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The Bartender in Chicago
I like Chicago.
In fact, I liked the city long before I ever paid it a visit.
I can trace this affection to the lovable Cubs, when WGN-TV broadcast
their baseball games into our living room in Tennessee while I was in
high school. The Cubs, of course, were not very good. But they played
in a stadium so simply wonderful that it became quite impossible to
root against them, even if they were maddeningly inconsistent in their
play (if not their results), losing 18-16 one day and 2-1 the next.
Some years later, after moving to Southern California, I made another
remote connection to the city. This was through a local group of transplanted
Chicagoans that became my friends.
They called themselves WACCO. It stood for the West Coast Association
of Crazy Chicagoans and Others (I was an "Other"), and they
were. Crazy, that is. They were a lively bunch that kept a second home
in the local bars and took every occasion of a Chicago team visiting
Los Angeles to drink a bunch of imported Old Style beer and take bus
trips to the games.
They showed me what a fun-loving group of people Chicagoans are, weather
and Cubbies success be damned. They were down to earth and all about
having fun. They were also huge sports fans, die-hards to the end. Leaving
a baseball game in the seventh inning was one Los Angeles custom they
could never adopt.
How could one not enjoy the company of such fine folks and love the
city from which they came??
Eventually, I made it to Chicago. It wasn't without some hesitation,
though. After all, this was a place that once burned to the ground,
only to have the locals blame it on some old lady's cow. And there were
gangsters here in the 30s.
But there were also lots of speakeasies, and I took that as a sure
sign that Chicago was a lively town perfectly party suited for The Bartender.
My first experience did not disappoint. Wrigley Field turned out to
be far better in person than it ever looked on WGN. The game was sandwiched
between a pre-game gathering at Murphy's Bleachers and a post-game bash
at the Cubby Bear, making it the Cubs' version of the three-run homer.
Then there was the "el." Having grown up in the South and
later living in Los Angeles, it was my first stab at public transportation.
What a marvel it was to walk out my hotel door, onto a platform and
into a moving box that whisked me and hundreds of others to the very
gates of Wrigley Field, all without giving even a passing thought to
parking.
Based on advice of the WACCOs, my first night ended in The Lodge (as
well as each subsequent evening). I wandered in at what in Los Angeles
is light-raising, door-locking, we've-already-had-last-call time, yet
here the place was just coming alive.
A steady stream of locals flowed through the door during the next
couple of hours, each full of Midwestern hospitality. The look and decor
of the Lodge, combined with the warmth of the people inside it, was
reminiscent of a weekend retreat in the woods with limitless beer shared
among long-lost friends. All that was missing was a campfire.
So, Chicago impressed. And that was before I learned of all the other
cool places in town.
 Next
stop on the Party Bus: Chicago Pub Journals
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