Essays, Interviews, Observations, Pop Culture, Stories, and other Dodginess

Bartender Poet

Posted on August 15, 2017

bartender_poet

Scott the bartender poet

 

Went to Cincinnati recently. The Queen City welcomed a joker like me. I took my friend Mosquito with. It was just for one night. It was to meet a girl I know there, Shay.

I didn’t take Mosquito to see Shay, whom I met at this bar called The Blind Pig. I had a couple craft beers that were local. I forget what Shay had, other than her cute lips, black curls and long legs.

If things had gone with Shay the way I wanted them too, I probably would not have ended up at Madonna’s Bar & Grill, some watering hole downtown.

I had a brilliant egg sandwich thing. And I was treated to brilliant, gritty poetry by Scott the gruff bartender. What a fuckin’ poet and magician at this dive joint. Pouring beers and reading his poems in between dealing with local hooligans in the establishment.

I told Scott he needs to have a one-man show. Just him behind a bar reading poetry. But wait. Not a one man show. Every so often a customer would come in and sit down and drink and have a few words with Scott. When Scott isn’t doing his poetry directly to the audience he can be reading it to the customer.

The customers can include men, women, cool birds or assholes. Scott will know how to deal with them. He dealt with shit when I was there.

I wish I can take Scott around to be my personal bartender, pouring pints and cussing out his poetic work.

He deals with shit and writes the shit. Good shit.

 

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This Squirrel Is Eating A Pizza, Or Something

Posted on July 23, 2017

It is, after all, a Chicago squirrel

squirrel_eating_pizza

One Night In Pilsen

Posted on May 2, 2017

There have been many nights in Pilsen, this is just one.

It began with a moody tongue and ended with an ass spanked.

I met Aidan, Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski, and Femke at Clive’s new place in Pilsen. It was late March but Clive, who moved there in December, still had mistletoe hanging in his kitchen hallway.

I wanted to kiss Femke underneath it, but she only wanted to strangle me with it (Femke means “woman of peace”).

I haven’t seen Femke for a few years, since before I left for Ireland. I thought I had made peace with everyone who was mad at me here when I left for Dublin several years ago. But I forgot about Femke. I don’t remember what she was mad about. I only remember how great she looked in a black goth skirt and Doc Martens.

I pointed to the mistletoe and said to Femke that if it’s still up there, it must mean something. Like it never reached its kiss quota.

“It means Clive didn’t fucking take it down yet,” she said.

The night shifted to The Moody Tongue, a brewery south of 18th Street.  It’s pretty lavish for a brewery. “High crust” as Clive called it. It definitely clashed with the red sweatpants Clive was wearing.

After a Nectarine IPA or two or three we headed to 18th Street and a bar called Simone’s. I was here a few weeks ago and I recall standing outside with a pudgy short redhead while she had a smoke. I forget what I said to her, but I remember her reply.

“How’d you like it if I stuck this cigarette up your ass?”

After another few beers and some food we poured out of Simone’s and saw a notice taped to a pole that advertised an apartment for rent. Femke read it and then looked at me.

“This has two bedrooms, and I want to fuck you in at least one of them,” she said.

We walked across the street to a liquor store for her cigarettes. It was a social club. Old men were sitting in chairs along the sides of the aisle. I think there was a bar in the back, but I wasn’t sure. I tried to take a peak but the cashier, also an old man with a large scab on his lip, scolded me in Spanish. A woman with a shaved head recognized Clive and took him back there. As we were leaving a man who smelled like a thrift store asked me if I liked butt stuff.

“I’m about to find out,” Femke said.

We went to another bar, Punch House, where Femke didn’t find out if I like butt stuff, but that I did like Front 242, whose lovely industrial sounds the DJs were playing as we walked in. Although I’m not gay, I found myself attracted to one of the bartenders. He was caring, charming and gruff. I just knew. He had a several tattoos on his arms and nice fitting jeans.

After that an inebriated Femke and I gathered back at Clive’s place. The first thing we noticed after opening the door was the red sweatpants strewn on the floor. Then we heard a familiar slapping sound and found Clive being spanked under the mistletoe by the woman with the shaved head.

Femke looked at me, squeezed my hand and led me to the bedroom.

“Come with me,” she said. “Let’s do something inappropriate.”