Sunday, August 31, 2014

Monkey Business

           I accomplished a lot yesterday, but took three steps backward with my myasthenia gravis. My back has made me skip my walks for the previous three days, and after making significant progress on the sequel to my prequel, hunger drove me from my lair and I ordered fish dumpling vegetable soup from my friend Jimmy's Chinese restaurant which is just around the corner. Jimmy was out of town and in less than five minutes I had my soup and was headed for the Ale House. The soup smelled delicious, and when it cooled off sufficiently  it tasted delicious, too. Unfortunately  I was having a hard time chewing. And to compound my problems a nice couple sitting next to me wanted to talk about Anthony Bourdain. They had seen the Ale House on a rerun of his Travel Channel show the previous day. 
            The couple made it clear that although they were presently living in Indianapolis, they were originally from Detroit. When I asked if it was preferable to be from Detroit they didn't hesitate and nodded in unison. Apparently Indianapolis is a very boring city. The woman was an attractive blonde. Anya had been talking to them earlier and after they left said that the blonde was going in for heart surgery in a week. 
         "She said it was a fluke, she felt fine but after some kind of check up they said she'd need a valve inserted."
            So while I was talking to the couple not only was I having a hard time chewing my food but I was slurring my words. This happened the instant I started eating my soup. I can't imagine that there would be sugar in soup so now I have to wonder if I have some kind of food allergy that triggers the myasthenia gravis symptoms? When I see Jimmy next I'm gong to ask him what exactly goes into the soup?  (When I got home I realized I'd forgotten to take my pill in the morning.)
             Dado has just finished directing a Pinter Play and it's going to be showing Sunday and Monday nights at A Red Orchid Theater. It's a limited run and there are only going to be eight performances.  I'm going to try and make it tonight. Jacob is in it and so is Dado's stud muffin, Brady. I find Dado hot in an off-beat way. She was impressed that I was eating soup and not something from MacDonald's and hoped I'd be a  trend setter. She lives in Whiting Indiana where she grew up. It's a town that could easily be used in a period movie from the 1950's. The smell of the BP refinery engulfs the town like a bad hangover. I was shocked when she told me she was a cheerleader in high school. She is the most un-cheerleader type chick I know.
           "Dado, how could an intelligent, talented, high-spirited girl like you be a fucking cheerleader?"
           With a smile of extraordinary warmth she said: "I pissed everyone off because I insisted that we wear sweat pants. I mean, who wants to freeze in some dinky little cheerleader outfit?"
           The only thing I liked about cheerleaders were their dinky little cheerleader outfits. 
            During my conversation with Dado I continued to slur my words. It took me almost an hour to finish my soup. Coach thinks there might have been MSG in the soup and I know I have always reacted to MSG with my throat tightening.
            D-Train was staring at me with a not from this world look etched upon his ethnically ambivalent face; his self loathing eyes seemed forever lost in his rapidly descending personalities. Normally not a shy shrinking man, he seemed frightened and timid.
            Ruben Four Toes, who was sitting next to me chuckled. There was more than a touch of superiority in the morbidly obese Mexican's manner as he stared at D-Train. "Look at the dumb fuck, what's wrong with him?"
          "He seems preoccupied, as if there's something important on his mind."
           Ruben picks on D-Train a lot. I have a theory as to why: because we all hold Ruben responsible for Motor Mouth Victor he tries to transfer equal guilt over to D-Train. "He talks just as much shit as Victor!"
           "You are wrong, my fat friend, D-Train often says interesting things. He's normally well informed. He's highly intelligent and generally has an excellent sense of humor. And the most importantly he can go for long periods of time without speaking. Victor is not very bright,  he never shuts up, not to mention his horrific, inappropriate  laugh. Victor reminds me of the guys you see hanging around  Tijuana pool rooms or in police lineups."
           Ruben is conflicted - Victor left for Mexico a few hours ago and although he was a bore and a cross to bear, he was a loyal friend and had pulled the helpless Ruben off of more than one public toilet when the one-legged four-hundered pound weakling could not extricate himself. 
           I had planned a Go Away Party for Victor but never got around to it. 
            D-Train will go back to his normal schedule after Labor Day and so he will have some more badly needed structure in his life. Vacations and days off are not his friend.
           Ruben was not the least bit sheepish about eating an Italian Sausage from Burton Place the previous day. Predictably he had to make another emergency trip back home. "It must have been the hot peppers."
            "Ruben, every time you eat something from there you have to shit your brains out. Why not bring your own sandwiches?"
           Coach said he loves Burton Place food and has never had a problem. 
            Ruben said that he had a MacDonald's cheeseburger earlier and feels fine. Ruben then proceeded to send shock waves through the guys sitting in the corner: "I'm checking on getting a toilet seat extender. They make them and all I need to do is get one four-inches higher and I wouldn't need to go home when I need to shit."
           Grasshopper, who had just walked in said, "Ruben, you can't  seriously be thinking about  carrying around a toilet seat extender?"
            His jaw protruding defiantly Ruben said, "why not. I could put it in a backpack."
              Grasshopper patted Rubens puny shoulder sympathetically and replied, "you can't just set them on top of a toilet, they have to be bolted on - "
             "So, it's not practical. My mom  needed one. They're permanent."
               His dreams of a portable toilet seat extender dashed Ruben for a brief instant hesitated.
              "Amigo, " I said smiling down at the rapidly expanding mounds of blubber supporting his massive head, " your stupidity illustrates a favorite theory of mine."
            Looking up at me with his innocent little boy look he said, "and what might that be?"
           "Some people think you live entirely for pleasure."
            "Yes, please go one." His face was anything but cordial. 
            "For all your defects you are clearly a pragmatic, one-dimensional problem solver."
             "And your point is?"
              "That like all successful men, you are incapable of reflection or introspection. That's why you are such a marvelous problem solver."
              "Fuck you very much."
               "You are quite welcome."
               Ruben said his stomach problems are like the Stock Market: "they go up and down."
               When the subject of the ebola epidemic plaguing Africa came up I said, "I find it interesting that the doctor that came back to Atlanta thanked God for saving him. What I would like to have asked him is why he thought his God not only killed all the doctors that treated him in Africa, but their spouses?"
               Ruben take on the ebola outbreak was as follows: "that's what happens when you fuck monkeys."
               "Think about it."
               "Obviously you have."
                "Monkey business."

