"There Will Be Blues" Part Two

I warned you. Here comes the Chicago sequel. In part one, we learned that, I, being the good father, agreed to dogsit for my daughter's canine lunatics in Chicago. After a few days in Mel's supposedly haunted house, I brought the dog's home with me and decided to go back the next weekend with two college friends Mike (Dude) and Craig (Bean). I'll leave their last names out for now to protect the spouses, and anyway, they know who they are. The plan was to pick the guys up after work Friday and haul ass to Chicago for a couple of nights of great food and a few beverages at local nite spots. We also planned to do this without bodily injury. Right! And to show you just how desperate Bean and Dude must be for entertainment, they agreed to let me be the guide.

On the night before the great adventure I foolishly talked to my son Dustin in Los Angeles, a former Chicagoan and well known local bon vivant, to get some suggestions for places to eat and area watering holes within walking distance of Mel's house, where we decided to set up home base. The reason being that we figured it was a good idea for us to "warm up" to Chicago at a place within walking distance the first night. Just in case we might accidentally ingest an unreasonable amount of nose paint. The fruit of my loins promptly suggested a place called "Hotti Biscotti", a fairly sedate little tavern on Fullerton Avenue about two blocks from the house, which on weekends, generally had a live musical act. Seemed perfect.

What Dustin failed to tell me, was that the bartender generally has the capacity for logical thought and overall demeanor of Tommy Chong. Only MORE stoned. I'll demonstrate. Mel and my son in law, Dave have also been to Hotti's and I thought mentioning them to the barkeep would be a way of letting the local folks know that we were not technically what you might call "NARCs".

Me: Ya know, my daughter, Mel and my son in law Dave come here now and again.
Chong: Your daughter Mel and who?
Me: Dave, you know Dave.
Chong: Dave?
Me: Right, Dave.
Chong: Dave?, Dave?............Dave's not here!

Later, I asked him for a recommendation on a place to get something to eat in the area. He told me we could get something right there, but when I mentioned we had a hankerin' for burritos, he kind of zoned out and told me he could make us some but we probably would be better off going to a restaurant across the street. Probably a wise decision. Dustin also failed to tell me that the women in that place tend to find novel and fun uses for various articles of tableware. By way of illustration, one attractive young lady was doing something with a bowl, which I know for a fact, that if it happened in the hills of Virginia, would require the two become engaged. Another reason why not eating there was probably a wise choice.

We walked across the street to a place called, I believe "El Pacifico". But I could be mistaken, which is a shame, because the food was fantastic. We had burritos the size of footballs and for the three of us with beers, and the tab came to something like 89 cents. Obviously a wise decision for three fifty something, slightly (at that point) inebriated men to be partaking of at about 1 a.m.

Anyway, Hotti Biscotti got pretty crowded by the time we got back from El Pacifica, for "one more" round of refreshments and watched the band's last set. We struck up a conversation with a couple of the regular youngsters about the area, and it was about this time that I was introduced to something called "Jagermeister" motto: "We're destroying your youth's brain cells with a potion that tastes like licorice flavored STP. " This was a very, very bad move on my part. In order to be sociable with the young people I agreed to "try" one. However, our hosts were quite insistent that I "try" another and another, etc. At this point, I would have to turn the narration for the rest of the evening to Bean or Dude, as I, for some strange reason am a bit foggy on it. However, I think with a good lawyer and heartfelt contrition, I might get off with probation.

Saturday was fairly uneventful, at least during the day. We hopped on the Blue Line, which is the subway into downtown. Unfortunately, I recommended we get off the train at the Grand Avenue stop, because I remembered that my son had worked at Optimus which was on that street, before he moved to LaLa Land. That was all well and good, except for the fact that the streets in Chicago are about the same length as the Great Wall of China. As a result we spent the first several hours of Saturday, force marching toward the only landmark I knew, the Sears Tower. We finally emerged onto Michigan Avenue near the Wrigley building to find that they were taping the "Ellen" show on a mall there. Now, I have it on good authority that Bean has a "thing" for Ellen so I suggested we get in line to see the show. However, we noticed that the line went from the Wrigley Building to approximately Green Bay. Sorry Bean. No Ellen for you.

