Francheesie, Anyone?

For amusement, we decided to go to Old Timers to see if Dawn was working. Dawn is the saucy bartendress who has amorous affections for Double D' Wicked. Dawn is famous for threatening Double D' Wicked with a French tickler and a strap-on dildo the size of a brush master chainsaw as she simultaneously kicked us out of the bar and cut up an eight ball with a straight razor whilst six angry construction workers looked on and sipped beer from sweaty pitchers. Hoping to make amends with Dawn, we decided now was the time for healing and made our way across Michigan Avenue to that dank hole frequented by denizens and painted ladies of the night. With the Crafty Weasel--who is an amazing diplomat--in tow, we helped M'Arcy chain Busby to a bike rack and the Mayor of Moneytown confidently lead our entourage into the choice establishment pictured below. Fortunately, Busby never suffered from separation anxiety.

The scales of Justice did not tip in our favor. Sadly, Dawn was not working that night. But oh, guess who was. That's right. The Rack. As evidenced in the photo below, her attitude was present and accounted for.

What would a visit to Old Timers be without ordering a tasty canteen of split-pea soup, or crinkly fries? As the amazing Jan Gleiter, author of The House by the Side of the Road, and Lie Down with Dogs remarked, "They know to keep the oyster crackers coming when you order split-pea soup. I should know. I order it." Indeed. So does the Escape Goat, who has a sensitive palate when it comes to split-pea soup. As a vegetarian she says, NO! to ham. You will find no unwelcome slab of ham in your spilt-pea at Old Timers. However, spilt-pea is not for everyone. The Crafty Weasel claims it makes his stool a rare and beauteous emerald color, so he opted for a safer alternative--crinkly fries. Note his immaculately groomed cuticles. We won't discuss the placemat. Guess what else you can order at Old Timer's? A francheesie. Weird.

As you can see, Double D' Wicked was surprisedly all smiles once it was indeed confirmed that Dawn was conspicuously absent. Damn! We were hoping to score free pitchers and fries, especially with the Crafty Weasel onhand. The Crafty Weasel is the fry eating champion of North America; below he displays his unparalleled talent. One. Fry. At. A. Time. Don't let his boyish charm and all-American good looks fool you. When he opens his mouth his lips recede and he becomes a black hole. If you fall in you will implode. Leonard Susskind bungee jumped from the Weasel's incisors into his mouth and bounced back intact, clenching the revolutionary concept of string theory in his hands, white knuckle tight.

It turned out that we chose an opportune moment to seek refuge in Old Timers. It started to hail angrily. Spring hail is nice, but sobering. You always feel a sense of peril. Especially if you know anyone who has been brained by a ball of hail. Do you? We looked out the windows on a melancholy scene. Silently, we all questioned our mortality, but would not be instructed in how deep / Was the forgetful kingdom of death.

If your spit didn't disipate before it hit the ground, you'd be convicted of murder; ptyalizing from the top of the Empire State Building like Nan Talese. In another hemisphere, the Burj Dubai impaled the sky.

Buses came and electricity crackled in neon tubes...


Hail pounded puddles, inches deep...

A bad glass lamp (and its ghost) haunted the corner of a concrete slab at a place where two lines meet to make a 90 degree angle.


But we just sat and admired the sea anemones. Like a Billie Holiday album cover.

Then rolled them up and smoked them.

The sea anemone prompted the Mayor to practice her Zen meditation. However, this tranquil moment was rapidly replaced with one of the Mayor's typically tyrannical diatribes.


Predictably, it did not take long for Sybil to emerge from the pleasantries. Below she is seen confrontationally threatening, "If you ain't screaming 'WEST SIDE,' you can get the fuck on!"


The Crafty Weasel and Double D' Wicked reacted with mixed emotions. Double D' Wicked sought to suppress the terse situation by offering the Mayor a sea anemone laced cigarette as a peace offering. Faux Pas! The Mayor is a card carrying PETA member who refuses to smoke sea anemones. The Mayor promptly backhanded the sea anemone laced cigarette out of Double D' Wicked's hand. The Crafty Weasel simply looked on incredulously. Wisely, he recognized that--without Henry Kissinger--defusing the situation would be impossible.