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Advanced Sociology

            Juke Box Joe's sisters wake was in Forrest Park which is just west of Chicago. It's not an area I've spent much time in during my 74 years. I knew the traffic would be bad and it was. It took me over an hour to get there; had there not been nasty traffic I could have made it in twenty-five minutes. When I could take it no longer I pulled off the expressway at Austin and worked my way over to Twenty-Second Street. In order to get to Forrest Park I had to go through Cicero and Berwyn. I've often wondered why more sociologists haven't studied Cicero? It's famous for being home to organized crime - Al Capone's main headquarters - and virulent racism. Cicero Avenue used to be lined with strip joints. The bars in Cicero stayed open all night and serious alcoholics with a sense of adventure would sometimes make the short drive from Chicago to Cicero when the Chicago bars closed down at four in the morning. 
             Gambling was rampant, along with prostitution. When I drove a cab back in the Sixties and some obnoxious conventioneer said he was "looking for action" you could take them to the strip joints on Cicero Avenue. The bouncer-doormen would give you five-bucks for the first guy, and then a dollar for each of your other passengers. After your fares would enter the joint the bouncers  would  drag some slob in a business suit out the door and dump him in your cab. They always put five bucks in the guys breast pocket to pay for the trip back downtown. The problem for the cab driver was waking the guy up enough to tell you where he was staying. My friend Lazar, who knew the ropes,  told me to take the unconscious chumps to one of the big hotels and tell the doorman that the passenger said he was staying at their hotel. I often wondered what the doormen did with these unconscious mopes once they got them?
             I knew a guy who used to bartend at one of the Outfit strip joints on Cicero Avenue back in the day, and I asked him if anyone ever died after being administered a "Mickey Finn"?
             "Bruce, there might have been one or two, we just made sure if somethin' bad happened it happened on the Chicago side of Cicero Avenue."
              Patsy Moretti, from the famous Chicago Moretti family, was part owner of the Saddle Club which was a bar down the street from the Ale House. I got to know Patsy fairly well during the last few years of his life. His brother Michael was a former Chicago cop who had to do some serious joint time for an incident that happened in the old Sam's Liquor Store parking lot back in the Fifties. The Moretti's were connected and Michael had a well deserved reputation as being a bad assed cop. Something happened in the parking lot and Michael shot three Puerto Rican guys in the head. At first it was written off as self defense but unfortunately for Michael  one of them had his mouth open and when he shot the guy the bullet travelled from cheek to cheek. The Puerto Rican was smart and  played dead. 
            As a kid I remember reading about the story in the Chicago Tribune. The Tribune smelled a rat and went after the States Attorney and as a result the States Attorney lost his job and Michael went to prison. Michael was so tough that he became the first Chicago cop (and probably the last) to go to Stateville Prison and not be segregated. He was with the general population the entire time he was there.
             Two of Patsy's other brothers were twins. The twins were renowned burgelers but they too ended up murdered by the Outfit. One of the twins was thought to have been involved in the burglary of Outfit boss, Big Tuna Tony Accardo's house in River Forrest. All the suspected burglars were disposed of the same way: dicks cut off , put in their mouths while they were wrapped in barbed wire and dumped in the trunk of a car. According to the coroner it had to take hours for them to die.
               Patsy was still connected enough to get a job as a bailiff in traffic courts. He said he could fix traffic tickets and people gave him money, but sometimes the tickets didn't seem to get fixed. Patsy was a golfer and a gambler. The few times I played with him were hilarious. He played with a bunch of crazy tradesmen and cheating and gamesmanship were displayed on  every hole.