We decided to walk around a bit and work up an appetite for lunch. This was no problem, as once again my navigational skills kicked in and we found the Gino's East pizza place in no time. By "no time" I mean 4 hours. Monsieur Bennett had a hankering for Chicago "deep dish" pizza. After the pizza we then walked up to Milleneum Park as there was to be a Polish festival there, with a parade and Polish food and general revelry. Unfortunately we got there just as the parade was finishing, but we did get a chance to see the participants scattering, and as best I could tell, the parade consisted of two golf carts, a little old lady in a babushka handing out pierogis and about nine thousand toddlers in liederhosen.

After the previous night and all that walking, the three of us needed to rest up for the evening's festivities so we boarded a train and somehow found our way back to the house, where we had a little catnap for about six hours. Then it was up and off to Byron's Dog House for an authentic Chicago hot dog. For the uneducated a "Chicago dog" consists of a Vienna Beef weiner, a bun and everything from hot peppers, celery salt and various vegetables to mustard. As a matter of fact, the only thing you can't get on a Chicago dog, for some reason, is ketchup. This did not sit well with Dude as he likes ketchup as much as George Bush likes screwing the country. We ate the dogs in my car as the dining ambience consists of a picnic table dating to Mrs. O'leary's cow. And it was raining to boot. So we not so much ate as shoveled the dogs down with fries that had more grease than Sha Na Na. With full bellies, next stop for the trio was Kinston Mines, a well known blues club on Halsted Avenue.


We took the bus there, and were one of the first to arrive, so we were able to get right in for seats up front for the first part of the show. Here is where it gets interesting. Kingston Mines has developed a fun, new way of separating intelligent, responsible, middle age people from their money and their minds. It is called "bucket o' beer" nite (does the "Mill Street Tavern" ring a bell with any of you old Bobcats?). And of course, being irresponsible, old and stupid, we dug right in. This night the buckets consisted of Coronas and we definitely sent the Corona stock soaring. Just helping the economy. Anyway, one of the other ways they have of setting you up, so to speak, is they have this fairly young, white girl, with an accoustic guitar playing as the warm up act. And don't get me wrong, she was pretty good, but I had prepped the guys with stories of wicked electric guitar licks and ass kickin' blues and this was surely not it. She played about an hour or so, and by this time we were well into the buckets, when she announced that now she was going to change and start playing electric guitar with a band. Yeah, sure, lady, I gotta tell you I don't see any great blues coming from you.

To make a long story longer, that night we found out Jimi Hendrix must have been a Hindu, because, all I know is that he has come back as a white woman, named Johanna Connor, who takes a back seat to no one, and I mean no one, in smokin', ass kickin', guitar wailin' blues music. And this was of course another part of the plan. "Keep the buckets coming. I feel like dancin' Woo Hoo! Somebody pass me a friggin' dooby!" I think you get my point. She kept wailin' and the skinny little white boys from Cleveland, Ohio kept buying buckets (ok, one almost skinny white boy, one very large white boy, and one "bowling ball" white boy). After one set, Dude stole some guy's lighter and was waving it around like he was at a "Deep Purple" concert in 1972, and screaming "Freebird, Freebird". As if that weren't bad enough, her "backup" band had guys that were incredible as well, including a second guitarist, some guy about 12 years old that played like Eric Clapton. Everytime one of them took a solo we were just awe struck (or maybe it was bucket struck). Any way, we watched several sets of both bands (the headliners were good, but Ms. Connor and Co. were just nuts) had several buckets of beer when an honest to God Wild Turkey raised its head, and the rest of our evening is something of a blur. The other thing the Mines can do to you is make creaky, old, no rhythm white guys believe they are Ben Vereen. That part was not so funny. About midnite the headliners played "Shout" and 12 million not all polluted, mostly white people flailed about trying to "Gator" when there wasn't room to scratch yourself. Not that I, Mr. Picture of Decorum would ever think of doing such a thing. Scratch myself, I mean.