Finally, the Mayor accepted a glass of piss, and all was right.

Double D' Wicked and the Crafty Weasel decided that the best escape route was to turn their attention back to the rapidly depleting plate of fries. Mmmm. Freedom never tasted so salty. "Tee-Hee-Hee," giggled the Crafty Weasel like a little school girl, "You'll never eat as many fries as me."

Tempers flared no longer, and the Mayor finally put her grievances aside to pose with the Crafty Weasel and our surly bartendress. All was right in the world. Especially for the Crafty Weasel...

Finally! A break in the weather. No more hail, just soggy sidewalks. Time to go.

Apart from the fact that me, the Sly Little Minx, and the Mayor ended up in a booze-fueled argument in the cab on the way home, the evening was an overall success. You will be pleased to hear that--although we didn't speak to one another for at least a week--we have since made amends.

"FBI Agent" Chris Saviano Stop Raping My Wife!

There's a great Chris Ware exhibit at the MCA. Read an interview with Chris Ware by the curator of this exhibit, Lynn Warren.



If you don't really know about Chris Ware, go listen to this radio interview on KCRW's Bookworm, or this radio interview with Brave New Waves or listen to this interview on Open Source.



Some people prefer reading to listening. Should you find yourself in that camp, go read this Pantheon interview with Chris Ware by designer Chip Kidd, or this interview on the BBC's Collective, or this interview on CNN, or read this article in Time, or read this article in The Guardian, or read this article in Indy Magazine, or just go to the mildly obsessed Acme Novelty Archive. To find out about his publications, you can check out the Fantagraphics site or the Drawn and Quarterly site, or learn about him at Pantheon. (Fuck Random House!) To check out his influences, start here with Chris Ware's recommended reading on Read Yourself Raw.



The Marquis and I went to the exhibit on Saturday, and were very pleased to see Ware's work in the raw form on bristol boards with ink and blue pencil. There is also a lot of Jimmy Corrigan stuff. If you are unfamiliar with Chris Ware's art and writing I actually think you'd appreciate the exhibit more than if you are a rabid fan. I still think rabid fans will find something to love.



The exhibit runs until August 22nd, so you have plenty of time to catch it. If you are busted, broke, or just cheap, know that Tuesday's are free days at the MCA, and gallery hours are extended as well (10AM to 8PM). You have no excuse to miss it, since it's free on Tuesdays! Also, Lynn Warren (curator) will give a gallery talk on June 20th from 12-1PM.



The exhibit flyer is like an origami Transformer. It opens to a reveal a sweet Chris Ware poster (a fraction of which is represented below).



If you live in Chicago and think you'd like to start buying Chris Ware's books, go to Quimby's on North Avenue, or Chicago Comics on Clark.



We left this wonderful exhibit in high spirits and decided to dine at a delicious seafood restaurant that the Marquis had been eyeing for some time. Initially, we had hopes of dining at Cru, a formerly delicious winebar that turned out to be closed. We angrily posed the question, "Why can't Chicago sustain a decent winebar?" But the Marquis (who can't make decisions unless a crisis arises and she finds her back pinned against a wall with iron railroad spikes) was fast on her feet in recommending a seafood restaurant called McCormick and Schmicks. So stunned was I at her atypical ability to produce such a remarkable fallback that I didn't dispute her suggestion. I knew it must have been preordained. If you like seafood you should go. (I don't eat fish, but I eat crustaceans, so I had their tasty crab cakes. If you are like me, and you prefer crustaceans, they have other crustaceans too, like shrimps and lobsters. If you like to gnaw on squid tentacles they have calamari. If you eat shit they have stank catfish fried in lava, and once you are done you can pick your teeth with the bones of a Sacramento Squawfish. Mmmmm.)

