The ride came to an abrupt halt after about 5 miles with the organizers waving goodbye. The FBCers present immediately took over and led the pack to the next open bar. Once the wheels of culture and conversation were well lubed, on we ventured to the Flat Iron in Wicker Park for some art and shit.
For such an event, it is best to be at least marginally conversant in Hipster. It is a tongue that I am not accustomed to using in most of my conversational adventures. Well anyway, I think I looked at some art (saw a good pic of Ammo and her boyfriend) and drank a good share of the available PBRs. I am going to get back to the show to do what I was supposed to: look at the art.
Once the beer and Garth's flask were exhausted, the remaing Crit Massers gathered up and headed back north for more beers. Having consumed the greater part of his flask, we herded Garth and his Steel Bitch up to Gannon's where we closed out the evening. I'm quite positive I was about to end my evening with some enchiladas around 11, but grabbed Tank-Ridin Ryan by the sternum and bought him and myself a drink. I think that was the first of my 7 "last drinks." Next thing I knew it was last call.
So, my years of art school didn't garner me any tattoos or the physique of a herioin addict, but as the evening's end showed, I can pee my name in the snow. Without those last 7 drinks, it might have even turned out legible.