We left at some point, and must have decided that it wasn't unreasonable at all, after a night of many, many Coronas and a little turkey, to cap the night at a barbecue joint on the corner of Halsted called, as best as I recollect, "The Smoke Shack". Inside we had some delicious (as far as I know) barbecue pork of various cuts from some unfortunate pig. But the capper was inside the restaurant having a snack between sets was none other than Ms. Johanna Connor and the 12 year old Eric Clapton. It's a good thing we weren't drunk or we might have inundated them with barely understandable, gushy compliments about their music. We found out that they would be playing until 4:30 a.m. and we gave them our condolences and somehow hailed a cab and made back to the house where the three of us managed to get upstairs to our various bedrooms and make it safely into bed for a good night's sleep. Well, two out of three ain't bad. You'll have to get the details from Bean, but all I can tell Cathy, is that it didn't invole any "pig moves". Or so he says. I believe Bean is blaming one of the "ghosts" for pushing him or something.

Speaking of Cathy, I need to mention that our good lady wives had a weekend of their own in Athens, Ohio for what may be the last OU mother's weekend for awhile. They must have been having a boring time, because when I called them from Kingston Mines to rub it in, er, I mean let them know we were ok, I could hear them talking about some vintage car show or something. At one point I heard Andi or Cathy yell something about getting a Cougar. Then they all cheered. I had no idea our wives were so automotively inclined. Just goes to show.

Next morning was pretty uneventful as I figure it must have been maybe 2 a.m. at least before we got back from the "mines". Melanie called my cell, and let me know that the plane was on time, and I should beat feet to Midway. I picked them up at the airport and learned a little of their trip to Argentina, and I confessed a little of what a great job I had done dogsitting. See Part One. It turns out that Melanie, at the urging of Dave, had nearly created an international incident when they wisely decided to play a joke on Sandy by sending her an email that said something about Mel having "monkey rabies". Thank God, I wasn't involved but evidently by the time it had gone from Sandy, to Dave's mom, Judy and then through various international go betweens and finally having the US ambassador threaten a nuclear strike on Buenos Aires, if someone didn't get to the bottome of this. Anyway, they had a good time as near as I could tell and when we got back to the house Elsie and Emma went into "the master's are home" doggie orgasm.

We drove home then, and I was able to go about 10 miles before I, for some strange reason, needed a nap. So Dude tookover, and I napped to Vermillon. Also, for some reason, Bean who was riding in the back seat, was strangely quiet. I found out later, like two weeks later, that there was a very good medical reason why Mr. Bennett was so quiet. Evidently breathing is essential to conversation. You know the Bennetts are an interesting couple. They definitely must get bonuses from their health insurance company, because they tend to need medical attention when they travel. As a matter of fact, if you want to make a killing on a stock, wait until the Bennetts go Greece in a couple of years, and just beforehand buy as much Blue Cross stock as you can and let CNBC know. You'll make a killing.

So that was the weekend pretty much and I want Bean and Dude to know I had a great time, and I'm expecting a very "generous" Christmas gift this year. They can put it in unmarked bills and leave it taped underneath the third sink from the left at the Vermillon Stadium men's room and mark it "Mr. Jones." You know, tax purposes.

As for Mr. Duggan of Boston, I got your message of condolence regarding the latest Cleveland heartbreak at the hands of a Beantown franchise. Don't think I don't a appreciate the sentiment, but I think you should go intercourse yourself. Not that I am bitter or anything.

Love
Dad

There Will Be Blues! Part One

My charges in better times. Emma is the black one.

Why is it, everytime I go to Chicago I always learn something new? And usually the learning is not good. My lovely but slightly deranged daughter decided to take an 11 day vacation to, where else, Argentina, motto: "Nazis? What Nazis?" Naturally, they could spend roughly $11,000 to board their dogs, Elsie the angel and Emma, aka Damien aka Beelzebub aka Nancy Grace. But why bother with a kennel when Bob, who didn't learn the cardinal rule about volunteering in the service, is available. So, being the dutiful father I am, I drove up to Chicago the night before the kids left, drove them to the airport and took care of the dogs while they were gallavanting around South America, hiking the jungle, cavorting with monkeys (more on the simian connection in Part Two), riding horses in the mountains and generally having a good time.