As we made our way to McCormick and Schmicks we discussed the amazing and infinitely popular Pete O'Brien. If I am lucky, Pete will make an appearance on my blog at his discretion. Typically, his cult status would impede such frivolities, but I think I have an in with his agent. As we ironed out the details, our conversation was immediately cut short by an unusual spectacle on the corner of Pearson and Michigan. Brimming with confidence from her McCormick and Schmicks rebound, the Marquis nudged me and muttered, "What is that guy's deal. I just saw him a few days ago with the same sign?" I followed her gaze, and witnessed the lone protestor you see below...



Clearly, he was imploring Chris Saviano to stop raping his wife. My curiosity was insatiable. I responded, "Hey. Let's just go ask him who this cad, Chris Saviano, is anyway." She could not refuse this plan, as she was equally intruiged.



This character turned out to be the least informative and most coy protester I have ever encountered. In short, he was a tease. Below is a reproduction of our conversation with the determined yet somberly stony-faced gentleman:

ME: Hey, what's that sign about?
ANTI-CHRIS: Oh. No. No. No.
ME: Who's Chris Saviano?
ANTI-CHRIS: I. I. Can't go into the details, Ma'm. I can't--
The MARQUIS: Did he... Do something?
ME: Yeah--what did he do? He must've done something?
ANTI-CHRIS: No. I can't. I won't. (backing away as we invade his personal space bubble) I won't go into the details--Miss.
The MARQUIS: Does he drive by here?
ME: Yeah--will he see this sign, or what?
ANTI-CHRIS: I don't know, Miss. I don't. The details--
ME: Well. Do you have a petition for us to sign?
The MARQUIS: Donations?
ME: A fund raising drive? Telethon? A hit on his head?
ANTI-CHRIS: No. I can't go into the details. Nooooo.
The MARQUIS: Uh. Good luck to you, then.
ME: Yeah. Good luck.
ANTI-CHRIS: Thank you.
ME: (under my breath) Prick.

He refused to disclose any details although he was standing on Michigan Avenue advertising a bold accusation! I admired his tight-lipped attitude. Clearly, he's no Jack Abramoff or Scooter Libby! (Dear, brave, misunderstood Scooter Libby with the soul of a poet.) Eventually, we deduced that the Anti-Chris's wife was probably having an affair and Anti-Chris was simply making liberal use of the word "rape." I doubt that Chris Saviano is really an FBI agent, but that must be a good pickup line.

The Escape Goat Incubates New Penicillin Spore in Desk Drawer; Finds Possible Cure for Bird Flu, Declares Herself Immune

This is not the first time that the Escape Goat has attempted to incubate a new mold spore in one of her unused cubicle drawers. Many of her experiments have ended in tragedy, but now she has a cause: the impending doom of bird flu and the mass casualties it will inevitably leave in it's wake. Most of us huddle about shamelessly in the corner awaiting the onslaught of bird flu, others--like me--have plotted an escape route to Phobos, one of the two moons belonging to Mars. You'll be pleased to learn that already we have set up self-sustaining soylent green plantations. There are a proud few--like the Escape Goat--who hope to find a cure before the bird flu destroys all mankind. To them I say, "Sayonara suckers!" But wait--not so fast! Below you will note the fruit of the Escape Goat's labors. She proposes that by puncturing the softest part of this orange with a straw and drinking its delicious contents--as she has--you too will become immune to the bird flu. She claims that it has the taste and consistency of a Capri Sun juice box, or Tang, if you will...



Below the Escape Goat proudly extends her discovery with an abrupt, "Get your own straw." (I apologize for the blurry image; I was trying to escape a cloud of airborne mold spores.) To the general public, take heart; the Escape Goat's bird flu cure will be available for purchase and consumption any day now. Her patented manufacturing process is unlike any other, and is the only thing standing between you and the chilling, indiscriminate claw of death. She is currently constructing a website, in the meantime, call 1-800-WETBOYS if you have any questions.

