Part of the process of "maintaining my cool"?

You know what I love about Danville Dans baseball? The BEER. It's nice to visit a ballpark where the economics of beer do not prevent me from getting a good buzz going. Now I know that last comment sounds a bit immature -- do I sound like a bleacher bum or what? -- but I do enjoy a drink from time to time, even in my old age.

My fifth Dans baseball game in three weeks was another solid game. The Dans lost, 5-4, to the up-and-coming Dubois Bombers, who now sit just 2 games back of our leaders. It was an action-packed, extra-inning affair completed by my first CICL home run, hit by none other than Dans 1B Garrett Gipe. Mr. Gipe, a junior currently attending USC, had his family in tow all the way from California. Ma and Pa and his three bronzed sisters -- known from this day forward as simply "the Gipe sisters" -- provided Garrett with a boisterous cheering section, and he responded with an eighth-inning, game-tying home run right down the third-base line. 'Twas a beaut.

No foul balls for me on this night, but I did catch a souvenir of another sort: a Crime Stoppers beer cozy. (Uh, maybe not the best way to promote the solving of crimes?) It kept my Goose Island chilly all night long.

After the game, we cruised back into town for a nightcap at Mike & Molly's. It was there that we decided an Irish Car Bomb was a good idea.

3/4 pint Guinness® stout
1/2 shot Bailey's® Irish cream mixed with 1/2 shot Jameson® Irish whiskey
Drop shot glass into pint glass and chug.

Chris and I ponder the wisdom of doing said shot. It's a slippery slope...

The stare down, a common practice in pre-Car Bomb toasts.

And they're off...

Chug! Chug! Chug!

Surveying the damage, immediately after.

It was so tasty, we had another a half-hour later. How do you know when you're officially bombed thanks to the Irish Car Bomb?

Time to go home. Gotta get up for work tomorrow ... three hours late. Many thanks to Amy L -- who turns THIRTY tomorrow -- for snapping these photos and driving our drunk asses around.

Tomorrow morning I'm off to the Pitchfork Festival, where I plan to do a lot of sweating in the 92-degree heat.