It was noon and I was in Pilsen, Chicago’s most known Mexican neighborhood. So I went to Taqeria Los Comales III for lunch. What a zoo! There were scores of chattering field trip groups, excitedly screaming and talking about tacos. The line to the register was crowded with kids, fogging the glass containing a variety of Mexican candies. In the myriad of decibels and chaperones were three distinctly separate races in the same room. In Chicago! Black, white and Hispanic. We had the Moonbenders sitting next to The Van Pelt Rolos. And nobody was wasting nobody. Caaannn yoooooouu diiiiiig iiiiiittttt!
Wow, this place was doing great business for a Thursday afternoon. A few hours later I realized it was Cinco de Mayo.
Later I met my friends Jess, Ross and Nikki at Davenport’s in Wicker Park. It was the world premiere of Crazytown, a cabaret starring the vivacious and voluptuous Meghan Murphy, the hilariously prickly Jordan Simonson, and kooky Diana Lawrence, all under the direction of my bestest homosensual friend Mitchell Fain.
I think cabaret may be my favorite medium for entertainment. You get music, you get comedy, you get honesty, all in a loose atmosphere that encourages participation and dialogue.
MALE AUDIENCE MEMBER: You've got great tits!!
MEGHAN: So do you.
Meghan, dolled up in a dazzling 60’s bouffant, sang some favorites from the ship (“Pearl's A Singer"), dabbled in Lou Rawls sing-speak, and performed an original instructional club hit about preventing your breasts from getting weird. Jordan sang a trifecta of tragedy about love lost that had me crying with laughter.
JORDAN: Your hair looks really fucked up in the back.
MEGHAN: Your face looks really fucked up in the front.
At one point in the show, after a particularly stirring number, I could only yell “FUCK YOU!!” I had a great time at Crazytown. So fuck you.
After the show, Ross, Nikki and I walked to the crotch and drank at Big Star, formerly the Pontiac café. Whoa, man. I know Wicker Park has changed over the last twenty years, but this is way koo koo. It looks like Southport Avenue. We only need one of those, you know.
The more things change, the more they still stay the same. Now I’m just as scared of Wicker Park as I was in 1991.
IRRRRRRRegardless, we had a good time drinking all of the beer. I drank nine beers in all. I don’t remember a lot about what we discussed. Bob Dylan…tacos…chips…Blonde on Blonde….horchata….Highway 61….
The other day I subbed a class at The Annoyance. During an improv exercise, one of the students asked, "Did you come up with this when you were high?"
This is one of my least favorite things on earth.
Since goddamn grade school, people have assumed that I am a pothead.
For the record, yes, I have smoked marijuana. I first tried it when I was 18 and I had just moved to the desert. I smoked it every day for a month, and then I got tired of it.
And haven't smoked it with frequency since.
I've gone years without smoking marijuana.
I have never owned a bong or a pipe or a one-hitter.
I have never purchased, sold or grown marijuana.
I have never owned my very own personal marijuana.
I think the hemp movement was stupid, and continues to be stupid if it still exists.
I don't enjoy pot humor.
Other than "Basketball Jones," I find Cheech & Chong boring and unfunny.
I have plenty of friends that smoke with frequency, and offer it to me.
I have no issues with this.
But I usually decline it politely and life continues as it was.
When I do smoke I'll get either really goofy or really anti-social.
I like being goofy.
But I certainly don't need pot to be anti-social.
The last time I smoked was in September when we were in Amsterdam.
It was fine, but unnecessary.
So when people suggest that I am a pothead, I don't like it.
It's usually said with a tinge of judgment.
And it's usually after I say or do something that requires imagination, or I'm choosing my words carefully, taking my time in the process.
If you ask if I was high when I came up with something, what you are doing is negating that I could come up with something imaginative or thoughtful on my own.
That in order to have an imagination filled with humor and color and well chosen words, I need steroids.
Nope.
My brain is just better than your boring one.
So fuck you, but for real.
Meanwhile, back at Big Star, I was Big Drunk. A fellow stranger accused me of wearing a Members Only jacket and offered me a cigarette.
"Is it laced with angeldust?" I slurred.
"Yeah, man. PCP."
"Oh good, 'cuz I WANNA LIFT A CAR TONIGHT! Tonite! I'm GONA LIFT A KAR, THEN I'M GUNNA JUMP OUTTA FIVE STORY TOWER IN HAWAII!!"
So you see?
This mind can only come up with that good and imaginative stuff when it is lucid and free of toxins.
Verdict: Win
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