"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