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

Two Assholes and a Growler

Posted on November 19, 2014

One weekend earlier this month Aidan and I picked up a growler of Space IPA at Half Acre Brewery on Chicago’s north side. We decided on an experiment. With no advanced calls or texts, bring the growler unannounced to the places of friends or acquaintances and share it with the first one(s) who are home and willing.  And why in God’s name wouldn’t they be? It’s a growler of Space IPA for fuck’s sake.

First stop (we had a car): Somewhere in Rogers Park where our mutual friend Ray lived. We couldn’t find parking. It was unseasonably frigid night, so walking far was out of the question. While driving around looking for a spot we spotted Ray, his girlfriend, and a few other people walking home from a nearby theater where we later learned they were in a play. Aidan was in the passenger seat, he rolled down the window, yelled out to Ray that we had the growler but there was no parking.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Ray said.

We drove off. To Wicker Park and the three-flat where Coach House Cindy lived. Cindy was a mutual friend of us who used to live in a coach house in the same neighborhood and threw some of Chicago’s best parties in the early 2000s. She wasn’t home. We found a note near her door that someone had written, “I’m out – so get fucked.”

Next stop: Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski’s Bucktown apartment. Clive’s door was slightly ajar so we walked in. A Jesus Lizard album was playing on Clive’s turntable but there was no Clive. “Clive is at Quencher’s,” said another mutual friend, Depressed Johnny, who was lying on Clive’s bed.

Depressed Johnny seemed to depressed to share the growler with, so we left.

Next stop: Sasha’s place in Ukrainian Village. Sasha was a sometimes bandmate of Aidan and mine’s in UK Grief. I had a short fling with her. She was home. She answered the door. She said:

“You two assholes can go but leave the beer.”

We left with the beer.

Aidan bought pot from a guy a few blocks away. He needed more pot anyway so we made our way there. When we got to his door Aidan told me the guy “has ball cancer” and was an extra in the classroom scenes in “Dead Poets Society.”

Ball cancer guy answered the door in one of those ways where he stuck only his head out and hid his apparently nude body behind the door.

“Aidan, what the fuck man, I’ve got company,” Ball Cancer guy said. “Don’t you fucking call first?”

Aidan flicked his cigarette at Ball Cancer guy’s face and we left.

Next stop: The Boys Town apartment of Johnny Goodjeans.

Also known as Gay Johnny as not to confuse him with Depressed Johnny, we knew him because he worked with Aidan and used to live in my neighborhood. We once got drunk together at the Bucktown Arts Fest. Incredibly handsome, Gay Johnny was. He also loved listening to movie scores, and that’s what was playing when he answered the door.

“Sure,” he said, when we told him about the growler. “Let’s drink.”

“Yea but we ain’t listening to some pouty shit like the Pan’s Labyrinth soundtrack” Aidan said.

Instead Johnny put on a record by Fig Dish, a 90s Chicago band, and brought out three pint glasses. We opened the growler and poured.

“One of the first times I heard these guys it was maybe my first time in a bar and it was around Christmas,” Johnny said. “They did a version of “Little Drummer Boy” that I’ll never forget. I also lost my virginity that night.”

“Just drink the fucking beer,” Aidan said.

And we did.

The Dodgy Instagram

Posted on October 28, 2014

While you’re waiting on the next essay, story, or interview, I thought I’d post some pics The Dodgy has taken recently. We have not done that in awhile and it’s also a reminder that there is an Instagram for The Dodgy.

 

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Half Acre Growler of Space IPA. Pure liquid heaven.

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My chair at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop bar, New Orleans.

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A couple walking in front of me on Bourbon Street. This New Orleans pics were taken during the last week of May.

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Spent a lot of time at The Spotted Cat (seen often in “Treme”). Drank Abita Restoration Pale Ale there and the bartender was from the Chicago area.

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Junkyard Dog in Gary, Indiana

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Wall Mural on Miller Pizza in the Miller Beach community of Gary, Indiana.

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The Shamrocks Motorcycle Club spotted in Chicago.

The Asshole Book Club – Final

Posted on September 28, 2014

The Asshole Book Club has reached a point where it no longer brings books to the party. To quote Aidan, “I don’t have fuckin’ time to read.” Aidan was never much of a reader. What he most enjoys reading is the upcoming band list at The Empty Bottle. I like to read, and write, and Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski and host of this final Book Club likes to do both. Lately we’ve all been bringing more writing than reading material. Even Aidan, who the last time brought a short story he wrote on his about a much older Chicago tour guide he, in his words, “banged.”

So from hence forth these gatherings will be known as “The Asshole Writer’s Club.”

For our final meet and drink under the “Book Club” moniker, Clive read from his recent essay based on a true story entitled “Lenny’s Shoe Shack (and Sex Club).” Clive said he changed some names and location “to protect the assholes” but supposedly the story was based on a place in Berwyn.

Lenny was somewhere around late middle age, Clive said, and smoked incessantly. “You were allowed to smoke in Lenny’s – in fact, it was insisted upon.”

Clive would go to the shack with his uncle when Lenny held his twice-a-year special where you get a free pair of slacks with the purchase of shoes. Sometimes Lenny would tailor the slacks for the customer in the back room. “He’d have a cigarette in his mouth, a tape measure in one hand and with the other hand he might squeeze your balls,” Clive said.

About one weekend a month Lenny and his wife Shirley would host secret sex parties that included poker and partner swapping. “I went once,” Clive said. “I ended up spanking Shirley while Lenny took pictures.”

“Shirley had a beehive hairdo,” Clive said. “Kind of outdated but it looked  good on her. She was a big woman, too. Smoked as much if not more than Lenny.”

At this point our female guest for the final Book Club, Diane, lit a cigarette and sighed. Diane is a grad student at the University of Chicago. I met her there in the spring. She was a writer too, and brought a short story about the (true) time she stole a car in Hegewisch (far south side, for  those unfamiliar).

“I was stranded there. I was drunk. I missed the train. I said fuck it and found a car with the keys inside and drove it to my apartment in Ukrainian Village. I never got caught. I’m sure the asshole got his car back – I parked it down the street and it was gone in a day. I just didn’t give a fuck.”

At that point I spilled my beer on the table. Clive wiped it up with one our friend’s Smith’s “Hatful of Hollow” T-Shirt. I didn’t bring a book or a story this time, but my contribution to the night was pretty serious – a growler of Half Acre’s Space IPA.

Aidan and I got to talking about getting our band, UK Grief, back going again. He showed me a song he was working on called “Good Evening, Fräulein.” He got up suddenly to go to the bathroom. He was gone a long time. So was Diane. They came back in the living room 30 minutes later. Clive had left for Quencher’s. Diane went to join him.

“I came out of the bathroom,” Aidan says, “and this Diane chick was standing there. She looked at me and said, ‘I can fuck you in half.’  So I let her.”

With that Aidan left for Quencher’s. I finished my pint of Space and went to join them.