             Patsy lost his traffic court job when he was nailed playing an esoteric dice game in Cicero at five in the morning. There was over twenty-grand on the table when the cops busted the game and none of the ten players acknowledged it was theirs. The publicity was too much and Patsy was quietly terminated. His alibi was a good one, I thought: "I was just there to pick up some golf clubs."
           Patsy had prostate cancer. He sort of mellowed the last few years before he died. When I was a kid Patsy knew that  I'd caddied for some of the big-time gangsters. He did not romanticize mob guys like civilians sometimes do. Shaking his head, he'd lean forward in his chair at the Saddle Club and say, "Bruce, the Wise Guys fucked up everything. Everything they touched turned to shit." 
              I'll take Patsy's word for it.
              Sociologically speaking the most interesting thing about Cicero is it's racial composition: during the Fifties a black family moved across from the Chicago side to the Cicero side of Cicero Avenue. They had TV shots of the Cicero police chief, who's son was a pro football player, trashing the black families apartment. The Outfit did not allow petty crime in Cicero and so there was none. For years Cicero was so focused on keeping black people out of their community that they were not paying attention to the influx of Hispanic's moving in. Today there are still no black people living there but my guess is that it has to be at least seventy-five percent Hispanic now. The current mayor is a grotesque fat pig named Larry Dominick. Cicero is no longer wide open, but it appears to be as corrupt as ever.
                The next town, Berwyn, was never as bad as Cicero. It was blue collar and as I drove through  I did see a couple of black people. I don't know what the demographics are , but I imagine that it is also heavily Hispanic. 
                 Forrest Park could best be described as a colossal cemetery surrounding a small, almost quaint downtown. The funeral home was quite impressive; unlike Chicago funeral homes there wasn't a bar next door to it. The only people I knew inside the funeral home were Juke Box Joe, and his special gal, Marge. There were a lot of people in attendance. Joe's sister was only 54 when she died suddenly,  and his mom is ninety. I can only imagine how tough it has to be for Joe's mom. I paid my respects, looked at the photo's and headed back to the city. 
              Knowing how bad the traffic would be I drove to Madison Street and thought I'd do some sightseeing on my way back. I wasn't bored, that's for sure. As I've already stated, the business district of Forrest Park is quite interesting. Similar in many ways to Oak Park, which is the next town over. As you head east on Madison Street you can see the Chicago skyscrapers in the distance. I almost drove over to Lake Street to check out Oak Parks shops and bars but decided not to. I had promised Faggypants that I'd drive him home someday and he'd be my tour guide. Faggypants lives the next town over and so he knows the area quite well. 
            As soon as you leave Oak Park, which is famous for its Frank Lloyd Wright houses and his Unity Temple, as well as the birthplaces of Hemingway and Tarzan creator, Edger Rice Burroughs, you are in Chicago. I saw no white people for the next five-miles. The traffic was almost nonexistent and I was making good time. While stopped at a couple of red lights a few of the locals eyed me suspiciously. It was not an area where you'd want to have a flat tire or a traffic accident. When I got to Pulaski I heard shots. Some people were running and I pondered going through the red light. These gang kids are notoriously bad shots and I really wasn't in the mood to be collateral damage.
              As soon as I crossed Damen Avenue I was out of the free fire zone. As I passed the United Center I noticed the marquee proclaimed Justin Timberlake. As I got ready to make a left on Ogden Avenue I notice lots of kids. White kids. Ten years ago this would have been unheard of. Not only were there thousands of white kids but the girls were for the most part scantily clad. Apparently they were queuing up for Justin Timberlake. The line was about four-blocks long starting at Ogden Avenue. One girl was only wearing a g-string and a halter top. These kids (boys)  don't know how good they've got it.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Electric Wheel Chair Driving Class