Cheezborger, Cheezborger, Cheezborger

As you can see, the Cricket is all smiles in this photograph. For months she had been planning an escape from the leper colony and today was the day she would flee. To celebrate the
occasion, several friends joined her at the famed Billy Goat Tavern. Popularized by the Saturday Night Live Belushi skits, the Billy Goat Tavern is a real dive with plenty of characters. I thought it would be crowded, but it wasn't and we had a great time. The Cricket is a master planner; here she is seen plotting and scheming the evening's activities. Too bad you can't plan the menu, Cricket: "Cheezborger, Cheezborger Cheezborger! No fries--cheeps! No Pepsi--Coke!" We converged at the Billy Goat Tavern on Friday evening, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in our wake (for the Escape Goat to follow). The Escape Goat loves an opportunity to rely on the GPS tracking microchip surgically implanted behind her left ear. It has been malfunctioning of late, so we knew a backup plan was in order. To get to the Billy Goat Tavern you must climb the below staircase and tug at the left breast of the amazingly lifelike statuary awaiting you. Afterwards, you must whisper the secret passwords in the statue's ear, "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," and a hidden panel will appear...



Press the center of the panel ever-so-slightly and a trapdoor will reveal itself. Take the trapdoor down three flights of stairs to an empty torture chamber with a stop sign on the wall. Pry the stop sign off of the wall with the crowbar you (hopefully) have in your back pocket and step out onto the street. Behold! The Billy Goat Tavern. (Alternative routes include hailing a cab.)



You can't miss it because there is a goat painted on the door. You will notice that the goat appears to have helicopter propeller blades sprouting from its head. How convenient to have helicopter propeller blades sprouting from your head. If I had that special power you would have to consider me an unidentified flying object, or UFO.



Once inside the tavern, we enjoyed refreshing beverages. Al ventured to order a steak, egg, and cheese sandwich. Below he impatiently gnaws on a plastic straw while reminding us about the time he almost got into a fight defending Rick James's honor. The Escape Goat had yet to arrive on the scene, and the Sly Little Minx was expected to be absent (due to her date with Nelson Algren).



Our waiter possessed a Mephistophelean visage and composure (as well as the charming candor of a carnival barker). After commanding us to order beer, he reported that his favorite hobby was kicking ass and taking names. Below he is featured taking names, a simple precursor to the commencement of the ass kickings. But before he could get fresh, the Mayor body checked him and took his tip money for good measure. "Finders keepers, losers weepers!" she shouted with furrowed brow and curled lip. He dare not challenge such a deadly foe. The Mayor donated the tip money to a charity of her choice the next day. Now that our waiter had been cowed into submission, it was steak,
egg, and cheese sandwiches all around. Thanks, Mayor!
Finally, our pugnacious waiter returned with drinks for all. He became momentarily combative about the jukebox, but proved to be a master debater by distracting us from the argument at hand and reminding Al that he could go pick up his steak, egg, and cheese sandwich at the counter. As previously mentioned. Al did--indeed--order a scrumptious steak, egg, and cheese sandwich. But what was this unexpected treat? Al's delicious sandwich was served up on likable wax paper. A true delicacy, likable wax paper. The mayor and I both coveted Al's sandwich, and found ourselves inspired enough to immediately order sandwiches of our own. I was reminded of the night that the Sly Little Minx mixed up Hormel canned chili with Cheez-Wiz, Velveeta, and Spam, and tricked us into thinking it was actually an exotic Venezuelan corn chip dip. The only one with the wherewithal to withstand the temptation of the Minx's honeyed words was the Escape Goat. I predict, had it not been for her vegetarian sensibilities, she too would have succumbed to the temptation.



Below you will note the grisly aftermath of Al's sandwich. We salvaged the fatty tissue for the Sly Little Minx's fatty tissue scrapbook project. (She has a grant, you know.) You'll also be pleased to learn that she was eternally grateful.



Below, the Mayor clamors for more delicious snacks as an ectoplasmic aura emanates from her pores. Her booze-fueled diatribe did not fall on deaf ears...



Promptly, a bag of cheeps was provided...



