Chi-town at Christmas

I try to avoid the Northside of Chicago as much as possible. But every once and a while you have to go up there if you want to buy, well, anything but groceries or liquor; and, being the holiday season, I needed to pick up a few products to spread holiday cheer. Now some of you may not know this but I do pretty well for myself. I’m no multi-millionaire but I’m not not a millionaire either. And with this lifestyle comes the grave responsibility to buy my poorer family and friend, that is the bartender who pretends to care about me, only the finest in unnecessary, extravagant gifts. Cashmere Kleenexes, diamond studded floss, caviar dishsoap, etc…, nothing is too disposable and unnecessary for my peeps. After years of such awesomeness, it’s become expected and I’m happy to perform these little acts of extreme extravagance. But, like I was saying, to perform such acts requires me to go to North.

For those of you out of town, one of the first differences one notices about the Northside from my parts is that the streets are named not numbered. While the streets numbers grow steadly larger as you head south of Madison, the Northside gives no such help. You just have to know if Irving Park is north or south of Armitage. So, I’m basically screwed whenever I go up there and have to call An Doof Ass in New York to get directions home. Side note: I hate to say it, but he’s starting to loose his edge. Yesterday I called asking if Ashland hit the Brown line and he said it did at Paulina, which we all know, is parallel to Ashland. I could just picture him there in New York with his black turtleneck smoking Gauloises, drinking Ethiopian coffee and rolling his eyes with the very thought of that cow town in which his greatness (i.e. drunken ramblings to all form of wall, stray animal and shadow) and urbanity (i.e. a flannel shirt with cigarette holes in it) was once stifled. The sonofabitch. So, alone and abandoned, I did what anyone in my situation would do; I went into the closest bar and waited for someone to come find me.

I should have been more aware of where I was. I should have remember I was on the Northside with all its openness and relativism. Its postmodern savoir-faire. I should have noticed the Irish flag hanging over the door had more colors than it used to, that they only advertised light beers on tap. That the swizzle stick in the neon marini glass was a phallus. But I was scared and alone and hungry and out of cigarettes.

So, yes, I did burn 40 bucks drinking appletinis with Bruce, Lance, Tommy and “The Duke” while my wife was driving all over the Northside trying to find me. So what? With the time we had I couldn’t bare to think leaving. From the erotic oil paintings to the group sing alongs to "A Billy Holiday Christmas," we were having the time of our lives. It makes me sad to think healthy male bonding is such a rariety these days. But I’m glad to know it still exists at places like Jack’s Flaming Pit of Anonymous Encounters on Webester and Damen.

Merry Christmas to all and to all I say: The wife is out of town from the 26-30th. Free vampire erotica and whiskey shots to anyone who wants to stop by.