking, giggles, and kilted fun, a Stag Party Weekend in his honor. I've waited too long to expound on the weekend of fun in any detail, so I'll let the pictures do the talking for themselves. I had a great time, and enjoyed meeting some of his family and friends (and look forward to seeing them again in Scotland).

I've got my passport (with required shitty photo), my luggage (blue, battered, and heavy), my flight (long and, well, fucking long!), and lodging (right in the heart of Princes Street! The Court Street of Edinburgh! (or something like that)), and my Lilly-sitter all lined up and in order for the most part.

But I haven't a thing to wear! (Combination of bad fashion taste and the dread of actually doing laundry. Ever). Cripes, I'll be the stinky, Fashion Don't Representative of America for two weeks. I shall be pummeled with pint glasses and thrown off the Waverly Bridge or hung from the gallows below the Edinburgh Castle!

Or praised for my "cool, vintage early-90's apparel."

Ah well, pass a bit of the Jameson, and smooth my furrowed brow (and add another church to The List, brother).

Okay, haven't a clue what this post is about.
Later, and more often, I hope.

The Wingman Cometh.

I am sipping a beer, the first in two - 3 weeks (been sick, ya know). I have just mopped the floor, scrubbed the sinks, went all Hazmat on the toilet, and vacuumed the rugs (well, as much as I could do until the fucker started smoking. Instead of sweet Lilac, my apartment current smells of burnt rubber and melted steel).

"Mac, what's up with the uncharacteristic cleaning binge?" you may ask? (And, beeyatch, you know it's love when I clean the bathroom!!!)

As mentioned before, my last and bestest Wing man is tying the knot (clipping his wings?) in Scotland (I think that's somewhere east of New York?). However, before the falcon gets his claw ball 'n' chained, we Chicagoans are blessed with his presence for the weekend.

Will this be the Final Lost Weekend (with or without extension?) Or merely a mournful tippling of amber and black doubles and pints, a wake of sorts, the Death of a Single Man?

Dinner eaten both in and out (and in again). Dive bars dived into. Laughs laughed. Old friends will trade stories and lies of yore, and new friends met with smiles (and judgement...ha ha!). Pins will be toppled. All-in-all, much fun shall be had by all.

The cherry on top will be the kidnapping on Sunday, when we refuse to let him return to the soggy north of the U.K.

If you see us out, buy us a drink or pony-up for bail, yo!