Now the fun starts. Before leaving the kids gently pointed out that there was really only one thing I needed to do around their house while I was there. "MAKE SURE THE GODDAM DOORS ARE LOCKED EVEN WHEN YOU ARE HOME!!" Of course, having reached the age where my short term memory is equivalent to a gnat's, it took roughly 3 nanoseconds to forget the only rule. But that comes later. When I got back to the house from O'Hare, it was a beautiful day in Chicago, and there aren't all that many beautiful days (weatherwise) in Chicago, so I decided to treat the dog's to the chance to get some air on the front porch, while I enjoyed a beverage on the porch swing and watched the people go by. In order to keep the dog's on the porch, as they have a tendency to bolt, I put up a baby gate at the steps in order to keep the little rascals on the porch with me. That gate could restrain dog's from getting out about as much as the law can keep congressmen from taking bribes. A poor soul, who I found out later was a professional dog walker, came up the street with two cute bulldogs. Emma, the dog without a soul, hurdled the baby gate like it wasn't there and charged over to the dog's to generally sniff their butts, and then teach them a lesson about invading her turf. Elsie, when she heard me scream "NO!!!" at Emma, dutifully slunk into a corner of the porch and commenced her "I am cowering here, I don't know why, but ain't I the cutest thing you ever saw?" routine. Elsie's a great dog. Meanwhile the canine Idi Amin was snapping and snarling at the bulldogs while the dogwalker (I wonder what the training is) held Emma at bay with the heel of his shoe. I don't know what he gets paid but he deserves a bonus. Anyway, I collared that goddam, er I mean, that sweet little Emma and coaxed her back onto the porch. Fortunately it appeared no damage had been done, except for my ticker.

About an hour later, as I prepared my dinner in the kitchen, I thought I heard a female voice calling "Hello". Now before she left, Melanie informed me that they had heard ghosts in the house one evening, not long before. But, it was middle of the day, so I went on cooking, although the voice did sound like she was pretty close, if not actually inside the house. A few seconds later, "hello!". Of course because I was in the middle of grilling a couple of Vienna Beef dogs on a skillet, I hesitated to leave, but I cursed under my breath, shut off the stove and went to investigate. Sure enough, as I approached the front door where the porch is, I saw a young lady standing next to the wide open door, and petting the dogs, who, once they realized there was no grilled hot dog handout forthcoming fled the kitchen to check on the intruder. Strike Two!
It turned out the lady owned the two bulldogs that Emma had assaulted earlier. She said she just wanted to see how my dogs were and to tell me her dogs were fine. I was touched. I promptly proposed and she politely told me she was sorry, and further informed me she was already married. With that she bid me adieu and scurried off down the street, no doubt searching for an all night restraining order emporium.

Anyway, I knew that now, my life as far as Mel was concerned wasn't worth, as they say, a plug nickel (I have no idea what that means). If it weren't for the fact that Elsie and Emma had been spoiled by some unknown moron giving them handouts of human food, they would probably have been hitchiking to Argentina to find Mom and Dad by the time I realized I had broken the one and only rule.

I spent a couple more fun filled days in the city whiling away the hours primarily by being walked (dragged) for an hour each day by the dogs around the neighborhood and Lincoln Park. I had decided to stay a couple of days in order to take some photographs of Chicago with infrared film. Of course the weather cooperated by providing me with approximately four seconds of glorious sunshine the rest of the week.

So I drove home with my charges aboard on Saturday of that week and spent the following week getting a little work done in between my time watching the dogs poop (add my dog Ginger to the mix now) and yelling like an idiot to try and get a deaf dog's attention. I lie, the dogs were pretty good in Concord, at one point we let them off the leash in the wooded area behind the house and they had a great time running around like banshees and discovering Kellogg Creek. Of course the first thing Elsie and Emma did was dive into the creek, which is pretty clean as far as creeks go but, of course, required that we hose them down to get the creekwater off when we got back home. Why is it, that a dog (all dogs I think) will have absolute orgasms thrashing around in creeks, rivers, lakes or any other body of water, but positively piss themselves the second they see a garden hose or bathtub?

Anyway, I survived and lived to return to Chicago the following Friday with a couple of my college buddies for a weekend on the town. That will have to be in part two as my brain hurts.

Love,
Dad