              Ruben Four Toes seemed in less distress yesterday evening. He said he spent the morning being fitted for his new electric wheel chair, "the fucking thing is 350 pounds."
           "Hell, it's almost as heavy as you."
            "The wheels are inside, not on the outside like the one I'm using now.
            "That means you should have less trouble getting through doors? Do they have to custom make it because you're such a big fat slob?"
              "Yeah, they had to measure me. The motherfuckers want me to go to wheel chair driving school." Ruben thought this was very funny and his huge elastic, bronze colored face broke out in a broad smile. "I told the assholes I used to drive a fucking truck, now some asshole's gotta teach me how to drive a fucking wheelchair?"
           Ruben's biggest concern is figuring out how to get out of his motorized wheel chair and into his manual one: "I don't want to drive the electric one around my apartment."
           "Why not? Let's face it, you have barely enough upper body strength to get out of your regular wheel chair and into your lazy boy."
         "Don't worry about me, shmooo. You're gonna be dead soon so what do you care about me getting into my lazy boy?"
           "Because, fatboy, my heart is of the purest gold and your heath and happiness is all I care about in life."
            "Fuck you."
             Although he had about fifteen pints of beer, Ruben only had tiny snacks yesterday and therefore didn't have to make any emergency trips back to his apartment. His poop problems seem directly related to his diet.
              When Tobin showed up she had a bag of White Castle spicy chicken sandwiches. When I told her that if she gave them to Ruben she should be prepared for a series of explosion that could potentially rival Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Ruben eyed the sandwiches - which were still warm - like a caged animal that sees prey on the other side of the bars. I was struck by the alteration in his appearance. Tiny drops of drool instantly appeared in the corners of his massive lips. The brightness came back into his eyes, and the color returned to his cheeks when I handed the White Castle sandwiches to street Jimmy who gulped them down like a starving wolf. 
            "Jimmy, you performed a good deed. Ruben was thinking of eating them and you know what would have happened."
              "He woulda shit all over," Jimmy smiled.
                After he finished eating the sandwiches Jimmy said he'd just had words with a rich white guy: "I tol' him to wipe his ass with his money 'cause I didn' want it."
               "You refused money?"
               "Hell yeah, I tol' him , go fuck yerself."
                 Feeling that something was amiss with Jimmy's story I pressed on. Eventually Jimmy admitted that the guy had told him to stop annoying him. 
          "In other words, he never offered you any money, you just told him after he refused to give you some to wipe his ass with his money?"
             Jimmy's brain cells seemed disturbed and he turned to Tobin and said, "them sandwiches was good eaten'."
            Jimmy said he saw Arnet with a super fine looking white girl. "Best looking white girl I ever seen. Arnet acted like he didn' even know me. Damn, she was a nice lookin' white girl."
            Coach made a marvelous salad with heirloom tomatoes and peaches. It was an unusual combination but it thrilled my taste buds.
              I have to go to Juke Box Joe's sisters wake today in Forrest Park. She was only fifty-four and died of complications from a stroke. Joe's devastated. The traffic is going to be gnarly because not only is it Friday, but it's the start of the Labor Day weekend. This summer flew by. The thought of winter makes me want to cry. I'm up to the 68 Democratic Convention in the sequel to my prequel.