At long last the Escape Goat arrived, and not a moment too soon. Witnessing the grisly carnage as it was devoured may have been too much for her vegetarian sensibilities. Although we expressed initial concerns that the Escape Goat might have difficulty finding the place from her locale, she shrugged off our worries with a dismissive wave of the palm and a reassuring, "I just saw the goat on the door and said, 'My People!'" Below you will note the Escape Goat's wonderful emerald jacket, but the unspoken truth about it cannot be contained for long. Note how she clutches it protectively...



She confessed to me that she mugged a "wee leprechaun" in order to acquire said jacket. "Since when are wee leprechauns cool?" she asked remorselessly. "I mean. It's his fault. Had he been wearing a canvas cloak or an appropriately cut burlap sack wrapped in bailer's twine I would have left well enough alone, but. You know." Upon further prying I concluded that she had actually mugged--none other than--King Brian (of Darby O'Gill and the Little People fame)! How did I discover this? There was a gold monogrammed KB under the collar. The Escape Goat mugged King Brian! Below he gazes up imploringly, as if to remark, "Has anybody seen me corduroy blazer? It's a bit nippy under me cloak." That's ice cold. Fade to black...



Don't let her dainty posturing fool you, dear reader. Below, the consciousless Mayor comments on the Escape Goat's ill-gotten gains. Indeed the jacket of ill-repute remained a popular item (despite it's history). Alas, such are things of greatness...consider the British Museum, or the colonization of oppressed countries and peoples...



After the Escape Goat arrived it did not take long for the Cricket to start ordering shots of hydrochloric acid, a delicious beverage indeed. The Cricket never passes up an opportunity to indulge in a Dixie-Cup full of hydrochloric acid. You will note the tray that she is carrying. The next morning I was mystified to find this same tray in my bag. Had I regressed to my kleptomaniacal days of high school? Impossible! I suspect the Escape Goat was--once again--attempting to frame me. It's all fun and games, Escape Goat, until someone goes to jail for grand larceny.



We raised our glasses aloft and toasted the Cricket's good fortune...



Below the Mayor reacts to the shot with a prompt, "No comment. I plea the fifth! You'll be hearing from my attorney." The communal response to this shot was bizarre, indeed...



The shot inspired us to imagine life with a mustache. A perfect mustache equates the perfect crime. Moustaches are to villains like hippies are to patchouli. Mmm...patchouli, "Riding that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed."
Al had that perfect pencil-thin moustache that villains dream of
obtaining. He achieved this effect with a straw.









The Mayor remained unenthusiastic about this experiment. Regardless, a moustache was thrust upon her face. She is physically incapable of defending herself against most assaults. I lashed her with a lock of hair and put her in a state of submission. You will note that she is perfectly compliant when force is applied. Despite the fact that I had been washing my hair in a stagnant malaria-infested puddle of water on the bank of the Chicago River, the Mayor was powerless to resist my persuasive tactics.












We noticed that Amber's moustache had an interesting Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show feel about it. She appears to be twirling her moustache and looking for a spittoon.









My moustache turned out to be very Salvador Daliesque. This is not surprising as all things Salvador Dali irritate me. If trapped in the nightmarish scenario of a campus dorm during Rush Week, you will note that posters of his art are inescapable. Any random door you open will inevitably reveal a Salvador Dali print accompanied with Zetta Tau Alphas eating Jello shots and committing lewd acts with hedgehogs while the Indigo Girls play on repeat in the background.











Commentary on the Cricket's moustache will be postponed until her completely pickled expression is evaluated. Take a look her mug. What you don't know is that this photograph was actually taken while the Cricket was on the toilet. Had I panned down a bit with the camera before snapping this shot you would understand her disjointed grimace.
Her moustache is a bit wispy and bedraggled; I'm not sure that
it's entirely believable--although the verdict is still out.






The Escape Goat is a master of disguise, so donning a moustache was just another day in the life of. She even jutted her chin at an appropriately masculine angle. Too bad the Chicago Kings have dissipated; the Escape Goat would have made an excellent honorary King.










