Drinking Is Good Clean Fun

My Indoctrination Into Chicago Bar Life

 My Grandpa Elmer owned a bar at the intersection of Clark and Roscoe. When he retired and moved to Fox Lake he kept his home as if it were his tavern. Music was always playing, bowls and peanuts and popcorn were on everytable and the drinks were always flowing. Many of Elmer’s breakfast consisted of a raw egg cracked into a glass of beer which would be consumed in one gulp. He’d wipe his mouth with his forearm and let out a satisfied, “Aaah,” followed by the proud declaration, “That’s a good breakfast.” 

I’d spend a couple weeks every summer with my Elmer and thus began my indoctrination into bar life. We’d head out for a day of fishing, which also included multiple visits to the lakeside taverns. As we would exit the bright humid summer air and into the cool dark dampness of a musty bar I felt as if I was entering a secret society where only privileged humans were allowed to dwell. The bartender would place a bowl of shelled roasted peanuts in front of us as Elmer would order a boilermaker himself and a kiddie cocktail for me. 

I’d listen to the men talk as I joyously tossed the peanut shells to the floor as my eyes wandered around the bar appreciating the various knick knacks and tchotchkes that collected dust behind the bar. Many of the bars had the same decorations: caricature statues of WC Fields or Groucho Marx, a plastic statue of a small boy who if you pulled his shorts down a stream of water would shoot out like he was urinating and signs that read, I work and I work and my wife gets all the money, or We serve wine not whiners. 

The most baffling item that I saw at some of the bars was a statue of two naked men wrestling and both had tight grips on the other guy’s genitalia. My young mind couldn’t understand what this was supposed to mean or why anyone thought this would be a great decoration for their business. I don’t know if I still fully understand.

As we sat in the bar Elmer would also advise me on proper bar etiquette and what made a good drinker. “Always tip and tip good,” and, “No one likes a sloppy drunk or one who cries. If that’s how you’re going to be when you drink, then stay home.  He also advised me that I shouldn’t do drugs. It was dirty business and drinking was good clean fun. 

I  don’t think I need to point out that Elmer would let me drink beer.  One time I was so drunk I was wobbling and slurring as we cleaned fish on his pier. My grandma Leona saw this and yelled,  “Jesus Christ Elmer, the kid is drunk.” To which he responded, “Aaah, it’s good for ‘em. It’ll make him a man.” 

Thanks to Elmer I knew how to properly conduct myself when I started hanging out in the neighborhood bars in Chicago at the ripe age of sixteen. I always had my money ready, knew what I was going to order when the bartender arrived and I did so quickly. When my drink arrived I left a healthy tip. By taking care of the bartender I was also taking care of myself because these actions ensured quick service the next time I was ready for another round.

I don’t know if I didn’t get carded or kicked out of these joints due to my perfect bar etiquette or because I often entered these establishments with the staff and actors of The Second City. Tossing around that we were from Second City came with privileges around Chicago. We never had to wait in lines and we got a lot of free drinks. 

Most of the time I bounced between the two bars directly across the street from Second City, The Last Act and The Old Town Ale House. These places were similar to the bars Elmer would take me to. They were filled with people from various walks of life, who were there to drink and talk. I felt at home in these places. As if it was some sort of rite of passage that Elmer would approve of.

The Exit was another bar my Second City pals and I would frequent. However, it wasn’t an old man bar but a  notorious Punk hangout. As soon as you entered the place you were hit in the face by clouds of smoke and a wall of blistering industrial or Punk music. You’d make through a multitude of dudes in mohawks and black leather jackets who made a point not to budge so you’d have to push past them hoping not to provoke a confrontation. Scantily clad women dressed in black tight clothing and  big clompy boots danced in cages which tantalized as well as intimidated my teen libido.  

One of the highlights of going to Exit was that you’d maybe get a glimpse of Old Town’s legendary Bra Guy. Bra Guy was a man who lived in the apartments above Exit would stand in the center window wearing nothing but a bra and a bathrobe. He’d sip on a bottle of beer while smoking a cigarette and fondling himself. If someone spotted him he'd slink off to the side and hide until he thought the coast was clear.

One time after spotting Bra Guy in full fondle mode as a long line of patrons waited to be let into the Exit. My friend Aaron said, “I wonder how many people in line at the Exit think the dripping on their head is from an air conditioner when it’s really Bra Guy jizzing out the window.” 

Occasionally we’d venture out of Old Town and into Chicago’s club scene to places like Crobar, Limelight, or The China Club.  As a young man I felt I should like these clubs. That this is where the young people should go to get fucked up and find one night stands. I never felt comfortable in a club. It seemed absurd to me that you’d spend the night in a place where conversations were held by yelling into one another’s ear and the prices of drinks could be best described as bullshit.

As I entered my twenties and started attempting to define myself I searched for bars to accompany my newly developing self image. Places where I could hear new music and perhaps find myself a hip girlfriend. I began frequenting places like The Holiday Club, The Blue Bird Lounge, Gold Star, Danny’s, Phyllis’ and on occasion Simon’s which was further north, but worth the trek for what easily was the best jukebox in all of Chicago.  

I decided that The Blue Bird Lounge was my favorite bar. This was probably because the first time I walked through the door Sonic Youth’s “Kool Thing,” was playing and that was all I needed to feel this was my spot.  It didn’t hurt that every bartender was a woman in crushed velvet dresses, Doc Marten boots, and hair that looked as if they just rolled out of bed. I also  found their I don’t give a fuck attitudes enticing, but didn’t nerve to make the conversation go past my drink order. 

Chicago has bars that are open until 2 AM and 4 AM. Once the two o’clock bars closed it was always a mad scramble to find the nearest four o’clock bar.  I’ve forgotten or never knew the names of most of these bars. I can recollect vague details like, it was near an underpass, or the walls were black with no artwork. Some of these places had bar tops made from plywood with bottles and cans in dirty buckets filled with ice and tables that hadn’t been cleaned all night, if not in many nights. It didn’t matter though, I was drinking. 

As my twenties began to wind down I found myself returning to the neighborhood taverns. I cared less about being cool. I was content simply being at a table where I could sit and talk with my friends. Often this meant the Old Town Ale House where my friends and I would empty pitchers of beer as we shared our ideas for sketches, plays, books and movie ideas.  I’m sure most of these ideas were terrible and thankfully the ideas left our memories shortly after they exited our mouths. I do recall one of my ideas and I shall share it with great reluctance.  I had learned that Punk legend and filth monger GG Allin used to visit serial killer John Wayne Gacy in prison. I drunkenly thought this would make a good one act play. My chubby friend would play Gacy and I would be GG. Thankfully, this idea never went past a couple drunken ramblings. 

It’s been twenty years since I’ve lived in Chicago. Most of the bars I frequented are gone or have been turned into places that serve craft cocktails or are micro-breweries. That’s fine. Cities change and evolve. Plus, I no longer hangout in taverns. I quit drinking three years ago and more importantly I became the father of two splendid girls.I’d rather be home with them than sitting next to a guy named Burt making small talk. 

I live in Saint Paul now where the old man corner joint still thrives. On occasion I’ll pass by a place called Gallahager’s, Skinner’s or Skarda’s and I’ll look it up on Yelp to see what it looks like on the inside. On a rare occasion I’ll step in to check it out. I’m instantly transported to the time I first stepped into a musty bar with Elmer. I’ll stay just long enough to feel nostalgic and miss my Grandpa. I never sit at the bar or even entertain the idea. I’ve lost more than enough hours of my life in bars.