Thursday, August 28, 2014


          Liz,  Chicago's most popular Bar-Tour-Guide, asked me to meet her at the Ale House early yesterday evening. She had been asked by the Bureau of Tourism to show a couple of German journalists around Chicago and she wanted to bring them to Chicago's premier dive bar to meet the Genius. While I was waiting a couple from Reading-Berkshire England sat down a couple of stools from me. Their names were Tricia and Mark and we had a lovely chat. They were staying at the Palmer House, but wished they were located a little closer to the North Side where all the action is. I told them if they came back to Chicago that the newly refurbished Lincoln Hotel, which is just a block from the Ale House, has a fantastic view of the park and the lake. Before they left Tricia gave me their address and phone number in England and made me promise that the next time I'm there  I will spend a few days with them. 
         "Bruce, we're only thirty-minutes by train from London."
          I told Tricia if I could spend a couple of weeks in London and a couple of weeks in New York every year for the rest of my life I would be a happy boy.
           The two German women journalists were also quite interesting. The older woman took a lot of photo's and I gave her a brief history of the Ale House. Liz is A-okay and I can't thank her enough for all the cool pub crawls and foreign visitors she brings to the bar. Hawkeye is chomping at the bit to co-sponsor a pub crawl to Scotland with Liz. I know they could easily sign up fifteen local's for the trip.
             While I was talking to the German journalists, Mitt had me step outside. Street Jimmy was in a rather heated argument with another street-bum and it appeared that the two crack addicts were close to  violence. The stranger-bum was a good six-inches taller than Jimmy but Jimmy was not backing down. I told Mitt that although Jimmy seemed to be in imminent danger I wouldn't worry about it unless we heard hollering. When Jimmy appeared in the doorway twenty-minutes later he said it was just a slight territorial misunderstanding, "I jus' tol' him this is my block and he had to get the fuck away 'cause if he didn' I'd have to fuck him up."
          "Jimmy, I'm proud of you, you handled the situation diplomatically, and reason won out."
          Jimmy said he needed the broom and dustpan because during the argument a garbage can was knocked over and there was garbage all over the sidewalk.

             Ruben Four Toes had to make another early exit. Gracie said she doesn't know what to do: "I ordered cheese pizza and I assumed that it would bind him up but as soon as he ate it he said he had to take a shit and called a cab."
             "Maybe he just shouldn't eat when he's here. It's occurred to me that this digestive problem might have something to do with the massive amounts of blood that has been coming out of his ass lately."
              When D-Train entered the bar at his usual time one of the gang called him the "international  man of mystery." He may not be international but he certainly is a man of mystery.
             Hawkeye gave me a perfunctory scowl when he reported for duty. He's been displeased with my blog reporting. When he attacked Buzz Kill for his slight gut I pointed at Hawkeye, " since you've quit working out you have no grounds to criticize anyone's  gut."
           "Yeah, but Buzz Kill has a distended liver."
           Buzz Kill accused Hawkeye of a preoccupation with livers, "what do you want me to do, serve it to you with onions?"
           I told Buzz Kill that Hawkeye's meanness and insensitivity was a clear case of transference: "Ever since he's gotten home from Scotland he's been nasty to everyone. "
            Hawkeye has led a troubled life. His mother was a bit suffocating and forced Hawkeye as a child to go to La Rabida which was a South Side institution for kids with TB. His mom only imagined young Hawkeye had TB, and while the poor fellow was there a black kid named Willy snuck in Hawkeyes room and stuck his dick in Hawkeye's unsuspecting mouth. This would traumatize any child. And to make matters worse a fellow soldier, also black, went around the barracks while his fellow recruits were sleeping and did the dick in the mouth prank to Hawkeye again. 
          "He just did it to get out of the army. The guy really wasn't crazy."
            As traumatic as these incidents had to be, I personally think that when his grandmother caught five-year old Hawkeye fondling himself and threatened to cut his wee-wee off - it was probably the most damaging incident. So when Hawkeye is mean to me, or to others, I always understand the root causes of his cruelty and forgive him.

