File this one under, 'better late than never'.
So Saturday the wife and I decide to bike it up to Wrigleyville on our recently purchased two wheelers. I have rediscovered the joy of riding a bike and often times like to pretend that I'm an Asian delivery boy, navigating the mean streets of Tokyo with a grease stained brown paper sack filled with orange chicken, fried rice and a five pound block of blackmarket hashish (but really, is there any kind of hashish that isn't black market?). But I digress.
My wife is wearing a new Cubs shirt that I just bought for her online, because everyone knows the shirts that they sell outside of the stadium are shite.
Me: "God, is it wrong that I am more attracted to my wife in a Cubs shirt than in lingerie?"
God: "Yes. Yes it is. (Coughs..mumbling) Gay."
Me: "What's that God?"
God: "Nothing. I gotta go. (coughs again) Homo."
You know, riding a bike in Chicago is not only fun, it's practical. Seriously. What would have been an hour-long ride on the El, crammed between sweaty tourists and some guy who may or may not have shit his pants (the smart money is on the former) turns into a pleasant 20 minute bike ride.
It's insane outside the ballpark. Lots of mullets. Shit, is this a concert for Metallica cover band Sad But True? Oh, just White Sox fans. Who probably went to the Sad But True concert last night. Oh, score. Yeah, right here, up high! Chest bump!
We lock up the bikes and look for a place to grab a bite to eat, drink some beers and enjoy the game. Places are packed. As the kids would say, it's 'mad crazy yo'.
I lament the decline of a good dive bar in Wrigleyville. The neighborhood has been gentrified quicker than Harry Caray could say, 'I got the next round'. Holy shit. If I see one more trendy bar with a 'one-in/one-out' line at 2 in the afternoon I'm going to scream. Oh shit, can't go in that bar. They apparently only let you in if you have a faux hawk. I want to scream FUCK(!), but I settle for casting disgusted "I'm better than you anyway, prick" looks instead. Why would you wait in line to go to a bar that is a carbon copy of every other fucking bar on the street? Blows my mind. John Barleycorn, you can go to hell. Over 200 people in that bar, not one could even tell you the score of the game. The women are all ho'd out like K-Fed was spinning there or something.
I need a place to sit. I need to eat for Chisssakes. I'd go to Gingerman but I don't think they have food. I like Bernie's, but HeySeus, it's like a Geriatric convention in there. I fear I may be molested if I get any closer.
So we settle on Mullens. A member of the old guard of Wrigleyville bars. Along with Sluggers, the Cubby Bear, Murphy's Bleachers and Hi-Tops, its the rare breed of 'generic, slightly dingy, nondescript' sports bars that are being replaced by the trendy, hipper-than-thou sports 'lounges' that are populating the area like Paris Hilton's discarded tampons.
The food? Eh. The service. Shitty at best. The beer. Cold and overpriced ($4 for a bottle of Old Style. Clutching heart.) But I've got a clear view of the TV, the people around me aren't cocksuckers and the atmosphere is as electric as a crowd of 20,000 hillbillies right before Hulk Hogan drops a leg. In other words, perfect.
There is a White Sox fan right behind us, the only one in the bar, who looks like Kevin James on a three day cocaine and fried chicken binge, who starts a 'Let's Go White Sox' chant loudly and obnoxiously. What an asshole. He is drunk and I contemplate hitting him. Before I can do that, and inevitably risk injury to my feminine hands, Derrek Lee literally leans through the TV screen and says 'Fuck you dude', before belting a grand slam that brings the house down. Fried Chicken Kevin James is left humbled and appears to have pissed himself.
"Get me another $4 Old Style!" I cry. No literally I cry, because I'm paying $4 for an Old Style.
Just another day in Wrigleyville. God I love my bike.
God: (coughing) Homo.
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