Following the Herd, Down to Greece

Okay, first we’ll start with my trip to 400 W Superior to close out the final chapter of “the incident”. I’m at the Starbucks on Franklin & Chicago, killing time before my 2:30 hearing, enjoying a hot chocolate and pages 115-135 of David Byrne’s Bicycle Diaries. There’s a tap on my foot, and I look up to see my friend Paul. “Hey Kyle, what are you doing down here today? No work?” I pause, thinking of how to reply, then just say, “yeah, remember reading about Rick and I’s tickets? I’m dealing with that today.” We exchange hearty laughter.
I ended up with the same plea deal as Rick. There were a handful of others also scheduled at the same time, 3 of them with the same citation as me. One of those 3 was a girl. That was suspect. I paid my fine, now it’s over and done with, like the Proclaimers song.
So, yes, I’d like to point out that I fully understand the complete hypocrisy of this situation. I’ve spent many words on this blog this year deriding the inhabitants and drunken revelers of Wrigleyville. I do recognize that my moral high ground is now below sea level. It doesn’t really matter what walk of life you’re from, the phrase “nothing good happens after midnight” applies to everyone. Just ask Tiger. (Also, I don’t fully subscribe to that, there are good things that happen after midnight. It’s more of an equation. The further past midnight you go the more likely you are to experience negativity.)

Onto bar recapping, this covering the evening of 11/28.
Bridget McNeills, #165 is an Irish-named bar that is definitely the most isolated of all the bars within a mile of where we live. How is that possible, you ask? Good thing you asked, I’ll tell you. It’s at Belmont and Lakeshore (err, Sheridan). It’s a good 3-4 blocks from anything else, and surrounded pretty much by high-rise condo buildings, and actually located on the first floor of one of those buildings. So you’d think it’d be crowded, being an oasis in the liquor desert. You’d think that. They do have good nightly food specials on the menu, but I can’t remember what any of them were. Rick thought if he lived in the building it’d be hard for him to avoid having dinner at the bar 3 nights a week. Bud Drinks are on special for $2.50! So we order a couple of New Belgium 2-Belows. I drop some money in the jukebox, playing a few tracks off the criminally fantastic INXS KICK album. Annie joins us, Selfy & Ericka join us, along with her friend Laura. The night is young. Conversation turns to Freakonomics, Super Freakonomics, and In Defense of Food.

We move on, down Belmont, turning North on Broadway, and picking up an aimlessly wandering Morris along the way. The competition for 3rd-6th in the Friends Rankings is beginning to heat up. We arrive at Joe’s on Broadway, #166. This is absolutely 100% a dive bar. The entrance is a screen door that slams shut. A couple of Point Pale Ales are $7. Selfy and Morris claim that they saw The Big Hurt at the Landmark Grill on Halsted a few days earlier. We decide had we visited this bar a few years ago it would’ve been completely filled with smoke. The slamming of the screen door announces Eickhoff's arrival. Everyone seems to have at least one story about running from the police. All of these took place during adolescence.

Again, we travel. F. O’Mahoney’s, #167 starts with too many letters. It’s also known as Finley Mahony’s, so there’s some sort of identity crisis going on here. It’s another Irish bar, also an Ohio St bar. Joe and Casey arrive. Selfy points out that “we’ve got a good group crawlin’ tonight.”
Morris & the bartender have this exchange:
"Are your jager bombs like this |----| or like this |------------------|?" (insinuating size with his thumb and forefinger)
"Like this |----|, i don't want to clean up your puke."

Selfy, Joe and I had all gone roughly 3-4 weeks without shaving. Reasons for growing, or attempting to grow, beards:
Selfy - raising money for prostate cancer
Joe - as a fashion statement
Kyle - because i'm lazy

We move on, time for our whirlwind trip through what remains on our list of Boystown. We head across the street to Charlie’s, #168 where the doorman stops us before entering. “Have you guys ever been here before?” Nope. “Here’s the deal, if you disrupt the dance floor, you WILL be kicked out.” Umm, okay.
Upon entering, we see what he means. Charlie's, several nights a week, is a country line-dancing bar. The dance floor is full with nearly 20 couples, all men. They’re doing line dances, circle dances, things I don’t know what to call because I’m clearly not up to speed on my country dance bar terminology. Anyway, the ENTIRE dance floor moves in complete unison. To say this is a little intimidating to watch is an understatement. There are a lot of men wearing cowboy hats, including the bartenders. I talk to one of them, and explain the purpose of the EmptyBlogOfNothing, “we’re two straight Sox fans visiting every bar in Wrigleyville and Boystown.” He thinks it’s fantastic, is glad we’ve stopped in, and pours us each a shot. For the year, we’re working on a 60-70% success rate of explaining what we’re doing to bartenders and ending up with a free shot.
A few more of Ericka’s friends show up, so our crowd for the evening has swelled to 10+. It’s beginning to get late, the bars are getting more crowded.

Again, moving on. We next travel to North End, #169. This is a karaoke bar. It’s another gay bar. I decide to repeat my performance from Halloween by singing Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero”. Casey joins me on stage, I dropped the microphone at one point, and our rendition was either fantastic or completely terrible. At this point I’ve also started handing over my EBONY notebook to friends. All they’ve written for the Enrique performance, and the entirety of our stay at the North End, is: BOOOO!!!!!!!

We head next door to Bobby Love’s, #170, which is ALSO a karaoke bar. 15 minutes after the first performance of “Hero”, I sing it again. I suppose I'll need to branch out if I'm ever going to moonlight at karaoke lounges. Casey joins me on stage, again. Thankfully I didn’t drop the microphone mid-song this time. This time, in my notebook, written by someone else, is:
“HE WAS AMAZING!!!” (and the “amazing part” has been violently crossed out by someone else). Then, “the whole crowd joined in and sang with kyle. Amazing. Turned straight men gay. Next up, some guy named benji. Wow, val and laura are effing amazing, how do I not love them? Next thing I know, Louie walks on the dance floor and flashed everyone. The crowd went wild. We all cheered, the bar closed. Everyone got herpes. THE END”
I decide I’m never giving my notebook to my friends again.

We head to our last Boystown bar to cross off the list, The Kit Kat Lounge, #171. They’re close to closing (well, the kitchen at least) and aren’t happy a large crew has just showed up hungry. It’s a much quieter and subdued vibe here, but not so much quieter that everyone doesn’t wake up the next morning with severe hangovers.

Next recap up soon...keep checking in! We're almost done with this godforsaken journey.