           This morning Street Jimmy seemed relaxed and semi-alert. When I pointed out how much he's aged in the last several months he insisted I go in the ladies room and point out the signs of aging and decadence   in the mirror. After I pointed at some of the deep lines etched in his  face, and the hollowness of his cheeks he said , "tha's fucked up."
          Faggypants had the shakes when he showed up. He'd gone to the victory celebration for the Little Leaguer's yesterday but swore he didn't drink that much. I read somewhere in a recent edition of the New York Times that severe anxiety will also cause shaking and so perhaps it's a combination of both. 
            When I was up on the ladder to change some light bulbs and Jimmy  saw Faggypants hand shaking violently as he handed me the light bulbs Jimmy started laughing. "We needs to call you Danny Shaky Pants." Nothing amuses Jimmy more than other peoples problems. 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Hawkeye Is A Man Of Rigid, Uncompromising Taste

             Hawkeye said he didn't like the shirt I was wearing last night. Actually it was a shirt that Tobin co-opted from me several years ago. Hawkeye has very rigid taste in clothing. Even though he has to get his bald head scraped periodically for pre cancerous bumps, he seldom wears a hat, and when he does he will not under any circumstances wear a hat with a logo. Same goes for clothing: no logos, and only bland colors. This all fits in with his militaristic, inflexible personality. When he hit the skids years ago after  making some atrocious career decisions I took pity on him and bought him drinks whenever I bumped into him in a bar. I did this until McHugh alerted me that Hawkeye wouldn't think of wearing shoes that cost less than five-hundred dollars. The next time I bumped into him in O'Rourke's I asked him how much his shoes cost? Raising his foot proudly he told me that they were English and cost five-hundred and fifty bucks. "Bruce, you can't get decent shoes in the US."
             When I asked him how much his shirt and slacks were he again explained how you had to pay for quality. That was the end of my letting him mooch off of  me, especially given that I seldom had two nickels to rub together in those bygone days. 
            Not only was he critical of my shirt last night, he went out of his way to provoke D-Train. Poor D-Train is still trying to recover from discovering that his cousin is a porn star, and I thought Hawkeye's abuse of the wine sodden victim of internet lust, unconscionable. D-Train simply stared at Hawkeye, his arms hanging limp at his sides, a thin line of sweat running down his forehead, hands shaking noticeably,  but then, all at once he smiled. 
            "Bruce," he said ignoring the petulant Hawkeye's mean glare, "are you going to the parade tomorrow for our little leaguers?"
            "No, I won't be attending, but Faggypants will. Why are you covering it?"
            "Absolutely. This is a huge story." His voice and smile then faded off into a sort of sad whisper. Other than tiredness there was no longer any look of emotion on his face.
               Buzz Kill was at the other end of the bar talking to a young, attractive looking women. Whatever they were talking about, it held the women's attention for a  couple of hours. When Gracie came down to our end of the bar she said when Buzz Kill offered to buy the women another beer she said she'd rather have a shot.  When Buzz Kill walked out of the bar with her it looked like he'd scored but unfortunately he'd only walked her to the Brown Line and was back in ten-minutes. He did, however, get her phone number.
            The sequel to my prequel is coming along quite well. In fact so well that I'm starting to get nervous. My nine years in California were extremely eventful, and although it's hard remembering some of the dates, thanks to Google, so far so good. I've got to learn how to Email because William in NY has not acknowledged receiving my prequel and Tobin hasn't gotten around to asking him if he has indeed received it. This is not like William, in the past he's been very prompt in communicating information.

