The Northside, The L&L and Any Number of Crappy Apartments – Chicago I

I spent the last day of my 33rd year strapped into the comfortable passenger seat of a black 2013 Hyundai Elantra. A black 2013 Hyundai Elantra that gets incredible gas mileage, even when you’re driving like a total asshole to keep up with other asshole American drivers. My Accountant and I are barreling westbound across 4 states via Interstate 94, on our way to drink all the Old Style, shoot all the Malört and eat all the pizza and hamburgers in the City of Chicago. There’s only a handful of bands My Accountant and I can agree on (and we can’t find NPR, aka America’s answer to CBC Radio One on the dial, which we totally agree on) so we’re stuck with DJ Dawson From Dawson’s Creek (That’s still me. Still available for parties, FYI) and the obscure cuts from his (again, still me) iPod. It’s a pretty anti-climactic drive, especially when you don’t make notes in a dollar store moleskin notebook for these things anymore.

I’m spending the last day of my 33rd year sitting in a car rolling down a turnpike with nothing prolific to write about it, but that’s the way it goes. And I couldn’t be happier about it.

Chicago is easily my favourite city. Though, if you’ve ever been on a Tinder date with me at a bar, and the talk of travel has come up, you’ll quickly realize that most of the cities I’ve been to are my favourite city. Except for Winnipeg and Hamilton. Fuck both of those places. So. I guess, ‘One of my favourite cites‘ would be the more accurate description. I love everyone, and everything, at all times, always. Except for Winnipeg and Hamilton.

We made it to our moderately priced, 3 star, last minute, red flag deal purchased outer loop hotel room just in time for me to drink the best Manhattan I’ve ever drank thus far.

And then go sit on a bench by the water under the Wabash Street bridge to talk about our lives, while brown bagging Old Style’s, and eating dry Taquitos from a 7-11, because my life is all about contrast. But also, we’re not made of fucking money here.

The next morning, in lieu of of going online and thanking anyone (except those that really matter) that sent obligatory birthday wishes, I went to a Dunkin’ Donuts (Whilst in America, Jay runs on Dunkin’) This more due to the fact that the hotel WiFi didn’t reach my bed, and fuck if I’m getting up and moving 20 feet just to be polite.

Then we did the some tourist photos.

“Girls on Tinder” – Jason Stretch, Digital Media, 2016

Then we got stuck in the rain, so we got all cultural and artsy and shit like that.

Then we ate pizza. Despite my demeanour, this was all pretty tits.

For every other night going forward, we ditched hotel rooms, in favour of several AirBNB’s. We arrived at our first, and crappy, North Side, AirBNB apartment, and quickly got back to the tasks at hand. Those tasks were drinking, and eating garbage. You should know how we do this by now.

From what I recall, we went to the GMan. They played the new Bouncing Souls record. I liked it. Happy Birthday to me!

Oh, and we also ran, because we’re not total pieces of shit. Old Style’s, Doritos, American Spirits, and 7-11 Corn Dogs will go straight to the thighs, if you’re not careful.

At which point, I say to My Accountant,

“Hey, Let’s go walking down Clark Street”

…because we have tickets to a guided tour of Wrigley Field.

So, we walked south down Clark Street to The Friendly Confines (That’s a nickname for Wrigley Field. I learned something from that Wrigley Field tour… :I) where we were schooled on the history of The Cubs, and respectfully ogled some girls from California, who were in town for the series.

So, naturally, I would be rooting for San Francisco during the game…

ME: *In a flawless Harry Caray impression* CUBS WIN!! CUBS WIN!!

The Cubs won, is what I’m trying to say with that impression, that no one will appreciate, I’m sure.

Jays fans, at a Cubs game, rooting for The Giants, wearing a Pirates hat. We have no idea how to sports.

I wanted a hard stance photo of My Accountant and I with the Harry Caray statue but, you know…

We probably didn’t make friends with that fella sitting next to us during the ball game.

But we did make friends with cute bartenders. We also made friends with weird bartenders. We made friends with the delightful old ladies who sat next to us and egged us on while we flirted with the former for free shot. Which totally worked, by the way. We made friends with helpless people on the L. We went to the South Side. We ate the best thin crust pizza in a deep dish pizza town. We went to Lincoln Park to wait in a line for brunch we never actually ate.

We ate the best hamburgers in a hot dog town. What?

We came and we left, and just a moment went by.

On our last night in town, we made quick work of any booze and left over pizza left in the apartment, and quickly L’d (yeah, I’m making that a verb) down to The L&L. For those who don’t know, or care, The L&L is the shittiest, non-piss smelling dive bar in existence, probably. It’s a North Side staple, formerly frequented by two notorious serial killers… But more importantly, occasionally still frequented by a bunch of shitty drunk dudes who wrote the songs that have defined my life. Coincidentally, or not, a bunch of those songs, written by those shitty drunk dudes, are on The L&L’s jukebox at 2$ for 7 songs. Ken, the owner/bartender/Sharknado film series enthusiast, is also a blast, who will be an asshole to shitty tourists, give you they PBR’s they over paid for, and gladly discuss all his feelings on Matt Skiba being in Blink 182.

So there’s that.