Chicago Post-Mortem Part II: And We End On A High Note

No, not that sort of high.

When I came back to Chicago on Sunday I had one goal in mind: clear the residue from last week, and by god, I succeeded.

Perhaps making up for the horrors that befell me in Milwaukee on Saturday night, I found Chicagoans on this Sunday to be extremely friendly.

First off I went to Roscoe's, where for some reason the very amiable bartender kept buying me drinks and saying "welcome back to the Midwest."

More like welcome back to civilisation.

I knew that I was in for a good night when the video for my favourite dance song (and yes, I get the irony of it being a dance song) ever came on. Yes, they played "Gypsy Woman."

Next, the infamous Sidetrack, where an aging punk from San Diego travelling to see the Drum Corps in Madison (it's his logic, not mine) explained the difference between Drum Corps and Colour Guard to my uneducated ears. I inquired about San Diego and he told me that according to Angelenos, San Diego is the poseur capital of California. Apparently you can dress like a punk in San Diego, but if you dare slam dance into them, they will have a shit-fit.

I took a break to go to the Lucky Horseshoe, because frankly stuffing dollar bills into go-go boys is a vacation tradition of mine. It was...well...dead. I'm not a fan of dead strip bars, because then I start feeling guilty and give tips to go-go boys who don't really do it for me. So I did. Next thing I know, the lonely go-go boy starts talking to me after his set.

He's a grad student of English Composition! So that made the conversation flow.

I decided to return to Sidetrack, given that a huge chunk of time had passed.

Fortunately, the musical fetish had melted away and in its place was 1960's/1970's campy songs.

And the heavens shout forth "Hallelujah!"

Insanely crowded, I asked to sit near a guy who seemed to be solo. Turned out he was part of a triumvirate, but not a nasty Milwaukee one. In fact, this triumvirate was very warm and welcoming. So much so that at one point one of them asked me how I knew the others, and when I told him that I was just sitting there having a drink he was completely surprised. Such was the comfort level.

I moved on downstairs to have a cigarette. Probably since I was on vacation and my normal defenses were non-existent, I lent one to a drunk and scruffy ex-bartender from Detroit. Well his book didn't match his cover, I'll say.

Turns out that he was torn up six ways from Sunday over a lawyer with biceps "the size of [his] head." Whether or not I wanted to, he was going to give me the back story. It certainly was a fascinating one, even if my own romantic side is repressed (for the most part). I'll spare you the details, partly for brevity and partly due to the fact that I can't really recall what they were beyond the fact that Lawyer Biceps was well known and Scruffy had to steel himself not to be paranoid about it--hence the drunken state.

What I do remember is this: not but a half-hour later Scruffy & I were exchanging the hugs that generally are the province of long-lost best friends. I actually offered to pray (in my own way) that he and Lawyer Biceps get it together. Even more shocking, Scruffy & I could not break the embrace for 10 minutes. He was tearing, I was overrun with a rare case of goodwill to "strangers," it was like Wonderland.

Maybe we should all get to that Wonderland ASAP.