             I had to kill some time yesterday because the cleaning people were at the condo and so I walked down to the Open Books which is on Institute Place and Franklin. It's the best used book store in Chicago and I found the journals of Dr. Johnson I was looking for. Just as I was leaving there was a downpour and so I went back inside and read for an hour. 
           The pills I'm taking for Myasthenia Gravis make me hungry all the time so I stopped at a fairly new breakfast joint at Wells and Division called Hashbrown and had a decent breakfast. 
           My right ear is stuffed up and I can barely hear out of it. I put drops in it but I think I'm going to have to go to an ear doctor and get it roto rooted. 

            This morning Street Jimmy's mumbling became so insufferable that I once again attacked his life style. I suppose this constitutes bullying but the diminutive crack-head can be extremely irritating and when he starts mumbling combined with my inability to hear out of my right ear, I became all to human. 
           Jimmy's fall back position is that crack isn't really bad for you. 
             "Jimmy, I dare you to go to a  meeting at Mustard Seed and tell that to your fellow addicts."
              Jimmy conceded that he would never do that.
              Faggypants is very excited about the little league celebration today. He says it's impossible to buy a commemorative hat anywhere, "because they've sold them all out."
              When I told Faggypants that a year from now about ten people involved with the little leaguers will be indicted for misappropriating the money raised from the selling of merchandise he swallowed hard, " no, you're wrong. The parents all seem great."
            "I'm not talking about the parents, I'm talking about the little league  officials. Look at how the politicians are swooping down on these kids like vultures. Everybody in Cook County is licking their chops trying to think of ways of exploiting them. It's the Chicago way."
             Not wishing to take away from Faggypants joyous expectations I shut my mouth. 

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The Incest Test And Arthurs Ashes

               Gracie couldn't stop giggling yesterday. D-Train has Mondays and Fridays off for the entire month of August and she relentlessly picks on the poor fellow for her entertainment. It's become a sport for her and yesterday she hit pay dirt. Ever since D-Trains former British porn star retired he's been searching for a new lust object and thought he'd finally found her. Unlike his former fantasy girl this women was somewhat anonymous. Desirous of finding out more about this porn queen he posted her picture on his Facebook wall and asked his friends if anyone recognized her? As it turned out someone did recognize her - his sister. The sister exclaimed, "D-Train, it's your cousin!"
               Gracie said the cousin porn star resembled his British porn star: big tits, huge aureolas, dark hair and sluty eyes. Upon finding out who the porn maiden was D-Train tried to hide all evidence of her on Facebook. So far none of our computer whizzes have been able to find out who she is but Gracie is working on it diligently. As a result of the crushing blow to his erotic fantasies, D-Train fell into a deeper stupor than normal and was beating his head severely with his hands by the end of the evening. 
         Coach and Brian the Piano Player were sitting next to him and seemed to be enjoying D-Trains latest travails as was Ruben Four Toes. When I arrived I had some fun coming up with titles for his cousins porn films: "Hemorrhoid Harlots", "Daisy Chain Cousins," and "Funeral Home Frolics," were just a few. 
            Trying to cheer the poor fellow up I said, " c'mon, D-Train, who hasn't thought about doing a hot cousin? It's normal, and the worst thing that can happen is that you produce a kid like Toulouse Lautrec with fucked up legs."
           Coach said he used to know a great guy who was a scout master and had no front teeth: "we used to call him Toothless Lautrec."
           Personally I think D-Train is overacting.
          I also think Hawkeye is overacting about his involvement with a chick with a dick. After once again chastising me for publicizing his encounter with the chick with the dick in the Georgia motel he corrected me about the giant turd the he-she left in the motel toilet: "it had talcum powder all over it."
            The former proprietor of the Ale House, Art Klug, was also into chicks with dicks. After he died I was left with the sad task of disposing with his book collection and clothes. During my labors I discovered a large cache of porn magazines devoted to chicks with dicks. When I told Ranalli about this he seemed revolted. I personally wasn't revolted, but found it never-the-less revealing.
          Gracie said that The Artist made a  rare appearance during the afternoon. At one time she was a prominent regular but after Arthur died she lost all of her clout and so wandered off to some of the more pedestrian bars down the street. She never seemed to recover from the acclaim I received for my compelling political art and as a result has pretty much given up painting as a career. The purpose of her visit was to express an interest in taking her former lover Arthur's ashes to the Outer Banks and  scatter them in the sea with former Ale House bartender Pat Talec's ashes. 
           This is a truly bizarre request, even from someone as discombobulated as The Artist. First of all why would Arthur want his ashes removed from his urn in his beloved Ale House? And second of all - what connection does he have with a shit kicker state like South Carolina? And lastly, Arthur despised Pat Talec. He often chided Beatrice about firing Pat and Janette, the sixty-year old sweat hogs that huffed and puffed behind the bar for what seemed like forever. I remember well the time Arthur said in a very audible voice, "Bea, why can't we have nice looking bartenders like everyone else?"
            Both Pat and Jeanette gave him nasty looks after he spoke those cruel, but true words.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Discordant Color Coordination