After our fun with faux facial hair it was time for the Cricket to open a present. We weren't sure if our present was a good present or a seemingly thoughtless present. The Mayor averted her gaze from the moment of unveiling. Below she heckles a senior citizen who served in two World Wars and saw Lincoln reelected.



Below, the Escape Goat (clearly feeling self-conscious about our choice of gifts for the Cricket) is seen defending a portable Sudoko game. This is but a snippet of the dialogue:

ESCAPE GOAT: And. And. We were thinking--you know--there's that New York trip you have coming up, and uh. You know what a snore airports are in this post nine-eleven era. Sudoko's the game of champions! I heard Werner Herzog's making a documentary about it, and--
CRICKET: Yeah, I..
ESCAPE GOAT: I mean. I don't think you have to know Math, but...(trail's off) Can you count to ten?
CRICKET: I mean. I love games--
ESCAPE GOAT: Yeah. All games? Right? I mean--you play Sudoko, right?
CRICKET: I mean. You know. I can count to ten. I don't usually have to, but when forced--you know. I.
ESCAPE GOAT: Yeah.
CRICKET: Yeah. So. Nice Jacket. I think King Brian has the same jacket?
ESCAPE GOAT: Nah. I think the texture's different. His is valor--mine's corduroy. Kings!Thank gawd we have a democratically elected leader!
CRICKET: Yeah. Democracy.
ESCAPE GOAT: Democracy.
CRICKET: Uh. Want another shot?
ESCAPE GOAT: Of heroine?



As promised the Cricket sent around shots for all. Round two!



Despite my attempt at feigning narcolepsy, I couldn't avoid a shot of that potent elixir. Below the Cricket passes out the second round. I warned her that I was documenting the moment incase I expired. Should a sleuthing detective review my camera he or she would note that the Cricket was a murderess. She refused to listen to reason and I drank up...



Again, we toasted the Cricket's good fortune. Note how gingerly Al holds the glass, his pinky finger daintily poised...



After an evening of debauchery, this shot was our demise...



The Escape Goat reacted especially jarringly. She could not find words to express the Civil War between tangy and tar being waged in her mouth. Swallow, Escape Goat, swallow! As Margaret Thatcher said to George Bush senior leading up to the Gulf War, "Don't go wobbly!"



In her glory the Cricket was unstoppable! As the Escape Goat drooled like a somnambulant, the Cricket enjoyed a delicious Cadbury Egg. Personally, I find those eggs repugnant and I am suspicious of the gelatinous fluid that they harbor. They remind me of the incubator pods in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not the Cricket! She relishes this sweet treat like the Minx relishes long walks on the beach with Dryfus.


This is step one for indulging in a Cadbury Egg: First, bite the egg and enjoy the wretched leaking fluid as it seeps out and coagulates between your teeth. If it burns, you are probably ingesting battery acid planted as a prank by an angry-mutant-chocolate-egg-laying-chicken. Know that the chicken is having a laugh at your expense, and--thanks to the battery acid--your mouth has been replaced with a cavernous chasm.

Step two: Savor the taste. Allow your palette to absorb the sugary goodness. Swish the mysterious substance around in your mouth like you are Alpana Singh sizing up a vintage French wine. You will note that the Cricket's method involves
allowing half of the sugary yolk to cradle in the remaining portion of the eggshell. To accomplish this feat you must be an expert Cadbury Egg connoisseur; few have mastered this method.

Finally, in the words of Colonel Sanders, "It's finger-lickin' good!" Who knew that the absence of eleven herbs and spices could taste so magnificent? Although the Cricket savors each bite,
she privately confessed to me that the fingers are the best!

After some time the evening came to a close. Below the Escape Goat, Cricket, and a portion of Al bid each other a fond farewell. It was a happy evening, and a wonderful opportunity to celebrate with the Cricket. If you are ever so fortunate to receive an invite to one of her excellent events it would be your loss should you decline!