And she can sing bluegrass a capella

December 09, 2004 - 1:35 a.m.

After 4 years of her hiding, I have finally found my old girl Ally. Belle was at Marshall’s buying a G Unit sweatshirt, no shit, when he saw her across the store. He called me immediately: “I think I see Ally here at Marshall’s. Do you think I should go talk to her?”

”YES YOU SHOULD GO TALK TO HER- GO NOW-TACKLE HER IN THE AISLE AND FIND OUT WHERE SHE’S BEEN FOR FOUR YEARS.”

I met Ally while I was working at the world’s most ridiculous nightmare of a bar, the Hangge Uppe, down on Rush and Division. The Hangge Uppe is a perfect example of “The Melting Pot of America” except it’s more like a black cauldron boiling the dregs of society. All races and classes were represented, but they also happened to be the worst possible stereotypes of all of god’s children.

The white people were utter trash, tracking in mud and shit from the ATVs they rode in on from Indiana, with their hair always painfully heavy and flat from the low-flo showerheads in their mobile homes. Nothing that a can of Aquanet can’t handle, anyway. These factory-town Superfund Trust Fund* recipients displayed real anger and aggression at being told that beer costs $3.25 a bottle. (Who came up with the name “Superfund” to describe the cleanup of toxic waste? They think they can convince a lady that cleaning her well is Super after she’s already had a three-headed baby and twins with flippers?) The women, in the prime of their life, are nothing more than pasty bags of dough stuffed into sequined tank tops, looking like Pillsbury Crescent Rolls popping out of its can. With pink lipstick on their teeth.

* My sister lived on a Superfund site for a few years. She rented a three bedroom house with an enormous fenced-in yard, and I believe the rent was something like $350 a month…in 2000. Um. The Superfund people assured her that it’s perfectly safe to live there JUST DON’T DRINK THE WATER. And DON’T LET YOUR DOG DRINK THE WATER. But it’s ok to shower in it, and cook your spaghetti in it. Um. I have no comment.

Back at the Hangge Uppe (don’t say Hangy Uppy)…the black people were thugs, lowlifes, and stereotypically NEVER tipped and consistently tried to scam free drinks. As far as they were concerned, there were only two things on the menu: Long Island Iced Tea and water. They would bitch that the Long Islands cost $5.50 but then I explained to them that there’s 6 full shots of liquor in the drink and Oh What a Bargain and then they were like, “Ch-yeah” and shared the drink amongst four grown men.

As for the rest of the patrons, they can all be placed in the general category of “Unfuckable Seeking a Fuckable Who is Willing to Make an Exception.”

In case you haven’t heard, I don’t get along with women, especially women who work in bars, patronize bars, live near bars, or who happen to stumble upon the word “bar” while reading the dictionary at home on a Friday night. I remember one of the guy bartenders came up to me at work one night, doing the pee pee dance: “There’s this new girl! And she’s so cool! I love her! You’re gonna love her!”

And I was like: “Oh yeah! Great! Cuz what the world needs now! Is another girl who can wrap her feet behind her head! Yeah!”

But I was wrong. She really was cool, and I really did love her! Mark your calendars, a female friend!

Ally is the only girl I’ve ever smooched. She’s the only girl I think I am even capable of smooching. I don’t even remember how it came about, because we were so goddamn wasted but I know it was in the middle of a bar and I vaguely recall a large audience of men gathered around us. I feel like a complete asshole even writing this. I can’t make any excuses for being a public drunk slut other than hey, we worked in the bar industry, and in Chicago that means you just say the secret word at any liquor establishment and you get cheap or free drinks. It was like FREE LIQUOR, ALL THE TIME, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK.

What would you do? I was 22 years-old, and I developed a functioning alcoholic lifestyle where I worked in a bar until FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE GODDAMN MORNING every Friday and Saturday. 10 hour shifts, with no breaks whatsoever, for any reason, even if you are puking or miscarrying in the bathroom. (Believe me, there was many a fetus that made its way in and out of that bar.) No food allowed, and no sitting down. So what do you do? Smoke a pack of cigarettes, usher 500 drunks out the front door at 4:50am, lock the door, and attempt to swallow 650 ml of grain alcohol in the next hour. Quickly count the registers and your tips, start rolling quarters with your feet while you double fist the most expensive vodka you can find. VODKA VODKA VODKA.

Every weekend I partied and passed out at the home of a different male co-worker, but never with girls, because my female co-workers were highly competitive and easily threatened even when you made it clear that you weren’t in the game. The whole time I worked there I never porked anyone, never even smooched any of those boys, can I get a whut-whut? And that’s quite impressive considering that the bar was located on Fuck Fest Orgy Street, right near the intersection of Incest Lane, and that all of my co-workers passed around their orifices like they were business cards. Everybody swapped their lips and assholes and if they couldn’t find a partner willing to trade, they just jerked off in the bathroom. True story.

ALLY WACHOO WANT GURL?? GIT YA ASS OVER TO MY CRIB ALREADY. Gotdamn, gurl, less drink…

And then comes the neverending talk of drinking. Last weekend I played a PS2 game, Karaoke Revolution, with Belle and Hardon, and lemme tell ya, I rule! Video games suck, competition sucks, joysticks suck, tv sucks, but PS2 Karaoke? Fuck yah!

At first I was all self-conscious about my voice, which can be described using all of the following words: whistly, nasally, raspy, shrieky, dykish, broken, hair-raising, impotent, ear-splitting, disillusioning, unnatural, etc…

But then! But THEN! I made a gold record on my first single! You perform in a concert and you’re judged by maintaining the proper pitch, and I sang “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” and won a gold, baby! I totally nailed the: “I wanna be the one TO-WALK-IN-THE-SUN” because I’ve only had it memorized since I was 10 years old.

So from that point on I was on fire and was dancing in front of the tv screen wearing a headset like Britney Spears and stomping my feet and squatting and shit, and now I can proudly say I know all the words to Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated”. Ok, not proudly, but there was something therapeutic about screaming and whining like a skivosa Canadian drama queen. This one goes out to all the boys that done me wrong when I was 14 years old… Kenny, Joe, Rob…and Adam, with your wormy pubescent penis that was NOT invited to my party, but showed up anyway...

Later, in the final round, after much liquor intake and ta-ta-toking of the hookah, (because ohmigod I had my mouth on that thing like it was a strawberry-flavored dick attached to Tom Welling), I chose to sing “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I feel fine)” by REM. Did’ja hear me? I CHOSE to sing that insane auctioneer-shout-out-the-whole-song-in-one-sentence song that goes something like birthdaypartycheesecakejellybeanboom! And “boy what a fucking disaster that was” and “boy the audience is booing me” and “boy my music career is over and my contract’s revoked”.

Shizza.

Honestly. Please read the following paragraphs and understand that this SONG is WRONG. Understand that I cannot hold my liquor. Also, please understand that I tried to wed this song + choreographed dance routine = holy movin’ musical matrimony, but instead got tangled in the wires of the game controller.

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The Fast, Days 1-6
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