       The Chicago Little Leaguers did their job - they didn't embarrass us. Most sports teams in Chicago embarrass us so this was huge. It will be fun to watch the scum bag politician's wrap their arms around these kids. Hopefully the kids will benefit from their new found political and journalist friends: maybe a parent or a cousin might be able to get a  city job. And down the line if they are busted someone might answer their phone call.
         I remember well my Little League career. It was 1952 or 53 in Uppers Grove and I performed in the first Little League game ever played in that bastion of racism, anti-semitism and right-wing Republican hypocrites. The whole town turned out for the game, or so it seemed. I was a catcher and someone nick-named me Yogi. I played for the Junior Chamber of Commerce team (J C's) and if memory serves me we played against either the Moose or the Kiwanis team. It was a tight, well played game and Dave Miskelly hit the home run that beat us.
        In retrospect, after watching the kids play in the Little League World Series I realize how poorly we were coached. I suffered a bad concussion in an all star game sliding into home. Nobody showed me how to slide and I simply slid into home like I was going down a hill on a toboggan sled. My head must have bounced on the hard ground five or ten times. 
         Both the Chicago kids and the Korean kids were very well coached, especially in fundamentals. 
          While the game was going on a group of us were sitting in the Ale House at the TV end of the bar. D-Train was already fucked up and was spewing non stop drivel until I politely asked him to shut the fuck up.


         This morning Street Jimmy was late. I almost didn't let him clean the mats but then after looking at the pathetic look in his crack head eyes I relented. "Jimmy, Jesus wouldn't let you clean the mats if you came late, but I will show you mercy and let you even though this will keep me in the bar longer than I want to be. Can you dig it my brother from a different mother?"
          Jimmy said that while he was  sleeping in the park last night three Puerto Rican teenagers came upon him and threatened him with violence. "They was fixin' to fuck my ass up."
          "What happened ?"
           "They called me a bitch but kept walkin' ".
            "Was anyone around?"
            "Uh, uh, it was real late."
             After Jimmy finished the mats and was fed by Faggypants he sat on his milk crate outside the side door and was eating chips when I stepped outside. He had a garish women's pink suitcase. When I started laughing he asked me why I was laughing. 
            "Jimmy, the pink suitcase clashes with your lime green T-shirt."
            While we were discussing the evils of discordant color coordination Jimmy's fat white girl friend appeared on the scene. She seems crazy about her special crack-head beau and was  gushing like a school  girl when I said goodbye.

            Last night the Inventor asked me to walk the Defense Attorney part way home. I walked her as far as Cleveland Street and managed to resist her well known seductress charms and said good night.