The LOUD Night @ Cosmo (Part I)

-
PRELUDE
This night? It’s for the Bongster’s birthday. I don’t know his age. I know his dog’s age, but I don’t know the Bongster’s. Maybe that’s why they call me the Whizz-Bang. And if you don’t know the Bongster, well, he’s a genius. And a bongster. 

At least I’ve sense enough to bring ear plugs. So cut me some slick. I find a spot to leave my Daewoo on Southpaw Ave, near Peeling Park Road. That’s something like a mile from where I want to be, though. And it’s raining. But my Daewoo has umbrellas. It’s got bottled water and protein bars, too. Also: gum, a flashlight, tools, a bottle of windshield fluid, a spare tire, spare change, towels, camping chairs, condoms, maps, and The Club. Mine Daewoo goes everywhere always prepared. 

@ COSMO (Part I) 
I beat everyone to Cosmo. By “everyone” I don’t mean everyone in the world. I mean “everyone” who’s currently anyone, or at least someone, to me: the Bongster, the Bongster’s bro, Zen, Lass, Nico, & Larr.

If you wanna drink at Cosmo, you’re made to wear a plastic neon-yellow bracelet with black circled Cs on it. When you want it off, you’ll have to cut it, that’s the only way. Maybe I’ll leave mine on — for life. Maybe I’ll be buried wearing my Cosmo “Gimme A Beer, Bartender” bracelet. Hundreds of years from now, when I’m just bones, this plastic bracelet would still be ‘round my wrist. And hundreds of years after that, I’ll just be dust ‘round this plastic still neon-yellow bracelet. And future archeologists — if they were to dig my dust up — I’d bet they’d call this bracelet a religious thing. And they’d be wrong. Dead wrong. So, with any luck, this blog post will set them straight. 

Everywhere in here says: Miller. So naturally I order a Bud. Whatever it is, this beer costs five bucks a plastic cup. In the basement — they call it Shrewd Bar — a full bottle costs a dollar less. (Is that why it’s called Shrewd Bar?) 

Back when your great-grandparents were prepubescent, this was some kind of fancy-pants theater. Now, everything fancy’s been ripped out, painted black, or somehow blocked from view. Like your great-great-grandparents, every permanent upholstered seat is ancient history. Instead of an orchestra pit, Cosmo’s got a mosh pit. 

Later, when it’s nothing but LOUD, Zen shouts into my ear her wonder: If the original owners of the place are turning in their graves. “Aw,” I shout back into her ear, it was probably a house of burlesque, anyway.” But I’m wrong. That’s why I’m the Whizz-Bang. Cosmo’s website’ll tell you the whole building was “built in 1923 as a Swedish community center.” So, okay, there might be a bunch of flapper-Swedes turning in their graves. But then maybe flappers were the alt-metalheads of their day. 

I plant myself upstairs — this is the “balcony” — with my beer hanging over the rail, over the heads of grungy head bangers and their dangerous looking girlfriends. Every odd person here lights something up to stick betwixt their lips. It’s so chic to be young and cancerous. 

I take it back. 
Maybe it’s every even person. 
I’m the odd one. 

The first band starts up. Insert earplugs here. The LOUD is muffled. Though not by much. Verizon buzzes my thigh. It’s Zen. It’s amazing we can hear each other. She promises, they’ll be here soon. 

1 October 2004 



Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more